Page 75 of Brass
“When this is over,” I finish for him, turning my hand to interlace my fingers with his, “we’ll figure out what comes next. Together.”
He doesn’t respond with words. Instead, his fingers tighten around mine before returning to the wheel. In the growing light, the ghost of a smile touches his lips—not the fleeting micro-expressions I’ve cataloged before, but something more substantial. Something real.
Pure Joy.
The sky ahead lightens from black to indigo to the first hints of amber. A new day is breaking over unfamiliar territory. The road stretches before us, and beyond it lies Portland. Whatever waits for us there—Cerberus resources, continued pursuit, the next phase of our fight against an evolving AI—we’ll face it together.
The Chevelle’s engine roars as Ryan accelerates, the powerful machine responding like a living creature to his touch. I lean back in the leather seat, the map secure on my lap, my route calculations complete for now.
For the first time since finding Jared’s body in that hotel room, I feel something like hope. Not because our situation has improved—if anything, learning the full scope of Phoenix’s capabilities makes our odds even longer—but because I’m no longer facing it alone.
Ryan reaches for the radio dial, then stops himself with a small laugh. “Old habits.”
“No broadcasts,” I agree. “Nothing that links to outside networks.”
“We’re on our own until Portland.” He glances at me. “Think you can handle that, investigative journalist?”
I smile, feeling the tension between us shift into something lighter, something almost playful despite the circumstances.“I’ve survived this long with just you for company, security specialist. I think I can manage another day.”
The morning sun finally breaks over the distant mountains, casting a golden glow over the landscape. Ryan adjusts our course, turning onto an even smaller road that doesn’t appear on my map—another unpredictable choice to confound the algorithms hunting us.
Phoenix may be learning, evolving, and calculating our every move, but its programming can’t account for one variable: the human capacity to adapt, connect, and find strength in unlikely places and partnerships.
TWENTY-SIX
Celeste
The Chevelle’spowerful engine hums beneath us as we navigate the winding country roads, headlights cutting through the pre-dawn mist. The car handles like a dream—responsive, solid, a mechanical extension of Ryan’s will as he guides it through the darkness. No electronic systems to trace. No GPS. No tracking vulnerabilities.
Just American muscle and steel.
By mid-morning, we’ve switched routes three times, our path deliberately meandering while maintaining a generally southwesterly heading. Ryan drives with the focused attention of a man accustomed to constant threat assessment, eyes regularly checking mirrors, scanning the horizon, and noting any vehicle that maintains position near us for more than a few minutes.
“There’s a place up ahead,” he says, nodding toward a barely visible dirt track branching off from the main road. “Good spot to rest briefly. Check our bearings.”
The track leads to a small clearing overlooking a valley, with trees providing concealment from the road. Ryan positions the Chevelle facing outward—ready for quick departure if needed—before cutting the engine.
The sudden silence is almost jarring after hours of mechanical accompaniment. Birds call in the distance. Wind rustles through the trees. Normal sounds of a world that knows nothing of AI targeting systems or professional killers.
“Your shoulder,” I say, noticing how he’s been favoring it slightly. “Let me check the bandage.”
He acquiesces without argument, which tells me it’s bothering him more than he’s letting on. I gently peel back the gauze to find the wound looking clean but angry, the edges reddened but not infected.
“It needs redressing,” I murmur, reaching for the first aid kit we took from the garage.
He watches me work, those ice-blue eyes tracking every movement. “You’ve gotten good at this.”
“I’ve had an excellent patient.” My fingers brush against his skin as I secure the fresh bandage. “Mostly cooperative.”
That earns me a genuine laugh—a sound I’ve heard so rarely it still startles me with its warmth.
“Mostly?” He raises an eyebrow in mock offense.
“You’re terrible at admitting when you’re in pain.” I finish securing the bandage, but don’t move away. “A common affliction among alpha males, I’ve observed.”
“Not pain,” he corrects, voice dropping to that register that does inexplicable things to my insides. “Discomfort. There’s a difference.”
“Semantics.” I roll my eyes but can’t suppress my smile.
