Page 4 of Riggs
“Good.” I check my watch. “Back-of-house exit in five. Rae’s spoofing a lobby decoy.”
“Love a fake-out,” she says, energy sparking. Then, softer, to me: “We’re good?”
“We’re good,” I say. I mean: I see the tells under the glitter. I won’t let anyone write you into their story.
We move. Service hall, garage, a clean merge into traffic. The white van follows a block, turns off. Temp plate logs have a rhythm. Rae hums. Jaxson texts a string of Wi-Fi MACs like sheet music only he understands. Hayes sends me a reminder photo of a flash-bang casing, and:
If you see cousins, call me.
In the SUV, Vanessa angles toward me, knee brushing my cargo pocket. “Be honest,” she says. “Do I make this harder?”
“You make it different,” I say. “Cameras attract wolves. We keep the wolves at the fence.”
She watches me watch the mirrors. “Dean said you don’t rattle.”
“I don’t.”
“Want me to try?”
“No.”
She laughs, bright and quick. “Fair.”
The driver calls back: “Front entrance is hot with paparazzi.”
“Side door,” I say. “Keypad code incoming.” Rae drops it on my screen before I finish asking. We snake around to a painted door with chipped trim. The lock buzzes. We’re in.
By the time we finish the day, we’ve got three suspects, a ghost tablet that now belongs to us, and a pattern: pings before we arrive, tiny angle shifts, a van that likes our routes. Enough threads to start a net.
Back at the hotel, I sweep the suite one more time. Wedge still in the slider. Curtains drawn. Brice has finally stopped saying “deliverables” like a prayer. The PA is breathing without counting. Vanessa stands at the neutral wall, looking at the queued posts, then at me.
“You passed the glitter test,” she says.
“I didn’t know there was one.”
“There always is.” She steps closer, drops her voice. “Next lesson: how to pose without looking like a hostage.”
“I’ll bring a helmet,” I deadpan.
She laughs—a real one—and it lands better than any flash-bang. “Morning wheels-up?”
“Zero six. Shoes on by five forty-five.” I hand her a small Faraday pouch. “Phone sleeps in this.”
She tucks it away, nods once like we just shook hands on a contract. “Goodnight, Riggs.”
“Goodnight,” I say, and take the service elevator down, counting exits because it’s how I breathe.
Professional. Always. Chemistry can wait its turn. The hunt can’t. Seattle’s rain will scrub the glitter. The threats won’t care either way.
I care.
2
Vanessa
My alarm buzzes at four-thirty, and I roll out of bed like I’m escaping a trap. The suite’s quiet, dark, and disorienting; the sun hasn’t even bothered to wake up yet. My eyes sting from three hours of restless sleep, and my heart kicks into gear the second my feet touch the cold hotel floor. Anxiety is nothing new—I’ve built an entire brand out of managing it—but these recent threats are unraveling the carefully woven threads of my confidence.
This morning, though, nerves have nothing on the awareness buzzing under my skin. Awareness named Riggs.
