Page 3 of Riggs
Vanessa points at a clean corner. “Neutral wall it is.” To me, quieter: “Two minutes, hard stop, for a contract deliverable.”
“You’ll get it,” I say. “On delay.”
She goes live-not-live with a pro’s smile. Two minutes of unboxing serum and jokes about jet lag and some neck tilt that turns light into a compliment. Behind the camera, I see her forearm tense when she turns a cap; tells are there if you look. She finishes, thumbs the post to queue, hands Brice his metrics, and we move.
Service corridor smells like detergent and onion—the kind of hallway where the world’s secrets travel. I put her behind me at corners. At the elevator, a housekeeper with raw knuckles glances up, then down, then up again. “My sister follows you,” she tells Vanessa, voice quiet, accent Eastern Europe.
Vanessa’s smile hits earnest. “Tell her thank you.”
The woman’s gaze flicks to me. “Be careful.” Doors open. She slips out. I file her face. Gratitude isn’t a red flag. Details go on a list anyway.
Loading dock. Two black SUVs idle low. I put Vanessa front passenger, take the seat behind her. Driver nods. Second SUV falls in tight behind. I watch the traffic. A white van floats a lane over, then merges behind the tail car. Temp plate. Toner line. Logged.
Rae hums in my ear like a tuning fork.Ghost user dead. I’ve got the MAC if it lights up. Next venue’s Wi-Fi is held together with gum; I’ll box it.
“Copy.” To Vanessa: “We’ll go in the side door.”
“Love a side door,” she says. “Less to step over.”
The “apartment” set is a fake kitchen with better lighting. We sweep. Rae wipes the router and installs our own. I test the side door alarm—loud, good. The PA’s hands shake again. I give her gaffer’s tape and a purpose. She steadies a bit more.
Ten minutes into a mug-bit, Rae cuts in:Ghost tablet pinged the router for two seconds, pulled a hallway feed, died. Hall cam moved half an inch. Someone framed the green room.
I go. A man in a vendor badge rounds the corner with a coil of cable. He speeds up when he hears me but doesn’t run. I don’t speed up. I reach him in three steps, lay a hand on his shoulder, and turn him gently.
“Badge,” I say.
He flashes it. “Jared.” Company: StreamLite. Laminate real; photo not him.
“Pocket,” I say. He fishes out a cracked tablet like it might bite him.
Rae purrs.That’s our ghost. Don’t smash. I want it to sing.
Brice appears like smoke, already sweating. “Is there a problem?”
“He’s fired,” I say. “And so is the vendor that sent him. From now on, my eyes.”
We hand Jared to the venue manager, who loves firing someone before lunch. Tablet goes in a Faraday pouch. Back on set, Vanessa keeps talking into a cup but her eyes find me in the reflection of a fake window. I give her a small nod. Leak handled—for now.
Between setups, we huddle with Brice over the tour grid. “We’re wheels-up at six a.m.,” I tell them. “Two vehicles per city. Drivers vetted. Rooms booked under burn names, floors staggered. Rae and Jaxson will pre-sweep each venue’s network. We’ll run decoy posts from a safe location to flood the feed with noise. If you insist on fan ‘surprise meetups’—” I look at Brice until he stops pretending innocence— “they happen only after we’ve left and only when we control the space.”
Vanessa leans on the counter, arms folded, listening hard. “What do you need me to tell my audience?”
“That you value them enough to survive,” I say. “Tell them content will be delayed. Tell them you’ll share more when it’s safe.”
She taps her nail against the mug, thinking. “They’ll freak.”
“They’ll adapt,” I say. “Or they can watch old clips.”
Brice exhales like I canceled Christmas. “What about deliverables?—”
“We’ll hit your deliverables,” I say. “We’re just moving the time stamps.”
Rae whispers in my ear:Punched the tablet. Our boy Jared is in three shared Slack channels with a sponsor rep who DMs like a stalker and a venue coordinator who forwards floor plans to a personal Gmail. I’m freezing Jared out of anything that smells like security. Watch your corners.
“Copy.” I tuck Vanessa’s secure phone deeper into her back pocket like muscle memory. “We’ll shake the tree in Seattle.”
“Seattle’s three coffees and a raincoat,” she says, lifting her chin. “I can do rain.”
