Page 7 of Sawyer (The Maddox BRAVO Team #1)

Camille

Morning smells like espresso, turpentine, and impending trouble.

I’m up before my alarm, jittery with the kind of energy that feels half excitement, half storm warning.

Today’s the community mural—twenty kids, six teachers, three pallets of paint, and a ridiculously competent security specialist. I tug on ripped jeans I don’t mind destroying and a Kingsley Foundation tee, then knot my hair high.

I’m swiping an indigo streak across my eyelid (makes hazel eyes pop in photos; sue me) when my phone buzzes.

Me: Are you my bodyguard or my nutrition coach?

Sawyer: Both. Downstairs.

I grin despite myself.

He’s waiting in the kitchen with a travel mug (rocket-fuel latte, vanilla, oat—nailed it again) and a foil-wrapped breakfast burrito I’d normally forget to eat until noon.

He doesn’t comment when I inhale half of it standing by the island, just hands me a napkin and a tactical vest-shaped fanny pack loaded with hand wipes, mini sunscreen, and a collapsible water bottle.

“You realize this is overkill,” I say, wiping salsa from my thumb.

“You say overkill, I say normal.” He shoulders a duffel. “Riggs is en route. We’ll link up on-site.”

“That’s the friend you called last night?” I ask, because yes, I heard him in the hall at some inhuman hour, low voice edged in gravel as he spoke to Dean. The walls of this house are thick, but my curiosity is thicker.

“brAVO teammate,” he corrects. “Former Force Recon. Good eyes. Better jokes. Don’t let him talk you into parkour.”

“Noted.”

We take the Foundation van today. Sawyer insisted on swapping out license plates and adding a portable dash cam that feeds straight to his tablet.

He drives. I sketch in the air, explaining what the kids will design on the mural today: a river of color pouring out of cracked asphalt, turning into a school of fish that morph into paper airplanes that become ideas that become—“—the city skyline,” I finish, air-brushing invisible strokes. “Hope, motion, continuity.”

“Symbol heavy,” he says, but the corner of his mouth tips. Translation: he likes it.

Traffic crawls through Dansforth Hill, then spits us into Blue-Sand Beach where the old municipal parking wall waits—gray, pitted, a thousand square feet of urban meh begging to be transformed.

A nonprofit rec center across the alley is lending us restrooms and storage; the principal already signed waivers, bless her.

An unmarked matte-gray pickup idles across the street. The driver jumps out the second we roll up: tall, rangy, beard like he lost a bet with a lumberjack, mirrored shades. He wears brAVO cargo pants, a faded baseball cap, and a grin that says I specialize in trouble, and I’m glad you brought some.

“Morning, Sunshine,” he calls to Sawyer.

“Riggs.” Sawyer clasps forearms with him—battle-brother style—then angles toward me. “Cam, meet Andy Riggs, we call him Riggs. He’ll be second watch.”

Riggs pops the shades up onto his hat and whistles low. “You didn’t mention your client was the Cam Kingsley. Thought you were dragging me out here for graffiti control.” He sticks out his hand, and I like him instantly. “Ma’am.”

“Cam,” I correct. “Or I’ll start calling you Sergeant Beard.”

He barks a laugh. “Heard you were mouthy. This is going to be fun.”

Sawyer gives him the look—the one that could cauterize a wound at twenty paces. “Focus. Perimeter first.”

They fall into a rhythm so practiced it’s almost choreographed.

Riggs sweeps the rooflines, counting windows.

Sawyer maps ingress/egress, chalking colored X’s on the ground like he’s laying mines.

Whatever all of that means. They set up collapsible stanchions to create a kid-safe zone, position the van as a barrier on one end and Riggs’ truck on the other, and plug a portable camera into a lamppost. It feels…

excessive. Also reassuring, in the way wearing a helmet is annoying until the fall.

“You two guarding paint or the Crown Jewels?” I call.

“Paint is the crown,” Riggs replies. “Ask Banksy.” Then, in a quiet voice to Sawyer, “She’s gonna be a handful.”

“I heard that,” I sing back. “And I'm impressed you know who Banksy is.”

Sawyer and Riggs exchange a glare, and I laugh. If I didn’t know any better I’d say Sawyer’s jealous, and that does something wicked to my body.

I suck in a deep breath.

Kids begin arriving in a noisy trickle—backpacks, lunch sacks, excitement ricocheting off concrete.

Becca’s here, hair in a high neon scrunchie, arms loaded with dollar-store aprons she insisted she buy when she saw my nicer ones.

Principal Nguyen hugs me and introduces parents, all of whom take obvious comfort from the Terminators bracketing the site.

Sawyer crouches to eye level with a trio of second graders. “Rule one: paint the wall, not your friends. Rule two: stay inside the cones unless a grown-up says okay. Rule three: if you need the bathroom, you tell me or Miss Cam.” He taps his earpiece. “I can hear everything. Even sneezes.”

One kid—Miguel—gasps. “Even burps?”

Sawyer pretends to think. “Especially burps.”

The kids lose it, delighted. Becca nudges me. “He has layers. Like lasagna.”

“Stop ogling my security,” I whisper-laugh.

“Can’t. Won’t.” She winks at me.

We grid the wall in light chalk, then let chaos bloom.

Sky blues swish; citrus yellows explode; small hands press stencils; bigger hands roll primer; someone sneezes hot pink.

I circulate like a traffic cop with glitter authority, redirecting drips and mediating color disputes (“Yes, the fish can be magenta; no, that doesn’t make it less of a fish”).

Every time I turn, Sawyer is there —not hovering (okay, hovering), but in that elliptical orbit where he can intercept anything headed toward me.

When paint water spills, he’s got towels.

When a gust threatens to flip our supply table, he clamps it with one giant palm.

When Miguel’s little sister wobbles on a step stool, Sawyer just appears and steadies it, unruffled.

“Captain Serious saved me,” she sings to her friends.

“Serious?” Riggs snorts. “Kid, that man once ate a ghost pepper MRE and barely blinked.”

“Because my tongue died,” Sawyer mutters.

I laugh so hard I bend over, smearing cobalt on my knee.

Riggs soon has a fan club. He teaches the older kids how to mask off sharp lines with painter’s tape. “Crisp edges make your colors pop,” he says. “Same as keeping your muzzle clean.” Blank stares. He amends: “Same as sharpening your colored pencils.” Ahh, comprehension.

Lunchtime. The air smells like food truck tacos we bribed a vendor to park nearby.

I sit on an upturned milk crate, chewing guac-stuffed something while Sawyer stands, scanning, one hand resting near his hip holster under a loose overshirt.

His eyes sweep, sweep, then snag on mine.

Heat detonates in my chest. I hold the gaze, and slow-blink once.

He exhales, and gives me a lopsided smile.

This man is a walking restraint system, I think. And every time he locks down, I want to undo a buckle.

Afternoon light turns syrupy. The mural starts to look like a thing —river bursting, fish flowing, paper planes carrying ideas toward a skyline that is, frankly, better than some of the public art commissions the city’s approved in the last decade.

Kids pose for pics, faces streaked in primary colors.

Parents clap. We’re down to touch-ups when Principal Nguyen asks if I’ll say a few words on camera for the Foundation socials.

“Give me five to de-smurf,” I tell her, handing my brush to Becca.

The rec center bathrooms are through a short interior hallway that cuts under the building. Sawyer clocks my trajectory instantly. “Riggs stays here. I’ll escort.”

I lift a brow. “I can pee without a tactical convoy.”

“Humor me.”

He walks me to the rec center door, scans inside, then—because kids are lined up at the sinks painting themselves whiskers for TikTok—backs out. “You good?”

“Always.”

“Two minutes,” he says into his mic. “Eyes on hallway.”

I duck inside. The smell hits first: bleach, damp tile, a faint undertone of whatever chemical cocktail public restrooms never fully remove.

I pick the last stall, splatter a paper towel with water and dab at my face, elbow, jeans.

Someone in the front giggles; faucet runs; door swings; kids chatter; then silence. The sinks clear.

I step out to toss my towel—and slam into a chest.

Not Sawyer.

Tall. Hoodie zipped. Disposable painter’s coveralls on top, the cheap kind we hand out for splatter. N95 mask. Ball cap pulled low. Sunglasses even though we’re indoors. For a split, stupid second I assume volunteer dad. “Sorry?—”

He grips my elbow hard enough to pinch a nerve. Cold shoots up my arm.

“Keep smiling, princess,” he says, voice filtered through the mask, pitched low. “Don’t make me ruin your pretty wall.”

Every cell in my body goes high voltage. “Let go.”

He shoves something into my palm—a small rectangle, thick cardstock.

Familiar dread spikes. It’s the same stock as the envelope at the house.

I try to twist free, but he clamps harder.

My self-defense training kicks belatedly.

I pitch forward like I’m collapsing, free hand snapping up with the wet paper towel I’m still holding, and I mash it into his face, and drive my knee toward his thigh.

I miss his groin (damn) but connect with muscle hard enough to jolt him.

He curses, and releases me. I spin, bolting for the door. Behind me his foot slips on wet tile as he ducks out a back exit. By the time I yank the door open and explode into the hallway, he’s gone.

“SAWYER!” My voice cracks. I don’t yell like that. I hate yelling like that. But adrenaline is acid, and it’s burning fast.

Sawyer appears instantly—how does he do that?—hand already under his shirt where his weapon lives, posture widened. “Cam?”

I thrust the cardstock at him, shaking. “He was in there. Grabbed me. Said—said not to ruin his—no, my wall— I?—”

“Description,” he barks.

I try my best to force air into my lungs and give him every detail I can recall.

Sawyer’s eyes go lethal-black. “Riggs, lock perimeter now. Male, six foot give or take, painter whites, N95, cap, sunglasses. Inside rec center bathrooms seconds ago. I’m with principal asset. Repeat: I am with Cam.”

“Copy,” crackles Riggs. “On the move.”

Sawyer slips the card into an evidence sleeve from his pocket (because of course he has one), then sweeps me visually for injuries. “Did he hurt you?”

“Just… uh, my arm.” I rotate my elbow, and an ache flares but nothing’s broken. “I kneed him. Maybe. He’s fast.”

He cups my jaw, forcing my eyes to his. “Breathe with me.” His voice drops to that steady detonator-timer cadence he used when calming the second-graders. “In, two, three. Out.”

It works embarrassingly well. Air trickles back. Color stops snowstorming at the edges of my vision. I lean into his palm because I can’t not.

“What’d he say?” Sawyer asks.

“‘Keep smiling, princess. Don’t make me ruin your pretty wall.’” I swallow. “And he pushed that into my hand.”

Sawyer opens the sleeve just enough to read. Block letters, cut-and-glued ransom style like before:

COLOR CAN’T COVER BLOOD. STOP PAINTING TARGETS. WALK AWAY, CAM. NEXT TIME I USE RED.

A smear of something dark streaks the margin—dried paint? Dried not paint? My stomach flips.

Sawyer seals it, already cataloging. “Riggs?”

Static, then: “Nothing in hallway cameras. Side exit camera smashed—wire snipped. Got partial witness: food truck guy saw painter coveralls bail westbound between cars, maybe hopped a scooter. Pushing city cams.”

Sawyer: “Copy. Call Dean. Code escalate.” He angles his body so I’m behind his larger frame, shielding me from the kids milling at the main doors, blissfully ignorant.

I hate feeling shielded. I also need it right now.

“Sit?” he suggests, steering me toward a bench.

“No. If I sit I’ll shake.” My laugh is brittle. “I need to finish the interview, right? Social media. Foundation. Show we’re not rattled.”

“Cam—”

“I mean it.” I lift my chin. “He wants me to walk away. I’m not giving him the wall.”

We stare each other down. He’s measuring the risk, and I’m measuring my backbone. Finally he nods once—sharp, proud, furious. “Then we lock it tighter and finish fast.”

“Deal.”

He keys his mic. “Riggs, tighten outer ring. We finish in fifteen.”

“Roger. And, Cam?” Riggs’ voice crackles through. “Whoever that was picked the wrong princess.”

Despite everything, I smile. It’s shaky, but it’s there.

We finish the top coat with parents flanking the kid zone like human bollards while Sawyer and Riggs patrol wider arcs.

I give my interview: “Art turns neglected spaces into community. These kids deserve to see their colors towering over traffic.” I don’t mention masked cowards.

I do grip Sawyer’s wrist off camera when the shakes threaten.

When the last brush is washed and the final group selfie snapped, we pack in a blur. Sawyer herds me to the van like he’s escorting state secrets. Inside, I cradle my throbbing elbow and stare out at the mural—our mural—now blazing against twilight.

“You okay?” he asks quietly once the doors close.

“I will be,” I say. “You?”

His jaw flexes. “I’m better when I can see the threat.”

“Same,” I whisper. “Guess we keep painting.”

He huffs something that might be a laugh, might be a growl. “Yeah, Cam. We keep painting. And we catch him.”

Outside, Riggs double-taps the van panel—clear to roll. As we pull away, I look back at the wall and make myself a promise: whoever thinks color can’t stand up to blood is about to learn what happens when you mix the two in equal parts stubborn and steel.

And if I have Sawyer Maddox at my side—no, if he has me at his —I like our odds.