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 thought you didn’t dance,” she murmurs, smiling up.
“I assess threats,” I say, guiding her in a smooth box turn. “Right now the only threat is how stunning you are.”
Color blooms across her cheeks. “Flattery might be unprofessional.”
“Then fire me tomorrow.” I spin her, and the gown arcs like a comet trail. Eyes follow us—media whispers, donors intrigued—but my world is this measured swirl of blue silk and the scent of her gardenia perfume.
Halfway through the song, Rae’s voice cuts in: “Command, we have a possible in the north hedge—heat signature, stationary, looks like tech kit.”
I stiffen, pulse spiking, but keep my smile for onlookers. “Copy. Riggs intercept silently. I retain asset.”
Cam feels my tension. “What is it?” she whispers.
“Nothing you need to worry about.” I pivot us away from the cameras toward a darker corner. “Smile for the crowd.”
She does, though her fingers tighten on my shoulder.
“Riggs, status?” I murmur.
“False alarm—ground squirrel sitting on warm transformer,” he returns. Relief flicks. “Tell your squirrel security deposit due.”
I exhale, easing. The waltz ends, and applause rises. Cam curtsies. I bow. Cameras flash.
As we exit the floor, Hartley (out of uniform in a simple tux) greets Cam, compliments the mural, nods to me with knowing respect. His plainclothes detectives are spread around.
A while later, Gregory presents a scholarship fund, and bidders raise paddles. Cam stands side-stage, anxious but radiant. Her father squeezes her hand after the gavel drops on the final painting for $850,000. She beams and I forget how to breathe.
Rae reports zero anomalies. Media clamor outside the press zone, but crowd flow remains orderly. My shoulders loosen—maybe the threat burned itself out.
Guests head to the lawn marquee for dessert. I guide Cam along the lantern-lit path. Fire pits flicker, violins play softer as the champagne flows.
“You did it,” I say low. “No drama.”
“Couldn’t have without you.” Her eyes shine, emotion heavy. “Sawyer, thank you—”
An urgent hiss in my ear. “One to Command—Geiger anomaly in cellar corridor. Audible ticking. I repeat: ticking source unknown.”
Ice water sluices through my veins.
“Riggs, intercept. Malik block cellar stair. Evac quiet.”
Cam notices my body go rigid. “Sawyer?”
I grip her elbow, smile wide for nearby guests, and whisper, “We have to move, right now.”
She pales but nods. I steer her behind the dessert tent, away from crowd eyes. Over comm, I say, “Riggs?”
“Object located behind catering crates. Cylindrical, capped, analog timer—two minutes on clock.”
My worst nightmare. “Do not touch. Establish blast perimeter ten meters. Evac all staff.”
Cam’s hand clutches my coat. “Is it a bomb?” Her voice cracks on the last word.
“Likely improvised device.” Calm voice, shaking soul. “I’ve got this.”
I call Rae to keep patrons confined to the lawn. Andersson reroutes valet flow. Malik clears the east wing. In less than thirty seconds an invisible cordon forms—guests oblivious under twinkle lights.
I turn to Cam. “Go with Rae to the command trailer.”
Her lips tremble, but her chin lifts. “Not a chance. I want to be with you.”
“No,” I say, clutching both her shoulders, my eyes boring into hers.
“What are you going to do?”
I step close, erasing inches. “I’m going to assess the bomb, and then diffuse it.”
Her eyes blow wide. “I…uh, but…what if…” she doesn’t finish her thought, and I won’t let her because I do something highly unprofessional, I lean in, capturing her lips with mine. I kiss her like my soul’s on fire. I step back, brush a thumb down her cheek, then sprint.
I head into the cellar, and check to make sure Rae has Camille.
Riggs crouches behind a steel prep table flipped as makeshift cover. The device sits three meters ahead. A silver thermos-like cylinder strapped with duct tape, analog kitchen timer whirring down from ninety seconds. Classic intimidation build—simple but lethal in close quarters.
“Blocked door swing,” Riggs whispers. “I can’t guarantee a full seal from up top.”
“Get clear,” I order, scanning components. No wires leading away, no shimmer of mercury tilt. Likely a pipe bomb with black-powder main charge, maybe nails. Timer leads into spring striker. Basic.
“Time?” Riggs asks.
“Eight-eight.” I pop my multitool. If I move the striker plate sideways one millimeter, I can wedge a utensil—wooden spoon—to hold the spring. But if they rigged an anti-tamper, we’re dust.
No choice.
I exhale, slip to my knees. Voices crackle in my ear—Malik establishing external evac—but my focus tunnels.
Seven-four seconds.
I unscrew the thermos lid—no anti-tamper beep. Good. Inside, a homemade striker rig, nails taped around inner walls. I slide the tool under the striker bar, wedge and the spring compresses.
Sixteen seconds.
Hold. My hands are steady—muscle memory from deserts and dirt roads of Kandahar. I clip wires from timer to igniter, and sever the current.
Timer ticks uselessly.
And then there’s silence.
I exhale once, long. Sweat drips down my spine. “Device disarmed. Request bomb squad for removal.”
Comm erupts in relief.
I stand, my legs rubber. Riggs slaps my shoulder. “You’re still the best damn EOD I know.”