Page 91 of Brass
THIRTY-ONE
Ryan
For the next hour,we outline a plan that’s equal parts brilliant and insane. Stitch explains how we can fake our deaths convincingly enough to fool Phoenix’s verification protocols, while also releasing select information about the project to specific journalists and watchdog groups—enough to create multiple lower-level threats that will divide Phoenix’s attention without directly implicating us.
“The beauty is,” Stitch says, clearly warming to her subject, “once Phoenix confirms your termination, it allocates those resources elsewhere. Your threat profile gets filed as ‘resolved,’ which creates a blind spot we can exploit later.”
“What about Torque?” I ask.
Ghost’s expression remains neutral, but I catch the flicker of pain in his eyes. “We’re working on it. Mitzy has contacts searching. But right now, we focus on getting you and Hart off Phoenix’s immediate radar. That buys us time to find Torque and develop a permanent solution.”
Celeste, who has been uncharacteristically quiet, finally speaks up. “What’s the catch? There’s always a catch with plans this convenient.”
Smart woman. Always looking for the angles others miss.
Stitch exchanges glances with Ghost before answering. “The catch is, your deaths have to be convincing. Not just to Phoenix, but to everyone. Family, friends, colleagues. No contact, no hints, nothing that might trigger Phoenix’s suspicion algorithms.”
“For how long?” she asks, the practical journalist asserting itself.
“Minimum six months,” Ghost answers. “Possibly years, depending on how quickly we can dismantle Phoenix’s infrastructure.”
I watch the implications settle over her—abandoning her career, her life, her identity. For someone who’s built her existence around uncovering truth, the prospect of living a lie is its own kind of death.
The reality hits me too. Just days ago, I was sitting at my mother’s Thanksgiving table, enduring her gentle prodding about settling down, listening to my three sisters’ updates about their kids, their jobs, their lives.
Now I have to let them believe I’m dead. My mother, who has already lost my father, will have to bury a son. Clare, Melissa, and Diane will lose their only brother. No more holiday dinners. No more late-night calls when one of them needs advice. No more being Uncle Ryan to their kids.
My chest tightens at the thought. For all my complaints about my family, the idea of causing them that kind of pain sits like lead in my stomach.
“There’s more,” Jeb adds quietly. “The information we release can’t be directly traced back to your flash drive. We need to alter it just enough to create plausible deniability.”
“Which means the complete truth stays buried,” Celeste concludes, voice tight with frustration. “The people whoauthorized this—Reynolds, Hayes, this ‘Shadow’ person—they walk away clean.”
“For now,” Ghost assures her. “But not forever. We’re playing the long game here.”
“At least Reynolds is dead,” Celeste responds, her jaw set in a hard line. “But they’ll just find another federal judge willing to sign off on whatever they want. The system always protects itself.”
She falls silent, weighing the compromise against the alternatives. I know that internal struggle—tactical necessity versus moral certainty. It’s the fundamental tension in our line of work.
“We need to start preparations immediately,” Mitzy interrupts, always the pragmatist. “The staging alone will take at least twelve hours. More if we want it bulletproof.”
“And we do,” Ghost confirms. “No room for error on this one.”
The bunker shifts into high gear as everyone takes assigned tasks. Jeb and Stitch begin working on the technical aspects of the deception—creating digital breadcrumbs, preparing the information packets for strategic release, and establishing the verification hooks Phoenix will need.
Mitzy coordinates logistics—transportation, materials for the staged “deaths,” and evacuation routes. Ghost supervises the entire operation while maintaining communication with the rest of the Cerberus team.
I work alongside Celeste, preparing the flash drive data for secure transmission through Stitch’s specialized equipment. We work in silence for several minutes before she speaks.
“Are you okay with this?” she asks quietly. “Disappearing, starting over. Leaving everything behind.”
I consider the question carefully. “I’ve reinvented myself before. Military to private sector. Operator to commander.” I meet her eyes. “The question is whether you are.”
“I don’t know,” she admits. “My whole career has been about exposing the truth, not hiding it.”
“Sometimes the only way to ultimately expose the truth is to step back from it temporarily,” I offer. “Strategic retreat, not surrender.”
She smiles slightly at my military metaphor. “Always the tactician.”
