Chapter 30 #2
I looked at the whiteboard. The schedule. The protocols.
"We pivot," I said. "We don't deny my identity. We change the context of why I hid it."
"Because credit is dangerous," Kit murmured, catching on.
"Exactly. We use the doxxing as proof of why the Omega-Safe Rider is necessary. Look at what happens when a name gets out. The mob comes. The privacy invasion starts."
"Weaponize the violation," Euan nodded, typing furiously. "Turn the attack into evidence."
"And while they're distracted by the Twitter storm," I said, looking at Kit, "we invite Miles Green into the dressing room."
"I'm going to need pants for this," Alfie said solemnly.
An hour later, the back lounge had transformed from a love nest into a tactical operations center.
We were dressed. Properly dressed. It felt like putting on armor. I wore my black cargo pants, combat boots, and one of Kit’s oversized band tees tucked in, with a heavy flannel shirt over it.
Euan sat at the small table, three laptops open in front of him, creating a localized heat source of processing power.
Kit was inspecting the "gift." It was a massive, ostentatious arrangement of lilies. He was carefully peeling back the floral tape on the vase base with a pair of tweezers.
"Found it," Kit muttered. "Lens is hidden in the decorative ribbon knot. Mic is in the floral foam."
"Audio and video," Euan confirmed, glancing at a frequency analyzer. "It’s currently dormant because of the Faraday bag. Once we pull it out, it pings home."
"Is Miles listening live?" Alfie asked, chewing on his thumbnail. He was pacing again, that burnt-sugar energy dialed up to a manic frequency.
"He will be," Euan said. "The device sends a 'wake up' alert when it detects voice frequencies."
"Okay," I said, pacing the strip of carpet. "We need a script. We need to give him exactly what he wants to hear, right up until the moment we ruin him."
"He wants to hear us exploiting you," Kit said, his face darkening. "He wants proof that the 'progressive' Riot Theory is just another pack using an Omega."
"So we give it to him," I said. "We stage a fight."
Alfie stopped pacing. "I don't want to fight you. Not even pretend."
"It’s acting, Alfie," I said, touching his arm. "It’s a performance. You’re good at those."
"I'm good at projecting truth," he argued. "I'm rubbish at lying."
"Then channel the fear," I said. "Channel how scared you were that I would leave. Channel the anger at the industry."
I looked at Euan. "When do we go live?"
"We need to be in the venue green room," Euan said. "The signal needs to come from the location Miles expects. If it pings from the bus while we’re driving, he’l know it’s a trap."
"Manchester load-in is in two hours," Kit checked his watch. "We set the trap there."
"Rowan is meeting us on site with legal," I added. "She’s bringing the injunction papers."
I walked over to the whiteboard. I picked up the eraser.
I hesitated over the Intimacy Logistics schedule.
"Leave it," Kit said softly from behind me. "It stays."
"It's private," I said. "If Miles sees this..."
"He won't," Euan said without looking up. "The camera will only activate once we take it out of the bag, which we'll do at the venue. We control the frame and what it sees."
Control the frame. That was the job.
I put the eraser down.
"Okay," I said. "Let’s run the scene."
Alfie took a deep breath, shaking out his hands. "Right. I'm the exhausted, demanding frontman. Kit is the enforcer. Euan is... Euan."
"I will be reviewing technical specs loudly," Euan agreed.
"And I," I said, "Am the overworked engineer who is sick of your shit."
"Method acting," Kit smirked.
The tension broke, just a crack. A sliver of light in the siege.
I walked over to the nest, grabbing my own tablet this time. I opened the browser. I typed in my own name.
Zia Vale.
The results populated instantly. Photos I hadn't seen in years. A yearbook picture where I looked terrified. A shot from a panel discussion I sat on once, looking angry.
She looks like a bitch.
Bet she thinks she’s too good for a Pack.
Failed producer trying to ride Riot Theory's coattails.
I read them. I let the acid burn.
Then I looked at my pack.
Alfie, putting on his stage boots, humming a war march.
Kit, taping his knuckles, checking the door locks.
Euan, building a digital cage for the man trying to hunt me.
Let them talk, I thought. Let them type.
I logged into the server where Alfie’s vocal track, the Manifesto, was stored.
File: For The Engineer (Final_Mix_v2).wav
I right-clicked. Send to: Public Release Queue.
I set the timer. 8:00 PM tonight. Right when we hit the stage.
If they wanted Zia Vale, they were going to get her work first.
"Pack," I said.
They snapped to attention.
"We're not just trapping Miles," I said. "We're launching the Rider."
"Tonight?" Rowan’s voice came through the speakerphone, sounding wary.
"Tonight," I confirmed. "While Miles is watching his little spy cam, while the internet is tearing apart my yearbook photos... we drop the Omega-Safe Rider. We confirm the policy. We verify the bond."
"Verify the bond?" Alfie choked. "Publicly?"
"No," I said. "Legally. Rowan, I want the papers."
"Which papers?" Rowan asked carefully.
"The claiming papers. The civil partnership. The LLC structure. Whatever you call it."
I looked at the three of them.
"I want it locked down. On paper. Ink and signatures. Before we walk out on that stage."
Kit let out a breath that sounded like a prayer. Euan stopped typing. Alfie’s knees gave out and he sat on the bunks.
"You're claiming us?" Alfie whispered.
"I'm securing the asset," I said, my voice thick with emotion I refused to let spill over. "You're the asset. I'm not letting the industry touch what's mine."
"Copy that," Kit rumbled, his eyes shining.
"Right," I said, clapping my hands once. "Siege mode active. Let's go to work."
The Manchester venue green room was ugly. Mustard yellow walls, fluorescent lights that hummed in B-flat, a sickly pale green, and a smell of damp plaster.
Euan placed the massive bouquet of lilies on the coffee table. He adjusted the angle precisely.
"Field of view established," he murmured. "Mic is hot in three... two... one."
He pulled the Faraday bag away.
We were live.
Somewhere in a sleek office or a van, Miles Green was putting on headphones.
"I can't believe we have to redo the patch list," I said loudly, throwing a clipboard onto the sofa. "Alfie, you changed the vocal chain again."
"I need more reverb!" Alfie shouted back, pacing the room. He sounded like a diva. It was convincing. "I can't feel the room, Z! Fix it!"
"I fixed it three times!" I snapped. "Maybe if you didn't eat the mic you'd hear yourself!"
"Hey," Kit barked, stepping into the frame, looming over me. "Tone, Zia. He's the talent. You make it work."
"I've been working eighteen hour days, Kit! I haven't slept in a bed in a week, not even on the bus!"
"That's the job," Kit growled. "Read the contract. Clause 4. You serve the band."
I saw Euan twitch. This was hard for them. Pretending to be the monsters I used to fear.
"I want a break," I said, voice trembling (real exhaustion helping here). "I want five minutes without someone demanding something from me."
"You'll get a break when the album goes platinum," Alfie sneered. "Until then, get back on the board."
The door opened.
Tammy Rook stood there. She wasn't acting. She looked furious.
"Delivery," she grunted.
She stepped aside.
Rowan walked in. She wasn't holding flowers. She was holding a stack of legal documents and a tablet streaming network data.
She walked right up to the lilies. She looked directly into the hidden lens.
"Hello, Miles," Rowan said pleasantly.
We all stopped acting instantly. Alfie dropped the diva posture, moving to my side, wrapping an arm around my waist. Kit crossed his arms, looking lethal. Euan stepped into the frame, holding up his laptop.
"IP address confirmed," Euan announced to the camera. "We have you logging in from the West London server node. Device ID verified."
"We also have the receipt for the courier," Kit added, leaning down into the lens. "Sloppy tradecraft, mate."
Rowan held up the paperwork. "This is a cease and desist, a restraining order, and a notification of a lawsuit for illegal surveillance and corporate espionage. It's been filed with the Courts as of..." she checked her watch "...two minutes ago."
"And Miles?" I stepped forward.
I looked right into the black glass eye hidden in the ribbon.
"My name is Zia Vale," I said clearly. "I am the Executive Producer of Riot Theory. And these Alphas?"
I reached back. Alfie and Kit moved in, flanking me. Euan stood at my shoulder.
"They don't own me," I said. "I own the mix."
Rowan reached out and yanked the camera out of the vase. The feed cut.
"That," Alfie exhaled, collapsing onto the sofa, "was incredibly stressful. I hated yelling at you."
"You were very convincing," I said, stroking his hair. "A real prima donna."
"I channeled my inner Gareth," he shuddered.
"Tracking software indicates Miles disconnected the second Rowan said 'Hello'," Euan reported, closing his laptop. "He knows he's burned."
"He'll be fired by morning," Rowan said, stacking her papers. "The network can't keep him with a lawsuit pending. We just decapitated the opposition."
"And now," Kit said, locking the green room door. "The real paperwork."
Rowan spread the documents on the mustard yellow table.
Private Civil Partnership Agreement.
Limited Liability Company Operating Agreement: Pack Dynamics.
It wasn't a marriage license. It was better. It was a contract that bound our finances, our assets, and our medical decision-making rights together. It was a shield that said You cannot separate us.
"This protects the IP," Rowan explained, pointing to a clause. "Zia retains 100% ownership of her masters. The band retains theirs. But the partnership shares the touring revenue. If one of you goes down, the others hold the line."
"And this," she pointed to the medical section. "Next of kin. All three of you for her. Her for all three of you."
I looked at the lines. Four blank spaces.
I picked up the pen.
I didn't hesitate.
Zia Vale.
I passed the pen to Alfie.
Alfred King.
Then Euan. Euan Onyx.
Then Kit. Christopher Wilde.
We stared at the signatures. The ink was black and permanent.
"Done," Rowan whispered. She stamped it with a heavy, satisfying thud. "You're a legal entity. Try to doxx that, Miles."
"Pack," Alfie whispered, touching the paper.
"Pack," I agreed.
We had twenty minutes before stage time.
"Come here," Kit said, pulling me into the corner of the room where the ugly sofa sat. "Recharge. Ten minutes."
We piled onto the sofa. No sex. No strategy. Just weight. Kit held my back. Alfie put his head in my lap. Euan leaned against my shoulder.
I closed my eyes. The static in my head was gone. The signal was clean.
"Z?" Alfie mumbled.
"Yeah?"
"When we go out there... can I wear the paint?"
I smiled. "What paint?"
"Z on my hand," he said. "Instead of the slogans."
I opened my eyes. "You want to Sharpie my initial on your hand for a sold-out show?"
"I want them to know who I'm singing to," he said simply.
I reached for the marker Euan had left on the table. I took Alfie’s hand. I didn't write a Z.
I drew a fox tail. Small. Hidden on the inside of his wrist, right over his pulse.
"For the engineer who ran," I whispered.
Alfie kissed the ink.
"For the engineer who stayed."