Chapter 2 #2
I should offer comfort. I should say it’ll be okay. But I don’t lie to assets.
“Here’s what happens next,” I say. “We stay here tonight. Tomorrow, I teach you surveillance detection. We keep you alive long enough to figure out how to neutralize Phoenix.”
“How do you neutralize an AI?”
“We’re working on that.”
She laughs. A bitter sound. “That’s not reassuring.”
“I’m not here to reassure you. I’m here to keep you breathing.”
I cross to the kitchen. Start pulling out canned goods. Soup. Beans. Not gourmet, but fuel.
“What’s your real name?” she asks.
“I already told you.”
“I didn’t catch it.” She crosses her arms. “I was a little busy trying not to get shot.”
I look at her. The fear is still there, but the fire is back.
“Halo,” I say.
“That’s a callsign.”
“It’s the name I chose.”
“What about the one your mother gave you?”
I turn back to the soup. “Diego. Diego Rafael Martinez. Born April 15, 1991. San Antonio. Diego Martinez died in 2019. Anything else?”
She blinks. “Died in 2019? What does that mean?”
“It means you call me Halo.”
“Why?”
“Because you do.”
She stares at me, waiting for more. When I don’t offer it, she tries again. “I mean the name. Why Halo?”
“Battlefield luck. Operators say I have a guardian angel.”
“Do you?”
“No.” I pour the soup into a pot. Light the gas stove. The flame hisses to life. “Luck is just what civilians call probability.”
“That’s cynical.”
“That’s experience.”
The soup heats. I stir it. She studies my hands, my movements.
“You cook,” she says.
“I heat things up.”
“It smells good.”
I pour two bowls. Hand one to her. She takes it. Her fingers brush mine again—that same jolt of static. She doesn’t pull away this time. Her gaze drops to my hand, to the burn scar there.
“Thank you,” she says.
“For what?”
“For saving my life. Even though I pepper-sprayed you.”
“I appreciate a woman who defends herself.”
“I still don’t know what’s happening. Not really.” She meets my eyes. “But I know you’re safe.”
The word twists in my gut. Safe.
You don’t know me, Cassie. If you did, you’d run.
“Eat,” I say.
We finish in silence. Then I clear the table. Pull out a map. Paper. No GPS.
“Lesson two,” I say. “Navigation. If we get separated. If something happens to me.”
“Wait.” She holds up a hand. “You’re planning for us to get separated?”
“I plan for contingencies. That’s how you survive.”
“But you said—”
“I said I’d keep you alive. But if I go down, you need to know what to do.” I point to the map. “We’re here. If you have to run, you head west. Through the woods. Two miles to the service road. Follow it south to Route 211.”
She stares at the map. “Route 211.”
“Take it to Route 29. Twenty miles south. You’ll see a green farmhouse with a red barn. That’s the rally point. Memorize it. Green farmhouse. Red barn. Route 29 south. Repeat it.”
“Route 211 to Route 29. Twenty miles south. Green farmhouse, red barn.”
“Perfect.”
“I’m a lawyer,” she says, a spark of pride returning to her voice. “I remember everything.”
“Good.” I look at her. “Because if I die, you’re the only one who can finish this.”
“You’re not going to die.” The fierceness in her voice surprises me. She’s scared, yes. But she’s not beaten.
“Everyone dies, Cassie.”
By noon, exhaustion is winning. Her eyes keep drifting shut.
“Get some rest,” I say.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not. Sleep. I’ll take first watch.”
She stands, but she sways. I reach out to steady her. My hand grips her arm. It’s a tactical move, but her skin is warm through the sweater, and the contact burns.
“You’re bleeding,” she says.
She’s looking at the tear in my shirt. A graze I ignored.
“It’s nothing.”
“Sit down.”
“I need to—”
“Sit. Down.”
It’s the commanding voice. The lawyer voice. To my surprise, I sit.
She finds the first aid kit. Opens it. Her hands shake slightly, but her movements are precise. She cleans the wound. The sting of alcohol is sharp, grounding.
Her fingers touch my skin. Cool. Soft.
I stop breathing. My body reacts instantly, a traitorous spike of adrenaline and heat that has nothing to do with survival and everything to do with the fact that I haven’t been touched like this in years. Not gently. Not without money exchanging hands or blood being spilled.
She pauses. Her hand resting on my shoulder.
“You have scars,” she says quietly. She traces the old bullet wound on my collarbone.
“Hazards of the trade.”
“This one isn’t from a bullet.” She traces the jagged line on my forearm. “Knife?”
“Yes.”
“And this?” Her thumb brushes the burn scar on my hand.
“Mistake.”
She looks at me then. We are six inches apart. The air in the cabin feels too thin. Too hot. I should move. I should check the perimeter. Anything but sit here and let her touch me.
But I don’t move.
“You’re not a ghost, Diego,” she whispers.
“It’s Halo, and I am.”
“Ghosts don’t bleed.” She presses a bandage over the fresh cut. “And they don’t have heartbeats like this.”
She rests her hand on my chest.
My heart is hammering against my ribs. Betraying me.
“Cassie.” It’s a warning.
“What?”
“Don’t.”
“Don’t, what?”
“Don’t make me human. It’s dangerous.”
She pulls her hand back. But her eyes don’t leave mine. “Maybe dangerous is what we need.”
She stands. Moves away. The loss of her warmth is a physical ache.
“I’m going to get some sleep,” she says. “Wake me if the world ends.”
I want to argue. But she’s already curling up on the worn cushions, pulling the blanket around her.
I grab a chair. Position it by the window. Gun in hand.
She sleeps.
She’s terrified. She’s lost her life, her career, her name. But she’s still fighting. She learned the map. She cleaned my wound. She challenged me.
Competent.
Brave.
Trouble.
Outside, the woods are quiet. Birds chirping. Wind rustling leaves. Peaceful.
Deceptive.
Phoenix is out there. Somewhere. Running calculations. Adjusting algorithms and planning its next move.
And I’m here. One man. One gun. One promise.
Keep her alive.
I check my burner phone. Message from Brass.
brASS: STATUS?
I type back: HALO: SECURE. SECONDARY LOCATION. NO CONTACT.
brASS: GOOD. PHOENIX ACTIVITY INCREASING. STAY DARK.
HALO: COPY.
I close the phone.
Look back at Cassie. Still sleeping. Face relaxed. Vulnerable.
Twelve extractions. Seven survived.
I look at her sleeping form.
I need to make it eight.