Page 96 of Brass
“Dinner first,” he says, kissing my temple with convincing affection. “I made reservations at that seafood place you bookmarked.”
All part of the script. All of this creates a digital and surveillance footprint that will make our deaths convincing. IfPhoenix is watching—and we’re operating under the assumption it is—it sees exactly what we want it to see: two people on the run, unaware of the danger closing in.
We move through the afternoon—unpacking, showering, changing for dinner. Playing normal while remaining hyperaware of every surveillance possibility. Ryan spots two more cameras during his inspection of the house. I identify a potential listening device in the bedroom lamp.
At 5:30, we leave for dinner. The local restaurant is quaint and crowded enough to provide background noise that makes surveillance difficult. We order meals we won’t finish, discuss plans for tomorrow we’ll never implement, and touch hands across the table with the easy intimacy of new lovers.
“To us,” Ryan says, raising his wine glass in a toast. “And to new beginnings.”
I meet his eyes across the table, finding something genuine beneath the performance. “To new beginnings,” I echo, meaning it more than I expected to.
By 7:15, we’re walking toward the marina, the evening air cool against my skin. The sun hangs low over the Pacific, painting the sky in dramatic oranges and pinks—a perfect backdrop for what comes next.
“Beautiful evening for a cruise,” Ryan comments as we approach the slip where our boat waits.
It’s smaller than I expected—maybe thirty feet, sleek and expensive. The name on the stern reads “Second Chances.” Ghost’s idea of a joke, perhaps.
Or a promise.
Ryan helps me aboard, his hand steady at my back. The boat is already fueled and prepped—Ghost’s work before our arrival. Everything is arranged down to the smallest detail, including the scuba gear stowed visibly but not too obviously in an accessible locker.
“Ready?” Ryan asks, starting the engine.
I nod, incapable of speech as the reality of what we’re about to do settles over me. This is it. The moment when Celeste Hart ceases to exist in any official capacity. When I commit fully to this new path with no way back.
Ryan navigates us out of the marina. He’s handled boats before, another skill in his seemingly endless repertoire. The sunset glitters across the water as we make our way along the coastline, maintaining a casual heading that will eventually bring us to the designated coordinates.
I play my part—taking photos with a disposable camera we’ll deliberately leave on board, laughing at Ryan’s jokes, accepting a glass of champagne from the small cooler. To any observer, we’re just tourists enjoying an evening on the water.
Completely normal.
Completely doomed.
As we near the rocky outcropping that marks our target area, Ryan lowers his voice. “Fifteen minutes. Below deck, there’s a waterproof bag with thermal gear. Change while I prep.”
I nod, heading below as instructed. The small cabin is neat and functional. The waterproof bag is exactly where he said it would be. Inside, I find the neoprene suits that will protect us from hypothermia in the cold Pacific waters—critical for the escape phase of our plan.
My hands shake as I change; the reality of what comes next is impossible to ignore. I leave my clothes carefully arranged on the bed—evidence to be recovered later. My authentic press credentials sit on top of the pile. My wallet, containing my ID and credit cards.
When I emerge back on deck wearing the sleek black thermal suit, Ryan has already changed into his. The transformation is jarring—no longer casual tourists but operatives preparedfor what comes next. He secures a waterproof pack containing essentials, including emergency cash and minimal survival gear.
“Five minutes,” he says, checking his watch. “Final systems check.”
I watch as he moves around the boat, confirming the remote detonation system, the fuel accelerant, and the strategic placement of our biological samples. Everything is positioned to create the most convincing evidence of our deaths.
“What if someone sees us in the water?” I voice the concern that’s been nagging at me.
“Minimal risk. It’ll be full dark in twenty minutes, we’re far enough from shore, and most boats are back in harbor by now.” Ryan secures the waterproof pack. “The night vision surveillance from Mitzy’s position shows clear water in our extraction zone.”
I try to absorb his confidence. Ryan moves to stand beside me at the railing, his arm slipping around my waist.
“Last chance,” he says softly. “Once we do this, there’s no going back. Not for a long time, maybe never.”
I search his face in the fading light, finding the man beneath the operative—the one who’s become far more than a protector to me over the past week—the one who saw me clearly from that first moment on the subway platform.
“I’m sure,” I tell him, surprising myself with how true it feels. “Wherever this leads…I’m in.”
Ryan steps onto the rear swim platform, water lapping just below his boots, the smell of salt thick in the air. The sun is a smear of dying light behind the clouds, casting everything in hues of bruised gold and steel. We don’t speak. There’s nothing left to say.
