Page 34 of Sawyer
From my vantagenear a pillar draped in orchids, I track Cam’s every move. She greets donors, laughs with the mayor, poses beside the community mural projected across a thirty-foot screen. Blue gown fans as she gestures, each movement a brushstroke come alive.
Riggs sidles up, sipping club soda. “Copycat shooter nowhere in sight.”
“Let’s keep it that way.” I flick to the west-wing feed—Malik patrolling the caterer corridor—then to the rooftop drone. Thermal shows only authorized personnel.
Music swells—string quartet shifting to a modern arrangement of “Can’t Help Falling in Love.” Cam finishes greeting the last executive, then steps to the dance floor with graceful hesitation. Her eyes search and find me.
Dance with me?the look says.
Professional? Not even close. But we built this fortress so she can live. Tonight, living means dancing with the man who can’t stop wanting her.
I approach, comms crackling low: “Riggs, Malik, Rae, maintain visual.”
Cam offers her gloved hand. I take it, the satin on my calloused skin feels electric. We step into the waltz.
“I thought you didn’t dance,” she murmurs, smiling up.
“I assess threats,” I say, guiding her in a smooth box turn. “Right now the only threat is how stunning you are.”
Color blooms across her cheeks. “Flattery might be unprofessional.”
“Then fire me tomorrow.” I spin her, and the gown arcs like a comet trail. Eyes follow us—media whispers, donors intrigued—but my world is this measured swirl of blue silk and the scent of her gardenia perfume.
Halfway through the song, Rae’s voice cuts in: “Command, we have a possible in the north hedge—heat signature, stationary, looks like tech kit.”
I stiffen, pulse spiking, but keep my smile for onlookers. “Copy. Riggs intercept silently. I retain asset.”
Cam feels my tension. “What is it?” she whispers.
“Nothing you need to worry about.” I pivot us away from the cameras toward a darker corner. “Smile for the crowd.”
She does, though her fingers tighten on my shoulder.
“Riggs, status?” I murmur.
“False alarm—ground squirrel sitting on warm transformer,” he returns. Relief flicks. “Tell your squirrel security deposit due.”
I exhale, easing. The waltz ends, and applause rises. Cam curtsies. I bow. Cameras flash.
As we exit the floor, Hartley (out of uniform in a simple tux) greets Cam, compliments the mural, nods to me with knowing respect. His plainclothes detectives are spread around.
A while later, Gregory presents a scholarship fund, and bidders raise paddles. Cam stands side-stage, anxious but radiant. Her father squeezes her hand after the gavel drops on the final painting for $850,000. She beams and I forget how to breathe.
Rae reports zero anomalies. Media clamor outside the press zone, but crowd flow remains orderly. My shoulders loosen—maybe the threat burned itself out.
Guests head to the lawn marquee for dessert. I guide Cam along the lantern-lit path. Fire pits flicker, violins play softer as the champagne flows.
“You did it,” I say low. “No drama.”
“Couldn’t have without you.” Her eyes shine, emotion heavy. “Sawyer, thank you?—”
An urgent hiss in my ear. “One to?Command—Geiger anomaly in cellar corridor. Audible ticking. I repeat: ticking source unknown.”
Ice water sluices through my veins.
“Riggs, intercept. Malik block cellar stair. Evac quiet.”
Cam notices my body go rigid. “Sawyer?”
