The SEC Tournament in Atlanta was the kind of spectacle that made college basketball legendary. The energy inside the Georgia Dome was electric, the sea of blue-clad Kentucky fans roaring as the Wildcats warmed up for their quarterfinal matchup. Tubby paced the sideline, arms crossed, eyes locked onto his team. The pressure was on. The boosters wanted a deep run. The fans expected a title.
And Scott Rigot was missing. Again.
Tubby didn’t like distractions during tournament time, and an assistant coach vanishing on a recruiting trip right before tip-off? That was unacceptable.
Three blocks away, Rigot sat in the back of a dimly lit bar, a March Madness game flickering on the TV overhead. A man in a gray suit slid into the booth across from him.
"You’re cutting it close, Coach," the man said, stirring a club soda with his straw. "You think I want to be here?" Rigot muttered, glancing at the time. Tip-off was in an hour. "Let’s make this quick." The man slid a thin envelope across the table. Rigot picked it up, thumbing through the contents. Photos. Surveillance reports. A familiar name.
"Dragan Vukovic?" Rigot asked, his brows furrowing. The man in the suit nodded. "Serbian arms dealer. One of his contacts has been leaking intel to us, but now Vukovic’s people are tying up loose ends. We need to get our guy out before he disappears."
Rigot clenched his jaw. "And you want me to do it. During the damn SEC Tournament." "That’s right," the man said, unfazed. "You’ve got access. No one questions a coach taking a recruiting detour."
Rigot exhaled sharply. He was already on thin ice with Tubby—missing another supposed scouting trip wouldn’t help his case. But he didn’t have a choice. "Fine," he said. "Where’s the pickup?"
"An abandoned hotel off Peachtree. You’ll make contact, get him a new identity, and get him on a flight out of Hartsfield before midnight." Rigot tucked the envelope into his Wildcats windbreaker and stood. "I’ll handle it," he said. "One more thing," the man added, his tone shifting. "Vukovic’s people know something’s up. If they get to him first… don’t expect this to be clean." Rigot nodded, threw a few bills on the table, and left.
By the time he made it to the hotel, the streets outside the Georgia Dome were packed with fans spilling out of bars, chanting and hyped for the game. Rigot’s heart pounded—not from nerves, but from the fact that he could hear the Kentucky game tipping off on a nearby radio.
Tubby was going to kill him.
He climbed the stairs to the fourth floor, where the air was thick with dust and bad memories. His contact, a wiry man with tired eyes and a duffel bag at his feet, stepped out from the shadows.
"You’re late," the man muttered.
"Traffic," Rigot deadpanned. "Let’s go."
But before they could move, the sound of footsteps echoed down the hall. Rigot’s stomach dropped. He turned just in time to see the glint of a gun barrel before—
CRACK. A shot rang out.
The man beside him staggered back, his duffel bag hitting the floor with a dull thud. Rigot barely had time to react before he saw the shooter. Dragan Vukovic himself.
"Guess I found my own loose end," the Serbian said, his accent thick and amused as he cocked the gun again.
Rigot’s mind raced. He had no backup. No weapon. And worst of all?
Kentucky was down by six at halftime.
He had two jobs to survive tonight.
And right now, staying alive was the harder one.