Time to see precisely how good Phoenix’s new tactical protocols really are.
I take the next exit, merging onto surface streets with aggression. The black SUV follows immediately. The silver sedan takes the exit after, maintaining distance. Professional work, but they’re committed now—no more surveillance. They are in full pursuit mode.
“What are you doing?” Dr. Wren grips the door handle as I take a hard right onto M Street.
“Losing them.”
“By driving faster?”
“By being unpredictable.”
The SUV is two cars back, closing the distance through D.C. traffic. The sedan parallels us one street over—I catch glimpses of it through side streets. They’re boxing us in, forcing us toward a predetermined point of interception.
Not happening.
I slam the brakes and take a hard left into a narrow alley behind a row of restaurants. The rental car scrapes brick walls on both sides, but the space is too tight for the SUV to follow. Dr. Wren makes a small sound of alarm as we squeeze through, emerging onto a side street that runs parallel to our original route.
“That was—” she starts.
“Effective.”
“Terrifying.”
“Same thing.”
The rearview mirror shows the alley mouth—no pursuit vehicles in sight, but they’ll adapt and redirect, establish new intercept points. Phoenix learns fast. Too fast.
Surface pursuit isn’t sustainable. The streets of D.C. offer too many surveillance cameras, too many opportunities for facial recognition software to identify us. Security cameras on every corner, traffic cameras at every intersection, and private security systems feeding data to who knows where. Phoenix can tap into all of it—an AI system with unlimited surveillance access, hunting two people in a car.
The Metro. Underground, there is limited camera coverage and denser crowds to disappear into. There are multiple lines, multiple exit points, and random routing options that even Phoenix can’t predict. I’m going to win by being unpredictable.
By being human.
I need to ditch the car.
“Where are we going?” Dr. Wren asks as I turn onto Connecticut Avenue.
“Metro.”
“We’re taking the subway?”
“Unless you prefer being shot.”
“That’s not—why can’t we just drive to wherever we’re going?”
“Because they’re tracking the car.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because that’s what I would do.”
I don’t know how they’re tracking the car. I was pretty damn sure about getting her out of there clean—no one was following us when we left campus. But somehow Phoenix identified her, and now they’ve identified me. They can track license plates through traffic cameras and facial recognition through surveillance networks. I’ve got to get rid of the car, but there are cameras everywhere.
I pull into a parking garage three blocks from Dupont Circle station. Not ideal—security cameras at the entrance—but better than street parking. The rental car goes on level three, tucked between a van and an SUV that provides visual screening.
“Out. Move fast.”
Dr. Wren fumbles with her seatbelt, and I reach across to release it myself. The contact puts my hand inches from her thigh, and the vanilla scent hits me again. Focus. Professional distance.
