Chapter 27
TWENTY-SEVEN
Celeste
Dawn breaks as we finally approach Portland’s outskirts, having circled wide through rural areas northeast of the city. Ryan drives with the focused attention of someone operating on minimal sleep, but his reflexes remain sharp, his tactical awareness undiminished.
The Chevelle hums beneath us, a faithful mechanical companion that has carried us through the night. Its lack of electronic systems has become our greatest asset—no GPS to track, no Bluetooth to hack, no digital footprint for Phoenix to follow.
"Torque’s safe house is in Forest Park," Ryan explains as we navigate suburban streets, carefully avoiding major thoroughfares. "Remote property, defensible terrain, multiple escape routes."
“And if it’s compromised?” The question has been weighing on me since our conversation.
“We have contingencies.” His expression gives nothing away. “Always have contingencies.”
As the city wakes, morning traffic builds around us. Ryan weaves through residential neighborhoods, never taking the same route for more than a few blocks, doubling back occasionally to confirm we’re not being followed.
I watch for the patterns he’s taught me to recognize—vehicles that maintain position, make the same turns we do, and appear multiple times in our vicinity. Nothing triggers an alarm, but the absence of pursuit doesn’t mean safety.
Phoenix is learning. Adapting. Becoming more subtle in its tracking methods.
As we approach the city’s western edge, the urban landscape gives way to thickly forested hills.
Forest Park stretches before us, over 5,000 acres of woodland preserved within the city limits.
It is the perfect place to hide a safe house—remote enough for security but close enough to urban resources if needed.
“Last stretch,” Ryan says, turning onto a narrow road that winds upward into the trees. “Stay alert.”
The pavement eventually transitions to gravel, the road narrowing further as it climbs. Dense forest presses in on both sides, creating a natural corridor that would funnel any pursuit into a predictable path—tactically vulnerable but also easily defended.
“Torque will have perimeter security,” Ryan explains, eyes constantly scanning our surroundings. “Motion sensors, infrared cameras, passive counter-surveillance.”
“Will they recognize you?” I ask, suddenly concerned that defense systems might target us as intruders.
“I transmitted our approach codes when we entered Forest Park.” He pats his pocket where the secure phone rests. “Minimal electronic footprint, but necessary for safe arrival.”
The road makes a final turn, revealing a clearing where a rustic cabin stands—larger than I expected, its wooden exterior is weathered to blend with the surrounding forest. Solar panels gleam on the south-facing roof, and a powerful antenna rises behind the structure.
Modern security disguised as a wilderness retreat.
Ryan parks the Chevelle beside a nondescript SUV. He sits motionless, studying the property.
“Something feels wrong,” he says finally, voice barely audible.
I follow his gaze, trying to see what’s triggered his concern. The cabin looks peaceful in the morning light. No obvious signs of disturbance. No movement visible through the windows.
“What is it?” I whisper, tension climbing my spine in response to his alertness.
“No acknowledgment of our arrival.” His hand moves to the weapon concealed beneath his jacket. “Torque should have signaled by now.”
The quiet that surrounds us suddenly feels oppressive rather than peaceful. No birds call in the trees. No sounds emerge from the cabin. Just the faint tick of the Chevelle’s cooling engine and our measured breathing.
“Stay here,” Ryan instructs, his voice taking on that command quality that brooks no argument. “If I’m not back in three minutes, or if you hear gunfire, drive away immediately. Head east. There’s an emergency cache at the coordinates in the map’s legend.”
My heart hammers against my ribs, but I nod. “Be careful.”
His eyes meet mine, something fierce and protective blazing in that ice-blue gaze. “Always.”
He exits the vehicle, moving in a half-crouch toward the cabin. I watch him advance, using trees and the SUV for cover, his weapon now drawn and held at the ready, low.
One minute passes. Two. The silence stretches, each second an eternity of anticipation.
Then—a flash of movement at the cabin’s window. Too fast to identify. Ryan freezes, pressing himself against the broad trunk of a Douglas fir.
My fingers grip the steering wheel, ready to start the engine and flee as instructed. But something about the movement strikes me as wrong. Not stealthy enough for an ambush. Too erratic for a professional.
Another flash. A curtain billows in the breeze from an open window.
Ryan approaches the window, peering carefully inside before moving to the front door. Tests the handle. Finds it unlocked.
For one heart-stopping moment, he disappears inside the cabin. Then he reemerges, weapon lowered but not holstered, and beckons me forward.
I exit the Chevelle on shaky legs, adrenaline making my movements clumsy after hours of contained tension. When I reach Ryan at the cabin’s entrance, his expression has transformed from tactical alertness to something darker.
“Torque’s not here,” he says, voice flat. “But he was.”
He pushes the door wider, revealing the cabin’s interior. My journalist’s eye catalogs details automatically—rustic furnishings, advanced communications equipment partially concealed behind wooden panels, tactical gear stored in open cases.
And blood. A spray pattern across one wall. A larger stain on the wood floor near the communication station.
“Signs of struggle. Three, maybe four attackers, based on the boot prints. Professional entry through the rear window.”
My stomach twists as the implications become clear. “They knew we were coming.”
Ryan’s expression hardens. “They knew we’d contact Torque.”
“Phoenix,” I whisper, the name feeling like a curse now. “It anticipated our next move.”
“Not just anticipated.” Ryan crouches beside the blood stain, examining it with clinical detachment that doesn’t quite mask the anger beneath. “It accessed information it shouldn’t have. Operational protocols. Secure communication channels.”
“Is he—”
“No body,” Ryan cuts me off, standing again. “Blood spatter indicates injury, not fatal trauma. They took him.”
A new kind of dread settles over me—not just the fear of being hunted but the deeper horror of what it means that Phoenix could penetrate Cerberus this thoroughly.
“We need to contact Ghost,” I say, the urgency clear. “Warn him.”
Ryan shakes his head once. “Not from here. This location is compromised. Everything electronic could be monitored.”
His gaze sweeps the cabin, tactical assessment giving way to something I’ve rarely seen in him—uncertainty. This vulnerability is more alarming than any physical threat for a man whose existence is defined by preparation and control.
“What do we do?” I ask, needing to hear him verbalize a plan, to restore the certainty that has guided us since the subway.
He meets my gaze. Resolution replaces doubt. “We go dark. Completely dark. No electronics. No established safe houses. No contact with Cerberus until we can verify secure channels.”
“Just us,” I say, understanding the full implication.
Ryan nods, determination hardening his features into the mask of the operator I first met. “Just us.”
Outside, the forest whispers with a breeze that carries no comfort. Somewhere within its depths, Phoenix operatives take Torque to an unknown destination. Somewhere beyond these hills, the AI continues to learn, adapt, and anticipate our moves with ever-increasing accuracy.
And here we stand—a journalist with explosive evidence and the man who has become her protector, partner, and something far more complicated—alone against an enemy that never sleeps, never falters, and never stops.
“We need to move,” Ryan says. “Twenty minutes to gather whatever supplies we can use. Then we abandon the Chevelle. Find alternative transportation.”
“Start over,” I murmur, already cataloging what we’ll need.
His hand finds mine, grip solid and reassuring despite everything we’ve just discovered. “Not over,” he corrects. “Just a new phase.”
I see the same focused intensity that makes Ryan Ellis who he is—a force of nature disguised as a man.
We prepare to become ghosts—to disappear so completely that even an all-seeing AI cannot find us. To go beyond dark, beyond silent, beyond predictable.
To become the one variable Phoenix cannot calculate.