Page 16 of Sawyer (The Maddox BRAVO Team #1)

Sawyer

Morning should smell like fresh espresso and lemon polish, but the Kingsley House reeks of the stale aftermath of a gala.

Orange Team operators pace the grounds in daylight patrols.

A mobile forensics van idles by the portico, CSU techs collecting one last round of any evidence they can find before shipping it upriver to Quantico.

Fortresses, it turns out, can bleed.

I rub my sternum—phantom ache where Cam’s heartbeat slept against mine only hours ago. The memory of her satin skin, her breathy moans still ghost across my senses like aftershocks. Focus, Maddox. You promised her the world at dawn. First you have to keep her alive to see the sunset.

Rae hands me her overnight incident log as we stride toward the command trailer. “Drone captured a black SUV circling the perimeter at oh-three-twenty. No plates. Disappeared west on Cedar.”

“Forward footage to Hartley.” I flip pages. “Any chatter on police frequencies?”

She grimaces. “Media leak. KRX News aired ‘Heiress Horror: Bomb at Kingsley Charity Gala.’ They’re speculating internal sabotage.”

“Perfect.” I toss the packet on the desk as we step inside. Screens bloom with live feeds; headlines crawl across one monitor:

Insider Tips FBI to Kingsley Bomb!

Charity Catastrophe: Is the Blue Princess a Target?

Somewhere, someone is feeding the vultures.

“Malik,” I bark through comms, “pull today’s domestic staff roster. Cross-check against comms logs. I want to know who had phone access last night after the lockdown.”

“On it,” he replies.

Riggs enters carrying two coffees and an expression that says intervention. He slides a cup my way. “Double espresso. Figured you’d need intravenous.”

I grunt thanks, take a scalding swallow—bitterness matches the acid in my gut. Riggs leans back against a gear case, arms folded. “You heading off a cliff, brother.”

“Cliff looks like?”

“Emotional free-fall. Eyes glazed. No sleep. And…” He gestures vaguely to my torso. “Paint smudges?”

I glance down. A faint streak of cobalt blue arcs across my black shirt—Cam’s mark from when our bodies collided into dawn. Heat flicks under my collar even as adrenaline spikes. “Working case,” I say.

“Uh-huh.” He studies me. “You love her?”

The question detonates in my chest. “Don’t go there.”

“Too late—you’re already there. Just make sure your heart doesn’t override the mission.” He turns serious. “Whoever planted that bomb knew our sensor grid, Sawyer. This isn’t a star-struck fan. It’s strategic.”

“I know.” I rake a hand through my hair. “We’re missing a link—someone inside feeding intel. We lock tighter, we flush them out.”

Before Riggs can push further, my phone buzzes with Gregory Kingsley’s number. I pick up. “Sir?”

“Mr. Maddox. Meet me in the west library.” The tone brooks no delay.

I hand the coffee back to Riggs and head out.

07:35 — West Library

Sunlight slants across rows of rare first editions. Gregory stands at the window, phone in one hand, Wall Street Journal in the other. Headlines about the bomb glare from the business section.

He turns, eyes bloodshot behind rimless glasses. “I trusted this house was secure. Yet a device nearly killed my donors—and my daughter.”

A jab of guilt lands square. “We neutralized the threat. No casualties.”

“But what about next time?” He paces. “Camille won’t leave. She thinks bravery and stubbornness are synonyms. I need options.”

“Options?” I echo.

“Relocation. A safe house. Or overseas—she loves the Amalfi studio my wife left her. Could you escort her there until this blows over?” His voice trembles at wife , grief simmering fresh.

I fold my hands behind my back in a professional stance. “She’s safest under the net we control. But if you order it, I’ll implement extraction protocols.”

He sighs, rubbing his temples. “She’ll fight me. Says the community needs her here, painting over darkness. I admire that—but I’d trade every Kingsley share to keep her heart beating.”

His desperation mirrors my own silent terror from last night. I step closer. “Mr. Kingsley, I have feelings for your daughter.” The admission crashes out before caution can muzzle it. “But that won’t cloud my judgment. If extraction becomes necessary, I’ll do it.”

He studies me, surprise flickering into something like acceptance.

“You risked your life for her already. Perhaps that qualifies you more than most.” He exhales.

“Press conference in an hour. Statement’s being drafted.

Public wants reassurance and the shareholders want blood. Just keep my girl… whole.”

He leaves with the paper rolled tight like a baton. The door clicks shut, reverberations jangling my bones.

Back in Command, Orange-Team has flagged two suspicious staff calls; Hartley is already subpoenaing tower logs. But leaks spread like fissures. TMZ drone footage pops up on TikTok —Kingsley House lit by police strobes, bomb squad hauling a canister. The narrative spirals unchecked.

I phone Dean.

He answers on the first ring. “Dog and pony show going sideways?”

“Media breach. Strategic infiltration. Kingsley wants relocation. I’m leaning toward extraction until we ID the mole.”

Dean exhales. “Pulling her mid-crisis may embolden the attacker, but public frenzy compromises perimeter.”

“So we go dark. Off-grid property west of Saint Pierce, near Wolfsridge Canyon. In the mountains. Orange-Team can re-fortify in twelve hours.”

“Agree. Who compromises command here?”

“Riggs stays onsite with Malik to liaise with PD. Rae, Andersson on convoy with me and Cam.”

“Do it fast, low-vis. And Sawyer—cut emotional entanglement loose until thread’s snipped. Operatives in love bleed mistakes.”

“Who says I’m in love? Did you talk to Riggs?” Motherfucker.

“Just stay clear.”

My grip tightens on the phone. “Copy.” But love isn’t a switch I can flick.

09:10 — Cam’s studio

She’s at the easel, bare feet, Sawyer-T-shirt, wielding a palette knife like a saber. A new canvas—storm clouds swirling cobalt and ember. She turns, reading urgency in my stride.

“What happened?”

“Press leaked the bomb story. Paparazzi will swarm. Your father’s worried.”

She wipes paint on a rag. “He wants to hide me.”

“He wants you alive.” I step close, lowering my voice. “I propose a temporary relocation. Isolated safe house, new sensor grid. 48-hour blackout until we track the mole.”

Her eyes search mine—fear, frustration, and a small flicker of hope. “Will you be there?”

“Every second.”

She exhales, her shoulders dropping. “Then yes.”

I stroke her paint-dusty cheek. “Pack essentials—no digital devices. We roll in ninety.”

“Tell me you’ll come back for my paints,” she jokes weakly.

“I’ll buy every tube in Wolfsridge Canyon.”

She smiles, brave. I want to kiss her, to steal one slice of calm before the storm, but footsteps clack.

Vanessa.

“Morning drama or afternoon?” Vanessa asks, sipping iced coffee.

“More like relocation,” Cam answers, slipping into logistics.

Vanessa’s brows lift but she nods. “Where?”

“Undisclosed,” I say.

She salutes with her straw. “He’s getting hotter the bossier he gets,” she whispers to Cam, earning an eye roll.

11:05 — Motor court

Three black SUVs idle. Rae drives lead, Andersson tail. I stand beside Cam at the car door, scanning press vans staking out beyond the gate. A Helicopter thumps overhead as a few drones whine.

Riggs jogs over. “PD staging decoy convoy south. Should draw paparazzi.”

“Good.” I draw Cam’s hand to my heart. “Ready?”

“I think so.” She slips into the SUV.

Before I round to the driver’s seat, Riggs grasps my forearm. “You know what you’re doing?”

“Keeping her breathing.”

His gaze digs. He nods once, then turns to marshal decoys.

I slide in. Cam links her fingers with mine on the console. Her pulse thrums—but there’s no fear. There’s only trust.

As we roll through the gates, flashes explode against tinted glass. Media screams questions. My phone buzzes. A text pops on screen:

YOU CAN RUN, BLUE PRINCESS. THE CANVAS IS EVERYWHERE. LET’S ADD MORE RED.

Attached there’s a photo of Cam and me dancing last night, crosshairs drawn over our joined hands.

Rage sears. I lock the screen, my thumb forking my shoulder strap. Cam sees, her jaw tightening but she stays composed.

“We’ll find them,” she whispers.

Glass reflects determination in her hazel eyes, matching my own. The game isn’t over; it’s escalating. But we’re not playing defense anymore. We’re bait—and we know it. The difference? This time the hunter faces a shield forged of vigilance, fury, and a love I no longer bother denying.

Let them come.