Page 2 of Riggs
Brice glides up, tight-smiled. “We have deliverables?—”
“You have a beating heart,” I say. “We post on delay against a neutral wall. No live location tells. Cut the real itinerary to need-to-know.”
Brice blinks. “Absolutely not.”
Vanessa doesn’t look at him. “We’ll cut it down,” she says. “Do it.”
He makes a deflating-balloon noise and stalks off.
I hand her a phone—slim, black case. “Secure device. Personal stays off unless Rae says otherwise. SOS triple-click on your watch is active. No unvetted food or packages. If you think you’re being followed, you don’t post. You move to an exit on my command.”
She flips the phone in her hand. “Not pink.”
“Encrypted.”
“Does it have a filter that makes me look like I slept eight hours?”
“No.”
“Honesty. How refreshing.” She tucks a stray hair behind her ear and tips her head toward the balcony. “If I filmed an outfittransition there, how many ways could someone watch me do it?”
“Eight without trying,” I say. “Sixteen if they have time. High-rise across, balcony above, drone, phones, building’s own cams if someone has access.”
“And we don’t like being watched.” She files it away. “Okay, Beard Mountain.”
I give her a small smirk. The nickname she called me many months ago when I met her while helping out Sawyer on a job. “Riggs,” I correct, because if I don’t do it now, I won’t later.
Her grin edges wicked. “Riggs. What do you need first?”
“Your real schedule. Your people in one place for a five-minute safety brief. And this.” I point at the ring lights. “Off until I say on.”
She nods; Brice groans, and the blonde looks like she might cry. I hand her a bottle of water. “Breathe like you’re blowing out birthday candles,” I tell her. She does. People follow orders if you give their hands a job.
My comm cracks. Rae:Ghost user just pinged Delphine staff portal again—tablet, generic MAC. Accessed housekeeping assignments. Someone’s checking which rooms are vacant. Your floor.
“Trace?” I murmur.
Working. Also: balcony three floors down has a nanny cam under the rail. Close the curtains before any ‘transitions.’
I cross to the slider, test the lock, feel the frame. HVAC vibration, not feet. I wedge a slim anti-lift under the rail. Hayes taughtme the trick. Vanessa watches like she’s filming me for later, amused and sharp.
“Wow, you think of everything, don’t you?” she asks.
“It’s the job.”
“Tragic.” Her smile softens. “And kind of hot.”
“Safety brief,” I say, because ignoring is easier than acknowledging, and turn to the room.
“Listen up,” Vanessa calls, louder than me and better at corralling chaos. “Riggs outranks your likes. Five minutes. No whining.”
Vanessa introduces me to her team. Brice, her manager. A brunette named Lina who likes the title of PA, and the blonde woman, Drea, who is a helping hand. There’s a few other people that Vanessa waves her hand at, calling them her fashion staff. Whatever that means.
I run them through it: “No live posts. No door numbers in reflections. No tagging locations until we leave. Deliveries verified through chain of custody. If you don’t know, you ask. If you see something odd—a camera where it shouldn’t be, a person who knows our path—tell me, not your group chat. We use service corridors. We use two cars. We don’t announce our movements to strangers in elevators.”
Brice raises a hand like a kid stalling a test. “We have a rooftop at four. Sunset reel at six. Sponsors want skyline.”
“Skyline after we’re off the roof,” I say. “Shoot the wall now. The city won’t cry.”
