Chapter 31 Ryan
THIRTY-ONE
Ryan
For the next hour, we outline a plan that’s equal parts brilliant and insane.
Stitch explains how we can fake our deaths convincingly enough to fool Phoenix’s verification protocols, while also releasing select information about the project to specific journalists and watchdog groups—enough to create multiple lower-level threats that will divide Phoenix’s attention without directly implicating us.
“The beauty is,” Stitch says, clearly warming to her subject, “once Phoenix confirms your termination, it allocates those resources elsewhere. Your threat profile gets filed as ‘resolved,’ which creates a blind spot we can exploit later.”
“What about Torque?” I ask.
Ghost’s expression remains neutral, but I catch the flicker of pain in his eyes. “We’re working on it. Mitzy has contacts searching. But right now, we focus on getting you and Hart off Phoenix’s immediate radar. That buys us time to find Torque and develop a permanent solution.”
Celeste, who has been uncharacteristically quiet, finally speaks up. “What’s the catch? There’s always a catch with plans this convenient.”
Smart woman. Always looking for the angles others miss.
Stitch exchanges glances with Ghost before answering. “The catch is, your deaths have to be convincing. Not just to Phoenix, but to everyone. Family, friends, colleagues. No contact, no hints, nothing that might trigger Phoenix’s suspicion algorithms.”
“For how long?” she asks, the practical journalist asserting itself.
“Minimum six months,” Ghost answers. “Possibly years, depending on how quickly we can dismantle Phoenix’s infrastructure.”
I watch the implications settle over her—abandoning her career, her life, her identity. For someone who’s built her existence around uncovering truth, the prospect of living a lie is its own kind of death.
The reality hits me too. Just days ago, I was sitting at my mother’s Thanksgiving table, enduring her gentle prodding about settling down, listening to my three sisters’ updates about their kids, their jobs, their lives.
Now I have to let them believe I’m dead. My mother, who has already lost my father, will have to bury a son. Clare, Melissa, and Diane will lose their only brother. No more holiday dinners. No more late-night calls when one of them needs advice. No more being Uncle Ryan to their kids.
My chest tightens at the thought. For all my complaints about my family, the idea of causing them that kind of pain sits like lead in my stomach.
“There’s more,” Jeb adds quietly. “The information we release can’t be directly traced back to your flash drive. We need to alter it just enough to create plausible deniability.”
“Which means the complete truth stays buried,” Celeste concludes, voice tight with frustration. “The people who authorized this—Reynolds, Hayes, this ‘Shadow’ person—they walk away clean.”
“For now,” Ghost assures her. “But not forever. We’re playing the long game here.”
“At least Reynolds is dead,” Celeste responds, her jaw set in a hard line. “But they’ll just find another federal judge willing to sign off on whatever they want. The system always protects itself.”
She falls silent, weighing the compromise against the alternatives. I know that internal struggle—tactical necessity versus moral certainty. It’s the fundamental tension in our line of work.
“We need to start preparations immediately,” Mitzy interrupts, always the pragmatist. “The staging alone will take at least twelve hours. More if we want it bulletproof.”
“And we do,” Ghost confirms. “No room for error on this one.”
The bunker shifts into high gear as everyone takes assigned tasks. Jeb and Stitch begin working on the technical aspects of the deception—creating digital breadcrumbs, preparing the information packets for strategic release, and establishing the verification hooks Phoenix will need.
Mitzy coordinates logistics—transportation, materials for the staged “deaths,” and evacuation routes. Ghost supervises the entire operation while maintaining communication with the rest of the Cerberus team.
I work alongside Celeste, preparing the flash drive data for secure transmission through Stitch’s specialized equipment. We work in silence for several minutes before she speaks.
“Are you okay with this?” she asks quietly. “Disappearing, starting over. Leaving everything behind.”
I consider the question carefully. “I’ve reinvented myself before. Military to private sector. Operator to commander.” I meet her eyes. “The question is whether you are.”
“I don’t know,” she admits. “My whole career has been about exposing the truth, not hiding it.”
“Sometimes the only way to ultimately expose the truth is to step back from it temporarily,” I offer. “Strategic retreat, not surrender.”
She smiles slightly at my military metaphor. “Always the tactician.”
“It’s gotten us this far.” I pause, needing to know where she stands. “If there were another option—if you could walk away right now, return to your life, your career—would you take it?”
The question hangs between us, loaded with implications neither of us has voiced.
“A week ago, yes,” she answers finally. “Now … I’m not sure.”
The admission costs her something—I see it in the slight tension around her mouth, the vulnerability in her eyes. For someone as fiercely independent as Celeste Hart, acknowledging any attachment is its own form of courage.
Before I can respond, Stitch calls us over. “Got something else,” she says, pointing to a section of code she’s isolated. “Phoenix has a verification protocol for target elimination. It requires multiple confirmation sources—visual, electronic, official channels like police and medical reports.”
“So we need to stage something public,” I conclude. “Something that leaves evidence but no recoverable bodies.”
“Exactly.” Stitch glances up at Celeste. “How do you feel about boat accidents? They’re statistically excellent for presumed deaths with no corpse recovery.”
Celeste raises an eyebrow. “You’ve thought about this before.”
“Professional necessity.” Stitch’s grin is completely unapologetic. “I’ve helped stage a dozen ‘deaths’ for Guardian HRS. The technical side is pretty fascinating—digital footprints, evidence placement, witness manipulation. It’s an art form.”
The next several hours blur into a continuous flow of preparation. Equipment checks, identity documentation, extraction routes, fallback positions, and emergency protocols. The organized chaos of a complex operation coming together under pressure.
Around mid-afternoon, Mitzy pulls me aside. “Vehicle’s prepped. Two miles west, camouflaged in the old logging road turnout. Keys under the front left wheel well.”
I nod, knowing she’s establishing our extraction route separately from the main team. Standard procedure for high-risk operations—compartmentalize knowledge, minimize shared vulnerabilities.
“Ghost wants a word,” she adds, tilting her head toward the ladder leading up to the main cabin.
I find him by the fireplace, studying a map spread across a small table. He looks up as I approach, his expression more open than usual. More human.
“This wasn’t how I expected your week to go when you left for your mother’s,” he says, a hint of dark humor in his voice.
“Thanksgiving with my mother, subway firefight, cross-country chase, AI death squads.” I shrug. “Pretty standard holiday.”
He almost smiles. “You’re good with Hart.”
It’s not a question, but I answer anyway. “She’s smart. Capable. Doesn’t panic under pressure.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
I meet his gaze evenly. Ghost and I have never needed many words between us. He sees too much, always has.
“Is this going to be a problem?” he asks finally. “The two of you, if this goes long-term.”
“No.” The certainty in my voice surprises even me. “It’s an advantage, not a liability.”
He studies me for a long moment before nodding. “Good. Because the next part is where it gets complicated.”
“More complicated than faking our deaths to escape an autonomous AI assassin program?”
“Potentially.” He taps the map. “The identities we’ve prepared for you—they’re solid, deep cover. Former intelligence personnel with specific skill sets. Compatible back stories. The kind of people who might plausibly meet and partner up.”
I see where this is heading. “You’re crafting a cover that includes our—connection.”
“It’s the most stable option,” he confirms. “Trying to maintain separate covers while staying in proximity creates unnecessary complications. A couple—whether professional, personal, or both—raises fewer questions.”
He’s right, of course. Standard operational practice for long-term deep cover. Create scenarios that can accommodate human nature rather than constantly fighting against it.
“Does she know yet?” I ask.
“Mitzy’s briefing her now.” Ghost rolls up the map. “She’s a civilian, Ellis. No matter how capable, no matter how adaptable. This isn’t her world.”
“She’s learning fast.”
“She’ll need to.” His expression grows serious.
“The next forty-eight hours are critical. After that, if all goes to plan, you’ll have breathing room.
Space to establish the new cover, integrate into the remote operations model.
” He pauses. “And figure out what is developing between the two of you.”
I don’t bother denying it or downplaying it. Ghost sees too much, and we’ve never lied to each other.
“Understood,” I say simply.
“One more thing.” He reaches into his pocket, withdraws a small object, and places it in my palm. A simple platinum band. “Part of your cover.”
I stare at the ring, its weight in my hand entirely disproportionate to its size. “Married?”
“Recently.” He hands me a second, smaller ring. “Background has you proposing last month in Barcelona. Practical reason for your relocation to Montana.”
Montana. The location is strategic—remote yet not suspicious, with plenty of privacy-minded residents and minimal surveillance infrastructure. The engagement cover provides plausible motivation for the move to a secluded cabin.
“I’ll make it work,” I assure him, pocketing both rings.
“I know you will.” He claps me on the shoulder again, this time letting his hand rest there for a moment. “Just remember the first rule of deep cover.”
“The best lies contain essential truths,” I recite.
He nods once, then descends back into the bunker, leaving me alone with two rings and a growing certainty that the line between cover story and reality has already begun to blur.
I find Celeste in one of the storage alcoves, sorting through clothing that Mitzy provided for our new identities. Her movements are methodical, and tension radiates from her shoulders. Her jaw set in that stubborn line I’ve come to recognize.
“Mitzy briefed you,” I say, not a question.
“Newly married couple relocating to Montana.” She doesn’t look up from her sorting. “Very convenient.”
I lean against the wall, giving her space. “It’s a solid cover. Minimal questions, maximum flexibility.”
“I know.” She finally meets my eyes. “This isn’t about the tactical logic. It’s about …” she trails off, frustrated.
“About choice,” I finish for her. “About having your future dictated by operational necessity rather than personal decision.”
“Something like that.”
I withdraw the smaller ring from my pocket, holding it up between us. “For what it’s worth, this is just metal. The cover is just a story. What’s real is what we decide.”
She looks at the ring, then at me, her expression softening slightly. “When did you become the philosophical one?”
“Must be your influence. I was much more straightforward before you crashed into my life.”
That earns me a small smile.
“Try it on. For the cover.” I step closer, offering the ring.
She takes it, examining the simple band with its modest diamond. “At least Ghost has good taste.”
“He knows what suits you.” I watch as she slides it onto her finger. Perfect fit, of course. Ghost’s attention to detail is legendary. “How does it feel?”
“Strange,” she admits. “But not in a bad way.” Her eyes meet mine, the conflict in them evident. “This is all happening so fast. A week ago, I was chasing leads on corporate tax evasion.”
“And I was dreading Thanksgiving dinner with my mother,” I add. “Life changes fast in our line of work.”
“Our line of work,” she repeats, testing the phrase. “I guess it is now, isn’t it?”
Before I can respond, Jeb calls from the main area. “We’re set. Final briefing in five.”
Celeste tries to remove the ring, but I stop her with a gentle hand. “Start getting used to it. We leave in less than twelve hours.”
She nods, the practical journalist reasserting itself. “Right. The cover.”
“The cover,” I agree, though something in her eyes tells me she’s thinking the same thing I am.
Sometimes covers become more real than the lives they replace. Sometimes, the best disguise is the truth you haven’t yet admitted to yourself.
As we join the others for final preparations, I catch Ghost watching us—the way we move together, the unconscious coordination we’ve developed, the small glances we exchange. He gives me a nearly imperceptible nod of approval.
The mission is clear. The plan is set.
Now we just have to die convincingly enough to fool an artificial intelligence with the resources of multiple governments and the authority to kill anyone it perceives as a threat.
No pressure.