Page 47 of Riggs
“Rae,” I say, “go deaf for thirty seconds.”
“Copy. You’re a rumor,”she says.
“Dean,” I add, “when Turner gets here, send him in hot.”
“Heard,” he says.
I take a breath. In for four. Hold for four. Out for four. Vanessa learned this from me. I’m learning this again because of her. “You’re here,” I tell the empty air, and step out into the heat.
I move along the fence line, boots silent where they can be, loud where I want the noise to go first. Lalo peels to the right forangle. I pause at the corner and listen. Inside—the faint rattle of an AC vent turned high. A man’s voice, too close to be talking to someone far away. A second, lighter voice, the driver maybe, radio turned down. And a sound I can’t mistake: fabric against concrete, measured breaths forced to be steady.
“She’s here,” I say, too low for anyone but the two men who’ve done this with me in worse places to hear.
Turner pulls up quiet. He’s in a shirt that wants to be a suit and a face that says he likes paperwork and hates men like Kellan. “You got us a ribbon to cut?” he asks.
“I got you a door,” I say, and nod at the roll-up. “Two inside. One with a god complex. One who drives. She’s bound, possibly gagged, no active weapon chatter on my end, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t a knife. We go soft and plain. No press. We take him alive if you can stand it.”
“I can stand it,” Turner says. “You want first hands.”
“I want her first,” I say.
We stack. Lalo on door, me on breach, Turner at my shoulder with a voice like a ticket book. The roll-up gives two inches, then four, then enough for a man to slide through. The smell of pine cleaner hits, sharp as a memory. My hands stop shaking that I refuse to admit were shaking.
“Vanessa,” I say, pitching my voice to the exact calm I saved for her. “I’m here.”
There’s a silence that goes shaped, and then a sound like a body remembering how to exhale.
“Mr. Stevens,” Turner calls, stage voice, even and bored. “APD’s with me. Let’s talk before we write up the part where you run your life into a wall.”
Footsteps. A scrape. The driver curses under his breath. The god complex clears his throat like he’s about to deliver a monologue.
“Rae,” I murmur, back online, “keep it dark. No leaks. If a blog so much as breathes our block, drown it in kittens.”
“Copy,”she says. “And Riggs?”
“Yeah.”
“Bring her home.”
“That’s the plan,” I say, and step into the dim.
I don’t pray. I keep promises. And right now the only one that matters is the one I made in a hotel room full of soup and laughter when I told herto sleepand she did because she felt safe with me.
No cameras. No hero music. No statement. Just me, a door, and the woman I’ve fallen completely in love with.
16
Vanessa
Pine cleaner and gasoline. That’s what the room smells like—someone’s idea of clean poured over something that will always be dirty. The turquoise roll-up door is half closed, slivering a stripe of hot daylight onto poured concrete. A box fan clicks every third turn, blades wobbling like they’re negotiating. Above me, a cheap rosary dangles from a nail and taps the cinderblock with a tiny wooden heartbeat.
I’m on the floor against a column, wrists zip-tied to a length of nylon rope looped around the post. The gag he shoved in my mouth tastes like mint and metal and old cologne. My shoulder throbs from the van; every breath snags on the handkerchief. I do it anyway. In for four. Hold for four. Out for four. Hold for four. Riggs’s voice in my head makes the counts sound normal.
Kellan paces, hands carving the air like he’s storyboarding. He ditched the cap. His hair is longer than when I knew him, and the eyes I once thought were soulful now just look…shiny. The messenger bag sits open on a folding chair: spare zip ties, a cheap camera, the craft-store glue I’ve learned to hate.
“Okay,” he says, pulling his phone, the camera already open. “We’re going to do a little reset. You’ll thank me later when you see the edit. We lost you for a minute, but now we’re back toreal. Audience wants real, V. Fear. Relief. Reunion. Lost and found. Classic.”
I work my tongue against the gag and glare. The driver leans against a wall and pretends to check his nails. He keeps the radio low enough to swallow the noise from the street. He looks bored.
