Page 44 of Sawyer
“Deadly,” I say. “Consider yourselves warned.”
Cam raises her foil-wrapped feast in salute. “You guys sure eat like mercenaries.”
“Calories equal tactics,” Andersson mumbles around eggs and chorizo.
We debrief overnight sensor logs. Nothing breached. The black SUV never returned to the Kingsley House. Live feeds scroll across a wall-mounted monitor—pine swaying, a deer nibbling brush at the fence line. Idyllic calm.
Still, my shoulders ride a little too high; last night’s text crosshairs etched a permanent brand.
Cam nudges me with her hip, whispering, “Your brow is doing that storm-cloud thing.”
“Thinking.” I stuff the unease down, and flash a reassuring half-smile.
The sun climbshigh in the sky. We decide on a short hike—recon disguised as a nature stroll. Rae remains at command. Andersson patrols the southern ridge. I guide Cam along a switchback path edged by granite outcrops and moss plush enough to paint with. The air smells of sun-baked pine needles.
“Have you ever been off-grid this long?” I ask.
“Only at artist retreats, but those had Wi-Fi. This is… primal.” She tips her head back, eyes closed, breathing deeply. “Do you ever miss combat?”
“Not combat. Purpose.” I flick a pebble off the trail. “I thought BRAVO filled that void, until you.”
She stops walking and studies me. “I’m purpose?”
“More like meaning.” The confession slips out, raw.
She rests a hand on my chest, thumb rubbing the spread-eagle stitching on my Henley. “You’re mine, too. Meaning, I mean.”
Branches rustle overhead, but the world stills. I tuck a curl behind her ear. “We’ll end this. Then you can paint without barricades.”
“And you’ll watch without an earpiece,” she hopes aloud.
“From your studio floor, coffee in hand.” I smile. “Maybe shirtless. For inspiration.”
She laughs, cheeks pink. “Deal.”
We crest a knoll overlooking a glassy lake. Reflections ripple silver. Cam snaps a mental picture. I know because her fingers twitch as if holding a brush. She whispers, “So many blues.”
Standing behind her, I wrap my arms around her stomach, my chin resting on her shoulder. “We’ll capture it for the mural you’ll finish.”
She covers my forearms with her hands, and for a breath everything is okay.
Until Rae’s voice breaks in: “All stations, be advised—satellite ping shows media helicopters leaving Saint Pierce, vector unknown. Possible press hunt.”
Cam stiffens. I squeeze. “They won’t find us.”
But the calm cracks. We head back, scanning the sky.
The afternoon passes in contingency planning—new drone patrol patterns, remote noise generators to confuse thermal scans. By dusk, we’re mentally fried. Andersson volunteers to grill salmon on the deck. Rae whips up lemon-dill couscous and charred asparagus.
At the long cedar table, with floor-to-ceiling windows reopened to the valley twilight, dinner feels almost like a vacation. Conversation drifts to normal things: Andersson’s hobby forging knives, Rae’s attempt to brew kombucha that exploded. Cam tells a story about painting a community mural in Rio that locals protected with lawn chairs and nightly karaoke.
Laughter stirs the air, and my stress loosens. I study Cam’s face in candlelight—how the glow warms her freckle constellation,how grief at last night’s terror moves to the background. Hope flickers.
After dessert (Rae’s canned peaches flambéed with bourbon), Anderssen and Rae excuse themselves. Andersson to the perimeter, Rae to the command station. Cam and I linger, flames in the hearth crackling behind us.
She runs a fingertip around the rim of her wine glass. “Would it break discipline if I challenged you to a rematch from this morning? No mats.”
“What do you have in mind?”
