Page 102 of Brass
All with connections to Phoenix. All with death patterns that match those I was investigating before this began.
In a separate file, a simple message from Ghost:
Phoenix is still operational. Resources are divided, but adapting. The hunt continues. Your work matters.
I sit back, staring at the screen, the implications washing over me. This isn’t over. It may never be truly over. The algorithm continues its silent calculations, its deadly executions. Ryan appears in the doorway, leaning against the frame, watching me with those observant eyes that miss nothing.
“Your call,” he continues, crossing to stand behind my chair, hands resting on my shoulders with gentle pressure. “Ghost is giving you a choice. We can stay completely dark, focus only on our security. Or…”
“Or we can fight from the shadows,” I finish for him. “Use our ‘dead’ status as an advantage.”
His thumbs work small circles against the tension building in my neck. “It would mean additional risk. Controlled contact with trusted assets. Limited field operations eventually.”
“But we could make a difference.” I lean back against him, drawing strength from his solid presence. “We could help stop Phoenix before it evolves beyond anyone’s control.”
“We could,” he agrees, his voice neutral in a way I’ve learned means he’s letting me reach my own conclusions without influencing them. He’s always the tactician, even in personal matters.
I consider the options, weighing safety against purpose, comfort against conviction. Three months ago, Celeste Hart died pursuing the truth about Phoenix. That pursuit cost lives—Jared, Quentin, Zara, Lachlan. Nearly cost mine and Ryan’s. And Torque, whatever condition he’s in now after months in enemy hands.
Can I walk away from that? Can I live peacefully in these mountains while Phoenix continues its silent, deadly calculations? While more people die from “accidents” carefully engineered to silence them?
“What would you do?” I ask, genuinely curious. “If it were solely your decision?”
Ryan is quiet for a long moment, his hands still on my shoulders. “A month ago, I would have said stay dark. Complete Ghost Protocol, focus on security, leave the rest to Cerberus and Guardian HRS.”
“And now?”
His eyes meet mine in the reflection of the computer screen. “You’ll never be satisfied with just surviving. Fighting for the truth isn’t just what you do—it’s who you are.” His lips curve in that slight smile I’ve come to treasure. “I’d rather fight alongside you than ask you to be someone you’re not.”
The weight of his understanding and his acceptance of who I am at my core settles over me like a blanket. This man values certainty and control above all else and is willing to embrace the risks because he sees me.
Knows me.
“We tell Ghost we’re in,” I decide, reaching up to cover his hand with mine. “Cautiously, slowly, but in.”
“I already told him you would be,” Ryan admits, not looking remotely apologetic about presuming my answer. “We have three more months of silence and staying dark. Training begins when the snow clears.”
I should be annoyed at his presumption. Instead, I laugh. “You knew what I’d choose before I did.”
“I’ve been watching you chafe at inactivity for weeks.” He leans down to press a kiss to the top of my head. “The investigative journalist in you was never going to stay buried for long.”
He’s right, of course. These quiet months have been necessary—healing, even. Time to process everything that happened, adjust to our new reality, and build something solid between us without the constant pressure of immediate danger.
But beneath the peace, I’ve felt it growing—that restless energy, that need to pursue truth regardless of the consequences. The same drive that led me to Jared’s hotel room that night in D.C., that kept me digging even as the bodies piled up, that refused to back down even with professional killers on my trail, it’s still there.
Stronger.
Some things don’t die, even when you do.
“So what happens next?” I turn in my chair to face him directly.
“Ghost sends specialized equipment through secure channels. You’ll analyze the new deaths, map potentialadaptations Phoenix might have made.” Ryan leans against the desk, arms crossed—casual on the surface, but everything about him vibrates with lethal purpose. “All while maintaining cover as the boring financial analyst and her slightly high-strung security consultant who moved to Montana for fresh air and quiet.”
“Ryan and Celeste Davis by day,” I say, cocking a brow, “ghost operatives by night. Sounds exhausting.”
“Challenging,” he corrects, mouth twitching. “But not impossible—with the right partner.”
Partner.
