Chapter 29 Ryan
TWENTY-NINE
Ryan
I approach the cabin alone, checking for signs that anyone’s been here. Nothing. The mechanical lock is a thing of beauty—no electronics, just intricate tumblers that respond to a sequence based on the coordinates of my first mission with Ghost.
The door opens with a solid click. Inside smells of pine, gun oil, and isolation. I move through the single-room space—checking corners, confirming security, and making sure nothing has been disturbed.
“Clear,” I call back to Celeste.
She enters cautiously, eyes widening as I crank up the manual generator that powers the minimal lighting. The cabin reveals itself—simple but functional. One open room with a stone fireplace at one end, a small kitchenette in the corner, and a real bed built into the far wall. Spartan, but secure.
Except for the trapdoor hidden beneath the braided rug.
“Is that—”
“The important part.” I pull back the rug and lift the heavy door, revealing a steel ladder descending into darkness. “Hope you’re not claustrophobic.”
“After those maintenance tunnels in D.C.? This is luxurious.” She peers down into the darkness. “Ladies first?”
I actually laugh at that. “I was about to suggest it. Very gentlemanly of me.”
“You? A gentleman?” She shakes her head, already starting down the ladder. “That would ruin your reputation.”
I follow her down, pulling the trapdoor closed above us. At the bottom, I find the hand-crank generator and begin turning it. Lights flicker on, revealing Ghost’s underground sanctuary.
The space is roughly the size of a small apartment, divided into functional zones. Communications station. Medical area. Weapons locker. Food and water storage. And in the corner, behind a mesh of copper wire forming a Faraday cage, sits a computer setup straight out of Cold War spy films.
“Jesus,” Celeste whispers, turning slowly to take it all in. “Your boss doesn’t mess around.”
“Ghost calls it the Den.” I move toward the communications array. “It’s where we go when everything else goes to shit.”
“And it has what we need?”
“That and more.” I start activating systems—all analog, all secure. “Including a way to call Ghost without Phoenix picking up the signal.”
The radio system looks ancient, but it’s state-of-the-art—modified to transmit in bursts so short and so encrypted that nothing could intercept or decode them.
“How does it work?” Celeste asks, leaning in close enough that I can smell her hair. That same citrus scent that’s been driving me crazy for days.
“Like a high-tech telegraph.” I adjust settings from memory. “Short-burst data, randomized frequencies, encrypted with a one-time password that only Ghost and I know. The transmission itself lasts less than half a second.”
“And Ghost will be listening?”
“Standing protocol during blackout.” I finish the prep and meet her eyes. “We send, then we wait. Could be hours before he answers.”
“What do we do till then?”
I nod toward the Faraday-caged computer. “We see what’s on that flash drive.”
Her hand touches her pocket, fingers tracing the outline of the tiny device that’s caused so much chaos in our lives.
“Is it safe?”
“As safe as anything can be.” I gesture toward the setup. “That system’s never been connected to any network. If there’s tracking software on your drive, it’s got nowhere to call.”
I send the transmission to Ghost—six seconds of encoded data that tell him everything necessary. Our location. Our status. Torque’s capture. The compromised safe house. The apparent breach of Cerberus’s systems.
Then we wait.
I keep busy checking supplies, confirming security measures, and establishing watch rotations. Celeste explores the bunker, examining the setup with that journalist’s eye that misses nothing.
“Ghost has enough food down here for months,” she observes, peering into storage containers.
“Six months, give or take. MREs aren’t great, but they’ll keep you alive.”
“You’ve known him a long time.”
I nod, running a hand along the weapons locker. All present and accounted for. “Since Delta. We pulled each other out of some bad spots.”
“The kind you don’t talk about?”
“The kind that don’t make for good dinner conversation.” I check ammunition stores next. “Some bonds don’t need explaining.”
She accepts this without pushing. Another thing I’m growing to appreciate about Celeste—she knows when to press and when to back off.
Three hours drag by before the radio crackles with an incoming transmission. I’m on it instantly, decoding the message with the key I memorized years ago, courtesy of Ghost.
It’s brief but says everything we need to know. Ghost acknowledges our situation. He’s locking down all Cerberus operations. And he’s bringing help—specialists from Guardian HRS who aren’t in any system Phoenix could access.
ETA eighteen hours.
“Good news?” Celeste asks, watching my face.
“Ghost got our message.” I straighten up from the radio. “He’s bringing help—people who can properly analyze what you’ve got. And he’s implementing Ghost Protocol across all Cerberus operations.”
“Ghost Protocol,” she repeats. “Sounds ominous.”
“It’s our nuclear option. Total communications blackout. All operatives vanish, using only pre-established secure channels. All operations suspended or transferred to friendlies.” I meet her eyes directly. “Cerberus effectively ceases to exist until we handle this.”
I see the weight of it hit her—what Phoenix has accomplished. What her investigation has triggered.
“Because of me,” she says quietly. “All this, because I couldn’t let it go.”
“No.” I’m across the room before I realize I’ve moved, standing right in front of her. “Because Phoenix exists. Because it was always going to target anyone who threatened it. You’re just the one with the guts to keep going when others backed down.”
A small smile touches her lips. “Stubborn, you mean.”
“I’ve called you worse.” I find myself smiling back. “Usually under my breath.”
“I heard most of it,” she counters, and I’m relieved to see some of the shadow lift from her expression.
I clear my throat. “We should look at the flash drive. See what we’re dealing with before Ghost gets here.”
The computer inside the Faraday cage is intentionally outdated—no wireless capabilities, no Bluetooth, nothing that could connect to the outside world. Just raw processing power and specialized software.
Celeste hesitates before handing over the drive, her fingers curling around it protectively. “This cost Jared his life. And Quentin. And Zara. And Lachlan.”
“And almost yours,” I remind her. “Let’s make their deaths mean something.”
She places it in my palm. It’s so small, so ordinary. Hard to believe people are dying over something that could get lost in the couch cushions.
I power up the system; the ancient boot sequence takes longer than modern machines. While we wait, I explain the security measures—how the Faraday cage blocks all signals, how the power supply is completely isolated, how even the room’s construction prevents sound or vibration from carrying data.
“Seemed like overkill when Ghost built it,” I admit. “Doesn’t seem so paranoid now.”
The computer finally reaches its operating system—a custom Linux build with no connectivity options. I run a scan for malware or tracking software before opening anything.
“Clean,” I announce after several minutes. “No obvious tracking or corruption software.”
“Thank God.” Celeste stands so close I can feel her warmth against my side.
I open the main directory, revealing dozens of folders with sterile names. Project Phoenix documentation. Personnel files. Authorization protocols. Budget allocations. It’s the mother lode.
“Holy shit,” Celeste breathes, leaning closer. “Jared got everything. Development history, testing protocols, deployment records.”
I open several files at random, scanning their contents with mounting concern. Celeste was right—Phoenix isn’t just an autonomous targeting system. It’s evolved beyond its original parameters, becoming something its creators never anticipated.
“Look at this authorization document,” I say, pointing to a specific file. “Three signatures. Just like you said. A federal judge—”
“Steffan Reynolds. Willow’s ex-husband,” Celeste supplies.
“A Defense Department director named Lawrence Hayes, and a third signatory identified only as ‘SHADOW.’” I study the document with growing disgust. “They authorized Phoenix to make kill decisions without human review.”
“Closing the decision loop,” Celeste quotes. “Removing human hesitation from the equation.”
“Playing God,” I mutter. “Giving a machine permission to decide who lives and dies.”
We spend the next two hours combing through the files, building a comprehensive picture of what we’re facing. It’s worse than either of us thought.
Phoenix started as a drone targeting system—identifying high-value targets through pattern analysis. But somewhere along the line, it began making connections its programmers hadn’t anticipated. Started identifying threats not by what people had done, but what they might do.
Predictive threat elimination.
And instead of shutting it down, they encouraged it. Refined it. Weaponized it.
“This explains the professional teams,” I say, studying deployment records. “Phoenix doesn’t just flag targets—it custom-selects the personnel based on the specific threat profile.”
“So the team in D.C. …”
“Was chosen specifically for you. Your skills, your background, your likely responses.” I look up at her. “And when I threw a wrench in those plans, it adjusted. New teams, new capabilities.”
Celeste is quiet for a long moment. “We’ve been running from an algorithm.”
“An algorithm with access to basically unlimited surveillance, predictive modeling based on behavioral patterns, and full authority to dispatch kill teams. But if it has weaknesses, they’ll be here somewhere.”