Page 14 of Sawyer (The Maddox BRAVO Team #1)

Sawyer

Security is a symphony when it finally harmonizes—layers of sensors humming, radios chiming, operators moving like perfectly rehearsed instruments. I’ve spent forty-eight hours fine-tuning that symphony and now, as dusk settles violet over Saint Pierce, it’s showtime.

Floodlights bathe Kingsley House in amber and pearl.

The wrought-iron gates—reinforced, magnet-locked—clack open at precisely nineteen hundred.

On cue, valet attendants in dove-gray uniforms glide forward.

Orange Team patrols the perimeter in staggered overlap, short barrel rifles slung discreetly beneath their jackets, earpieces pulsing steady comm traffic in my ear.

“Command to?One,” Malik’s baritone crackles. “First limo inbound. Credentials match pre-registration. Proceed?”

“Proceed,” I answer, adjusting my tux jacket. The black Brioni hides a Kevlar lining—bullet-resistant elegance. Sig rides under my left arm. Micro radio throat mic loops my collar. Show, but with teeth.

The limo glides past manicured topiary, and as it halts, I step forward. The door opens, and Gregory Kingsley emerges—navy tux cut to midwestern broadness, salt-and-pepper hair immaculate, trademark Kingsley tie-pin winking under the floodlight.

He spots my brAVO badge, and smiles warmly. “Mr. Maddox, I presume.”

I nod, and extend a hand. “Good evening, sir. Welcome home.”

We shake. His grip is firm, boardroom-tested. “Camille assures me you’ve turned this place into Fort?Knox.”

“We prefer ‘art-centric fortress,’” I reply. He chuckles. Briefcase in left hand—could hide anything, but I know from pre-check it’s his speech notes. Two Kingsley aides exit behind him.

“I appreciate you keeping my daughter safe.” His tone drops, genuine. “That mural incident scared the hell out of me.”

“We have eyes everywhere tonight. Enjoy yourself.”

He nods, steps toward the red-carpeted entry. A camera flash pops. Reporters hover just outside the gate, blocked by barricades. Gregory lifts a courteous hand, then disappears inside.

I exhale, scan feeds on my wrist tablet. The interior ballroom cams show caterers aligning hors?d’oeuvres trays while the string quartet tunes. Good.

“Orange check,” I murmur. An echo of “clear” sounds from Rae, Andersson, Malik, Riggs at their posts.

And then, at the top of the grand staircase, she appears.

Camille descends like liquid midnight wrapped in sapphire.

The gown hugs her torso, plunges at the back into a waterfall of silk that swishes against each step.

Her hair is pinned in an intricate twist, leaving her neck—a delicate line I suddenly crave to taste—bared except for a single diamond drop necklace.

Blue satin gloves kiss her elbows. Every flashbulb aims up, but I’m sunk too deep to notice anyone else.

My heart, usually a metronome, misses a beat.

She glances down, finds me by the door, and her smile detonates quietly—private, incendiary. For all my training, I stand rooted as she reaches the marble floor and glides toward me.

“You’re supposed to be invisible,” she teases, voice soft as the silk brushes the tile.

“Impossible tonight,” I say, tone failing to hide the awe. “You’re luminous.”

She flushes a rose tint. “Professional distance, remember?”

“Respectfully attempting,” I murmur.

Gregory reappears, and intercepts his daughter. “Pumpkin,” he says, proud grin wide. “You look stunning.”

“Dad, the nickname.” She cringes good-naturedly, then kisses his cheek. “Everything’s ready. AV has your mic.”

He nods, turning to Sawyer. “Keep her in that spotlight and off the tabloids, hm?”

“We’ll handle it.”

As Gregory mingles, Cam’s gaze returns to me. For a sliver of a moment, the party noise recedes, and we just breathe each other’s air.

Rae’s voice interrupts. “Ingress gate secure, Phase Two donors arriving.”

Duty first. I incline my head. “Time to shine. I’m two steps away if you need anything.”

She touches my forearm through my tux—two heartbeats, then she’s gone, floating into the throng.

From my vantage near a pillar draped in orchids, I track Cam’s every move. She greets donors, laughs with the mayor, poses beside the community mural projected across a thirty-foot screen. Blue gown fans as she gestures, each movement a brushstroke come alive.

Riggs sidles up, sipping club soda. “Copycat shooter nowhere in sight.”

“Let’s keep it that way.” I flick to the west-wing feed—Malik patrolling the caterer corridor—then to the rooftop drone. Thermal shows only authorized personnel.

Music swells—string quartet shifting to a modern arrangement of “Can’t Help Falling in Love.” Cam finishes greeting the last executive, then steps to the dance floor with graceful hesitation. Her eyes search and find me.

Dance with me? the look says.

Professional? Not even close. But we built this fortress so she can live. Tonight, living means dancing with the man who can’t stop wanting her.

I approach, comms crackling low: “Riggs, Malik, Rae, maintain visual.”

Cam offers her gloved hand. I take it, the satin on my calloused skin feels electric. We step into the waltz.

“I thought you didn’t dance,” she murmurs, smiling up.

“I assess threats,” I say, guiding her in a smooth box turn. “Right now the only threat is how stunning you are.”

Color blooms across her cheeks. “Flattery might be unprofessional.”

“Then fire me tomorrow.” I spin her, and the gown arcs like a comet trail. Eyes follow us—media whispers, donors intrigued—but my world is this measured swirl of blue silk and the scent of her gardenia perfume.

Halfway through the song, Rae’s voice cuts in: “Command, we have a possible in the north hedge—heat signature, stationary, looks like tech kit.”

I stiffen, pulse spiking, but keep my smile for onlookers. “Copy. Riggs intercept silently. I retain asset.”

Cam feels my tension. “What is it?” she whispers.

“Nothing you need to worry about.” I pivot us away from the cameras toward a darker corner. “Smile for the crowd.”

She does, though her fingers tighten on my shoulder.

“Riggs, status?” I murmur.

“False alarm—ground squirrel sitting on warm transformer,” he returns. Relief flicks. “Tell your squirrel security deposit due.”

I exhale, easing. The waltz ends, and applause rises. Cam curtsies. I bow. Cameras flash.

As we exit the floor, Hartley (out of uniform in a simple tux) greets Cam, compliments the mural, nods to me with knowing respect. His plainclothes detectives are spread around.

A while later, Gregory presents a scholarship fund, and bidders raise paddles. Cam stands side-stage, anxious but radiant. Her father squeezes her hand after the gavel drops on the final painting for $850,000. She beams and I forget how to breathe.

Rae reports zero anomalies. Media clamor outside the press zone, but crowd flow remains orderly. My shoulders loosen—maybe the threat burned itself out.

Guests head to the lawn marquee for dessert. I guide Cam along the lantern-lit path. Fire pits flicker, violins play softer as the champagne flows.

“You did it,” I say low. “No drama.”

“Couldn’t have without you.” Her eyes shine, emotion heavy. “Sawyer, thank you?—”

An urgent hiss in my ear. “One to?Command—Geiger anomaly in cellar corridor. Audible ticking. I repeat: ticking source unknown.”

Ice water sluices through my veins.

“Riggs, intercept. Malik block cellar stair. Evac quiet.”

Cam notices my body go rigid. “Sawyer?”

I grip her elbow, smile wide for nearby guests, and whisper, “We have to move, right now.”

She pales but nods. I steer her behind the dessert tent, away from crowd eyes. Over comm, I say, “Riggs?”

“Object located behind catering crates. Cylindrical, capped, analog timer—two minutes on clock.”

My worst nightmare. “Do not touch. Establish blast perimeter ten meters. Evac all staff.”

Cam’s hand clutches my coat. “Is it a bomb ?” Her voice cracks on the last word.

“Likely improvised device.” Calm voice, shaking soul. “I’ve got this.”

I call Rae to keep patrons confined to the lawn. Andersson reroutes valet flow. Malik clears the east wing. In less than thirty seconds an invisible cordon forms—guests oblivious under twinkle lights.

I turn to Cam. “Go with Rae to the command trailer.”

Her lips tremble, but her chin lifts. “Not a chance. I want to be with you.”

“No,” I say, clutching both her shoulders, my eyes boring into hers.

“What are you going to do?”

I step close, erasing inches. “I’m going to assess the bomb, and then diffuse it.”

Her eyes blow wide. “I…uh, but…what if…” she doesn’t finish her thought, and I won’t let her because I do something highly unprofessional, I lean in, capturing her lips with mine. I kiss her like my soul’s on fire. I step back, brush a thumb down her cheek, then sprint.

I head into the cellar, and check to make sure Rae has Camille.

Riggs crouches behind a steel prep table flipped as makeshift cover. The device sits three meters ahead. A silver thermos-like cylinder strapped with duct tape, analog kitchen timer whirring down from ninety seconds. Classic intimidation build—simple but lethal in close quarters.

“Blocked door swing,” Riggs whispers. “I can’t guarantee a full seal from up top.”

“Get clear,” I order, scanning components. No wires leading away, no shimmer of mercury tilt. Likely a pipe bomb with black-powder main charge, maybe nails. Timer leads into spring striker. Basic.

“Time?” Riggs asks.

“Eight-eight.” I pop my multitool. If I move the striker plate sideways one millimeter, I can wedge a utensil—wooden spoon—to hold the spring. But if they rigged an anti-tamper, we’re dust.

No choice.

I exhale, slip to my knees. Voices crackle in my ear—Malik establishing external evac—but my focus tunnels.

Seven-four seconds.

I unscrew the thermos lid—no anti-tamper beep. Good. Inside, a homemade striker rig, nails taped around inner walls. I slide the tool under the striker bar, wedge and the spring compresses.

Sixteen seconds.

Hold. My hands are steady—muscle memory from deserts and dirt roads of Kandahar. I clip wires from timer to igniter, and sever the current.

Timer ticks uselessly.

And then there’s silence.

I exhale once, long. Sweat drips down my spine. “Device disarmed. Request bomb squad for removal.”

Comm erupts in relief.

I stand, my legs rubber. Riggs slaps my shoulder. “You’re still the best damn EOD I know.”

“Let’s not test that again.”

Cam bursts in as soon as Rae opens the door, eyes wet but blazing. “Sawyer!” She throws her arms around my neck, heedless of bomb sweat and talc dust. I hold her hard.

“Neutralized,” I whisper into her hair.

She trembles. “I was watching on the cameras. Rae and I both watched. You were so,” she breathes in deep, “methodical.”

“I had a job to do.” I keep a hold of her.

She gazes into my eyes. “Who leaves a bomb at a charity gala?”

“Someone with a vendetta and knowledge of the layout.” I pull back, and tilt her face. “We’ll find them.”

Her hands cup my jaw, eyes bright. “Don’t ever do that alone.”

“It’s what I do.”

“It’s who you are,” she corrects. Then, softer, “It’s why I …” She trails off but I know. I press our foreheads together.

Behind us, Rae coughs discreetly. “What’s next, Boss?”

I draw a breath, keeping Cam tucked close. “Next? We end this. Tonight proved an escalation. Tomorrow we hunt.”