Page 47 of Brass
I blink. “Come again?”
“He taped the drive to the underside of the battery cover. Swapped out one of the batteries with a dummy so it wouldn’t rattle. If you didn’t remove the batteries completely, you’d never see it.”
I let out a low whistle. “Clever. Most people don’t look twice at a remote, especially if it still turns the TV on.”
“Exactly. They tore the place apart—ripped the mattress, cracked the mirror, even opened the ceiling tiles. But they didn’t touch the remote.”
“Because it looked untouched,” I murmur, impressed.
She nods once. “That’s what saved it.”
“Or they were interrupted,” I suggest. “Housekeeping, another guest, time constraints.”
“Maybe. I took it and ran. That’s when I noticed the SUV following me. They rammed me off the road. I fled into the subway station. You know the rest.”
The clinical detachment in her voice doesn’t mask the trauma beneath. I’ve heard that tone before—in soldiers after combat, in civilians after attacks. The forced neutrality of someone compartmentalizing horror.
“What’s on the drive specifically?” I ask, redirecting to actionable intelligence.
“Evidence. Internal communications about Phoenix and Obsidian. Technical specifications. Deployment records. Financial documents showing who’s funding it. Names of officials who authorized the transition from public to private sector.”
Names. That explains the resources deployed against her. Names mean accountability. Names mean people with power who don’t want to be exposed.
“This is bigger than an article, Celeste.”
“I know.” For the first time since I’ve met her, she looks uncertain. “That’s why I’ve been careful about who I tell. The more people who know, the more targets for Obsidian.”
The implication is clear—by involving me, she’s potentially painted a target on my back as well. But I’ve been operating with that assumption since the subway platform. The moment I engaged those men, I became part of their cleanup problem.
“Cerberus has resources that can help,” I tell her. “Secure facilities. Intelligence analysts. Legal teams. People who know how to manage this kind of exposure. And if there’s a connection to Willow’s husband, and what he was doing…”
“Can they be trusted?”
“With this? Yes.” I check the mirrors, a habitual scan. “Ghost—Mason, our team leader—has specific experience with privatized military projects. He’ll know how to approach this. And if Obsidian is as widespread as I’m beginning to suspect, then we’re going to need all of Cerberus’s assets, and maybe more.”
She falls silent again, likely weighing options, calculating risks. The journalist’s analytical mind at work.
“Seattle is not too far,” I remind her. “We can discuss options in more detail tonight.”
Her hand moves unconsciously to her pocket, fingers brushing over the outline of the flash drive. Such a small object to contain so much danger. So many deaths.
I force my attention back to the road, to our immediate tactical situation. But my mind keeps circling back to the implications of what she’s shared. An autonomous AI targeting system with surveillance integration and no oversight. The potential for abuse is staggering.
More concerning is the thought that we may have only temporarily evaded its reach. If this system is as sophisticated as Celeste suggests, our analog approach has bought us time, but not permanent security.
We need to reach Seattle. Need Cerberus resources. Need a team with the expertise to handle this level of threat.
My hand tightens on the steering wheel, knuckles whitening. We stop for the night at another roadside motel just outside Billings, Montana. The mountains loom in the distance, silhouetted against the setting sun. Celeste has been movingwith increasing discomfort throughout the day, her injured side clearly bothering her.
“Let me see your ribs.”
She eyes me warily from her perch on the edge of the bed. “They’re fine.”
“They’re not fine. You’ve been favoring your left side all day.” I retrieve the first aid kit from our bag. “I need to check for complications.”
“I think I’d know if there were complications.”
“Not necessarily. Internal bleeding can present gradually. Hairline fractures can worsen without obvious symptoms.” I open the kit, laying out supplies with methodical precision. “This isn’t negotiable.”
