Page 95 of Brass
Specialized compounds provided by Guardian HRS, whose technical division apparently has experience with this sort of deception. I try not to think too hard about why they need such expertise.
“Debris that includes biological material carrying our DNA,” I add, remembering the uncomfortable process of providing those samples earlier today.
“Just enough to confirm our identities without providing complete remains.” Ryan’s voice remains steady, but I detect the tension beneath it. This part bothers him more than he admits—the knowledge that his family will believe him dead. Will mourn him. “The Coast Guard will recover fragments tomorrow, along with personal effects that survive the fire.”
“My press credentials. Your Cerberus ID badge. Scraps of clothing.”
“All while we’re swimming up the coast to a secluded cove where Jeb will extract us by water. Then we disappear completely.” Ryan’s hand squeezes mine. “Phoenix’s verificationprotocols will kick in, checking Coast Guard reports, witness statements, and news coverage. All of which will confirm our deaths.”
“And when it cross-references with its surveillance network?”
“It finds nothing,” Ryan says with grim satisfaction. “Because we’ll be ghosts.”
The plan is elegantly simple in theory. Brutally complex in execution. So many pieces that have to align perfectly—the boat’s destruction, the digital deception, the simultaneous information release, and our clean escape. If any single element fails, Phoenix will know, and its resources will refocus on us with even greater intensity.
“Ghost and Whisper are already implementing the Cerberus side,” Ryan continues. “Digital footprints showing my growing concern about being followed. My mother will receive an email I supposedly scheduled before my death, expressing vague worries about a story you were working on.”
The thought of his mother’s grief makes my chest ache. “Will she be safe?”
“Ghost has arranged surveillance—discreet, nothing she’ll notice. But Phoenix has no reason to target my family once I’m ‘confirmed’ dead.” His voice carries that slight edge I’ve come to recognize when he’s working to compartmentalize emotional reactions. “Similar protection for your editor and closest colleagues.”
I nod, trying to focus on the tactical necessities rather than the emotional fallout. People who care about me will believe I’m dead—my editor, who’s been more of a mentor than a boss, and the few close friends I’ve maintained despite my all-consuming career. The building’s superintendent, who waters my plants when I’m on assignment. Small connections, but real ones. All severed out of necessity.
“What about after?” I ask, gaze fixed on the coastal landscape emerging through the trees as we descend toward the Pacific Ocean. “Montana, and then what?”
“Remote cabin on twenty acres outside Bozeman. Self-sufficient, minimal digital footprint. Secured communications back to Ghost and Guardian HRS when necessary.” Ryan’s hand withdraws from mine as he navigates a sharp curve. “We lay low. Establish our cover identities in the local community—slowly, naturally. And we wait.”
“For what?”
“For Ghost, with Cerberus, and Guardian HRS to finish what we started. To dismantle Phoenix piece by piece.” He glances at me briefly. “And for Torque, if he’s still alive.”
The unspoken reality hangs between us. If Torque is alive, his situation is dire. Professionals like the ones who took him don’t keep prisoners for pleasant conversation. They extract information through methods I’ve witnessed in war zones and failed states. Methods that leave people broken in ways that never fully heal.
“How long?” I press. “Realistically.”
“Minimum six months before we can consider limited reemergence.” Ryan’s voice is firm, but factual. “More likely a year or longer.”
The thought should terrify me. Instead, I find myself examining the strange calm that settles over me when I imagine that future. Just the two of us against the world, fighting from the shadows. There are worse ways to spend a year.
“I can feel you thinking,” Ryan says, breaking into my reflections.
“Just wondering if I’ll make a convincing financial analyst,” I deflect. “My math skills are passable at best.”
“Your cover includes specialized experience in risk assessment and fraud investigation—close enough to your realskillset to be believable.” His lips curve slightly. “And you won’t need to code algorithms. Just understand them conceptually.”
The coastline spreads before us as we round a final curve—the vast Pacific stretching to the horizon, Cannon Beach’s iconic Haystack Rock jutting from the surf like a sentinel. Under different circumstances, it would be breathtaking. Now, it just feels like the stage for our elaborate deception.
“Almost there,” Ryan says, voice dropping into operational mode. “From this point forward, assume active surveillance. Everything we do, everything we say needs to support the narrative.”
I straighten in my seat, mentally stepping into my role. We are on the run. Just a journalist and the Good Samaritan who tried to save her, with no idea they’ll be dead by midnight.
The rental house is exactly as described—luxurious waterfront property with panoramic ocean views, private beach access, and most importantly, a clear sight line to the marina where our boat awaits. Ryan carries our minimal luggage inside.
“It’s nicer than I thought,” I call out, fully aware we may already have electronic ears listening. “You think we’re safe?”
“Absolutely. Completely lost our tail.” Ryan appears behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist as we look out at the ocean through floor-to-ceiling windows. “Worth every penny,” he murmurs against my ear, then whispers almost inaudibly: “Southeast corner, bookshelf. Camera lens.”
I don’t react visibly, just lean back against him, smiling. “We should take that sunset cruise you booked. The weather’s perfect.”
