Page 23 of Sawyer (The Maddox BRAVO Team #1)

He nods fast, rummages in a drawer, produces a folder too thick to be an accident.

“I started compiling when they placed the bomb,” he says, voice fraying.

“There’s a shell company—Alder Street Holdings—that Vale funneled payments through.

Kestrel invoices came from a P.O. box in Magnolia Ridge.

Rourke’s last known was… a warehouse lease in South Ridgeville.

Under another shell: Red Trace Logistics. ”

I snap photos, slide the files into my bag, and pin him with a stare. “Do not talk to the press. Do not call Vale. Do not breathe outside this room unless I tell you. If you go off script again, I will not be able to save you from Hartley.”

He nods, swallowed whole by fear.

I’m at the door when he speaks again. “Bring her home.”

I don’t answer. If I open my mouth right now, the only word that will come out is a growl.

I head to the command room, my thoughts a swirl of anger and confusion. Riggs shuts the door as I enter, and leans back hard. “Jesus.”

I hand him the folder. “Gregory started it. Vale escalated. A blacklisted Kestrel operative named Rourke is freelancing now. We have a P.O. Box, a shell, and a likely warehouse in South Ridgeville operating under Red Trace.”

Rae swears softly. “Son of a— That’s why the threats had a mix of amateur and pro hallmarks. Two different hands.”

“Dean is going to implode,” Riggs mutters, flicking through invoices. “Controlled crisis my ass.”

My satphone vibrates. Dean—already on. “Gregory is behind this? And he just told you?”

“He told me,” I say. “Sending you the file now.”

I beam the scan. Dean goes quiet as data scrolls on his end.

He exhales something that could kill small animals.

“Here’s the plan,” he says, calm and lethal.

“We split capabilities. Riggs, you lock Kingsley House down and keep PD and Hartley inside the net—no leaks. Rae, you pivot to finance: run Alder Street Holdings through every payment processor; follow wires to physical addresses. Sawyer, you’re point on Rourke.

We’ll loop in a trusted federal contact, but you move faster than paper does.

You get a grid, you move. You do not breach alone. ”

“Copy,” we echo in chorus.

Rae flips a screen to a map. “Alder Street’s incoming wires show cashouts at three ATMs in Evermore two weeks running.

Red Trace leases two units at a storage complex in South Ridgeville—Riverfront Industrial—units 312 and 314.

One shows energy spikes at irregular intervals—somebody’s running tools. ”

Riggs taps his chin. “Storage units are kidnapping 101. Sound masks, easy access, nobody asks questions.”

I look at the clock. 14:27 . If the van took 115 south and exited near Fox Hollow, they could be there now.

“Hartley?” I ask.

Rae shakes her head. “He’s Good Cop on Gregory. We shove him a slice, and we take the meat.”

Dean grunts approval. “SPPD will want to own the collar, but I want Cam breathing, not a ribbon-cutting. Sawyer—bring two, not ten. Quiet over show.”

“Riggs and Rae,” I say. “And Andersson on cordon if we get a second location.”

Dean: “I’ll have Orange-Plus on standby as QRF six minutes out. Make the hit clean.”

I snap the mag in my SIG, and rack the slide. “We go now.”

Riggs’s eyes flare. “That’s the look you get before doing something dumb and glorious.”

“Who says it’s dumb?” I check the holster retention, and grab a short-barrel carbine from the locker. “It’s only dumb if we miss.”

Rae’s tablet chirps. “Wait—one more breadcrumb. The van—if they used a jammer, they might have turned it off when they parked. I’m seeing a white panel on a municipal cam, timestamp fifteen minutes ago, turning into the exact industrial park the lease lists.

Partial plate matches outline. I’m ninety percent. ”

My pulse steadies—not calm, not joy—something colder.

“Gear up,” I say. “We drive.”

The SUV travels southbound, sirens nowhere near us, because this is off-books. The River glints on our right; cranes needle the sky. My phone hums; Vanessa: Any word? I don’t answer. My hands are busy strangling the steering wheel.

Riggs readies a breaching kit—bolt cutters, wedge, flex cuffs. Rae checks a trauma pouch, then toggles a drone to manual and sets it in a foam cradle—launch on arrival.

“Talk to me,” Riggs says without looking up.

“Rourke,” I say, spitting the name like a tooth. “Ex-military. Likes toys—jammer, flash-bang. Hates boundaries. Vale wanted a crescendo; Rourke took the whole orchestra.”

“Motivation?” Rae asks. “Money? Leverage?”

“Control,” I say. “Men like him jerk on strings because they like the dance.”

“And Gregory,” Riggs says, voice knifing dry. “You gonna punch him later?”

“I’m going to deliver his daughter breathing and then decide whether my fist needs a conversation.” I glance in the mirror, catch my own eyes—cold, unblinking. “Right now he’s a problem for tomorrow.”

Rae flicks me a look. “Cam’s going to be wrecked.”

“I know.”

The words scrape like gravel. I said I’d keep her whole. If I’m too late, the thing in my chest that’s just starting to believe in a future will cauterize shut.

We arrive at Riverfront Industrial. A grid of anonymous beige boxes and roll-up doors, numbers stenciled in stuttering logic.

A few semis. Silence bouncing hard. We cruise once, eyes casual; Rae’s drone lifts, slips high, owl-quiet.

A white panel van sits crooked near Unit 312, nose pointed out.

My mouth goes dry. Passenger door low-dent.

A peeling orange triangle sticker clings near the bottom seam.

Rae whispers, “Gotcha.”

“License plate?” Riggs asks.

“Paper temp. No state emblem. Fake.”

“Heat signatures?” I murmur.

She checks the IR overlay. “Two, maybe three bodies in 312. 314’s cold. One heat goes vertical then crouches. Could be on a mezzanine.”

I park two buildings down, behind a stack of pallets.

We gear. Gloves. Nods. We move—fast and low.

At the corner, I hold up a fist. We freeze.

A man in coveralls smokes beside Unit 318, completely oblivious.

Riggs angles his body, hiding our kit. We slip past in the echo of a truck backfiring three blocks over.

At 312, paint flakes from the padlock. I can smell bleach and rubber and the faint iron of fear. My fear. Hers.

I tilt my head toward Rae. She lowers the drone, perches it on a gutter for an overwatch view.

Riggs positions on the hinge side with bolt cutters, and I crouch lock-side with the wedge. My ear to the metal. There’s a murmur, a shift, and then a muffled thump. I close my eyes; there’s a sound I know better than any: Cam’s breath when she’s holding it to stop tears.

I nod. Three… two… one.

Riggs bites the lock as I set the wedge and crank.

Metal shrieks. The door jumps. I rip it up and duck left as a shape barrels forward—Rourke or not, I don’t care—he hits the wedge, stumbles while reaching for his belt—flash-bang—no you don’t—I shoulder into him, drive him into the concrete, my forearm pinning his throat as his fingers fumble the pin.

“Hands,” Riggs roars, boot stamping the man’s wrist. Bone cracks. The pin skitters. We shove the canister under the rolling door; it detonates outside, light and sound bleeding harmlessly into the lot.

Another figure lunges from the back—skinny, fast. Rae plants him to the ground with a knee in the spine and a zip tie that sings shut.

“Cam!” I shout, moving into the dim.

She’s there.

On the floor against a stack of crates, wrists tied, tape smeared across her mouth, eyes red and bright but alive . The scream that detonates behind my ribs is the opposite of fear; it’s something older, wilder.

I’m at her in three steps. I cut the zip ties, peel the tape gently, hissing when it takes a layer of skin. She gasps, chokes, then grabs my neck like a lifeline. I tuck her under my chin and breathe her in—turpentine, salt, and glue. My Cam.

“I’m here,” I say, again and again, until her shaking slows enough for words.

“I counted turns,” she whispers against my throat, voice shredded but fierce. “I tried to make it loud. I?—”

“You did good.” I cradle her face in my hands, pressing my forehead to hers. “You lit the sky.”

Riggs cuffs the broken-wrist goon, who is moaning through a mask. “Rourke?” he asks.

I lift the mask. The face is a stranger. A hired nothing. “Where is he?” I snarl into the man’s sweaty fear. “Where’s Rourke?”

“No names, man,” he pants. “We just—just a pickup.”

“Who hired you? Vale?” My grip tightens.

He can’t answer with the air cut off. I ease enough to let words through.

“We get cash, that’s it. GPS pings; we drive. Warehouse number comes in an hour before. That’s all. Please—my hand?—”

“Good,” I say, softly. “It hurts.”

Rae stalks over, eyes predator-sharp. “We’ll find your boss,” she says. “You’ll sing louder later.”

Sirens begin to wail in the distance—Hartley, or CHP, or both—drawn by the flash of the munition and the drone’s ping. I gather Cam, lift her, and her legs wrap around my waist like they’re remembering something we promised last night.

“Home,” she whispers.

“Home,” I echo, and my voice breaks.

I carry her into the sun.

We’ll figure the rest—the partner who played with matches, the fixer who wants fire, the father who finally told the truth. I’ll hand the folder to Dean, and he’ll peel Vale like fruit. Hartley will build a case. Rourke will get his day with my hands.

But right now, in the parking lot of a storage facility that looks like a thousand others, I hold the woman I almost lost and let the fact that she’s breathing into my neck turn me human again.

“Rae,” I say, already thinking seven moves ahead even as I feel Cam’s pulse returning to calm under my thumb, “call Dean. Tell him we’ve got Cam and two live. Tell him the name Vale is coming off my lips with receipts.”

“Copy,” she says, voice fierce with satisfaction. “And Sawyer?”

“Yeah.”

“Good hunt.”

I kiss the top of Cam’s head and start walking us toward the SUV.

Behind us, Riggs reads the skinny perp his rights, and the drone hums like a satisfied hornet.

Ahead: answers. A storm. And after that—if we survive the truth—blue paint, a studio floor, and a life I will put my body between and anything that tries to break it.