Page 74 of Brass
“Jackpot,” I say moments later, holding up a ring of keys from beneath a stack of repair manuals. “Labeled ‘Chevelle.’ Our host is organized, at least.”
Ryan takes the keys, examining them with a small flashlight. “Perfect.”
We work together, gathering supplies. Ryan locates several gas cans along the back wall—some full, some empty. He sets about siphoning fuel from the other vehicles to fill the empties while I search for anything else useful.
I discover a box of road maps and a compass in one of the drawers—analog navigation tools that will be invaluable. There’salso a first aid kit, more comprehensive than our own, which I immediately appropriate.
In a small refrigerator, I find bottled water and some non-perishable food items. I take some, leaving cash from our dwindling supply on the shelf as compensation.
As I gather these supplies, Ryan works methodically on the fuel situation, filling can after can. “Seven full cans,” he announces eventually. “About thirty-five gallons, plus whatever’s in the tank. Enough to get us a long way from here before we have to stop and refuel.”
He loads the cans into the Chevelle’s spacious trunk while I continue taking inventory of our supplies. When everything is in place, Ryan slides into the driver’s seat and inserts the key into the ignition.
The engine roars to life on the first try, a deep, throaty growl that vibrates through the concrete floor and up into my bones. Ryan’s face in the dashboard light reveals a rare, unguarded pleasure as he experiments with the engine’s revs.
“Get in,” he says, that familiar command returned to his voice. “Time to disappear.”
I pull open the barn-style garage door, then slide into the passenger seat, the leather cool against my back. The interior smells of polish and history, of someone’s passion project temporarily repurposed for our survival.
Ryan eases the car out of the garage, jumps out, and tugs the garage door shut before killing the lights until we’re clear of the property. The powerful engine purrs beneath us, restrained momentum ready to be unleashed. At the end of the long driveway, Ryan pauses, considering our options.
“We head west, then south, but not on main roads,” he decides. “Back routes only. No towns, if we can avoid them. We need to be in Portland by tomorrow night.”
I nod, unfolding one of the maps across my lap. “I’ll navigate.”
“Partner,” he says, the word an acknowledgment of something that’s been evolving between us since that first moment on the subway platform.
As he accelerates onto the dark country road, the muscle car’s engine rumbling beneath us like a slumbering beast, an unexpected sense of hope breaks through the fear that’s been my constant companion. We’re still running, still hunted by an enemy more relentless than any human pursuer could be.
But we’re running together. And that makes all the difference.
The night embraces us as the Chevelle roars westward. Behind us, the abandoned garage fades into darkness, already becoming just another waypoint in our desperate journey.
Ahead lies uncertainty, danger, and the confrontation that has been building since I first opened Jared’s files. But for this moment—cocooned in American muscle and steel, the man beside me solid and real and mine in ways I never expected—I allow myself to believe we might actually survive this.
Phoenix may be learning, evolving, and hunting us, but it hasn’t accounted for one critical variable in its calculations: what happens when two people refuse to be predictable, refuse to be victims, and refuse to yield.
“The key to evading pattern recognition systems,” Ryan says as we cruise along a narrow country road, headlights cutting through the pre-dawn darkness, “is introducing constant, unpredictable variables.”
I trace our route on the map spread across my lap, the paper rustling softly under my fingers. “Randomization.”
“Exactly. Humans create patterns unconsciously—favorite routes, consistent timing, habitual stops.” His hands grip thewheel, occasionally shifting gears. “An AI tracking system like Phoenix builds its predictive models on those patterns.”
“So we do what human nature resists—make truly random choices,” I offer, finding the journalist’s analytical framework surprisingly applicable to tactical evasion. “In my work, sources who evade surveillance successfully are the ones who override their own habits.”
Ryan glances at me, approval evident in his expression. “Most people can’t sustain true randomness. They think they’re being unpredictable when they’re actually creating new patterns.”
“Like criminals who establish alibis by making unusual purchases or visiting places they wouldn’t normally go,” I add, recalling an investigation into a political fixer who’d created an elaborate but ultimately traceable deception. “They leave footprints because the deviation itself becomes the pattern.”
“We’ll switch routes every fifty miles,” Ryan decides, finger tapping against the steering wheel as he formulates the plan. “Alternate between backroads and secondary highways. Vary our speed and timing. No stops in populated areas.”
I trace potential routes on the map, identifying options that offer the unpredictability we need. “We should plan for multiple contingencies at each decision point.”
His hand leaves the wheel briefly, covering mine where it rests on the map. The touch is unexpected, warm, and steady. “You’re thinking like an operator now.”
The simple contact sends a current of awareness through me—a quiet intimacy that contrasts with the high-stakes circumstances surrounding us. For a moment, the hunt, the danger, Phoenix itself—all recede, leaving just this: his hand on mine, the rumble of the Chevelle’s engine, and the promise of dawn breaking on the horizon.
“When this is over…” he begins, then stops himself.
