Chapter 33 Celeste
THIRTY-THREE
Celeste
The cold hits like ice and fire all at once—crashing over my skin, stealing my breath. The impact knocks the air from my lungs, but I recover fast, head snapping above the surface. The mask holds. The snorkel is in place.
Ryan surfaces beside me, grabs my hand, and kicks. Strong, steady strokes. I follow, matching him beat for beat, each kick pushing me farther from the boat, from the life I’ve known, from everything I thought was safe.
The engine drones behind us, growing smaller, swallowed by the sea.
We swim.
And behind us, our death ticks closer with every breath.
Then …
The sea convulses.
A deep, shuddering boom erupts behind us—less a sound than a force, a pressure wave that punches through the water, slamming into my spine like a battering ram. The world jerks sideways. A surge of displaced seawater rolls beneath me, tossing me up like a rag doll.
My ears ring. My lungs seize. I surface instinctively, gasping, and what I see steals the breath right back out of me.
Flames.
A towering column of fire licks the sky, orange and gold and terrifyingly beautiful, twisting upward from where the boat used to be. Burning shrapnel rains down in arcs, some pieces still glowing red-hot as they hiss into the water.
The ocean is a roiling mess of foam and heat, the acrid scent of fuel and char thick on the back of my tongue.
Ryan’s face is ghost-lit by the inferno, his expression unreadable—but his gaze locks on mine, solid and grounding.
“Keep moving,” he says, voice low and sharp over the hiss of burning wreckage.
We swim parallel to the coast, the burning wreckage receding behind us.
From shore, witnesses will be calling 911, reporting the explosion.
Within minutes, emergency services will respond—Coast Guard, local police, and fire boats.
All arriving too late to save the couple tragically caught in a freak accident.
All documenting the deaths of Ryan Ellis and Celeste Hart with meticulous attention.
The cold seeps through my wetsuit as we swim, muscles protesting the continued exertion. Ryan stays close, occasionally checking our position against the shoreline. It’s a long swim. A thousand yards to the extraction point.
By the time we reach the shadowed edge of the cove, I’m half delirious from cold and adrenaline, my limbs sluggish, my strokes uneven. My muscles scream with every movement, lungs raw from salt and panic and the burn of escape.
Ryan grabs my arm, guiding me toward a low silhouette bobbing in the water. A dark shape—small, fast, and familiar.
The Zodiac.
A figure crouches at the bow, face obscured by a knit cap and low light, but the voice is unmistakable.
“Jesus, you idiots cut it close.” Jeb’s tone is all grumble and grit as he hauls me over the side like I weigh nothing. I collapse onto the rubber floor of the boat, gasping.
Ryan’s right behind me, swinging himself up with an ease that makes me want to hit him. Or kiss him. I haven’t decided yet.
“Nice to see you too, Jeb,” Ryan mutters, stripping off his mask and tossing it aside.
“Your fireworks made the evening news already,” Jeb says, gunning the engine. The Zodiac surges forward, bouncing hard across the waves. “I’ve got the Coast Guard scanner running. Search and recovery’s already underway.”
I huddle low beside Ryan, teeth chattering uncontrollably now that the movement has stopped. He pulls me into his side, wrapping one arm around my soaked shoulders and letting his body block the wind. No words. Just warmth. Just him.
Ten minutes later, the lights of a commercial fishing trawler rise out of the fog like a ghost ship. No name on the hull. Running lights dim. Every inch of it screams cover-op.
Jeb pulls alongside. A rope ladder drops. Ryan climbs first, agile despite the weight of wet gear and fatigue. Then he leans down, grips me under the arms, and hauls me up like he’s done it a hundred times.
The second we’re aboard, the Zodiac peels away into the dark.
No greetings. No introductions. Just a silent handoff as a man in oilskins leads us below deck where dry clothes, warm blankets, and hot coffee wait like a mirage. I barely have time to sip before the deep thrum of rotor blades builds above us.
Ryan grabs my hand. “That’s us.”
Up we go—onto the helipad welded to the rear deck. The wind hits like a slap, salty and sharp. The chopper hovers in the darkness, its belly open, side lights pulsing faintly in the mist.
The winch lowers. Ryan clips me in, fast and tight, then hooks himself beside me.
“Hold on,” he says, voice pitched to reach me over the roar.
I don’t let go.
Not as we rise.
Not as the trawler shrinks below.
Not as the darkness swallows everything behind us.
We vanish into the night, our deaths already on record.
“You did well,” he says, voice softer than his usual operational tone.
“Had a good teacher,” I manage through still-chattering teeth.
His smile is barely visible in the darkness, but I feel it more than see it—a momentary softening of his perpetual vigilance.
“Package secured,” Ghost announces into his headset, then grins at us through his beard. “Welcome to the afterlife.”
By morning, the Coast Guard will recover debris from our boat. News outlets will report the tragic accident. Officials will document our deaths. Phoenix will receive confirmation from multiple sources that its targets have been eliminated.
And we’ll be ghosts.
We did it. First phase complete. Now comes the hard part: disappearing completely.
The helicopter touches down in a small clearing surrounded by dense forest—a location so remote it doesn’t appear on any standard maps. A rugged off-road vehicle waits nearby.
“Final transport,” Ghost explains as we exit the helicopter. “Take it to the safehouse, where you’ll remain for seventy-two hours while Phoenix’s verification protocols run their course. Then we’ll move you to Montana.”
“Any news on Torque?” Ryan asks.
“Torque’s status remains unknown.”
The helicopter lifts off almost immediately after we disembark, disappearing into the night sky.
Ryan checks the map left with the UTV, then we’re back on the go, just the two of us.
The drive passes in a blur of forest roads.
Ryan’s hand finds mine in the darkness, his touch anchoring me to the present.
“Almost there,” he announces as we turn onto an even narrower road that barely qualifies as more than a trail. “Safe house is just ahead. Solar powered, no external connections, completely off grid.”
The safe house turns out to be a small, modern cabin nestled so perfectly into the surrounding forest that it’s nearly invisible until we’re right upon it.
Inside, it’s surprisingly comfortable—minimal but thoughtfully furnished, with a well-stocked kitchen, comfortable sleeping area, and advanced security systems that appear disconnected from any outside network.
“Home sweet home,” Ryan says. “For seventy-two hours, at least. The pantry should be stocked, and the security perimeter should be active. I’m going to check, if you want to settle in.”
“And after the seventy-two hours?” I ask.
“They’ll confirm our official deaths. Then we move to Montana.” Ryan’s expression grows more serious. “After that, we’re Mr. and Mrs. Davis, relocating for a more peaceful lifestyle.”
The reality of it settles over me with new weight. Three days from now, we begin new lives. No turning back, no safety net, no connection to who we were before.
Ryan secures the cabin—checking locks, confirming security systems, establishing sight lines, and defensive positions. Always the operator, even now.
I stand before the large windows overlooking the forest, watching moonlight filter through the trees. In the reflection, Ryan moves behind me, his presence both comforting and surreal in equal measure.
“What are you thinking?” he asks, appearing at my shoulder.
“That Celeste Hart died tonight,” I answer honestly. “That whatever comes next … I’m someone new.”
“Not entirely new,” he says, his reflection meeting my eyes in the glass. “The core of who you are didn’t burn up in that boat. Just the external markers. The documentation. The digital footprint.”
“Is that what you tell yourself?” I turn to face him directly. “That Ryan Ellis isn’t really gone?”
He considers this carefully. “I’ve reinvented myself before. The externals change. The essence remains.”
“And what’s my essence, according to you?” I ask, genuinely curious about his assessment.
“Stubborn,” he says immediately, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Determined. Fiercely intelligent. Unwilling to back down when you believe you’re right.” His expression softens. “Brave in ways most people never have to be. Adaptable beyond what anyone could reasonably expect.”
His description warms something in my chest, not because it’s flattering but because it feels true. Feels like me, regardless of what name I carry or what life I’m living.
“And us?” I gesture between us. “Is that part of the essence that remains, or just circumstance throwing us together?”
He steps closer, hands coming to rest on my shoulders. “What do you want it to be?”
“I’m nervous.”
“Why?”
“Montana will be the real test. No adrenaline, no immediate danger, no mission parameters. Just us, figuring out who we are together when the world isn’t actively trying to kill us.”
“Technically, the world will still be trying to kill us,” he corrects with characteristic precision. “Just less actively.”
I laugh despite myself, the tension of the day finally breaking. “Always the optimist.”
“I prefer ‘tactical realist.’” His smile widens, revealing that rare, unguarded version of Ryan I’ve glimpsed only in our most private moments.
I reach up, hand against his cheek. “Well, tactical realist, what happens now?”
“Now?” His eyes darken as he leans into my touch. “Now we have seventy-two hours of complete isolation while the world believes we’re dead. No outside contact. No mission requirements. No immediate threats.”
“Whatever will we do with all that time?” I step closer until our bodies nearly touch.
His hand slides to the back of my neck, fingers threading through my hair with possession. “I have some ideas.”
“Care to share?”
Instead of answering, he bridges the small distance between us, lips finding mine with the same precise attention he brings to everything. The kiss deepens immediately, days of tension, triumph, and fear channeling into something electric between us.
When we finally break apart, both breathing hard, his forehead rests against mine. “First,” he says, voice rough with desire, “I’m going to take you to bed and remind us both that we’re very much alive.”
“And then?” I ask, hands already working at the buttons of his shirt.
“Then,” he says, guiding me backward toward the bedroom, “we start figuring out who Ryan and Celeste are going to be. Together.”
“Together,” I echo, the word slipping out smoother, more certain than I expect. “I like the sound of that.”
We’re almost to the doorway when the thought hits me.
“Wait,” I murmur, halting with my hands on his chest. “Why didn’t we change our first names?”
He grins, that slow, smug curve that always precedes something completely infuriating—and weirdly hot.
“Because,” he says, backing me the last few steps until my spine meets the doorframe, “when you come, you scream my name like it’s the only word you remember. Figured it’d be safer not to mess with that muscle memory.”
Heat floods my cheeks, spreading lower, sharper. “You’re an asshole.”
“Sure, but …” His mouth brushes mine, cocky and soft all at once. “I’m yours.”
Hours later, I lie awake beside him, watching moonlight trace patterns across the unfamiliar ceiling. Ryan sleeps beside me, one arm still draped protectively across my waist, even in sleep. His breathing is deep and even, his face peaceful in a way it rarely is during waking hours.
Somewhere out there, Phoenix is processing our deaths, reallocating resources, and calculating new threat matrices.
Somewhere, Torque may still be alive, enduring God knows what while Ghost works to find him.
Somewhere, my editor and Ryan’s mother are hours away from receiving news that will shatter their worlds.
And here, in this isolated cabin, we exist in a strange limbo between lives. No longer who we were, not yet fully who we will become. Just two people who found each other in the chaos, who chose each other despite—or perhaps because of—the circumstances that brought us together.
I should be terrified. Should be mourning the life and identity I’ve lost. Should be consumed with regret, uncertainty, or doubt.
Instead, I stare at Ryan’s sleeping face, counting his slow breaths, and feeling something dangerously close to contentment. Not because this situation is ideal—it’s far from it—but because whatever comes next, I won’t face it alone.
Celeste Hart died tonight in a tragic boating accident off the Oregon coast. Details at eleven, forgotten by next week’s news.
But I’m still here. Still breathing.
And I’m still fighting.