Chapter 26
TWENTY-SIX
Celeste
The Chevelle’s powerful engine hums beneath us as we navigate the winding country roads, headlights cutting through the pre-dawn mist. The car handles like a dream—responsive, solid, a mechanical extension of Ryan’s will as he guides it through the darkness.
No electronic systems to trace. No GPS. No tracking vulnerabilities.
Just American muscle and steel.
By mid-morning, we’ve switched routes three times, our path deliberately meandering while maintaining a generally southwesterly heading.
Ryan drives with the focused attention of a man accustomed to constant threat assessment, eyes regularly checking mirrors, scanning the horizon, and noting any vehicle that maintains position near us for more than a few minutes.
“There’s a place up ahead,” he says, nodding toward a barely visible dirt track branching off from the main road. “Good spot to rest briefly. Check our bearings.”
The track leads to a small clearing overlooking a valley, with trees providing concealment from the road. Ryan positions the Chevelle facing outward—ready for quick departure if needed—before cutting the engine.
The sudden silence is almost jarring after hours of mechanical accompaniment. Birds call in the distance. Wind rustles through the trees. Normal sounds of a world that knows nothing of AI targeting systems or professional killers.
“Your shoulder,” I say, noticing how he’s been favoring it slightly. “Let me check the bandage.”
He acquiesces without argument, which tells me it’s bothering him more than he’s letting on. I gently peel back the gauze to find the wound looking clean but angry, the edges reddened but not infected.
“It needs redressing,” I murmur, reaching for the first aid kit we took from the garage.
He watches me work, those ice-blue eyes tracking every movement. “You’ve gotten good at this.”
“I’ve had an excellent patient.” My fingers brush against his skin as I secure the fresh bandage. “Mostly cooperative.”
That earns me a genuine laugh—a sound I’ve heard so rarely it still startles me with its warmth.
“Mostly?” He raises an eyebrow in mock offense.
“You’re terrible at admitting when you’re in pain.” I finish securing the bandage, but don’t move away. “A common affliction among alpha males, I’ve observed.”
“Not pain,” he corrects, voice dropping to that register that does inexplicable things to my insides. “Discomfort. There’s a difference.”
“Semantics.” I roll my eyes but can’t suppress my smile.
His hand rises, fingers brushing a strand of hair from my face with surprising gentleness. “You’re remarkable, you know that?”
The compliment catches me off guard. “What makes you say that?”
“Most people would have broken by now.” His eyes hold mine, unwavering. “After everything you’ve been through—finding your source dead, being hunted, the crash, the subway, days on the run. Yet here you are, not just surviving but adapting. Learning. Evolving.”
Something warm unfurls in my chest at his words. “I have a good teacher.”
“No.” He shakes his head once, definitively. “You already had it in you.”
The moment stretches between us, charged with something more complex than mere attraction. Recognition, perhaps.
Understanding.
The awareness that whatever exists between us has moved beyond the physical connection we’ve discovered.
His eyes drop to my lips, and I know what comes next—what I want to come next—but as he leans forward, the radio we took from the tactical team crackles to life.
“All units, we have a possible target signature on a traffic cam, westbound Highway 12. Vehicle description unknown. Facial recognition 72% probability match for primary target.”
Ryan pulls back, instantly alert. “They’ve picked up our trail.” He starts the engine. “But they’re looking in the wrong place. Highway 12 is thirty miles south of us.”
“How?” I ask, confusion momentarily overriding disappointment at our interrupted moment.
“Decoys.” He guides the Chevelle back onto the dirt track, tires kicking up dust. “False positives. Phoenix’s algorithm is good, but it’s not perfect. It’s identifying patterns that match ours but aren’t us.”
“So we’re still safe?” I secure my seatbelt as we accelerate.
“For now.” His expression is grim. “But it means they’re expanding the search grid, allocating more resources. We need to be even more unpredictable.”
By late afternoon, we’ve traversed rural landscapes that few tourists—and fewer commercial vehicles—ever see. Ryan’s knowledge of backroads seems encyclopedic, as if he has memorized every possible route that doesn’t appear on standard GPS maps.
“How do you know these roads?” I ask as we rumble over a wooden bridge that looks like it hasn’t seen maintenance since the 1950s.
“Tactical preparation.” He navigates around a pothole that would swallow a smaller car. “Cerberus maintains classified route networks across every state. Evacuation paths, exfiltration corridors, supply lines that stay off main grids.”
“You memorized all of them?”
He shrugs, the movement casual despite what it reveals about his mental capacity. “Part of the job. Routes, safe houses, emergency caches. The infrastructure of survival when digital systems fail—or are compromised.”
I wonder, not for the first time, about this man who moves through the world with such careful preparation. Who anticipates threats that most people never imagine. Whose life is constructed around protection and survival.
“You never really disconnect, do you?” The question slips out before I can filter it.
His eyebrow lifts slightly. “Meaning?”
“You’re always—operational.” I gesture vaguely. “Always scanning, assessing, planning contingencies. Even when we were …” I feel heat rise in my cheeks. “Even in the motel, you positioned yourself between me and the door. Maintained sightlines to all entry points.”
Something softens in his expression. “Force of habit.”
“Is it exhausting? Living that way?”
He considers this longer than I expect, his gaze fixed on the road ahead. “I don’t know any other way to be,” he admits finally. “It’s not a switch I can turn off.”
The simple honesty of his answer strikes me more powerfully than any deflection could have. There’s vulnerability in that admission—acknowledging that the hypervigilance that keeps him alive also separates him from a normal, everyday existence.
“What about you?” he asks, turning the question back on me. “Always chasing stories. Always digging for truths people want buried. Always putting yourself at risk for revelations that most of the world ignores. Is that exhausting?”
It’s my turn to consider. “Sometimes,” I concede. “But it feels necessary. Like there’s this compulsion to uncover what’s hidden. To expose what’s wrong.”
“Even when it might get you killed.”
“Says the man who jumped into a subway tunnel to save a stranger,” I counter with a small smile.
He acknowledges the point with a slight inclination of his head. “Perhaps we’re not so different.”
The observation hangs between us as the landscape shifts again, forests giving way to rolling hills. The connection it creates feels more significant than our physical intimacy—this recognition of kindred spirits who understand what drives the other, even if the manifestations differ.
We stop shortly before sunset to refuel from our reserves rather than risk a gas station. Ryan works methodically, transferring fuel from the cans to the Chevelle’s tank while I keep watch, scanning our surroundings with the new awareness he’s helped me develop.
The rural highway stretches in both directions. No cars have passed in nearly thirty minutes. The isolation should be comforting—fewer opportunities for surveillance—but something about it makes my skin prickle with unease.
“Ryan,” I call softly, not wanting to break the stillness too abruptly. “Something feels wrong.”
He pauses immediately, attuned to the tension in my voice. “What are you seeing?”
“Nothing.” I shake my head, frustrated at my inability to articulate the sensation. “That’s what bothers me. It’s too quiet. Too empty.”
He caps the gas tank, movements unhurried but purposeful as he stows the empty can in the trunk. His casual demeanor contradicts the alertness in his eyes as he scans our surroundings.
“Good instincts,” he says finally. “This road should be moderately busy. We’ve seen two cars in thirty minutes.”
The validation that my unease isn’t baseless sends a chill down my spine. “They’ve cleared the route.”
“Possibly.” He completes a full 360-degree scan. “Or they’ve restricted civilian traffic to create a controlled environment for interception.”
“What do we do?” My heart rate accelerates, but I keep my voice steady.
Ryan moves to the driver’s side door, opening it with deliberate calm. “We adapt.”
He reaches into the back seat, retrieving the map. “There’s a logging road about five miles ahead. Doesn’t appear on standard maps. It connects to a service route that parallels the Union Pacific rail line.”
“Northeast,” I realize, tracing the route. “Away from Portland.”
“For now.” He folds the map decisively. “We’ll circle back. Approach from an unexpected direction.”
Ryan’s posture has subtly shifted as we pull back onto the highway. His weight is balanced differently; his hands are positioned for maximum control, and his gaze systematically sweeps our surroundings in a pattern that misses nothing.
“They’re closing in, aren’t they?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
“They’re trying to predict our destination,” he corrects. “Phoenix’s algorithm is running scenarios, allocating resources to the highest probability routes.”
“Portland,” I murmur. “It knows we’re heading to Portland.”
“Correct. Unfortunately. It’s calculating the statistical likelihood based on available routes and our last known trajectory.” His voice remains calm, matter-of-fact. “But it can’t anticipate what it can’t predict.”
“Which is?”