Page 10 of Sawyer (The Maddox BRAVO Team #1)

Sawyer

I’ve stood inside smoking blast craters that felt calmer than Camille’s foyer does right now.

Flashes pop as crime-scene techs photograph the splintered doorframe.

Officers in Kevlar mill around, radios crackling, while Detective Hartley interviews Cam for the second time this week.

My pulse thrums an ugly counter-rhythm. Anger.

Shame. Even sharper anger. I was forty feet away when the lock blew.

Forty. In my world, that’s daylight-bright failure.

Riggs watches my face from beside the entry console where he’s dusting the flash-bang shell for prints. He nods once— steady, brother —but doesn’t approach. He knows a live mine when he sees one.

“Mr. Maddox?” A uniformed officer snaps me back. “Your statement?”

“Already gave it,” I clip, then force a calmer addendum. “Happy to clarify timelines once your CSU’s finished.”

He mutters into a notepad, and wanders off.

Too many bodies, too many questions, not enough answers.

I scan the perimeter cam feed on my tablet—rewatching the breach frame by frame.

Masked perp scales the gate’s side wall, thumps over the top, lands like he rehearsed the drop.

He sprints across the courtyard, disables the camera with a handheld jammer—not a kid’s toy; high-frequency gear.

Then he produces a slim jim, bypasses the deadbolt.

Twenty seconds to entry. These aren’t scared stalkers. They're tactical.

My chest tightens.

I need air. I need Dean.

I slip through the library’s French doors into the courtyard. Night wind bites my sweat-damp shirt. I dial.

Dean answers. “Talk.”

“Perimeter breach at twenty-two forty. One intruder, male six-one, athletic. Deployed flash-bang, no lethal weapon brandished. Escaped on foot before patrol arrived. Damage to doorframe and foyer, no injuries.” My voice stays even but my hands tremble despite clenching them.

“We had full camera grid plus ground sensors. He bypassed two feeds with a jammer, snipped one physical line. He knew the layout.”

Dean whistles low. “Ballsy. What’s the message?”

“Unclear. Could be pure intimidation. Could be recon like testing the response time.”

“How fast were local PD wheels?”

“Six minutes from silent alarm. He was gone in two. Left the shell, nothing else. We’ve got partial shoeprint and maybe fiber transfer from the jamming pouch.” I exhale. The night smells of rosemary and burnt magnesium. “I should have been there, Dean.”

“You can’t occupy every vector at once. You neutralized the threat, protected the principal.”

“Door’s still busted. That’s a fail.”

“Then tighten it. But don’t let guilt cloud your pattern analysis. Whoever this is escalated inside your comfort zone. That means they’re not deterred by the optics of security.”

I rake a hand through my hair. “The gala’s in six days. Hundreds of people, open house, press. Should we pull the plug?”

“Convince your client. Cam’s call, not yours.”

“If she insists, I need four more operators and a mobile command rig.”

“Granted. I’ll put Bravo Orange team on standby.”

“Copy.”

“Sawyer,” Dean adds, voice softening, “I can rotate you off-site if you think emotions are muddying your judgment.”

“No.” The answer fires out. “I’m committed.”

Silence. He knows what committed means in my vocabulary. Locked. Lethal. All-in. “Then get some sleep, recharge the sensors, and write me a new op plan before oh-eight. We’ll dissect it on a call.”

“Roger that.”

We disconnect. I spend two heroic breaths pretending the stars aren’t spinning, then pocket the phone and head back inside.

The house empties slowly. CSU packs their kits, patrol cars reverse down the drive, and Hartley promises updates.

Riggs escorts Vanessa to her rideshare (she winks at him but spares me a thumbs-up— your hero’s safe ).

Edgar re-keys the alarm while muttering about reinforced steel doors and maybe a moat.

It’s after one a.m. when the mansion finally exhales into a hush. I dispatch Riggs to bunk in the guesthouse monitoring screens. Then I hunt for Cam, stepping room to room until I find light spilling under the study door.

She sits in an armchair by the cold fireplace, knees drawn up, a half-full glass of cabernet pinched between both hands like a tiny life raft. She’s changed into an oversized sweatshirt that hits mid-thigh; bare legs tuck underneath her. Her eyes, normally kaleidoscope bright, look stormy.

She doesn’t startle when I walk in. Just watches me quietly.

I close the door, cross the Persian rug, and kneel beside the chair. “You should be sleeping.”

“So should you,” she murmurs. The wine sloshes as her knuckles tense. “Did you call Dean?”

“Yeah.” I rest my forearms on my knees. “He’ll boost manpower. Orange team’s solid.”

“Orange team?” A faint smile ghosts. “Mango Avengers?”

“The Vitamin C squad.” My attempt at humor lands about as well as the flash-bang. “Cam, about the gala?—”

“I know,” she cuts in, tension sharpening her tone. “You want it canceled.”

“I need it canceled. We host six hundred high-net-worth guests, plus press, plus staff, on a property already compromised? That’s a jackpot for whoever’s orchestrating these hits.”

Her laugh cracks, raw. “You think I don’t know that? The gala funds the Kingsley Community Arts Network—the program that put paint brushes in those kids’ hands yesterday. Canceling means losing two million in pledged donations.”

“Money can be rescheduled. You can’t.”

She flinches, but recovers. “We’ve spent months planning. Media campaigns, vendor contracts, caterers. People booked flights. Dad’s using the event to soften investor sentiment before the IPO roadshow.”

I ground my jaw so hard it clicks. “Your father would rather risk your safety than reschedule a party?”

“That’s not fair. He doesn’t understand how bad it’s gotten.

And the gala isn’t just for him.” She sets her wine on a side table, and wraps her arms around her shins.

“It’s my mother’s legacy. The first fundraiser she founded was right here in this house.

Every year I set the stage—paint the backdrops, design the invitations, curate student art for auction.

If I cancel because I’m scared, then whoever’s doing this wins. ”

She looks away, blinking. A tear falls, and she swipes it angrily, smearing her mascara.

Something inside me fractures. I rise, fetch a box of tissues, and kneel again. Her arms untuck enough for me to dab gently beneath her eye. She breathes shakily but doesn’t pull away.

“You’re not weak if you pivot,” I say. “You’re strategic. We can move the gala to a hotel with built-in security layers.”

She shakes her head. “I can’t look every donor in the eye and say the Kingsleys are afraid. We stand or it crumbles.”

Stubborn, brave, reckless. It’s infuriating—and magnificent.

I exhale, slow. “Then we harden the target.” She meets my gaze, hope flickering. “Four new operators, K-9 sweeps, credential scanners at each gate, ballistic window film, drone overwatch.”

“And the staff?”

“I’ll vet every vendor. If they breathe wrong, they don’t get in.”

“And me?” She tries for a joke but her voice shakes. “You’ll make me wear armor under my gown?”

“Kevlar corset.” My grin is weak. “Bulletproof chic.”

Her laughter bubbles out—real this time, easing the knot in my chest. I brush a stray wave behind her ear, fingertips trailing her jawline. The contact sparks—an entire circuit roaring to life. She stills, eyes widening as if she feels it too.

“There’s something else,” I admit, voice dropping. “Tonight proved I can’t be everywhere at once. The second I left your side?—”

“It’s not your fault.”

“I promised you safety.” I lean in, forehead almost touching hers. “I’m going to keep it.”

Her breath hitches. “How, Sawyer?”

“By not letting you out of my sight.” The vow tastes dangerous, almost intimate. “From now until the gala's over, you and I move as one unit.”

“Bathroom?” she teases, the faintest quiver returning.

“Door stays propped.” It’s half joke, half absolute seriousness.

Color warms her cheeks. “What about when I sleep?”

“I’ll be in the hall, inches away. Or—” Words choke as a new possibility flares. “Or closer, if you want.”

Her lashes flicker. Silence stretches, pulsing, until she lifts her hand—hesitant—and touches my chest where her paint mark once clung. Through cotton, heat sears my skin.

“I feel safer when you’re near,” she whispers.

I inhale—sharp, ragged. My hand covers hers, and holds it firmly. “Then near is where I’ll be.”

She shifts, legs unfolding, feet brushing the rug.

We hover, breath mingling. If she tilts forward a hair more, we’ll cross a line I swore not to breach while the threat remains unchecked.

Yet every instinct screams to close the distance, to claim her mouth, to anchor her shaking in something solid— me .

“Cam…” Warning and plea thread together.

She swallows, pupils blown. “Yes?”

I force air out. “I need you to sign off on increased protocols. We’ll install metal detectors at both entrances, coordinate with SPPD, run background checks on catering crew.”

“Okay.” Her voice barely carries. “Anything else?”

“Yeah.” My thumb strokes the side of her hand. “This.” Reluctantly, I let go, step back. The space between us chills. “Can’t happen yet.”

She nods—understanding flickering with disappointment. “Threat level.”

“Until you’re clear, I’m steel. After…” I meet her gaze, let her read the fire banked behind discipline. “We’ll repaint the house in red if you want.”

She flushes, smiling small but real. “I’ll hold you to that.”

“Deal.” I pick up her forgotten wine glass, set it aside, then hold out my hand. “Bedtime. Sunrise in five hours and I need you lucid.”

“You won’t sleep either.”

“I’ll doze on guard. Comes with the job.” I pull her gently to her feet. She sways, and I steady her. “Lean on me if you need.”

Instead she links her fingers with mine. “Walk me?”

“Always.”

We traverse dim corridors lit by sconces; my hand engulfs hers. At her bedroom door she pauses, studying the new steel reinforcement plate Riggs bolted over the frame.

“Stronger,” she whispers.

“Unbreakable,” I correct, brushing my knuckles along the wood. “Go shower, get warm, and sleep.”

She pushes to her toes—impulsive—plants a soft kiss to my cheek. Lightning ripples across every nerve. “Goodnight, Soldier Boy.”

I step back, throat tight. “Goodnight, Cam.”

The door closes. I exhale the breath I’ve been kayfabe holding all night, then take position outside her room, back to the wall, eyes on the hall intersection. Every shadow feels personal now. I rest my palm on the grip of my SIG, feeling the comforting certainty of metal.

She thinks I’m the wall. Truth is, she’s become mine.

And walls don’t fall. Not while I’m breathing.