Total pages in book: 49
Estimated words: 46223 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 231(@200wpm)___ 185(@250wpm)___ 154(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 46223 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 231(@200wpm)___ 185(@250wpm)___ 154(@300wpm)
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 taught me 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.”
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.