Page 20 of Sawyer (The Maddox BRAVO Team #1)

Sawyer

The safe-house feels different now that we’re packing to leave—like it’s exhaling after holding its breath for forty-eight straight hours.

Every plank and beam still hums with the memory of color-splashed kisses and skin-on-skin confessions, but practicalities elbow romance aside as flight cases and gun bags clutter the foyer.

I crouch beside a pelican case, securing the foam cradle that keeps our encrypted laptops from jostling.

My mind drifts backward: Cam’s laughter echoing through the A-frame, the neon-blue streak she left on my ribs, slow mornings tangled in linen while fog rose out of the pines.

Forty-eight hours off-grid and I’ve tasted a life I didn’t realize I craved.

Now I have to shove us both back into the chessboard where someone’s still trying to knock her off the squares.

Footsteps crunch on gravel outside. Andersson’s voice booms: “Fuel topped, convoy green.” Rae chimes through comms inside, “Perimeter drones docking.” The house is orchestrating its own goodbye.

Cam appears at the top of the stairs with an armful of supplies—sketchbooks, a quart jar of brushes, tubes rubber-banded in a bouquet. She wears jean shorts, hiking boots, and my black brAVO hoodie four sizes too big, sleeves shoved past paint-speckled elbows. A sadness flickers behind her smile.

“This place was starting to feel like a studio retreat,” she says, descending. “Back to reality.”

“Kingsley House won’t know what hit it,” I answer, closing the case. “Paint stains on every imported rug.”

“Gregory will faint.” She tries for levity but it lands shallow. She drops her supplies into a tote, then runs a thumb along a fresh bruise on her thigh—proof of yesterday’s “lesson” on disarming a wrist-grab that turned into something else entirely. A flush rises on her cheeks at the memory.

I slip closer, and hook a finger under her chin. “You okay?”

She eyes the door, voice low. “What if we go back and the note … or worse … happens again?”

“It might,” I admit, because false comfort is toxic. “But I’ll catch them.”

She searches my face. “And if I’m the bait again?”

“Then I’ll be the trap. We drew them out once. We'll finish it.” I stroke her jaw. “Walls and doors, remember?”

Her shoulders lower. She nods, leaning into a quick kiss that tastes of anxiety trimmed with trust.

Anderssen barges in, lugging a crate of shotgun shells. “Birds are singing, coffee’s brewed, and our prints are wiped. Let’s bounce before paparazzi sniff the ridge.”

“Kingsley House is buttoned?” I ask.

He sets the crate down. “Dean flew in a private security contractor to harden Level-I glass on every ground-floor pane. Extra K-9s sweep the exterior hourly. Hartley’s undercover unit will tail the perimeter for seventy-two hours. If the mole twitches, we’ll know.”

That’s the official line; it still tastes like thin soup. I holster my SIG, grip Anderssen on the shoulder. “Good work, brother.”

“Just keep your head clear.” His gaze flicks to Cam.

“Got it.”

My phone buzzes. It’s Dean’s satellite line. I accept. “Status?”

“Kingsley House is operational and paparazzi diverted. PD scrubbed staff comms; one caterer texted a tabloid cousin about the bomb but no direct link to the perp. Keep eyes peeled for inside cameras tampered before the gala.”

“Copy. We’re wheels up in twenty.”

He pauses. “Sawyer, remember: protect the principal, collect evidence, but don’t escalate without probable cause.”

“I know the drill.” But my tone is pure flint. Dean catches it.

“And keep your heart out of the trigger guard.”

Too late.

We snake down the mountain. The lead SUV is driven by Andersson, mine in the middle with Cam beside me, and Rae bringing up the rear.

Cam’s earbuds play a lo-fi playlist but she pulls one bud out every five minutes to ask: “Can you really track a drone feed in motion?” “Will paparazzi still be there?” “What’s first thing you’ll do when this is over?

” I answer each patiently. (“Yes,” “Probably,” “Kiss you in public.”) That last one steals her breath—and mine.

A news notification beeps on her phone. Instinctively, she silences it but the glare says the headline was ugly. “Maybe it’ll blow over now that we left,” she mutters.

“It will blow over when I string their ringleader up in court.” I flick the turn signal at a switchback. “I still lean inside job. Last night Rae found a data logger on a defunct access point at Kingsley House—someone piggybacked internal Wi-Fi to send those gala photos.”

Her mouth tightens. “Someone I grew up seeing every day?” The betrayal laces her voice.

“Or a temp contractor. The search narrows.” I brush her thigh, trying my best to comfort her. She covers my hand and squeezes.

The mansion looks unchanged when we reach it.

From the outside you’d never tell of all the changes.

But up close, new bullet-resistant glass is noticeable, a faint green sheen across the lower windows.

Two black K-9 SUVs idle; officers walk shepherds along the hedges.

There’s a paparazzi camp beyond the gates, their lenses like gun barrels. They surge when our convoy rolls in.

Cam stiffens. I park beneath the porte cochère. Immediately Riggs and Andersson form a shield, Rae coordinating luggage.

Gregory strides out, relief etched deep. “Pumpkin!” He engulfs Cam before she unbuckles.

Inside the foyer, the smell of new varnish mixes with lily arrangements leftover from the gala. Gregory pulls me aside into the study lined with leather-bound volumes.

“Thank you,” he says, closing the door. “House feels like a fortress. Still, Cam mentioned you think it’s an inside leak?”

“Yes. Gala photo came from our own network. I’ll interview each contractor personally.” I slide a folder onto his desk—names, background flags. “I also urge you to suspend deliveries and limit staff rotations.”

He rubs his temples. “Our chefs quit on the spot after the bomb fiasco. Replacements start tomorrow.”

“That’s a vulnerability,” I warn. “No one new until we vet them.”

He hesitates. Investor brunch is in three days. But he nods. “Do it.”

We exit. Cam waits by the stairwell, hugging her tote of brushes like a life raft. I cross, lowering my voice. “Why don’t you finish the lake scene in your studio? I’ll sweep the east wing.”

She catches my arm. “Stay close?”

“Always.” I squeeze, then gesture Rae to shadow her upstairs.

Interviewing the staff would normally fall to Anderssen or Rae, but I want to look each suspect in the eye.

I interrogate the Kingsley gardener (alibi: hospitalized mother), the IT subcontractor (cleared via MAC log), a new maid recommended by an agency (nervous but clean). By 18:10 Andersson reports no anomalies.

But my gut churns. Something still rots. I join Riggs in the security room—twelve monitors feed from new cameras. He rewinds gala footage again. We freeze on an image of the catering corridor camera at 22:18—just before the bomb. A figure in chef whites pushes a trash bin. The badge ID tag blurs.

I zoom. Riggs curses. “Badge is a photocopy.”

“Cross-check photo with agency files,” I bark. Andersson inputs—no match. So the bomber was inside that night disguised as waitstaff. Access given by the replaced catering team.

My phone vibrates. It's Cam.

Dinner break? I made sandwiches. Olive loaf—don’t judge. Veranda.

I smile despite the gloom and head toward the veranda.

The house is quieter. Gregory’s in his office, and the staff is minimal. Cam sets two plates on a small round table overlooking the garden. The sandwiches are crooked, mustard heavy. I bite anyway, and it tastes like normal life.

She eyes monitors visible through the archway. “Find anything?”

“Suspect used a fake badge, and borrowed a uniform.” I push lettuce aside. “We’ll track them.”

Her shoulders slump. “I’ll never feel safe again, will I?”

I lean, brushing my knuckles across her cheek. “You will. Safety isn’t the absence of threats; it’s the presence of trust. In me. In yourself.”

She blinks tears away. “I trust you. But what happens when this is over? Do you return to defusing bombs elsewhere?”

“I return to wherever you hang your canvases.” The truth clears a fog I didn’t know I still carried. “The job might end, but I’m not stepping out of your frame.”

She exhales shakily—half laugh, half sob—then kisses me, mustard and all. Heat ignites, but I keep it tempered because the hall cameras still run.

“Careful,” I murmur, pulling back. “I still have interviews.”

“Tonight?” She pouts.

“Duty, then bedtime. I promise.”

She pins a paint-smeared sticky note on my chest: “Trust your gut.” Then she heads upstairs.

I tuck the note in my pocket.

The rest of the day passes in a blur. Duty done. Suspect list trimmed to three: a food-runner who vanished after his shift, a florist assistant with fake references, and the recently fired COO Spencer DeLuca (no alibi, known grudge).

Cam opens her door at my soft knock. She’s in a cotton nightdress, hair down. Her smile is both exhaustion and relief.

“Hall post or inside?” she teases.

“Inside,” I say, stepping in, bolting the door. “I kept my promise.”

She slips her hand under my shirt, over my abdomen, eyes shining. “I painted after dinner—found a new shade of lake blue.”

“I’d like to see,” I whisper, nuzzling her neck.

“Tomorrow,” she answers, mouth finding mine. “Tonight, let’s make our own color.”

We do.

Between breaths she whispers fear, hope, unspoken vows. Between kisses I assure, vow, plan. Outside, threats still lurk, but inside the echo of her laughter against my skin, they lose shape.

And tomorrow, when dawn floods the windows, I’ll track that food-runner’s rental car, dig through florist invoices, and corner DeLuca’s last known associate—because safety is more than walls and doors. It’s finishing the battle so she never has to look over her shoulder again.

Until then, I hold her—steady, fierce—while the storm outside hunts for cracks it will never find.