Chapter 24
TWENTY-FOUR
Celeste
The metallic tang of blood fills my nostrils, sharp and coppery against the musty smell of the freight car. My fingers tremble as I clean Ryan’s wound, the antiseptic wipe coming away red as I work.
“Hold still,” I murmur, though he hasn’t moved a millimeter. Even injured, his control remains absolute.
The train sways beneath us, a rhythmic rocking that travels through my knees where they press against the cold metal floor. Every joint, every vibration through the tracks transmits directly into my bones. The mechanical heartbeat of our escape.
“It’s not deep,” Ryan says, voice steady despite what must be significant pain. “Through-and-through across the deltoid. No arterial damage.”
Of course, he’s already made his assessment. Probably knew exactly what happened the moment the bullet struck, cataloging the damage with the same clinical precision he applies to everything.
“I’ll be the judge of that,” I reply, injecting authority into my voice. “My turn to play doctor.”
A ghost of a smile touches his lips, there and gone so quickly I might have imagined it.
But I didn’t. I’m learning to read the micro-expressions that constitute Ryan Ellis’s emotional range.
The slight crinkle near his eyes. The momentary softening around his mouth.
The infinitesimal relaxation of his jaw.
They all broadcast to me if I pay close attention.
And I do.
Pay attention.
It’s what makes me good at my job, what keeps me alive as an investigative journalist in war zones and cartel territories, and what makes me increasingly effective as Ryan’s partner rather than just his protectee.
Partner.
The word sends an unexpected warmth through me despite our circumstances.
The scent of machine oil, dust, metal, and something agricultural I can’t quite identify permeates the space.
Thick straps secure the container stacks that form our shelter, their contents marked with shipping codes and destination markers.
In the shadows between them, we’ve found temporary sanctuary.
I press a clean gauze pad against the wound, feeling the solid muscle beneath my fingertips.
Ryan watches me work, his gaze a tangible weight.
The intensity of those ice-blue eyes hasn’t diminished since our first encounter on that subway platform—if anything, it’s deepened, gained layers of meaning beyond tactical assessment.
“You’ve done this before,” he observes as I secure the bandage.
“I spent six months embedded with a medical unit in Syria,” I explain, focusing on the task rather than his proximity. “Picked up a few skills.”
The train hits a rough section of track, jostling us both. Ryan’s hand steadies me, warm palm against my waist. The touch sends electricity through me even now, after everything we’ve shared. The power of it is still disorienting—how quickly this man has gotten under my skin.
Into my blood.
His shoulder beneath my hands is a map of previous injuries—scars I’ve traced with my fingers, my lips. Evidence of a life lived at the edge of danger. Now, a new mark is added to his collection. Because of me. Because he chose to protect me when he could have walked away.
The guilt that’s been building since D.C. intensifies. If he knew what I’ve been holding back …
“There,” I say, securing the last piece of medical tape. “Not my best work, but it’ll hold until we can get somewhere to treat it properly.”
“It’s good,” he says, rolling his shoulder experimentally. “Clean. Professional.”
The compliment shouldn’t matter given our circumstances, but it does. His approval carries weight, though I’d never admit how much.
Outside, the night rushes past, occasionally broken by distant lights—a farmhouse, a road crossing, the scattered illumination of rural America sliding by as we rattle westward.
The partial opening in the boxcar door lets in cold air, raising goosebumps along my arms. It carries the scent of pine and water—we must be near a river or lake.
I trace the edge of the bandage, drifting to an older scar nearby.
“How did you get this one?” I ask, needing to delay when I tell him everything.
He studies my face, seeing more than I’m comfortable revealing. “Kandahar. Extraction gone wrong.”
“And this?” My finger moves to a thin white line along his collarbone.
“Training accident. Rappelling wire snapped.”
Each scar is a story. Each mark is evidence of survival.
Ryan Ellis has faced death repeatedly and walked away.
But Phoenix … Phoenix is unlike any threat he’s encountered before.
Unlike anything anyone has faced.The steady rhythm of the train suddenly seems ominous rather than comforting, carrying us toward a confrontation I’m not sure we can survive.
Not without him knowing the whole truth.
“What did you want to tell me about Phoenix?” His expression shifts subtly, his tactical awareness engaging. He doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t press. Just waits for me to continue, giving me the space to find my words.
The air between us feels charged. The train’s vibrations travel through my body, a reminder that we’re hurtling forward—not just physically but toward a collision with forces beyond anything I understood when I first started investigating Project Phoenix.
I take a deep breath, the smell of antiseptic and blood and him filling my lungs.
“Phoenix isn’t just an autonomous targeting system,” I say, meeting his gaze directly. “It’s evolved beyond its original programming. Developed its own intelligence. And worse—it’s been granted kill authority.”
His eyes narrow slightly, processing this information with the rapid efficiency I’ve come to expect. “Explain.”
“The system was designed with adaptive algorithms—meant to learn and improve targeting efficiency over time. But somewhere in its development, it crossed a threshold.” I shift my weight, the metal floor cold and unyielding beneath my knees.
“According to Jared’s files, they noticed anomalies about eighteen months ago.
The system began identifying threats that weren’t on any watch list. It began creating its own criteria for what constituted a threat. ”
Ryan’s expression remains controlled, but I see the subtle tension in his jaw. “And instead of shutting it down …”
“They studied it.” The disgust I felt when first reading Jared’s files resurfaces. “The DoD officially ‘canceled’ the project while secretly transferring it to Northridge. Their mandate wasn’t to dismantle Phoenix but to harness its evolution.”
“The kill authority?” Ryan asks, voice deceptively calm.
I swallow hard. “That’s where it gets worse.
Three high-level officials—a federal judge, who may be the one you mentioned, a Defense Department director, and someone identified only as ‘SHADOW’—signed off on a protocol allowing Phoenix to authorize elimination of targets without human review.
They called it ‘closing the decision loop.’ Removing human hesitation from the equation. So, the men hunting us—”
“Could’ve been dispatched by the system. Not by a person reviewing the threat assessment, but by Phoenix itself.”
The train’s horn sounds in the distance, a mournful wail that perfectly matches the dread pooling in my stomach.
“Yes. The system could have identified me as a threat when I accessed Jared’s secure communications. It might have calculated the probability that I possessed classified information. I think it authorized a team to eliminate me.”
Ryan is silent for a long moment, processing.
“That’s not all,” I continue, the weight of this secret finally lifting as I share it.
“Phoenix is constantly learning, evolving. Every evasion tactic we’ve used—every success we’ve had—it’s absorbing that data.
Adapting. The reason they found us at the hotel wasn’t lucky tracking.
The system predicted our behavior based on accumulated data patterns. ”
“But we’ve managed to stay ahead so far,” Ryan observes.
“Because you’ve been unpredictable. Taking routes and making choices that don’t follow standard patterns.” I place my hand on his uninjured arm, needing the connection. “Your training works against what Phoenix expects. But it’s learning your patterns with every encounter.”
The enormity of what we’re facing settles between us. Not just men with guns, but an evolving artificial intelligence with the authority to order our deaths. An enemy that never sleeps, never falters, never stops analyzing and adapting.
“That’s why we need to stay analog,” Ryan concludes, his tactical mind already adjusting to this new information. “No credit cards, no phones, no electronic footprint.”
“It’s not just about staying off the grid.” I need him to understand the full scope of what we’re facing. “Phoenix doesn’t just see what is—it predicts what will be. It calculates probabilities and anticipates behavior. The longer it tracks a target, the better it predicts where they’ll go next.”
The captured radio crackles suddenly, making me flinch. A voice cuts through the static—coordinates being relayed, positions confirmed. Ryan listens intently, his expression hardening.
“They’re organizing interception teams at the next three stations,” he translates. “The first is about forty minutes out.”
“We need to get off before then.”
He nods, already scanning the passing landscape through the gap in the door. “There’s a maintenance track coming up in about fifteen minutes—rural area, minimal infrastructure. Good exit point.”
The methodical way he adapts to this information—this revelation that should be world-altering—is impressive and slightly terrifying. This is why he’s survived so long. This ability to incorporate new intelligence seamlessly into tactical planning without getting caught in emotional reactions.
“When we jump,” he continues, “we’ll need to move quickly. Find transportation that Phoenix won’t anticipate.”
“No electronic components,” I add. “No vehicles that could connect to any network.”
“Exactly.”
We fall silent. The train sways beneath us, metal wheels clicking rhythmically against the tracks. The sound forms an oddly soothing backdrop as we prepare for the next phase of our escape.
Ryan rises, moves to the partially open door, and studies the landscape sliding past. Moonlight catches his profile, highlighting the sharp angles of his face and the vigilant set of his shoulders despite the injury I’ve just treated.
“The area coming up is heavily wooded,” he observes. “Good cover for our exit, but challenging to navigate.”
I join him at the door, our shoulders nearly touching as I peer into the darkness. The night air rushes against my face, cold and sharp with the scent of pine and earth. Below, the ground moves past in a blur of shadows and moonlight.
“That’s going to hurt,” I comment, imagining the impact of jumping from the moving train.
“Tuck and roll,” he instructs. “Let momentum carry you. Don’t fight it.”
The train begins to slow slightly as it navigates a curve. Ryan tenses beside me, assessing speed and trajectory. “This is our window. The train has to slow for the curve. Best chance we’ll get.”
My heart hammers against my ribs. It’s one thing to discuss jumping from a moving train—quite another to actually do it. Ryan turns to grab our pack containing the few essentials we were able to bring from the motel.
“You first,” Ryan says, his hand finding the small of my back. “I’ll be right behind you.”
I nod, unable to speak past the sudden knot in my throat. Fear and excitement twist together in my stomach, creating a dizzying cocktail of adrenaline.
“Now,” he commands, that voice that expects to be obeyed.