Chapter 16 Ryan #2
The pieces click into place: the professional hit team, their tactical coordination, and the resources deployed to eliminate one journalist. The connection to Willow’s case makes this infinitely more complex and dangerous.
“You’re saying an AI system identified you as a threat and dispatched operators to eliminate you?”
“Yes. But it’s worse than that.” Her eyes hold mine, unflinching. “The system doesn’t just identify threats. It integrates with public and private surveillance, tracks movements, and predicts behavior patterns. It’s designed to be inescapable.”
“Nothing is inescapable.” The response is automatic, born from years of evading seemingly impossible situations.
“This might be. According to Jared’s data, Phoenix has backdoor access to traffic cameras, CCTV, facial recognition databases, and even private security systems. It’s constantly analyzing, learning, adapting.”
I process this information against the backdrop of our extraction measures. Vehicle switches. Cash only. Disguise modifications. No digital footprint. The connection to Willow’s files suggests a web of contractors and agencies far more extensive than Celeste initially realized.
“That explains the professional team in the subway. But not why they haven’t found us yet.”
“I’ve been thinking about that.” She leans forward, animated now that she’s sharing the information.
“What if the system is optimized for urban environments? Dense surveillance networks, high concentration of cameras, and civilian facial recognition. We’ve been traveling through rural areas, staying in places with minimal digital security. ”
It’s a solid theory. Systems are only as effective as their data sources. “Then we maintain that advantage. Keep to analog operations. Minimize digital exposure.”
I restart the SUV, my mind racing through tactical adjustments based on this new information.
An AI targeting system changes the parameters of our extraction, making certain precautions more critical and others less so.
The connection to Willow means Ghost might already have pieces of this puzzle—information that could be vital to our survival.
“You believe me.” She sounds surprised.
“Should I not?”
“Most people would think I’m paranoid. That I’ve been working on conspiracy theories too long.”
I ease the vehicle back onto the highway. “I’ve seen enough black projects to know the line between conspiracy and classified is thinner than civilians realize.”
We drive in silence for several miles, each processing the implications of our conversation. Eventually, she speaks again, her voice quieter.
“After Jared contacted me, I began investigating. Found connections between his concerns and similar projects that had been publicly canceled but privately continued. I started tracking the deaths—Quentin Hargrove’s heart attack at forty-two, with no prior health issues.
Zara Nouri’s single-car accident on a straight, dry road.
Lachlan Reeves’s suicide despite planning his wedding. ”
Her voice catches slightly. These weren’t just names on a list to her. These were real people whose deaths she’s carried.
“I was careful. Used burner phones. Secured communications. But they still found Jared.” She stares out the window, profile rigid with contained emotion.
“I was supposed to meet him at Murphy’s Pub, but he texted from a number I didn’t recognize.
Directed me to the Windsor Hotel instead. When I got there …”
“He was already dead.” I fill in what she can’t bring herself to say.
She nods, swallowing hard. “Throat cut. Blood everywhere. But the flash drive …” She exhales slowly. “Jared was smart. He texted me earlier with our code phrase—‘walls have ears.’ That meant something was wrong. I was supposed to check the alternate hiding spots.”
“What did he choose?”
She turns to look at me, eyes flat with exhaustion. “The TV remote.”
I blink. “Come again?”
“He taped the drive to the underside of the battery cover. Swapped out one of the batteries with a dummy so it wouldn’t rattle. If you didn’t remove the batteries completely, you’d never see it.”
I let out a low whistle. “Clever. Most people don’t look twice at a remote, especially if it still turns the TV on.”
“Exactly. They tore the place apart—ripped the mattress, cracked the mirror, even opened the ceiling tiles. But they didn’t touch the remote.”
“Because it looked untouched,” I murmur, impressed.
She nods once. “That’s what saved it.”
“Or they were interrupted,” I suggest. “Housekeeping, another guest, time constraints.”
“Maybe. I took it and ran. That’s when I noticed the SUV following me. They rammed me off the road. I fled into the subway station. You know the rest.”
The clinical detachment in her voice doesn’t mask the trauma beneath. I’ve heard that tone before—in soldiers after combat, in civilians after attacks. The forced neutrality of someone compartmentalizing horror.
“What’s on the drive specifically?” I ask, redirecting to actionable intelligence.
“Evidence. Internal communications about Phoenix and Obsidian. Technical specifications. Deployment records. Financial documents showing who’s funding it. Names of officials who authorized the transition from public to private sector.”
Names. That explains the resources deployed against her. Names mean accountability. Names mean people with power who don’t want to be exposed.
“This is bigger than an article, Celeste.”
“I know.” For the first time since I’ve met her, she looks uncertain. “That’s why I’ve been careful about who I tell. The more people who know, the more targets for Obsidian.”
The implication is clear—by involving me, she’s potentially painted a target on my back as well. But I’ve been operating with that assumption since the subway platform. The moment I engaged those men, I became part of their cleanup problem.
“Cerberus has resources that can help,” I tell her. “Secure facilities. Intelligence analysts. Legal teams. People who know how to manage this kind of exposure. And if there’s a connection to Willow’s husband, and what he was doing …”
“Can they be trusted?”
“With this? Yes.” I check the mirrors, a habitual scan.
“Ghost—Mason, our team leader—has specific experience with privatized military projects. He’ll know how to approach this.
And if Obsidian is as widespread as I’m beginning to suspect, then we’re going to need all of Cerberus’s assets, and maybe more. ”
She falls silent again, likely weighing options, calculating risks. The journalist’s analytical mind at work.
“Seattle is not too far,” I remind her. “We can discuss options in more detail tonight.”
Her hand moves unconsciously to her pocket, fingers brushing over the outline of the flash drive. Such a small object to contain so much danger. So many deaths.
I force my attention back to the road, to our immediate tactical situation. But my mind keeps circling back to the implications of what she’s shared. An autonomous AI targeting system with surveillance integration and no oversight. The potential for abuse is staggering.
More concerning is the thought that we may have only temporarily evaded its reach. If this system is as sophisticated as Celeste suggests, our analog approach has bought us time, but not permanent security.
We need to reach Seattle. Need Cerberus resources. Need a team with the expertise to handle this level of threat.
My hand tightens on the steering wheel, knuckles whitening.
We stop for the night at another roadside motel just outside Billings, Montana.
The mountains loom in the distance, silhouetted against the setting sun.
Celeste has been moving with increasing discomfort throughout the day, her injured side clearly bothering her.
“Let me see your ribs.”
She eyes me warily from her perch on the edge of the bed. “They’re fine.”
“They’re not fine. You’ve been favoring your left side all day.” I retrieve the first aid kit from our bag. “I need to check for complications.”
“I think I’d know if there were complications.”
“Not necessarily. Internal bleeding can present gradually. Hairline fractures can worsen without obvious symptoms.” I open the kit, laying out supplies with methodical precision. “This isn’t negotiable.”
Something in my tone must convey the futility of argument, because she sighs and carefully lifts the hem of her shirt, exposing her ribcage on the left side.
The bruising has progressed through its expected evolution—the angry purple now fading to greenish-yellow at the edges. I kneel beside the bed, hands gently probing the area, feeling for irregularities, and assessing the extent of the damage.
“Deep breath in,” I instruct, monitoring the expansion of her lungs, the movement of her ribs beneath my fingertips. “And out. Again.”
Her breathing hitches slightly as I find a particularly tender spot. “Sorry,” I murmur, easing the pressure.
“It’s fine.” Her voice is tight, controlled.
But it’s not fine. Nothing about this situation is fine. Especially not the way my body responds to her proximity, the feel of her skin beneath my hands, or her subtle scent that fills my senses despite the clinical nature of my examination.
“Two, possibly three bruised ribs,” I diagnose, focusing on the medical assessment rather than the inappropriate reactions it’s triggering. “No displacement. No sign of internal bleeding. But they need proper binding for support.”
I reach for the elastic bandage in the kit, unrolling a length. “Arms up, please.”
She complies, lifting her arms with a wince.
I work efficiently, wrapping the bandage around her torso with firm, even pressure.
Close enough to feel the warmth radiating from her skin.
Close enough to notice the quickening of her pulse at her throat.
Close enough that it takes every ounce of my control to maintain professional detachment.
“Better?” I ask when I’ve secured the bandage.
She takes an experimental breath, deeper than before. “Yes. Thank you.”
Our eyes meet, and something passes between us—acknowledgment of the tension building since Cleveland. Since the subway. Since I first saw her on that platform and made the choice that led us here.
I should move away. Should maintain the distance that’s kept us both safe from complications. Instead, I’m frozen in place, kneeling before her, close enough to touch. Close enough to give in to the impulses I’ve been fighting for days.
Her tongue darts out to wet her lips—a nervous gesture that sends a jolt of heat straight through me.
“Ryan …” Her voice is barely above a whisper.
The sound of my name on her lips breaks something loose inside me. My hand moves of its own accord, fingers brushing a strand of hair from her face. Her skin is warm beneath my touch, soft in a way that makes the calluses on my fingertips feel suddenly rough, inadequate.
She doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t break the contact. Instead, she leans into it, almost imperceptibly, her eyes darkening.
One of us needs to be rational. One of us needs to remember professional boundaries and tactical priorities. I withdraw my hand, stand, and put the necessary distance between us.
“Get some rest,” I say, voice rougher than intended. “We have a long drive tomorrow.”
Disappointment flashes across her features before she masks it with a nod. “Right. Of course.”
I retreat to the bathroom, closing the door firmly behind me. Lean against it, eyes closed, breathing carefully controlled.
Seattle suddenly feels impossibly far, and I’m not certain I can maintain control for that long.