Page 45 of Brass

“What’s on the flash drive?” I suddenly ask, allowing my curiosity to finally get the better of me.

Celeste’s head snaps toward me, her expression instantly guarded. “What?”

“The flash drive you keep checking in your pocket. The one those men were willing to kill for. What’s on it?”

She stares out the window, shoulders tense. “It’s complicated.”

“I excel at complicated.” I keep my eyes on the road, voice deliberately casual. “Try me.”

“It’s sensitive information. The kind people die for.”

“I noticed.” My tone remains even despite the surge of irritation. “Given that I’m one of the people who might die for it, I’d appreciate knowing what ‘it’ is.”

“It’s better if you don’t know.”

“For whom?” I can’t keep the edge from my voice now. “For you? For your story? Because from where I’m sitting, information asymmetry only benefits the people hunting us.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“It is.” I pull the SUV onto the shoulder, killing the engine. The sudden silence amplifies the tension between us. “They’re after both of us now. I deserve to know what I’m risking my life for.”

She studies me for a long moment, something calculating in her gaze. “You’ve been helping me without knowing.”

“And now I’m asking.”

Her fingers drum against her thigh, a nervous gesture I haven’t seen before. “What do you know about artificial intelligence in military applications?”

The question sends a ripple of unease down my spine. “Enough to be concerned.”

“Project Phoenix is—was—a classified DoD initiative to develop an AI-driven targeting system for drone strikes. Autonomous target acquisition and elimination without human oversight.” Her voice takes on the detached precision of a professional relaying facts. “It was supposedly scrapped five years ago due to ethical concerns and technical limitations.”

“But it wasn’t.” I can see where this is going. Similar black projects have disappeared from official records only to resurface under private contractors.

“It was privatized.”

Bingo. Called that one.

“Transferred to Northridge Defense Solutions with a different name but the same objectives.” She meets my gaze directly now. “And it works.”

The implications settle like lead in my gut. An autonomous AI targeting system in private hands. No oversight. No accountability.

“How do you know?”

“I’ve been investigating a series of deaths—analysts, whistleblowers, and other journalists. All were ruled accidents or suicides. All with connections to either the original ProjectPhoenix or Northridge.” She swallows hard. “One of my sources was Jared Caldwell, a former data analyst at Northridge. He contacted me three months ago with concerns about what he was seeing.”

“And now he’s dead.”

She nods, eyes haunted. “Throat cut in a hotel room. Made to look like suicide, but it wasn’t. He left me this.” She taps her pocket where the flash drive rests. “Evidence that Phoenix is not only operational, but that they’ve implemented something called Obsidian.”

“Obsidian?” The name hits me like a physical blow. I’ve heard it before—recently.

Willow. Marshal’s case. Her ex-husband’s files.

“What is it?” Celeste asks, noticing my reaction.

I weigh operational security against the clear relevance. “We had a case. Our team leader—Ghost—rescued a woman named Willow Reynolds who was running from her abusive ex-husband. He was a federal judge. He was involved in many things; classified weapons development was one of them. She spent three years secretly downloading files from his system as evidence.”

“And?”