“Good shooting,” Martinez observes. “Especially considering you were leaking like a sieve.”
“Had help.” The admission surprises me—acknowledging assistance isn’t standard operating procedure, but Eliza deserves credit for keeping me functional long enough to complete the mission. “She handled field medicine better than most trained operators.”
Something passes between Ghost and Halo—a look that suggests they’ve already discussed Dr. Eliza Wren’s performance under pressure.
“Speaking of which,” Ghost says, rising from his chair, “think you can handle a short walk? She’s been asking about you every hour since extraction.”
The butterflies in my stomach have nothing to do with medication side effects and everything to do with seeing her again. Professional distance dictates that I treat this like any other client follow-up—confirm safety, debrief on the experience, and arrange ongoing protection protocols.
The racing pulse monitor beside my bed suggests my cardiovascular system has different priorities.
“I can walk.” The words come out more determined than my legs feel, but operators don’t admit weakness in front of their teams. The IV pole becomes a makeshift crutch as I swing my feet over the side of the bed, testing weight distribution and balance.
Halo moves to steady me, but I wave him off. The shoulder screams in protest, but everything essential still functions. Forward motion remainspossible.
“Where is she?”
“Technical analysis center,” Ghost answers, leading the way down a corridor lined with security checkpoints and blast doors. “Guardian HRS brought in their best people. What she found in Phoenix’s communications is their entire financial network.”
The hallway stretches ahead, and I’m walking these corridors with bandages and an IV pole, chasing after a linguistics professor who somehow became the most important mission of my life.
The analysis center doors are reinforced with steel and feature biometric locks—serious security for serious work. Ghost places his palm on the scanner, and the mechanism disengages with a soft click. Beyond lies a room that wouldn’t look out of place at the NSA—banks of computers, multiple monitors displaying scrolling data, technical specialists hunched over workstations with the focused intensity of people solving life-and-death puzzles.
And there, in the center of it all, sits Eliza.
She’s changed clothes—clean jeans and a sweater that makes her hair catch the overhead lighting. Her hands move across a keyboard with intense focus while she talks through some complex analysis with Mitzy, Guardian HRS’s lead technical specialist. The same verbal processing that once seemed like endless chatter now sounds like the methodical deconstruction of an enemy’s operational structure.
She looks up when we enter, and the relief in her eyes hits hard.
“Cooper.” My name on her lips carries weight that makes my chest tighten in ways that have nothing to do with physical injuries.
Mitzy glances between us, reading the tension with the sharp awareness of someone who’s spent years analyzing human behavior. “Dr. Wren’s been remarkable,” she says, addressingGhost but keeping one eye on our reunion. “Her linguistic analysis cracked Phoenix’s financial network. We had no idea how they were moving money until she decoded their system.”
Eliza stands, taking a step toward me before stopping herself. Her hands fidget at her sides, uncertainty flickering across her face as she glances between me and the others in the room.
Mitzy turns back to the wall of monitors displaying financial networks and transaction flows. “We knew they had funding, but now we can track the flow of money. Map it. See the whole system.”
The scope of what Eliza has uncovered spreads across the screens—financial transfers, routing numbers, transaction authorizations that reveal the architecture of Phoenix’s banking system. With Guardian HRS’s resources, what was once invisible now appears in detailed flow charts and network diagrams.
“This is why they wanted me dead.” Eliza falls into lecture mode. “I didn’t find their money. I found how to track every transaction. It’s their entire financial infrastructure laid bare.”
Ghost studies the data with the grim focus of a man calculating impossible odds. “How much money are we talking about?”
“Based on the transaction volumes I’ve traced so far?” Eliza highlights sections of data, her academic precision cutting through speculation to reach mathematical certainty. “Hundreds of millions. Maybe billions.”
The silence that follows carries the weight of understanding—we’re no longer fighting an AI that kills people. We’re fighting something with nearly unlimited resources.
“Recommendations?” Ghost asks, addressing both Eliza and Mitzy.
“Systematic disruption of the financial networks,” Mitzy answers immediately. “Cut off the money flow, stall theoperations.”
“That buys time,” Eliza adds, “but it doesn’t solve the fundamental problem. Even if we stop current transfers, they have reserves and backup funding sources. It’s better to leave it as is. Don’t touch it. Use it to track the entirety of its operation.”
“Don’t touch it?” Ghost asks. “Seems like the perfect way to shut Phoenix down for good.”
“That’s another take on it. Brilliant, actually.” Mitzy taps her chin, thinking. “If we cut off its finances, all we accomplish is sending it to ground. We need to find Phoenix itself.” Mitzy studies the data. “The actual servers, the processing centers, the physical infrastructure that runs the AI.”
“Location?” Ghost asks.
