Page 4 of Sawyer (The Maddox BRAVO Team #1)

Sawyer

The night air smells like jasmine and damp stone as I step onto the veranda, eyes sweeping left to right, corners first—hedge line, gate, dark windows.

A stray bottle rolls along the flagstones, clinking once before settling against the step—teenagers’ litter kicked loose by the wind, nothing more.

My pulse eases a notch. I pick it up, drop it in the bin, and stand a beat longer under the quiet, letting the house’s breathing sync with mine before I go back inside.

I head back inside to watch her paint. Her eyes clock mine as I step back inside the studio, and I nod, letting her know the threat is all clear.

She releases a breath, and returns to her canvas.

Camille paints like she breathes. Recklessly.

Gloriously. And without apology. The afternoon light knifes through the clerestory windows of her studio, scattering rainbows across turpentine-speckled drop cloths and kissing the warm tan of her shoulders.

She’s barefoot again, toes flexing against the splattered floorboards, hips swaying in a rhythm that has nothing to do with music and everything to do with instinct.

I station myself at the edge of the room, just close enough to intercept trouble, far enough to pretend I’m not cataloging every flex of her calf as she stretches for a stroke of cobalt.

The SIG at my hip feels suddenly crude, a metal anachronism in a temple of color.

Cam doesn’t acknowledge me at first. She’s lost to the canvas, wielding a three-inch brush like a saber, slashing oceans of indigo into existence.

“Background first,” she murmurs to herself. “Foundation before crescendo.”

The words aren’t meant for me, but they land anyway—an artist’s version of battlefield doctrine.

Build the groundwork, then add the fireworks.

I fold my arms, leaning against a beam, and let my pulse slow.

There’s something almost obscene about the intimacy of watching someone create. It’s like spying on prayer.

Cam steps back, smudges a line with her thumb, leaves a streak of cerulean on her skin.

Every few minutes she dips her brush into murky water, splatters droplets on her thigh, then attacks the canvas again.

Flashes of sun ignite in her braid, and I catch myself wondering how that hair would feel wrapped around my fingers.

Focus, Maddox.

I do a slow visual sweep: three windows, all original brass latches—no forced entry marks.

Door behind me, wide open; good sight lines.

Overhead vent big enough for a raccoon, not a perp.

No hidden drones, no fiber-optic camera lenses glinting in the rafters.

Still, someone breached somewhere to plant that envelope.

The question scribbles itself across my brain: How?

Cam finally notices me hovering. She dabs her brush in yellow, cocks her head. “You’re wound tighter than a drum. Does the color help or make it worse?”

“Depends,” I answer. “Do you have industrial-grade drop cloths for my anxiety?”

She laughs, the sound sliding under my ribs. “Come here.”

I straighten. “Excuse me?”

“Not to model. Relax.” She points at the unpainted corner of the mural. “Hold this palette while I finish the horizon line. Trust me, it’s easier than juggling it myself.”

Everything in the brAVO handbook screams about maintaining a tactical bubble, but her eyes sparkle with challenge, and I can’t resist. I step forward, take the wooden palette—heavy, cool, alive with scent of oils.

She brushes past me to reach her mark; the side of her breast grazes my forearm through the thin cotton of her tank.

A hit of electricity detonates low in my gut.

Steady, soldier.

She paints, and I play human easel, watching veins of amber swirl into the indigo, watching her lips purse in concentration.

At one point she lifts the palette with both hands to mix, and paint smears the back of my knuckles, a vivid poppy red.

She catches the gesture, meets my eyes. Chemistry snaps taut between us like a tripwire.

“Told you painting was messy,” she whispers.

Messy. Dangerous. Addicting.

Before I can reply, my phone buzzes. It’s the brAVO secure channel. Wicked timing. I swipe the screen one-handed.

“Sawyer here,” I mutter, turning away. “Talk.”

“Got the first pass on that envelope from the detective,” Riggs says. “No prints, but the paper stock is specialty—Arcana Ivory, sold to exactly eleven boutiques in the Saint Pierce area. I’m sending the list.”

“Run surveillance pulls near all eleven in the last month. Flag anyone following Cam or Kingsley family staff.”

“On it.”

I hang up, catch Cam’s curious look over her shoulder.

“Work?” she asks.

“Clues.”

She bites her lip, studying me, then goes back to the canvas. Ten minutes later she steps away, satisfied. The horizon glows like molten honey. The room smells of pine solvent and electric tension.

“Moment of truth,” she says, turning. “Verdict?”

“It looks like the sunset over a war zone,” I answer honestly. “Devastating and hopeful at the same time.”

Her cheeks flush. “Not everyone sees both.”

“I’ve seen worse skies.” My voice dips, remembering sandstorms smeared with tracer fire. “Yours ends with light.”

She opens her mouth, maybe to thank me, maybe to flirt, when Edgar interrupts with the dinner gong—yes, a literal bronze gong. Money, apparently, buys medieval theatrics. Cam rolls her eyes. “If I don’t show, Edgar will organize a search party. You coming?”

“I’ll roam the perimeter first,” I answer. “Meet you there.”

She nods as she slips from the studio. I wait until her footsteps fade, then swipe a quick UV scan wand along the doorframe—no residue, no hidden microdots. Still, my gut says the breach was inside, not out. Trust but verify. Mostly verify.

Dinner happens in a dining hall big enough to host NATO talks.

It’s just Cam, me, Edgar, and two silent maids who materialize courses like stagehands.

Cam sits at the head. I sit on her right.

She attempts small talk—art, weather, an upcoming charity gala—but every clink of silver jolts my hypervigilance.

After dessert—an obscenely decadent lavender crème br?lée—Cam pushes back her chair. “Come on, Maddox. Time to pick your sleeping quarters.”

Edgar bristles. “I would be happy to?—”

“I’ve got it,” she insists, and I follow her up the sweeping staircase.

She stops at a mahogany door halfway down the east wing. “You’ll stay here.” She opens to reveal a suite that could house a minor royal. It’s got a king bed, marble bathroom, and a balcony facing the ocean.

“Appreciated,” I say, scanning angles. Closets deep enough to hide a linebacker. Windows double-latched, but the balcony rail is only seven feet from a drainpipe—note to self: install motion sensors.

“My room’s two doors down,” she offers, voice husky with something unnamed. “In case you need me.”

“I’ll manage.” My tone comes out rougher than intended.

Her smile is Cheshire-cat slow. “Sleep well, Sawyer.” She pivots, her braid sliding across her spine, and she disappears into the dim hall.

I do not sleep well.

2300 hours: I lie flat on five-hundred-thread-count sheets staring at the ornate ceiling medallion.

The house groans like an old ship. Every pop of timber sounds like a footstep.

I replay the timeline: envelope found at sixteen-twelve.

Staff accounted for. Windows locked. Front gate monitored.

So how did the perp get in? Drone drop? Unlikely—no open skylights.

Insider? More likely. Could be a disgruntled employee, a contractor with a grudge, a social engineer who sweet-talked delivery access.

2330: I give up, grab my phone, dial Dean.

“Status?” he answers, with no preamble whatsoever.

“Something’s off,” I say, keeping my voice low. “Perp left an envelope inside a secure perimeter. No breach signs. Paper stock exclusive.”

“Inside job,” Dean concludes. “Want me to run backgrounds on staff?”

“Edgar’s been with the family twenty years, the maids longer. But yes. And check any recent contractors: HVAC, painters, IT.”

“Copy. Anything else?”

I hesitate. “Cam’s resisting lockdown. She’s… spirited.”

Dean chuckles. “And you like spirited.”

“This isn’t about me.”

“Sure it isn’t. Stay sharp. Call if you need backup.” He hangs up.

I scrub a hand over my face, push off the bed. Sleep later. Secure now.

0120 hours: The corridor is dark, lit only by wall sconces casting amber pools across Persian rugs. I sweep left to right: thermal monocular up, scanning for heat signatures. Cam’s door glows warm through oak—she’s alive, maybe dreaming of sunsets and rebellion.

I move to the south wing of the library—windows locked. Dining hall—empty. Kitchen—empty.

Past the butler’s pantry, I find a servant stairwell spiraling to the basement. Door is ajar. My pulse spikes. I draw the SIG, thumb the flashlight, and descend silently.

Basement smells of earth and vintage wine. Racks line the walls, shadows deep as coffins. A faint breeze brushes my cheek—not possible in a sealed cellar. I follow it to a narrow service tunnel, brick arching overhead.

There: fresh scuff marks on the dust. Recent. Size eleven boot, non-dress tread. Adrenaline crashes my bloodstream.

The tunnel ends at a steel access hatch.

It’s latched from the inside. I crack it open, flashlight slicing darkness.

Outside: the rear hedge, thirty yards from the house.

A perfect insertion route for someone who knows the layout.

But that means whoever dropped the envelope had interior knowledge and a key—or help.

I secure the hatch, triple knot a length of paracord through the interior lock, and cinch it tight. That hole is plugged.

Back upstairs, I log findings, set extra cameras on the east wing, then stop outside Cam’s door, listening. Soft music filters through—jazz, slow and sultry. I imagine her curled under silk, lashes fanning her pink cheeks, unaware of the storm gathering.

I turn away. Protect, don’t covet.

0345 hours: I’m on the balcony outside my room, the moon lighting up the ocean waves. The night is cool, salt tang on the air. Somewhere inside, an antique clock chimes four. Footsteps approach—bare and light.

I pivot. Cam stands in the doorway of my balcony, robe cinched, braid loose, eyes drowsy. “Couldn’t sleep?” she whispers.

“Patrol.” I nod toward the grounds. “Secured a vulnerability.”

She hugs herself against the chill. “You’re relentless.”

“Occupational hazard.”

She steps closer until the moon outlines her face. She’s luminous. “Thank you,” she says simply.

“For?”

“Caring whether I wake up tomorrow.” Her hand lifts, and brushes the sleeve of my shirt as it lingers. Heat blooms.

“I’d like you to wake up every tomorrow,” I admit.

Silence stretches. Her gaze drifts to my mouth; mine to hers. The world narrows to the silver flecks in her irises, the cinnamon scent of her skin.

I step back. “Go inside, Cam. Get some rest.”

She studies me a beat longer, then nods. “Good night, Sawyer.”

“Night.”

She slips away.

I exhale the breath I didn’t know I held, then key the radio to silent mode. One more sweep before dawn. Whoever’s hunting Camille Kingsley has no idea the predator now guarding her door is hungrier than they are.

Let them come.

By the time the first blush of sunrise bleeds over the ridge, I’m still awake—wired, focused, and unwilling to admit that the real reason sleep eludes me is a barefoot artist with paint under her nails and the power to redraw every line I thought I’d etched in stone.