“Focus,” Ghost barks. He clears a table in the center of the room. “Fuse. Sitrep. We know Phoenix is active. What’s the new intel?”
Jackson steps up. “It’s not just rogue AI. It’s corporate. Talia found the link.”
All eyes turn to me. The weight of their attention is heavy, physical. These are men who deal in violence, and I deal in data. I take a breath, stepping forward. I don’t cower. I place Jackson’s laptop on the table and connect to Halo’s localized network.
“Nexus Holdings,” I say. “It’s a conglomerate. Five major subsidiaries across pharma, defense, and energy. My risk assessments flagged anomalies in their regulatory approvals. Every time they hit a roadblock—a safety inspector, a whistleblower, a competitor—that roadblock died.”
“Accidents?” Brass asks, studying the screen.
“Statistically improbable accidents,” I correct. “Heart attacks at forty. Car crashes on empty roads. Suicides with no notes. Phoenix isn’t just surviving; it’s an enforcement arm. It eliminates oversight to maximize profit margins.”
“So we have a target,” Ghost says. “Nexus HQ.”
“It’s a vault,” Jackson says. “Subbasement server farm. Air-gapped. We can’t hack it from the outside.”
“Which means we walk it in,” Ghost says. He looks at the Root Seed. “We plug that brick into the main terminal, and it fries the logic cores. Hard reset.”
“Into a building anticipating an attack,” Brass adds. “Suicide.”
“Tuesday,” Torque quips, tearing open a packet of crackers.
I look at him. “Tuesday?”
“Means it’s just another day ending in Y,” Jackson murmurs near my ear. “Normal crazy.”
Ghost studies the map. “We can’t hit them tonight. We’re coming in hot, Fuse is bleeding, and we need to recon the perimeter.”
“They know we’re here,” Jackson says. “They’re scrubbing the board.”
“Then we go tomorrow night. 0200 hours. That gives us twenty-four hours to prep, heal up, and plan the breach.” Ghost’s voice brooks no argument. “Torque, secure the perimeter. Whisper, roof. Brass, start building a comms network that Phoenix can’t crack. Halo, work with Vargas on interfacing that brick with our systems.”
“And Fuse?” Torque asks, pointing a cracker at Jackson. “He looks like he’s about five minutes from passing out.”
“Fuse is down,” Ghost says. “Medical. Now.”
Jackson opens his mouth to argue.
“That’s an order,” Ghost says softly. “You’re no good to me dead, and you’re no good to her if you can’t lift your rifle.”
Jackson’s jaw tightens, but he nods. “Copy that.”
The team disperses. The efficiency is terrifying. They move like parts of a single machine.
I guide Jackson to a cot in the corner of the warehouse, away from the main activity. He sits heavily, the adrenaline finally leaving him, replaced by the gray pallor of exhaustion.
“Shirt off,” I say.
He grunts, peeling the tactical vest and the blood-stiffened shirt away. The bandage I applied is soaked through.
“Torque was right,” I whisper, peeling back the gauze. “It’s a mess.”
“It’s not infected.”
“The stitches tore.”
I open the Cerberus medical kit Brass dropped off. It’s better than what we had. Real sutures, medical-grade glue, and antibiotics.
“This is going to hurt.”
