Page 35 of Sawyer
I grip her elbow, smile wide for nearby guests, and whisper, “We have to move, right now.”
She pales but nods. I steer her behind the dessert tent, away from crowd eyes. Over comm, I say, “Riggs?”
“Object located behind catering crates. Cylindrical, capped, analog timer—two minutes on clock.”
My worst nightmare. “Do not touch. Establish blast perimeter ten meters. Evac all staff.”
Cam’s hand clutches my coat. “Is it abomb?” Her voice cracks on the last word.
“Likely improvised device.” Calm voice, shaking soul. “I’ve got this.”
I call Rae to keep patrons confined to the lawn. Andersson reroutes valet flow. Malik clears the east wing. In less than thirty seconds an invisible cordon forms—guests oblivious under twinkle lights.
I turn to Cam. “Go with Rae to the command trailer.”
Her lips tremble, but her chin lifts. “Not a chance. I want to be with you.”
“No,” I say, clutching both her shoulders, my eyes boring into hers.
“What are you going to do?”
I step close, erasing inches. “I’m going to assess the bomb, and then diffuse it.”
Her eyes blow wide. “I…uh, but…what if…” she doesn’t finish her thought, and I won’t let her because I do something highlyunprofessional, I lean in, capturing her lips with mine. I kiss her like my soul’s on fire. I step back, brush a thumb down her cheek, then sprint.
I head into the cellar,and check to make sure Rae has Camille.
Riggs crouches behind a steel prep table flipped as makeshift cover. The device sits three meters ahead. A silver thermos-like cylinder strapped with duct tape, analog kitchen timer whirring down from ninety seconds. Classic intimidation build—simple but lethal in close quarters.
“Blocked door swing,” Riggs whispers. “I can’t guarantee a full seal from up top.”
“Get clear,” I order, scanning components. No wires leading away, no shimmer of mercury tilt. Likely a pipe bomb with black-powder main charge, maybe nails. Timer leads into spring striker. Basic.
“Time?” Riggs asks.
“Eight-eight.” I pop my multitool. If I move the striker plate sideways one millimeter, I can wedge a utensil—wooden spoon—to hold the spring. But if they rigged an anti-tamper, we’re dust.
No choice.
I exhale, slip to my knees. Voices crackle in my ear—Malik establishing external evac—but my focus tunnels.
Seven-four seconds.
I unscrew the thermos lid—no anti-tamper beep. Good. Inside, a homemade striker rig, nails taped around inner walls. I slide the tool under the striker bar, wedge and the spring compresses.
Sixteen seconds.
Hold. My hands are steady—muscle memory from deserts and dirt roads of Kandahar. I clip wires from timer to igniter, and sever the current.
Timer ticks uselessly.
And then there’s silence.
I exhale once, long. Sweat drips down my spine. “Device disarmed. Request bomb squad for removal.”
Comm erupts in relief.
I stand, my legs rubber. Riggs slaps my shoulder. “You’re still the best damn EOD I know.”
