“So it knows where I’ve been.”
“It knows where you’ve been, who you talked to, and where you’re likely to go next. The AI builds behavioral models. It predicts you with eighty-seven percent accuracy.”
Her face goes pale. “That’s terrifying.”
“That’s the enemy.” I pull out the burner phones. “I have eight of these. Prepaid. Cash. GPS stripped. We use one for six hours, then burn it.”
She looks at the pile of tech. “You’re a ghost.”
“Close enough.”
She stands and looks around the cabin again. Like the walls are closing in.
“I had a deposition this morning,” she says. Her voice sounds fragile. “Nine AM. Discovery for the Vanguard case. I was supposed to cross-examine their CFO.”
“Someone else will handle it.”
“No. They won’t.” She turns to me. “Phoenix will intimidate the partners. Make the case disappear. Everything I worked for … Every witness, every document …”
“Gone.”
The word lands heavily.
She sits back down. Hard. “This is my life now. Running. Hiding. No career. No name.”
I should offer comfort. I should say it’ll be okay. But I don’t lie to assets.
“Here’s what happens next,” I say. “We stay here tonight. Tomorrow, I teach you surveillance detection. We keep you alive long enough to figure out how to neutralize Phoenix.”
“How do you neutralize an AI?”
“We’re working on that.”
She laughs. A bitter sound. “That’s not reassuring.”
“I’m not here to reassure you. I’m here to keep you breathing.”
I cross to the kitchen. Start pulling out canned goods. Soup. Beans. Not gourmet, but fuel.
“What’s your real name?” she asks.
“I already told you.”
“I didn’t catch it.” She crosses her arms. “I was a little busy trying not to get shot.”
I look at her. The fear is still there, but the fire is back.
“Halo,” I say.
“That’s a callsign.”
“It’s the name I chose.”
“What about the one your mother gave you?”
I turn back to the soup. “Diego. Diego Rafael Martinez. Born April 15, 1991. San Antonio. Diego Martinez died in 2019. Anything else?”
She blinks. “Died in 2019? What does that mean?”
