Page 64 of Brass
“They connected you to Cerberus.”
Five words that change everything. Not Celeste being tracked—me. My affiliation. My team.
“How?” One word that asks a dozen questions. Shit, I’ve been careful. Beyond careful.
“Facial recognition at a gas station three states back. They’ve been running your image through every database they can access. Didn’t get a hit until they tried private contractor registries.”
My jaw tightens. Private registries are supposed to be secure, accessible only to cleared personnel. “Phoenix?”
“No. Obsidian.” A pause. “We’ve been analyzing the files from Willow’s drive. The ones tagged ‘Obsidian’ contain surveillance approvals. Signed by her ex-husband.”
The connection clicks into place. “Federal judge with security clearance.”
“Authorizing domestic surveillance under the guise of national security.” Mason’s disgust is evident even through the secure line. “But it goes deeper. There are references to Project Phoenix throughout. We think her ex-husband was one of the judicial gatekeepers—signing warrants, authorizing operations, ensuring legal cover.”
“And now their system is targeting anyone connected to those files.”
“Including you, since you’re with Celeste Hart.”
I process the implications rapidly. If they’ve connected me to Cerberus, then bringing Celeste to headquarters risks exposing the entire operation.
“Where do we redirect?” I’m already mentally calculating routes, assessing options.
“Safe house in Portland. Torque will meet you there with new credentials. We need to extract Hart and her evidence without compromising the rest of the team.”
“Understood.”
“Brass.” Mason’s tone shifts slightly, with personal elements breaking through the professional ones. “There’s somethingelse. These files suggest Phoenix isn’t just an autonomous targeting system. It’s fully integrated with multiple surveillance networks. Public and private. And it’s learning.”
“AI evolution.”
“It’s identifying threats based on behavior patterns, not just data access.” He pauses. “Your extraction hasn’t followed standard protocols. That unpredictability might be why it took this long to locate you.”
A cold realization settles in my gut. My decision to drive rather than fly. The circuitous route. The cash-only transactions. The vehicle switches. All deviations from standard procedure. All contributing to our continued evasion.
“How much time do we have?”
“Unknown. But assume they’re closing in. Ditch your current vehicle. Switch to the alternate identities I’m sending to your secure drop. No electronic communication after this call.”
“Copy.” I’m already formulating our exit strategy. “Portland in eight hours.”
“Make it happen.” The line goes dead.
I stand motionless for exactly seven seconds, prioritizing information, calculating risks, and developing contingencies. Then I move.
Celeste is awake, sheet pulled around her, eyes alert despite being roused from deep sleep. Perhaps the journalist’s instincts sense when something has changed.
“What’s wrong?” she asks immediately.
“We’ve been compromised.” I begin gathering our belongings, movements efficient without panic. “We need to move. Now.”
She’s out of bed instantly, reaching for clothes. No questions, no arguments.
“They found us?” She pulls on jeans and a T-shirt, and her voice is steady despite the danger.
“They found me.” I meet her eyes briefly. “Connected me to Cerberus through facial recognition. We need to change our destination, our route, and our vehicle. Everything.”
She processes this with impressive speed. “Where are we going instead?”
