Ilse stared at the man. Slovenly, drunk. The bottles on the couch suggesting he’d chugged through the night. The barking hounds, clearly pent-up, exhausted. Likely hadn’t been walked or run in weeks.

She eyed the man’s drooping belly over the edge of his overalls. Eyed the truck, covered in dust sitting by the front of the house. Truck didn’t look like it had been out that night.

Neither did the man.

He was in his fifties, most likely. But other than his belligerence, he didn’t strike Ilse as off in the sort of way she’d grown used to. Scores of clients. Survivors. Her own background, her own history with a certain type of person.

She knew the type all too well.

And this wasn’t it. This wasn’t a sadistic killer.

“I don’t think—” she began to say.

But then Mr. Campos tried to slam his door. In response, Sawyer reached out, wedging it open with one foot. The drunken man yelled incoherently, and then lowered his foot, kicking his dogs in the ribs to propel them forward.

The animals snarled and jumped.

Calm as ever, Sawyer moved.

In one swift motion, he shoved with his foot, sending the lead dog backwards into the first with a snarl. In the same motion, he grabbed Mr. Campos by one overall strap, yanking the man out onto the porch. He spun around with the man, flicking the door shut with the back of his heel as the dogs lunged again. This time, they slammed into the door as it also closed.

Mr. Campos took a wild swipe at Sawyer. But the baseball cap–wearing agent avoided the blow easily enough, as if sidestepping a breeze. He moved quickly, tripping Mr. Campos and then easing him gently to the ground.

The old man struggled and tried to kick again.

“Stop,” Sawyer said, simply, stepping back and away from the drunk. Minimal damage, minimal pain, minimal harm.

And yet, in those three, swift movements, the dogs had been contained, trapped in the house, and Mr. Campos had been removed from where he’d likely stowed a gun behind the door frame, and at the same time, Sawyer had escaped unscathed. Ilse felt her jaw unhinge, her eyes widening. She swallowed once, quickly closing her mouth.

Still calm, barely breathing heavily at all, as if he had simply gone for a stroll, Sawyer stooped down, his motions still oddly gentle in contrast to his blunt demeanor. He fished handcuffs from his jeans, clicking them despite Mr. Campos’s loud protests.

“Apologies, sir. But I need a word,” Sawyer said, simply. Then, dusting off Mr. Campos, he helped the older man back to his feet, avoiding a headbutt in the process.

Sawyer gripped the belligerent drunk beneath the neck, pushing his head down and then leading him toward the stairs.

Only then did he glance over the man’s hunched, blustering form and nod past Ilse toward the car. “Mind getting the door?”

She stared at the strange agent and swallowed once, clearing her throat. “As long as I don’t have to sit in the back with him.”