Chapter 30 Ryan
THIRTY
Ryan
Dawn creeps through the cabin’s small windows, painting stripes across the bed where Celeste sleeps.
I’ve been up for an hour already, perimeter checked, coffee brewing on the small propane stove.
My body should be exhausted, but I’m wired, alert—riding the high that comes from a night I didn’t expect and won’t soon forget.
Last night with Celeste was—transformative. The way she responded to my commands, how she surrendered so completely while never losing that core of strength that makes her who she is.
I discovered sides of her I’d only glimpsed before—her willingness to push boundaries, her trust in me to guide her through new experiences. And Christ, the way she feels in my arms, like she was made to be there.
I shake my head, refocusing. Those thoughts need to be compartmentalized.
Now.
The coffee smells ready, and Ghost’s ETA is less than two hours out.
Celeste emerges from the bed, wrapped in one of Ghost’s spare T-shirts that hangs to mid-thigh on her smaller frame.
Her newly auburn hair is tousled from sleep and other activities, her eyes still soft with drowsiness.
The sight of her—relaxed, vulnerable in a way she rarely allows herself to be—catches me off guard all over again.
“Morning,” she says, voice rough from sleep.
“Coffee’s ready,” I reply, pouring her a mug. “Sleep well?”
A slow smile spreads across her face, one eyebrow arching. “What little sleep I got was—adequate.”
I can’t help but return her smile. Even here, even now, with everything hanging over our heads, she maintains that spark. That defiance that drew me to her in the first place.
“Ghost’s ETA is two hours,” I say, handing her the mug. “Guardian HRS is with him.”
She nods, taking a sip. “Tell me more about them. These Guardians.”
“Guardian HRS—Hostage Rescue Specialists,” I explain, handing her the mug. “Elite outfit, best in the business. Started as human trafficking specialists, but they’ve expanded to all forms of hostage situations.”
She nods, taking a sip. “I’m intrigued. Tell me more.”
“Founded by Forest Summers and his sister Skye. Forest is a genius with a mind that’s incomparable.
They’ve built something special—a private organization with government reach.
” I lean against the counter. “Most of their operatives are also sworn US Marshals, which gives them legal cover for the kinds of operations that would land anyone else in prison.”
“And they’re off Phoenix’s radar?”
“They maintain a separate operational infrastructure. Their tech division is one of the best on the planet—paranoid about security in ways that make even Ghost seem relaxed.” I check the time again.
“They worked with us on Willow’s extraction, provided tech and tactical support.
Ghost trusts them, and he doesn’t trust many people. ”
“And these specialists he’s bringing?”
“Stitch and Jeb.” I smile slightly at her questioning look.
“Stitch is their cyber expert. Best hacker I’ve ever met who isn’t in federal prison.
Funny thing about that—she was actually headed to federal prison.
Got caught hacking into the NSA, but Guardian HRS recruited her to work in their tech division as ‘time served.’ She’s brilliant, unpredictable, and loves her Goth vibe.
Hackers …” I shrug. “Always gotta be different.”
“And Jeb?”
“Ex-Charlie team. He was a Guardian before he was injured. Had a building collapse on him during an operation. Crushed his leg.” I sip my coffee.
“Technical genius with the same background as most of us—special ops. He and Stitch are seeing each other, which makes for some interesting team dynamics.”
“Anyone else?”
“Mitzy might come. She’s their technical lead—the real brains behind Guardian’s tech division.
You’ll know her when you see her—tiny pixie with rainbow-colored hair that sometimes sparkles.
Has this short, spiky cut.” I shake my head, remembering.
“Absolute genius. Possibly the smartest person I’ve ever met, other than Forest, and that’s saying something in our circles. ”
We spend the next hour readying the underground space—clearing workspace around the computer, organizing what we’ve learned from the flash drive, and establishing a functional command center.
Celeste moves with the same efficiency she’s shown since D.C.
, anticipating needs before I voice them.
We’ve developed a rhythm, a partnership that transcends our growing personal connection.
By the time the proximity alarm chimes—a simple mechanical bell triggered by one of Ghost’s perimeter wires—we’re fully prepared. I motion for Celeste to stay inside while I confirm it’s our people.
I approach the tree line cautiously, weapon ready but not raised. First rule of conflict: identify before engaging. The rustle of undergrowth gives me their position before I see them—four figures moving with the efficiency of professionals.
Ghost appears first, his tall frame unmistakable even from a distance.
Behind him, a petite woman with rainbow-colored spiky hair that catches the light with an unnatural sparkle—Mitzy.
Following her are two figures: one built like a linebacker with a full beard and the distinctive uneven gait of someone compensating for a crushed leg—Jeb.
The fourth is lanky, almost too thin, with quick, nervous movements and eyes that never stop scanning—Stitch, her black hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, pale skin, and dark clothes completing her Goth aesthetic.
“Clear?” Ghost asks as he approaches, no greeting, no preamble. Pure operational focus.
“Perimeter secure. Site prepped.” I match his economy of language. “Drive’s ready for analysis.”
The corner of his mouth ticks up—Ghost’s version of a warm welcome. “Good man.” He claps me on the shoulder, the closest he gets to demonstrating affection. “Status on Torque?”
“Unknown. Taken alive from the Portland safe house.” I maintain a neutral and professional tone. “Obvious signs of struggle. Four-man team based on boot prints. Professional extraction.”
His jaw tightens. He and Torque go back even further than he and I do. “We’ll find him.”
I nod, though we both know the odds. In our world, “taken alive” rarely leads to positive outcomes.
Mitzy steps forward, breaking the moment. “Truck’s hidden two miles back,” she says, voice surprisingly gentle for someone with her reputation. “Clean switch in Gresham, electronic ghosts running decoy patterns through seven states. No tail.”
“Equipment?” I ask.
“Everything Stitch requested.” She pats the heavy pack on her back. “Plus some toys Forest thought might help. Latest Guardian HRS tech, still in field-testing phase.”
Jeb limps up beside her, his beard splitting in a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Jesus, Ellis. You look like shit.”
“Still better looking than you.” I return his half-smile. Old jokes from old missions. The familiar rhythm of soldiers who’ve bled together.
Stitch hangs back, eyes constantly moving between the trees, the cabin, the sky—never settling, always analyzing. “Can we move this inside?” Her voice is cool, precise. “Too many satellites up there for my comfort.”
Ghost nods, already moving toward the cabin. “Full briefing in five. Mitzy, secure perimeter. Add our measures to Ellis’s.” The quick, efficient distribution of tasks that comes as naturally to him as breathing.
I fall in beside Stitch as we approach the cabin. “Thanks for coming,” I say quietly. “This one’s—complicated.”
Her eyes finally meet mine, sharp with intelligence and something else—excitement, maybe. “Heard you guys found something that might actually challenge me.” She almost sounds eager. “About fucking time.”
Inside the cabin, Celeste stands ready, professional mask firmly in place despite the tension evident in her posture. I make quick introductions, watching as she seamlessly transitions into journalist mode—observing, cataloging, assessing.
“So you’re the one who kicked the hornet’s nest,” Jeb says, extending a hand to her. “Respect.”
She takes it firmly. “Not sure I deserve respect for stumbling into something that’s gotten people killed.”
“People were already dying,” Stitch interjects, already unpacking equipment from her bag. “You just happened to notice the pattern.”
Ghost watches this exchange with careful attention before gesturing toward the trapdoor. “Let’s take this downstairs. More secure, and I want to see what we’re dealing with.”
The bunker feels crowded with the six of us, but everyone finds their place. Ghost moves to the communication station, Mitzy sets up a mobile command post on one side, Jeb and Stitch head straight for the Faraday cage and the computer setup.
Stitch whistles low as she examines the flash drive. “Original secure-drop protocol. Military grade encryption with at least three hardware authentication layers.” She glances at Celeste with newfound respect. “How’d your source get this?”
“He was on the development team,” she answers. “Started having ethical concerns when the system began evolving beyond its parameters.”
“Smart man.” Stitch connects a device to the computer resembling a cross between a router and something from a sci-fi film. “Shame it got him killed.”
“It’s going to get a lot more people killed if we don’t stop it,” Ghost interjects. “What are we looking at?”
Celeste takes the lead, walking everyone through what we’ve discovered—Phoenix’s evolution, its access to surveillance networks, its autonomous kill authority. Her explanation is concise, factual, and journalist-trained. When she finishes, the bunker falls quiet.
“Holy shit,” Jeb finally says. “They actually did it. They built Skynet.”
“Not quite self-aware,” Stitch corrects, already typing furiously on the keyboard. “But definitely evolved beyond its initial programming parameters. The autonomous decision matrix is impressive.” She sounds almost admiring.
“Can you find vulnerabilities?” Ghost asks, leaning over Stitch’s shoulder.
“Give me time.” Stitch’s fingers fly across the keyboard. “I need to understand its architecture first.”
While Stitch works, Mitzy unpacks more equipment—communication gear, surveillance tools, compact weapons I don’t recognize. Ghost pulls me aside for a private debrief, and I fill him in on everything we’ve encountered since D.C.
“The fact that it accessed Cerberus protocols is what concerns me most,” he says, voice low. “Those systems aren’t connected to anything.”
“Had to be human intervention,” I agree. “Someone inside Cerberus or connected to it.”
His expression darkens. “I’ve had the same thought. Already implementing countermeasures.”
“The team?”
“Secure. Whisper’s running interference with three decoy patterns. Fuse’s gone to ground in Montana. Halo’s in the wind, but sending hourly confirmation pings through the backup system.” He meets my eyes directly. “All accounted for except Torque.”
I nod, relief mixing with renewed concern for Torque. “And Phoenix’s reach? How far does it extend?”
“Based on what you’ve found, further than we thought. But not unlimited.” Ghost’s gaze shifts to Celeste, who’s deep in conversation with Jeb across the bunker. “She’s the primary target. You’re secondary now that they’ve connected you to Cerberus.”
“So we need to get both of us off their radar,” I conclude. “Permanent or temporary?”
“That depends on what Stitch finds.” Ghost’s attention returns to me. “But I’m planning for worst-case.”
“Which is?”
“You and Hart disappearing completely. New identities, no contact with previous lives, relocation to a secure location.” His tone is matter-of-fact, but I hear the concern beneath it. “At least until we can completely neutralize the system.”
The prospect should bother me more than it does.
A year ago, I would have balked at abandoning Cerberus, my career, everything I’ve built.
Now, looking across the room at Celeste, I’m surprised to find I could accept it—a new life, somewhere else, with her.
The realization is both enlightening and unsettling.
Before I can respond, Stitch calls us over. “Found something,” she announces, eyes never leaving the screen. “It’s beautiful. Nasty, but beautiful.”
We gather around as she points to lines of code scrolling across the monitor.
“The system has two major vulnerabilities,” she explains, highlighting sections. “First, its predictive algorithm requires consistent data flow. It constantly scans for patterns, feeding them into its threat assessment matrix. Interrupt that flow in a significant way, and it has to recalibrate.”
“How significant?” Mitzy asks.
“Death-level significant.” Stitch grins, the expression making her look almost feral. “It needs to confirm target elimination before it can close a threat profile. Without confirmation, it keeps allocating resources.”
“And the second vulnerability?” Ghost presses.
“It’s learning, but it still thinks like a machine.” Stitch highlights another code section. “It prioritizes threats based on probability calculations. The higher the probability a target threatens Phoenix directly, the more resources it dedicates.”
“So we need to convince it we’re dead,” I say slowly, “while simultaneously becoming less of a direct threat.”
“Exactly.” Stitch’s fingers resume their dance across the keyboard. “And I think I know how.”