Page 46 of Brass
“Among the files she collected, several were randomly tagged with a single word: ‘Obsidian.’” I tap my fingers against the steering wheel, connecting dots. “Her ex-husband is dead now, but he worked for a military contractor with government ties.”
“Northridge?” Her voice sharpens with recognition.
“No. Different company, but in the same ecosystem. Shared projects, personnel overlap.” I process the implications rapidly. “This can’t be a coincidence.”
“Which means this is bigger than I thought.” Celeste’s face pales slightly. “If multiple contractors are involved?—”
“Then Phoenix has broader implementation than one company’s initiative.” I complete her thought. “And Obsidian’s reach extends further than individual whistleblowers.”
“A system-wide cleanup protocol,” she whispers. “Anyone who gets too close, regardless of which component they discover…”
“Becomes a target.” The tactical implications shift again. If this connects to Willow’s case, we already have pieces of this puzzle. Cerberus may be further along in understanding the threat than I realized.
“A kill order for anyone investigating Phoenix. Automated identification of potential threats through surveillance integration. Predictive modeling of whistleblower profiles.” Her voice remains steady despite the horror of what she’s describing. “The system, Obsidian, tagged Jared, and I’m pretty sure it tagged me too.”
The pieces click into place: the professional hit team, their tactical coordination, and the resources deployed to eliminate one journalist. The connection to Willow’s case makes this infinitely more complex and dangerous.
“You’re saying an AI system identified you as a threat and dispatched operators to eliminate you?”
“Yes. But it’s worse than that.” Her eyes hold mine, unflinching. “The system doesn’t just identify threats. It integrates with public and private surveillance, tracks movements, and predicts behavior patterns. It’s designed to be inescapable.”
“Nothing is inescapable.” The response is automatic, born from years of evading seemingly impossible situations.
“This might be. According to Jared’s data, Phoenix has backdoor access to traffic cameras, CCTV, facial recognition databases, and even private security systems. It’s constantly analyzing, learning, adapting.”
I process this information against the backdrop of our extraction measures. Vehicle switches. Cash only. Disguise modifications. No digital footprint. The connection to Willow’s files suggests a web of contractors and agencies far more extensive than Celeste initially realized.
“That explains the professional team in the subway. But not why they haven’t found us yet.”
“I’ve been thinking about that.” She leans forward, animated now that she’s sharing the information. “What if the system is optimized for urban environments? Dense surveillance networks, high concentration of cameras, and civilian facial recognition. We’ve been traveling through rural areas, staying in places with minimal digital security.”
It’s a solid theory. Systems are only as effective as their data sources. “Then we maintain that advantage. Keep to analog operations. Minimize digital exposure.”
I restart the SUV, my mind racing through tactical adjustments based on this new information. An AI targeting system changes the parameters of our extraction, making certain precautions more critical and others less so. The connection to Willow means Ghost might already have pieces of this puzzle—information that could be vital to our survival.
“You believe me.” She sounds surprised.
“Should I not?”
“Most people would think I’m paranoid. That I’ve been working on conspiracy theories too long.”
I ease the vehicle back onto the highway. “I’ve seen enough black projects to know the line between conspiracy and classified is thinner than civilians realize.”
We drive in silence for several miles, each processing the implications of our conversation. Eventually, she speaks again, her voice quieter.
“After Jared contacted me, I began investigating. Found connections between his concerns and similar projects that had been publicly canceled but privately continued. I started tracking the deaths—Quentin Hargrove’s heart attack at forty-two, with no prior health issues. Zara Nouri’s single-car accident on a straight, dry road. Lachlan Reeves’s suicide despite planning his wedding.”
Her voice catches slightly. These weren’t just names on a list to her. These were real people whose deaths she’s carried.
“I was careful. Used burner phones. Secured communications. But they still found Jared.” She stares out the window, profile rigid with contained emotion. “I was supposed to meet him at Murphy’s Pub, but he texted from a number I didn’t recognize. Directed me to the Windsor Hotel instead. When I got there…”
“He was already dead.” I fill in what she can’t bring herself to say.
She nods, swallowing hard. “Throat cut. Blood everywhere. But the flash drive…” She exhales slowly. “Jared was smart. He texted me earlier with our code phrase—‘walls have ears.’ That meant something was wrong. I was supposed to check the alternate hiding spots.”
“What did he choose?”
She turns to look at me, eyes flat with exhaustion. “The TV remote.”
