Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 58377 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58377 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
I am in so much trouble, and not just from masked intruders.
Because somewhere between flash-bang and pulse-pound, I stopped seeing Sawyer Maddox as an impenetrable wall.
And started seeing him as the door I want to walk through—even if it’s marked danger: keep out.
9
Sawyer
I’ve stood inside smoking blast craters that felt calmer than Camille’s foyer does right now.
Flashes pop as crime-scene techs photograph the splintered doorframe. Officers in Kevlar mill around, radios crackling, while Detective Hartley interviews Cam for the second time this week. My pulse thrums an ugly counter-rhythm. Anger. Shame. Even sharper anger. I was forty feet away when the lock blew. Forty. In my world, that’s daylight-bright failure.
Riggs watches my face from beside the entry console where he’s dusting the flash-bang shell for prints. He nods once—steady, brother—but doesn’t approach. He knows a live mine when he sees one.
“Mr. Maddox?” A uniformed officer snaps me back. “Your statement?”
“Already gave it,” I clip, then force a calmer addendum. “Happy to clarify timelines once your CSU’s finished.”
He mutters into a notepad, and wanders off. Too many bodies, too many questions, not enough answers. I scan the perimeter cam feed on my tablet—rewatching the breach frame by frame. Masked perp scales the gate’s side wall, thumps over the top, lands like he rehearsed the drop. He sprints across the courtyard, disables the camera with a handheld jammer—not a kid’s toy; high-frequency gear. Then he produces a slim jim, bypasses the deadbolt. Twenty seconds to entry. These aren’t scared stalkers. They're tactical.
My chest tightens.
I need air. I need Dean.
I slip through the library’s French doors into the courtyard. Night wind bites my sweat-damp shirt. I dial.
Dean answers. “Talk.”
“Perimeter breach at twenty-two forty. One intruder, male six-one, athletic. Deployed flash-bang, no lethal weapon brandished. Escaped on foot before patrol arrived. Damage to doorframe and foyer, no injuries.” My voice stays even but my hands tremble despite clenching them. “We had full camera grid plus ground sensors. He bypassed two feeds with a jammer, snipped one physical line. He knew the layout.”
Dean whistles low. “Ballsy. What’s the message?”
“Unclear. Could be pure intimidation. Could be recon like testing the response time.”
“How fast were local PD wheels?”
“Six minutes from silent alarm. He was gone in two. Left the shell, nothing else. We’ve got partial shoeprint and maybe fiber transfer from the jamming pouch.” I exhale. The night smells of rosemary and burnt magnesium. “I should have been there, Dean.”
“You can’t occupy every vector at once. You neutralized the threat, protected the principal.”
“Door’s still busted. That’s a fail.”
“Then tighten it. But don’t let guilt cloud your pattern analysis. Whoever this is escalated inside your comfort zone. That means they’re not deterred by the optics of security.”
I rake a hand through my hair. “The gala’s in six days. Hundreds of people, open house, press. Should we pull the plug?”
“Convince your client. Cam’s call, not yours.”
“If she insists, I need four more operators and a mobile command rig.”
“Granted. I’ll put Bravo Orange team on standby.”
“Copy.”
“Sawyer,” Dean adds, voice softening, “I can rotate you off-site if you think emotions are muddying your judgment.”
“No.” The answer fires out. “I’m committed.”
Silence. He knows what committed means in my vocabulary. Locked. Lethal. All-in. “Then get some sleep, recharge the sensors, and write me a new op plan before oh-eight. We’ll dissect it on a call.”
“Roger that.”
We disconnect. I spend two heroic breaths pretending the stars aren’t spinning, then pocket the phone and head back inside.
The house empties slowly. CSU packs their kits, patrol cars reverse down the drive, and Hartley promises updates. Riggs escorts Vanessa to her rideshare (she winks at him but spares me a thumbs-up—your hero’s safe). Edgar re-keys the alarm while muttering about reinforced steel doors and maybe a moat.
It’s after one a.m. when the mansion finally exhales into a hush. I dispatch Riggs to bunk in the guesthouse monitoring screens. Then I hunt for Cam, stepping room to room until I find light spilling under the study door.
She sits in an armchair by the cold fireplace, knees drawn up, a half-full glass of cabernet pinched between both hands like a tiny life raft. She’s changed into an oversized sweatshirt that hits mid-thigh; bare legs tuck underneath her. Her eyes, normally kaleidoscope bright, look stormy.
She doesn’t startle when I walk in. Just watches me quietly.
I close the door, cross the Persian rug, and kneel beside the chair. “You should be sleeping.”
“So should you,” she murmurs. The wine sloshes as her knuckles tense. “Did you call Dean?”
“Yeah.” I rest my forearms on my knees. “He’ll boost manpower. Orange team’s solid.”
“Orange team?” A faint smile ghosts. “Mango Avengers?”
“The Vitamin C squad.” My attempt at humor lands about as well as the flash-bang. “Cam, about the gala—”
“I know,” she cuts in, tension sharpening her tone. “You want it canceled.”
“I need it canceled. We host six hundred high-net-worth guests, plus press, plus staff, on a property already compromised? That’s a jackpot for whoever’s orchestrating these hits.”