Chapter 32 Celeste
THIRTY-TWO
Celeste
The ring feels strange on my finger—a weight I’ve never carried before, both physical and symbolic. I twist it absentmindedly as our small convoy winds through the mountains toward the Oregon coast.
It feels like whiplash: Montana to Portland to Montana and now back again.
Ryan drives the lead vehicle, a nondescript SUV provided by Mitzy. I’m in the passenger seat, still processing the insanity of what we’re about to attempt.
“Stop fidgeting with it,” Ryan says without taking his eyes off the winding road. “You’ll need to look natural wearing it when we hit public areas.”
“It feels—foreign,” I admit, forcing my hands to separate. “Like it belongs to someone else.”
“In a way, it does.” His voice carries that matter-of-fact tone he uses when discussing operational details. “Belongs to Celeste Davis. Financial analyst with a background in risk assessment. Recently married to former security consultant Ryan Davis.”
Our cover identities. Our new lives. The people we’re about to become while Celeste Hart and Ryan Ellis die spectacular, public deaths.
“What if this doesn’t work?” I ask, voicing the fear that’s been gnawing at me since we left Ghost’s cabin. “What if Phoenix sees through the deception?”
Ryan’s eyes flick briefly to the rearview mirror, checking the second vehicle where Stitch, Jeb, and Mitzy follow in a van filled with equipment. “Then we move to Plan B.”
“Which is?”
“Something even more desperate and less likely to succeed.” He reaches across the console, his hand covering mine. “But this will work. Stitch doesn’t fail.”
His confidence should reassure me. Instead, I find myself cataloging everything that could go wrong with this plan. Too many variables. Too many potential failure points. The journalist in me can’t help analyzing, questioning, poking at the weak spots.
“Tell me again,” I say, needing to hear it one more time. “Step by step.”
Ryan nods, understanding my need for repetition, for certainty in the details.
“We arrive at Cannon Beach as planned. Check into the oceanfront rental under our real names—there’s no point in hiding now that Phoenix has identified us.
Surveillance will pick us up within hours if their pattern holds. ”
“Then tonight …”
“Tonight we take the boat out—the one Ghost arranged to have waiting for us at the marina. An evening cruise that conveniently passes near some rocky outcroppings with dangerous currents.” His thumb traces circles on the back of my hand, the gesture at odds with his clinical recitation.
“Meanwhile, Stitch initiates the digital dance—selective data releases to journalists, watchdog groups, and government oversight committees. Just enough information about Phoenix to create multiple small fires.”
“While keeping the flash drive’s most explosive content secured,” I finish, still conflicted about this compromise. “Smaller threats to divide Phoenix’s attention.”
“Exactly. Phoenix’s algorithms will recognize the information release, but the distributed nature creates a calculation problem. Each individual leak poses minimal threat compared to us with the original drive.”
“And the explosion?”
Ryan’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. “Remotely triggered when the boat reaches the designated coordinates. Enough fuel and additional accelerants to ensure spectacular visibility from shore, with specialized compounds that will leave the appropriate chemical signatures in the debris.”
Specialized compounds provided by Guardian HRS, whose technical division apparently has experience with this sort of deception. I try not to think too hard about why they need such expertise.
“Debris that includes biological material carrying our DNA,” I add, remembering the uncomfortable process of providing those samples earlier today.
“Just enough to confirm our identities without providing complete remains.” Ryan’s voice remains steady, but I detect the tension beneath it.
This part bothers him more than he admits—the knowledge that his family will believe him dead.
Will mourn him. “The Coast Guard will recover fragments tomorrow, along with personal effects that survive the fire.”
“My press credentials. Your Cerberus ID badge. Scraps of clothing.”
“All while we’re swimming up the coast to a secluded cove where Jeb will extract us by water.
Then we disappear completely.” Ryan’s hand squeezes mine.
“Phoenix’s verification protocols will kick in, checking Coast Guard reports, witness statements, and news coverage. All of which will confirm our deaths.”
“And when it cross-references with its surveillance network?”
“It finds nothing,” Ryan says with grim satisfaction. “Because we’ll be ghosts.”
The plan is elegantly simple in theory. Brutally complex in execution.
So many pieces that have to align perfectly—the boat’s destruction, the digital deception, the simultaneous information release, and our clean escape.
If any single element fails, Phoenix will know, and its resources will refocus on us with even greater intensity.
“Ghost and Whisper are already implementing the Cerberus side,” Ryan continues. “Digital footprints showing my growing concern about being followed. My mother will receive an email I supposedly scheduled before my death, expressing vague worries about a story you were working on.”
The thought of his mother’s grief makes my chest ache. “Will she be safe?”
“Ghost has arranged surveillance—discreet, nothing she’ll notice.
But Phoenix has no reason to target my family once I’m ‘confirmed’ dead.
” His voice carries that slight edge I’ve come to recognize when he’s working to compartmentalize emotional reactions.
“Similar protection for your editor and closest colleagues.”
I nod, trying to focus on the tactical necessities rather than the emotional fallout.
People who care about me will believe I’m dead—my editor, who’s been more of a mentor than a boss, and the few close friends I’ve maintained despite my all-consuming career.
The building’s superintendent, who waters my plants when I’m on assignment.
Small connections, but real ones. All severed out of necessity.
“What about after?” I ask, gaze fixed on the coastal landscape emerging through the trees as we descend toward the Pacific Ocean. “Montana, and then what?”
“Remote cabin on twenty acres outside Bozeman. Self-sufficient, minimal digital footprint. Secured communications back to Ghost and Guardian HRS when necessary.” Ryan’s hand withdraws from mine as he navigates a sharp curve.
“We lay low. Establish our cover identities in the local community—slowly, naturally. And we wait.”
“For what?”
“For Ghost, with Cerberus, and Guardian HRS to finish what we started. To dismantle Phoenix piece by piece.” He glances at me briefly. “And for Torque, if he’s still alive.”
The unspoken reality hangs between us. If Torque is alive, his situation is dire.
Professionals like the ones who took him don’t keep prisoners for pleasant conversation.
They extract information through methods I’ve witnessed in war zones and failed states.
Methods that leave people broken in ways that never fully heal.
“How long?” I press. “Realistically.”
“Minimum six months before we can consider limited reemergence.” Ryan’s voice is firm, but factual. “More likely a year or longer.”
The thought should terrify me. Instead, I find myself examining the strange calm that settles over me when I imagine that future. Just the two of us against the world, fighting from the shadows. There are worse ways to spend a year.
“I can feel you thinking,” Ryan says, breaking into my reflections.
“Just wondering if I’ll make a convincing financial analyst,” I deflect. “My math skills are passable at best.”
“Your cover includes specialized experience in risk assessment and fraud investigation—close enough to your real skillset to be believable.” His lips curve slightly. “And you won’t need to code algorithms. Just understand them conceptually.”
The coastline spreads before us as we round a final curve—the vast Pacific stretching to the horizon, Cannon Beach’s iconic Haystack Rock jutting from the surf like a sentinel. Under different circumstances, it would be breathtaking. Now, it just feels like the stage for our elaborate deception.
“Almost there,” Ryan says, voice dropping into operational mode. “From this point forward, assume active surveillance. Everything we do, everything we say needs to support the narrative.”
I straighten in my seat, mentally stepping into my role. We are on the run. Just a journalist and the Good Samaritan who tried to save her, with no idea they’ll be dead by midnight.
The rental house is exactly as described—luxurious waterfront property with panoramic ocean views, private beach access, and most importantly, a clear sight line to the marina where our boat awaits. Ryan carries our minimal luggage inside.
“It’s nicer than I thought,” I call out, fully aware we may already have electronic ears listening. “You think we’re safe?”
“Absolutely. Completely lost our tail.” Ryan appears behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist as we look out at the ocean through floor-to-ceiling windows. “Worth every penny,” he murmurs against my ear, then whispers almost inaudibly: “Southeast corner, bookshelf. Camera lens.”
I don’t react visibly, just lean back against him, smiling. “We should take that sunset cruise you booked. The weather’s perfect.”
“Dinner first,” he says, kissing my temple with convincing affection. “I made reservations at that seafood place you bookmarked.”
All part of the script. All of this creates a digital and surveillance footprint that will make our deaths convincing. If Phoenix is watching—and we’re operating under the assumption it is—it sees exactly what we want it to see: two people on the run, unaware of the danger closing in.