“Cooper, you’re bleeding everywhere. We need to stop, we need to?—”
“Keep moving.”
Phoenix teams regroup fast. Professional response protocols. They’ll call for backup, establish a perimeter, and sweep outwardin expanding circles. Standard military doctrine adapted for an urban manhunt. We’ve got fifteen minutes, maybe twenty, before they lock down a six-block radius.
After that, we’re fucked.
The alley opens onto a side street—residential, quiet, with morning commuters already at work. Perfect. We blend into the urban landscape, just another couple walking purposefully through D.C. neighborhoods.
Except for the blood.
My tactical vest hides most of the shoulder damage, but red stains seep through the fabric. The head wound probably looks worse than it is—scalp lacerations always bleed like you’re dying even when you’re not.
Eliza keeps glancing at me, worry creasing her forehead behind those glasses. Her mouth opens and closes as if she wants to say something but doesn’t know what. The silence won’t last. She processes verbally, always has. The quiet’s just shock, delaying the inevitable flood of questions.
“Where are we going?” she asks, voice tight with controlled panic.
“Away.”
“That’s not an answer.”
It’s the only answer she’s getting until I figure out our tactical situation. No vehicle—the rental’s three miles away in that parking garage, and it might as well be on the moon. No comms—Phoenix traces everything electronic. No backup—Cerberus extraction isn’t for forty-eight hours.
We’re on our own.
The Anacostia River cuts through southeast D.C. like a concrete artery, with industrial areas on both sides that gentrification hasn’t touched yet. Abandoned warehouses, homeless camps, places where surveillance cameras are sparse and Phoenixoperatives won’t blend in easily. It’s three miles on foot, maybe four if we take evasive routes.
Doable. If I don’t bleed out first.
“Cooper, please. Talk to me. Are you okay? How bad are the injuries? Do we need a hospital?”
“Hospital means records. Records mean Phoenix finds us in twenty minutes. Might as well paint a target on our backs.”
“But—”
“No hospital.”
“But you’re bleeding?—”
“I’m fine.”
Lie. The shoulder wound burns like someone’s twisting a red-hot poker through muscle and bone. Each step jars the damaged tissue, sends fresh waves of pain down my arm. The ribs ache with every breath, sharp stabbing that suggests possible cracked bone under the graze.
But I’ve had worse. Afghanistan, 2019—I took shrapnel in three places and walked eight miles through Taliban territory. Syria, 2020—a bullet through the thigh, and I still completed the mission.
This is manageable.
Has to be.
We reach Connecticut Avenue, a main thoroughfare with good foot traffic. I guide Eliza into the flow of pedestrians—office workers heading to late meetings, tourists with cameras, the normal rhythm of urban life. We’re just two more faces in the crowd.
Except Phoenix has facial recognition software tied into every traffic cam, every security system, every goddamn smartphone with a decent camera. The AI processes thousands of faces per second, cross-references with target profiles, identifies potential matches within minutes.
Staying on main streets is suicide.
“This way.” I steer her left, down a residential side street lined with row houses and parked cars.
“Cooper, where are we going? I need to understand the plan. Are we meeting someone? Do you have another safe house? Because whatever we’re doing, you need medical attention first.”
