Page 28 of Sawyer
I meant it.
But the taste of her—sweet wine and reckless hope—keeps replaying like shrapnel lodged in the memory, impossible to ignore.
“Telemetry clean,” Rae reports through the earpiece. She’s Orange-Team’s UAS wizard—pink pixie-cut blowing in the breeze as she checks her tablet. “We’ve got a four-hour dwell, switchable IR cam, and a perimeter loop every ninety seconds.”
“Good.” I sign off on her digital checklist, then scan the estate below. In four nights, this place will glow like Versailles—and feel twice as porous.
Across the lawn, two more Orange operators, Malik and Andersson, install portable stanchions that will form the guest magnetometer lanes. I key my mic. “Malik, status?”
“Conduit run set; fiber patched to Command. ETA on fencing install is fifteen.”
“Copy. Andersson?”
“Access-control kiosk online, facial-rec pre-calibrated.”
“Good. I want secondary credential scan ready by eighteen-hundred. No barcodes, no entry.”
They echo acknowledgements—steady cadence of competence—but my focus drifts inevitably back to the west wing windows. One of those panes hides Cam’s studio; sunlight now spears through the skylight into that riot of color where she’ll be awake soon, brushing pigment into rebellion.
I swallow the urge to climb down this roof and barge in, just to see her hair haloed in gold for two measly seconds. Iron discipline—that thing that kept me alive in IED alley—presses steel over my pulse. She’s still in danger.Eyes up.
08:32 —?Gallery hall. The catering director, a clipped Brit named Hannah, quizzes me about load-in lanes for gala day.
“You’ll process the waitstaff through Gate Two,” I say, pointing to the floor plan. “Orange-Two escorts them to the service corridor. Lockers are here. No personal phones allowed past that checkpoint.”
Hannah frowns. “They rely on phones for plating instructions.”
“They’ll get printed packets.” I don’t budge. “Any staff caught with unvetted electronics crosses this red line and they’re off the property, no debate.”
She sighs but accepts. Andersson signs off her updated map. Moving parts nested within moving parts—exactly how you diffuse a bomb: define each wire, isolate current, never let circuits cross in unintended ways.
Except last night I let circuits cross—my mouth on hers, pulse synced, promise slipping. It felt less like detonation and more like finally stepping into the proper alignment.
“Sawyer!” Malik calls from the doorway. “AV crew’s here early. Want eyes?”
“On it.” I pivot down the hall.
13:05 — Command trailer.?Riggs props his boots on a case of wired-fiber while scrubbing lunch crumbs from his beard. “You’re running hot,” he observes. “What’s the play after the gala? What if the gala isn’t their target? What if they decide to hit after?”
I arch a brow. “Then we’ll have contingency plans.”
He smirks. “And when do you plan on sweeping the lady off her paint-splattered feet?” The glint in his eye makes me roll a shoulder—half shrug, half threat. He chuckles. “Easy, brother. Just don’t let the fox see you guarding the henhouse with your zipper undone.”
“Zipper’s up. I’m focused on the task.” But even as I bark it, my brain replays Cam’s sleepy whisper:Borrow warmth.The weight of her trust and the fervent hum of wanting more.
Riggs flips open a case of RFID guest badges. “Task is on track. We’ve traced the flash-bang serial—mil-surp show from Arizona show last year. Lead is thin, but we’ll pull the thread.”
“Keep pulling,” I grunt.
17:47 — Ballroom main entry.?I supervise the crew laying tempered-glass panels over the parquet floor—Camille’s idea so the swirling gowns will reflect color like a living kaleidoscope. She appears beside me in paint-dusted jeans, hair swept in a low knot, clipboard in hand.
“How many more vendors?” I ask.
“Just the floral ceiling team—they’ll rig the wisteria chandeliers tomorrow.” She glances at the new cameras mounted near the chandeliers’ anchor points. “You really thought of everything.”
I want to tell her I’m thinking of her—always her—but professionalism reins me. “Almost,” I say. “We install thermal imagers along the trellis after the floral is set. Any unauthorized heat signature pops on Command.”
She nods, lips parting as if to say something more intimate, then shuts them when Andersson arrives to ask about smoke-machine placement (denied; too many false alarms). I walk the crew through alternate haze options, but Cam’s presence at my shoulder hums louder than the drills.
