Page 24 of Sawyer
“Then tighten it. But don’t let guilt cloud your pattern analysis. Whoever this is escalatedinsideyour comfort zone. That means they’re not deterred by the optics of security.”
I rake a hand through my hair. “The gala’s in six days. Hundreds of people, open house, press. Should we pull the plug?”
“Convince your client. Cam’s call, not yours.”
“If she insists, I need four more operators and a mobile command rig.”
“Granted. I’ll put Bravo Orange team on standby.”
“Copy.”
“Sawyer,” Dean adds, voice softening, “I can rotate you off-site if you think emotions are muddying your judgment.”
“No.” The answer fires out. “I’m committed.”
Silence. He knows whatcommittedmeans in my vocabulary. Locked. Lethal. All-in. “Then get some sleep, recharge the sensors, and write me a new op plan before oh-eight. We’ll dissect it on a call.”
“Roger that.”
We disconnect. I spend two heroic breaths pretending the stars aren’t spinning, then pocket the phone and head back inside.
The house empties slowly.CSU packs their kits, patrol cars reverse down the drive, and Hartley promises updates. Riggs escorts Vanessa to her rideshare (she winks at him but spares me a thumbs-up—your hero’s safe). Edgar re-keys the alarm while muttering about reinforced steel doors and maybe a moat.
It’s after one a.m. when the mansion finally exhales into a hush. I dispatch Riggs to bunk in the guesthouse monitoring screens. Then I hunt for Cam, stepping room to room until I find light spilling under the study door.
She sits in an armchair by the cold fireplace, knees drawn up, a half-full glass of cabernet pinched between both hands like a tiny life raft. She’s changed into an oversized sweatshirt that hits mid-thigh; bare legs tuck underneath her. Her eyes, normally kaleidoscope bright, look stormy.
She doesn’t startle when I walk in. Just watches me quietly.
I close the door, cross the Persian rug, and kneel beside the chair. “You should be sleeping.”
“So should you,” she murmurs. The wine sloshes as her knuckles tense. “Did you call Dean?”
“Yeah.” I rest my forearms on my knees. “He’ll boost manpower. Orange team’s solid.”
“Orange team?” A faint smile ghosts. “Mango Avengers?”
“The Vitamin C squad.” My attempt at humor lands about as well as the flash-bang. “Cam, about the gala?—”
“I know,” she cuts in, tension sharpening her tone. “You want it canceled.”
“Ineedit canceled. We host six hundred high-net-worth guests, plus press, plus staff, on a property already compromised? That’s a jackpot for whoever’s orchestrating these hits.”
Her laugh cracks, raw. “You think I don’t know that? The gala funds the Kingsley Community Arts Network—the program that put paint brushes in those kids’ hands yesterday. Canceling means losing two million in pledged donations.”
“Money can be rescheduled. You can’t.”
She flinches, but recovers. “We’ve spent months planning. Media campaigns, vendor contracts, caterers. People booked flights. Dad’s using the event to soften investor sentiment before the IPO roadshow.”
I ground my jaw so hard it clicks. “Your father would rather risk your safety than reschedule a party?”
“That’s not fair. He doesn’t understand how bad it’s gotten. And the gala isn’t just for him.” She sets her wine on a side table, and wraps her arms around her shins. “It’s my mother’s legacy. The first fundraiser she founded was right here in this house. Every year I set the stage—paint the backdrops, design the invitations, curate student art for auction. If I cancel because I’m scared, then whoever’s doing this wins.”
She looks away, blinking. A tear falls, and she swipes it angrily, smearing her mascara.
Something inside me fractures. I rise, fetch a box of tissues, and kneel again. Her arms untuck enough for me to dab gently beneath her eye. She breathes shakily but doesn’t pull away.
“You’re not weak if you pivot,” I say. “You’re strategic. We can move the gala to a hotel with built-in security layers.”
