Page 1 of Riggs (The Maddox BRAVO Team #2)

Riggs

Dean slides a manila folder across his desk like it’s a live device and not paper. “You already know her.”

I already know who it is. How can I not? “I don’t do glitter,” I say, even as I open it.

“You do threats.” He laces his fingers on the blotter. “Vanessa Mercado. Seven-city brand tour. DMs went from dumb to dangerous—timed to her private itinerary. Sponsors won’t cancel. She asked for brAVO. She asked for you .”

We met in the Kingsley mess—sunshine in heels, flirting to hide fear, called me Beard-Mountain like it was a rank. Chemistry? Sure. Useless on a detail. I keep the file between us and start reading.

Screenshots. “I know where you sleep” junk, then two clean messages.

One hits five minutes after her manager updates the travel doc.

One includes a photo of a hotel hallway hours before she checked in.

Low angle, maintenance phone. Another’s a drone still over her last rooftop shoot, framed too well to be luck.

“Inside leak,” I say. “Plus someone's flying eyes.”

“Rae’s remote.” Dean nods toward the bullpen where Rae pretends not to eavesdrop over a screen full of code. “Jaxson on call for digital; Hayes if we see devices. You’re primary. Build the box. Find the leak.”

I flip to the route grid. “Cities?”

“Saint Pierce, Seattle, Denver, Austin, Nashville, D.C., New York. Two weeks. Venues range from hotel ballrooms to rooftops to pop-up shops.”

“What does she want?”

“To keep her commitments and stay alive,” he says dryly. “In that order unless you convince her otherwise.”

“Copy.” I stand. “Anything else I should know?”

Dean’s mouth twitches. “Her brand manager, Brice. Hair higher than his threat IQ. He’ll whine about ‘deliverables.’ You’ll remind him warm skin tones look terrible in morgues.”

Rae finally turns. “I’ve got her metadata. Her comments are a crime scene. Scraping threats now. Also, someone accessed the Hotel Delphine staff portal from a tablet this morning—ghost user. If it pings again, I’ll tag it.”

“Good.” I tap my ear. “Stay with me.”

“Always,” she says.

Dean palms the folder back, takes a breath like he’s about to add rules. He doesn’t. He meets my eyes instead. “Keep it professional.”

“Always,” I echo, and this time it’s not for Rae.

Hotel Delphine smells like new money and polished citrus. The valet lane’s clogged with SUVs and ring lights the size of moons. I park on the side street because I don’t valet my ride, and I take the service elevator because I don’t enter through a lobby if there’s another way in.

Penthouse level: floral carpet fighting chrome. Two rental-blazer guards at a folding table check badges like they’re TSA. I flash brAVO credentials, and they straighten like someone just made their day easier.

“Andy Riggs,” I say. “brAVO.”

“Yes, sir.” The taller one swallows relief. He waves me toward the double doors.

The suite could fit a basketball court. Air’s hairspray, coffee, and a faint ozone from too many power strips.

I sweep fast. Two exits. Windows sealed.

Balcony slider dead-bolted but liftable.

Bathroom clear. Kitchenette clear. People everywhere.

A blonde woman with a headset bumps a cart and apologizes to a ficus.

Brice—blazer, importance hair—barks into a phone about color temperature like it’s life support.

Center of gravity is on a stool under a ring light. Vanessa.

Cameras don’t catch gravity. People like her pull a room. She’s in jeans and an off-shoulder black top, bare feet—pink toes—and an effortless laugh that dies the second she sees me in the mirror. Not fear. Assessment. Memory.

She swivels, slides off the stool as the stylist swears and ducks, and then she crosses barefoot, smile already loaded.

“Riggs,” she says, like we left off yesterday. “Here to ruin golden hour?”

“Here to make sure you survive it.” I stop where I can see both doors and the balcony in a single glance. “Ground rules.”

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 outfit transition 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 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.

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.”

“Good.” I check my watch. “Back-of-house exit in five. Rae’s spoofing a lobby decoy.”

“Love a fake-out,” she says, energy sparking. Then, softer, to me: “We’re good?”

“We’re good,” I say. I mean: I see the tells under the glitter. I won’t let anyone write you into their story.

We move. Service hall, garage, a clean merge into traffic. The white van follows a block, turns off. Temp plate logs have a rhythm. Rae hums. Jaxson texts a string of Wi-Fi MACs like sheet music only he understands. Hayes sends me a reminder photo of a flash-bang casing, and:

If you see cousins, call me.

In the SUV, Vanessa angles toward me, knee brushing my cargo pocket. “Be honest,” she says. “Do I make this harder?”

“You make it different,” I say. “Cameras attract wolves. We keep the wolves at the fence.”

She watches me watch the mirrors. “Dean said you don’t rattle.”

“I don’t.”

“Want me to try?”

“No.”

She laughs, bright and quick. “Fair.”

The driver calls back: “Front entrance is hot with paparazzi.”

“Side door,” I say. “Keypad code incoming.” Rae drops it on my screen before I finish asking. We snake around to a painted door with chipped trim. The lock buzzes. We’re in.

By the time we finish the day, we’ve got three suspects, a ghost tablet that now belongs to us, and a pattern: pings before we arrive, tiny angle shifts, a van that likes our routes. Enough threads to start a net.

Back at the hotel, I sweep the suite one more time. Wedge still in the slider. Curtains drawn. Brice has finally stopped saying “deliverables” like a prayer. The PA is breathing without counting. Vanessa stands at the neutral wall, looking at the queued posts, then at me.

“You passed the glitter test,” she says.

“I didn’t know there was one.”

“There always is.” She steps closer, drops her voice. “Next lesson: how to pose without looking like a hostage.”

“I’ll bring a helmet,” I deadpan.

She laughs—a real one—and it lands better than any flash-bang. “Morning wheels-up?”

“Zero six. Shoes on by five forty-five.” I hand her a small Faraday pouch. “Phone sleeps in this.”

She tucks it away, nods once like we just shook hands on a contract. “Goodnight, Riggs.”

“Goodnight,” I say, and take the service elevator down, counting exits because it’s how I breathe.

Professional. Always. Chemistry can wait its turn. The hunt can’t. Seattle’s rain will scrub the glitter. The threats won’t care either way.

I care.