Page 78 of Brass
“But you said right leads to the railroad.”
“Exactly.” He turns left without hesitation. “They’ll expect us to take the most direct route toward Portland.”
Understanding dawns. “We’re creating false patterns. Making them think we’re heading away from Portland deliberately.”
“Phoenix is learning our evasion tactics,” Ryan confirms. “So we need to give it contradictory data. Make it waste resources pursuing ghost patterns.”
The track narrows further, branches occasionally scraping against the car’s sides. Just when I think we can’t possibly continue in the growing darkness, the trees thin and we emerge into a small clearing dominated by a looming structure—the fire watchtower Ryan mentioned, a skeletal silhouette against the night sky.
He cuts the engine, and silence enfolds us once more.
“We’ll wait here,” he decides. “Two hours. Let our pursuit commit to the wrong direction before we double back.”
The tower stands like a sentinel above us, abandoned but still vigilant. It strikes me as an apt metaphor for what we’re fighting—an automated system designed to watch, identify, and target. Only Phoenix has evolved beyond its original purpose, becoming something its creators never intended.
The journalist who ran into that subway in D.C. seems different now.
“What are you thinking?” Ryan’s voice breaks through my reverie. In the moonlight filtering through the trees, his profile is all sharp angles and watchful attention.
“That I’m not the same person I was when we met.”
He turns to face me fully, expression serious in the dim light. “Is that good or bad?”
“I don’t know yet.” I meet his gaze directly. “But I think—necessary.”
His hand finds mine in the darkness, fingers interlacing with a familiarity that still sends shockwaves of awareness through me.
“Evolution is necessary.” His voice is low and certain. “Adaptation is survival.”
The weight of his words settles between us. Whatever happens in Portland—whatever awaits us there—we’ve already been transformed by this journey. By each other.
By the time Ryan starts the engine again, true night has fallen. Stars pepper the sky above the clearing, brilliant in the absence of light pollution. The Chevelle’s dashboard casts a faint glow across his features as he navigates us back toward the fork in the road, this time taking the right branch.
The rail service road is in better condition than the logging track—wider, more regularly maintained, and designed for utility vehicles that support the Union Pacific line. We make better time, though Ryan keeps our speed moderate to reduce noise and visibility.
“How far to Portland from here?” I consult the map, though it’s too dark to read.
“About ninety miles, but we’re not going directly there.” He checks the rearview mirror, a habitual movement even on the isolated service road. “We’ll circle northeast, then approach from the Columbia River side. Enter the city where they least expect us.”
I calculate the implications. “That adds hours to our journey.”
“Yes.”
“And Torque—your contact—is expecting us tonight.”
“Torque will adapt.” Ryan’s tone brooks no argument. “Better late than intercepted.”
The captured radio has remained silent for hours—either we’ve successfully evaded their search grid, or they’ve switched to a different frequency. The absence of information is both comforting and unnerving.
“Tell me about Torque,” I say, needing conversation to combat the growing tension. “Is he Cerberus too?”
“Former Delta, like Ghost and me. Specialized in intelligence gathering and network penetration. Now he maintains safe houses, equipment caches, and local assets.”
“You trust him.”
It’s not a question, but Ryan answers anyway.
“With my life. With yours.”
