Page 39 of Sawyer
He turns, eyes bloodshot behind rimless glasses. “I trusted this house was secure. Yet a device nearly killed my donors—and my daughter.”
A jab of guilt lands square. “We neutralized the threat. No casualties.”
“But what about next time?” He paces. “Camille won’t leave. She thinks bravery and stubbornness are synonyms. I need options.”
“Options?” I echo.
“Relocation. A safe house. Or overseas—she loves the Amalfi studio my wife left her. Could you escort her there until this blows over?” His voice trembles atwife, grief simmering fresh.
I fold my hands behind my back in a professional stance. “She’s safest under the net we control. But if you order it, I’ll implement extraction protocols.”
He sighs, rubbing his temples. “She’ll fight me. Says the community needs her here, painting over darkness. I admire that—but I’d trade every Kingsley share to keep her heart beating.”
His desperation mirrors my own silent terror from last night. I step closer. “Mr. Kingsley, I have feelings for your daughter.” The admission crashes out before caution can muzzle it. “But that won’t cloud my judgment. If extraction becomes necessary, I’ll do it.”
He studies me, surprise flickering into something like acceptance. “You risked your life for her already. Perhaps that qualifies you more than most.” He exhales. “Press conference in an hour. Statement’s being drafted. Public wants reassurance and the shareholders want blood. Just keep my girl… whole.”
He leaves with the paper rolled tight like a baton. The door clicks shut, reverberations jangling my bones.
Back in Command, Orange-Team has flagged two suspicious staff calls; Hartley is already subpoenaing tower logs. But leaks spread like fissures. TMZ drone footage pops up on TikTok—Kingsley House lit by police strobes, bomb squad hauling a canister. The narrative spirals unchecked.
I phone Dean.
He answers on the first ring. “Dog and pony show going sideways?”
“Media breach. Strategic infiltration. Kingsley wants relocation. I’m leaning toward extraction until we ID the mole.”
Dean exhales. “Pulling her mid-crisis may embolden the attacker, but public frenzy compromises perimeter.”
“So we go dark. Off-grid property west of Saint Pierce, near Wolfsridge Canyon. In the mountains. Orange-Team can re-fortify in twelve hours.”
“Agree. Who compromises command here?”
“Riggs stays onsite with Malik to liaise with PD. Rae, Andersson on convoy with me and Cam.”
“Do it fast, low-vis. And Sawyer—cut emotional entanglement loose until thread’s snipped. Operatives in love bleed mistakes.”
“Who says I’m in love? Did you talk to Riggs?” Motherfucker.
“Just stay clear.”
My grip tightens on the phone. “Copy.” But love isn’t a switch I can flick.
09:10— Cam’s studio
She’s at the easel, bare feet, Sawyer-T-shirt, wielding a palette knife like a saber. A new canvas—storm clouds swirling cobalt and ember. She turns, reading urgency in my stride.
“What happened?”
“Press leaked the bomb story. Paparazzi will swarm. Your father’s worried.”
She wipes paint on a rag. “He wants to hide me.”
“He wants you alive.” I step close, lowering my voice. “I propose a temporary relocation. Isolated safe house, new sensor grid. 48-hour blackout until we track the mole.”
Her eyes search mine—fear, frustration, and a small flicker of hope. “Will you be there?”
“Every second.”
