Page 48 of Sawyer
Footsteps crunch on gravel outside. Andersson’s voice booms: “Fuel topped, convoy green.” Rae chimes through comms inside, “Perimeter drones docking.” The house is orchestrating its own goodbye.
Cam appears at the top of the stairs with an armful of supplies—sketchbooks, a quart jar of brushes, tubes rubber-banded in a bouquet. She wears jean shorts, hiking boots, and my black BRAVO hoodie four sizes too big, sleeves shoved past paint-speckled elbows. A sadness flickers behind her smile.
“This place was starting to feel like a studio retreat,” she says, descending. “Back to reality.”
“Kingsley House won’t know what hit it,” I answer, closing the case. “Paint stains on every imported rug.”
“Gregory will faint.” She tries for levity but it lands shallow. She drops her supplies into a tote, then runs a thumb along a fresh bruise on her thigh—proof of yesterday’s “lesson” on disarming a wrist-grab that turned into something else entirely. A flush rises on her cheeks at the memory.
I slip closer, and hook a finger under her chin. “You okay?”
She eyes the door, voice low. “What if we go back and the note … or worse … happens again?”
“It might,” I admit, because false comfort is toxic. “But I’ll catch them.”
She searches my face. “And if I’m the bait again?”
“Then I’ll be the trap. We drew them out once. We'll finish it.” I stroke her jaw. “Walls and doors, remember?”
Her shoulders lower. She nods, leaning into a quick kiss that tastes of anxiety trimmed with trust.
Anderssen barges in, lugging a crate of shotgun shells. “Birds are singing, coffee’s brewed, and our prints are wiped. Let’s bounce before paparazzi sniff the ridge.”
“Kingsley House is buttoned?” I ask.
He sets the crate down. “Dean flew in a private security contractor to harden Level-I glass on every ground-floor pane. Extra K-9s sweep the exterior hourly. Hartley’s undercover unit will tail the perimeter for seventy-two hours. If the mole twitches, we’ll know.”
That’s the official line; it still tastes like thin soup. I holster my SIG, grip Anderssen on the shoulder. “Good work, brother.”
“Just keep your head clear.” His gaze flicks to Cam.
“Got it.”
My phone buzzes. It’s Dean’s satellite line. I accept. “Status?”
“Kingsley House is operational and paparazzi diverted. PD scrubbed staff comms; one caterer texted a tabloid cousin about the bomb but no direct link to the perp. Keep eyes peeled for inside cameras tampered before the gala.”
“Copy. We’re wheels up in twenty.”
He pauses. “Sawyer, remember: protect the principal, collect evidence, but don’t escalate without probable cause.”
“I know the drill.” But my tone is pure flint. Dean catches it.
“And keep your heart out of the trigger guard.”
Too late.
We snake down the mountain.The lead SUV is driven by Andersson, mine in the middle with Cam beside me, and Rae bringing up the rear. Cam’s earbuds play a lo-fi playlist but she pulls one bud out every five minutes to ask: “Can you really track a drone feed in motion?” “Will paparazzi still be there?” “What’s first thing you’ll do when this is over?” I answer each patiently. (“Yes,” “Probably,” “Kiss you in public.”) That last one steals her breath—and mine.
A news notification beeps on her phone. Instinctively, she silences it but the glare says the headline was ugly. “Maybe it’ll blow over now that we left,” she mutters.
“It will blow over when I string their ringleader up in court.” I flick the turn signal at a switchback. “I still lean inside job. Last night Rae found a data logger on a defunct access point at Kingsley House—someone piggybacked internal Wi-Fi to send those gala photos.”
Her mouth tightens. “Someone I grew up seeing every day?” The betrayal laces her voice.
“Or a temp contractor. The search narrows.” I brush her thigh, trying my best to comfort her. She covers my hand and squeezes.
The mansion looks unchanged when we reach it. From the outside you’d never tell of all the changes. But up close, new bullet-resistant glass is noticeable, a faint green sheen across the lower windows. Two black K-9 SUVs idle; officers walk shepherds along the hedges. There’s a paparazzi camp beyond the gates, their lenses like gun barrels. They surge when our convoy rolls in.
