Page 1 of Sawyer (The Maddox BRAVO Team #1)

Sawyer

I pouch the weapon pieces in their velvet slots, wipe my hands, and jog the length of the brAVO hangar.

High above, the company logo—a gold —gleams against charcoal paint.

We’re supposed to be “private security consultants,” but every inch of this place screams paramilitary.

There’s obstacle courses, target ranges, armored SUVs lined up like obedient rhinos.

I love it. After seven years of Navy EOD, disarming bombs, the disciplined hum of ready power is the only lullaby that works on my frayed nerves.

Dean’s office sits on a mezzanine overlooking the controlled chaos. Frosted glass, modern lines, basketball-size Himalayan salt lamp that pretends to mask the scent of gun oil. It’s a huge step-up from the skyrise he used to conduct business at. This site is more practical.

He’s pacing when I step into the large glass conference room we’ve named the Aquarium.

His phone’s pressed to his ear, expression welded into that don’t-make-me-say-it-twice scowl our mothers swear we inherited from Grandpa Maddox.

He jerks a chin at the leather chair opposite his— sit, stay —then turns his back and finishes the call.

I sink into the chair. The leather hisses, still warm from whoever just vacated it, and a faint trace of citrus cologne lingers in the air. Something tells me this isn’t a routine bodyguard job for a C-list tech bro.

Dean hangs up, pinches the bridge of his nose, and exhales like the world is growing heavier by the minute. “Pack a bag, Sawyer. You deploy in an hour.”

I arch a brow. “That’s… abrupt. Even for you.”

He drops a thick folder onto the desk. Stapled to the cover is a glossy eight-by-ten headshot of Camille Kingsley .

Even in black-and-white she looks technicolor—wide hazel eyes, bee-stung lips, cheekbones that could slice glass.

Her smile is crooked, like she’s in on a joke nobody else has heard yet.

“Camille Kingsley,” I say aloud, just to make sure the universe isn’t pranking me. “As in Kingsley Aeronautics? The zero-emission jet prototypes?”

“As in $34-billion market cap ,” Dean confirms. “Her father, Gregory Kingsley, is scrambling to finalize an IPO. Two weeks ago Camille started getting threats.”

I flip open the folder. Inside: ransom-note letters, photos of bullet holes punched through landscape paintings, a police report stamped Ongoing Investigation . My stomach tightens. “The cops have any leads?”

“Nothing actionable. The letters are clean of prints and the phone threats route through VPNs in four continents.” Dean plants his fists on the desk. “Gregory’s pissed and panicking. He wants brAVO on Cam twenty-four/seven until the perp is bagged.”

“Why me?”

“Because you don’t rattle.” He slaps my shoulder hard enough to pop a vertebrae. “And because you just finished that cyberstalker case in L.A. without so much as a scratch on the client.”

She’d been a Hollywood influencer whose TikTok went feral—easy compare-and-contrast with Camille Kingsley, America’s reluctant eco-princess.

I’ve seen Cam’s face flash across finance channels and gossip rags: heiress turned rebel artist, paint under her nails instead of champagne bubbles in her flute.

I know the basics: refused a seat on the Kingsley board, opened a community art studio in downtown Saint Pierce, donated half her trust-fund allotment to marine-conservation grants.

The press either labels her a visionary or a spoiled brat who hates using daddy’s jet.

Depends which side of the “eat the rich” debate sells more ad space that day.

Dean slides a tablet across the desk. A live security feed fills the screen: Cam’s Atlantic Heights mansion—a century-old sandstone beauty that looks like it could outstare Alcatraz. I watch a housekeeper carry tulips through a sunlit foyer. No sign of the princess herself.

“What’s the client’s attitude toward personal security?” I ask.

Dean snorts. “In her words: ‘I’m not running from a boogeyman wearing administrative shoes and a Napoleon complex.’”

I rub my jaw. “Translation: She thinks this is overkill.”

“Exactly. Gregory insisted. She tolerated two days with a local outfit before she sent them packing.”

“I’ll last longer.” I grin. “I’m charming.”

“You’re a bulldozer in combat boots. Just remember she’s the job, not the enemy.” He tosses me a key fob. “Take Rover Two. It’s fully up-armored, fresh from ballistic testing.”

I push to my feet. “Any stipulations?”

“Only one.” Dean’s eyes sharpen. “Keep it quiet. If the press sniffs you, Kingsley stock tanks. That IPO clock’s ticking.”

Silent and invisible, yeah, I can do that. I’ve defused warheads behind enemy lines with nothing but a multitool and a prayer. Babysitting one reluctant heiress can’t be harder.

Two hours later, Rover Two growls up Danforth Street, eating Saint Pierce’s asphalt like protein pancakes.

Victorian mansions perch on either side, strung with bougainvillea and eight-figure price tags.

Camille’s address looms ahead—a four-story behemoth fronted by wrought-iron gates tall enough to keep out Godzilla.

The gates swing inward as my SUV approaches. A butler in a crisp white shirt waits at the circular drive, expression set to professionally unflappable .

I kill the engine and step out.

“Mr. Maddox?” the butler inquires.

“Call me Sawyer.” I flash my best trust-me-I’m-fun smile. “And you are?”

“Edgar, sir. Miss Kingsley is… delayed. She insisted on picking up canvases from her warehouse personally.” Edgar’s ‘professionally unflappable’ slips for half a heartbeat and worry flickers behind his eyes. “The driver accompanies her, but I would be grateful for your assessment when she returns.”

“I’ll take the grand tour.” I extend a hand. “Lead the way.”

Inside, the mansion is all old-money opulence like coffered ceilings, Persian runners, a chandelier that looks heavy enough to crush the national debt.

Yet bright splashes of modern art puncture the traditional decor: neon brushstrokes across antique wainscoting, a bronze sculpture shaped like a melting violin atop a Queen Anne console. Camille’s rebellion made manifest.

Edgar points out the obvious weak spots—French windows that date to 1906, two side entrances wired to an alarm system older than me.

I nod, and log every detail. Mentally, blueprints bloom like 3-D renders: motion sensors here, pressure pads there, ballistic window film throughout.

Forty-eight hours and this place will be Fort Knox wearing a Monet scarf.

We’re inspecting the rear terrace when the silence shatters—an engine roars, followed by the crunch of tires over gravel. Edgar exhales a gusty breath. “Miss Kingsley.”

Showtime.

I follow him through French doors to the driveway. A vintage red Porsche 356 glides to a stop, chassis coughing like a chain-smoker who’s seen better decades. The driver, a lanky kid in a flat cap, leaps out and opens the passenger door.

Camille Kingsley emerges in a swirl of color and chaos.

She’s barefoot, denim cutoff shorts with turquoise paint-splatters, white tank smeared sunset-pink across her ribs.

A loose braid of mahogany hair hangs over one shoulder like the final flourish on an oil-on-canvas masterpiece.

Her arms cradle a stack of framed canvases taller than she is; a rogue brush protrudes from behind her ear like a wayward quill.

“What happened to I just need two ?” the driver groans as he struggles with half the load.

“Creative epiphany happened, Ari.” She beams, shifting her burden, and the top frame wobbles, threatening to topple. “Blue period is so last season.”

Edgar rushes forward to assist, but Camille steps back, colliding with my chest. A paintbrush spears my collarbone, and lemon aroma fills my lungs. Her shoulder blades are warm through the tank, and I become acutely aware of every weapon currently strapped under my jacket.

“Whoa.” Her voice is musical yet husky, like amber whiskey over crushed ice. She pivots, arms still full of canvases, and hits me with those hazel eyes. Up close they’re a kaleidoscope—flecks of green, gold, copper—all swirling mischief. “You’re not Edgar.”

“And you’re… heavier than you look.” I grip the top canvas, steadying the stack before gravity wins. “Mind if I take a few of these?”

“Please do.” She relinquishes half, wiping her forehead with a blot of cerulean that smudges across her brow. “Thanks, uh?—?”

“Sawyer Maddox. brAVO Security.” I nod toward the porch, canvases balanced effortlessly. “Your father hired me.”

Panic? Fear? Annoyance? I watch her expression like a bomb timer. Instead, she grins—megawatt, unfiltered, dangerously charming. “Dad’s being dramatic again. Good luck keeping up, Mr. Maddox.”

“It’s Sawyer,” I correct.

“Fine, Sawyer.” She enunciates each syllable like a dare. “But just so you know, I hate the bodyguard vibe. I don’t need a shadow. I especially don’t need one who wears as much black as a funeral procession.”

I glance at my tactical pants and long-sleeve shirt. “Black matches everything.”

“So do neutrals.” She marches for the door, and I keep pace. Her bare heel brushes my shin once, twice, sending sparks up my thigh. “Let’s establish ground rules: no hovering while I paint, no vetoing my schedule, and absolutely no standing outside my bedroom like a gargoyle.”

“How about compromise rules? I keep you alive, and you let me do my job.”

She opens her mouth—retort locked and loaded—but Edgar interrupts. “Miss Kingsley, perhaps some lemonade first? You’ve been out all morning.”

“And a change of clothes,” I add, nodding at the smear of chartreuse across her shoulder. “Paint makes poor body armor.”

“Paint is freedom.” She winks, handing canvases to Edgar. “But lemonade’s a yes. Come on, Sawyer Black-Matches-Everything. Let’s debrief.”