Page 41 of Sawyer
Sawyer said the safe house is “quiet,” but the word feels hilariously inadequate when the gates finally loom into the headlights. Twelve feet of reinforced wrought iron, capped with discreet razor wire, slide inward on whisper-silent hydraulics. Beyond, twin beams sweep the drive in a lazy X—motion-tracking floodlights.
“Welcome to Bastion,” Sawyer says from the driver’s seat, voice a soothing rumble in the dark. He’s been calm the entire three-hour drive, but that calm is bulletproof Kevlar stretched over a soul currently set tosiege mode.I can feel the tension inthe way he grips the wheel, a white-knuckle promise that this place will hold.
Rae’s SUV turns off down a graveled spur leading to a small A-frame with a wide veranda—the security house. Andersson flashes his high beams twice.
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“Means all clear and he’s moving to watch the perimeter,” Sawyer's voice is smooth and controlled.
“All that from two flashes of light?”
Sawyer eyes me with a quick smile. “Yeah.”
Then he kills his engine. Their shadows flit across the porch, rifles slung, night-vision goggles lowering. I briefly wonder what sort of neighborly welcome the local wildlife will receive from them.
Our own vehicle climbs another hundred yards to the main residence. It's a modern glass-and-stone structure perched on a rocky ledge, as if an architect decided to sculpt safety from granite. Floor-to-ceiling windows face the valley, but privacy screens already tint the glass. At the top of the driveway, Sawyer taps a code into an inconspicuous panel and the garage yawns open. We glide inside, the sound of the engine echoing off concrete.
For several heartbeats, silence reigns—then doors thunk, and I follow him into an airlock-style foyer. Biometric reader glows blue before accepting his thumbprint and voice. The heavy bolt slides. We’re inside.
The security brief he rattles off as we tour is equal parts impressive and alarming:
Thermal perimeter grid—invisible beams that trip silent alarms before anything organic gets within 200 feet.
Steel shuttershidden in the walls, able to deploy over every pane of glass in under seven seconds.
Panic roomtunneled into the mountain, stocked for a week.
Faraday cage officefor secure comms and evidence storage.
Backup generatorcapable of powering a small village.
The house itself is sleek—charcoal slate floors, raw cedar beams, minimalist furniture in dove-gray suede. A stone fireplace anchors the living room, currently dark but stacked with logs. Every line, every texture feels curated to soothe. Yet it also whisperssafein a way my childhood mansion never managed.
Sawyer’s arm circles my waist as he points out motion detector panels and the coded lock on the wine cellar. He smells like the cedar beams—a scent I’m fast associating with home.
“You built this?” I ask.
“Dean did. Company asset.” He brushes a strand of hair behind my ear, his hand warm against my skin. “Few people know it exists.”
