Page 32 of Riggs
So I change the picture.
We’re supposed to head to the airport after breakfast. Lucas lines up the SUV under the canopy. Brice rehearses “organic content opportunities” in the rearview like a man practicing his vows. I watch the flow of people in the lobby. The phones. The ring lights you can buy at a kiosk now. The way attention bends space.
“New plan,” I say.
Vanessa’s head tips. She’s curious. “Hit me.”
“We don’t fly,” I tell her. “We drive to Austin.”
Brice chokes on a word that sounds likemetrics. “Absolutely not. The itinerary?—”
“Is now wrong on purpose,” I say. “We’ve posted our boarding times for a week. It’s not safe. We need to change things up.”
She studies my face. The thing I’m not saying sits plain between us: I want her off the grid—and I want a stretch of road where the world is background and this… isn’t.
“Dean?” she asks, not doubting, just checking.
I call him. He answers on the first ring like he’s already in the room. “Talk to me.”
“We’re dark-routing,” I say. “Rent a car, south on 25, cut across New Mexico, down through Amarillo. Overnight in Santa Fe or Trinidad. Decoys at the airport. Check-ins on a schedule. Phones in the bag between.”
A beat where I can hear him flipping the board in his head. “Kellan’s in motion,” he says. “Turner almost has him, but almost isn’t custody. Use the fake cover. Use the quiet. You’ve got discretion.”
“Copy.”
Dean adds, softer: “Keep her head up.”
“I got it,” I say, and hang up.
I turn to Lucas. “Can you stage a drop at Departures. Maybe some doubles walking to security?”
He grins without teeth. “Already have a couple in hats, same height spread, ready to earn a steak. I’ll make sure the cameras love them.”
Rae slides into my ear. “I’ll flood the feed with geotagged noise. Decoy boarding pass is live. If Stevens is watching the gate manifest, he’ll think you’re Group A.”
Jaxson:“I’ll nudge a “Find My” on a burner in a suitcase to ping near C concourse. Watch Twitter pretend it’s gospel.”
“Good,” I say. To Vanessa: “We go out the loading dock. Rental facility on York. Alias. Cash for gas. We check in at set windows only.”
She smiles like I just promised her a vacation, not a run between wolves. “Road trip with my boyfriend,” she murmurs. “Scandalous.”
Brice groans. “Fine. But I want a car-aesthetic reel. Dusty sun, wind in hair, Americana, the whole thing.”
“You’ll get it,” I say. “On delay.”
Lucas takes us down the back spine of the hotel, the kind of corridor that runs on cardboard and secrets. At the rental lot, a woman in a denim jacket with competence in her eyes meets us at a side door and passes me a key fob and a clipboard. “Marta,” she says. “Friend of BRAVO. Outback, silver, two dings. It blends everywhere. Full tank. No paperwork.”
“Appreciate it.” The Outback sits three cars down, humble and invisible, the way I like my tools. I pop the hatch, toss in our bags, and hand Vanessa a ball cap and a pair of not-pinksunglasses. She tucks her hair up under the cap without looking away from me.
“You sure?” she asks, and it’s not about the car.
“Yes,” I say. It is about the car. It’s also about the road where no one else is watching us.
We slide out into noon light and I-25 south. The SUV lanes thicken, and then it evens out. Mountains hold steady on the west like elders. I set the cruise two under the limit, drift a lane when a mirror makes me suspicious, watch for the same car more than two hours in my world.
Vanessa props one bare foot on the dash and cracks the window. “What’s first on a Riggs-approved road trip?” she asks.
“Rules.” I hand her a small Faraday pouch. “Your secure goes in this unless I tell you. We check in every ninety minutes on the dot. We fuel at crowded places, park under cameras, and don’t pull over on shoulders unless we blow a tire. Food comes from counters I can see. Bathrooms are in and out, safety first.”
