Page 10 of Brass
“So, your plan is to stay in the tunnels? For how long?” She gestures at our surroundings. “This isn’t exactly five-star accommodations, and in case you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly in peak condition.”
My gaze drops to her ribcage, where she’s still cradling her injury, then to her leg, which she’s favoring more with each passing minute. She has a point, damn it. Extended tunnel navigation will only worsen her condition. But surface exposure creates different risks.
“What we need,” I say, mentally recalculating our position, “is to get you somewhere secure for medical attention. Somewhere they can’t trace.”
“My apartment…” she offers.
“Isn’t safe anymore.” I shake my head. “If they found you once, they’ve burned all your known locations.”
Her expression darkens. “You don’t know that.”
“I do, because it’s what I would do.” I hold her gaze steadily. “These aren’t amateurs. They had a four-man team on primary intercept and a second team as backup. That’s not a mugging. That’s not even a standard hit. That’s a high-priority termination order.”
She goes silent, the reality of her situation finally sinking in.
I soften my approach slightly. “I have contacts. Resources. But we need to get clear of this area first.”
Her eyes search mine, looking for deception, for an angle, for God knows what. I maintain eye contact, letting her see whatever she needs to see to trust me for the next hour.
“Fine,” she finally says. “So, what’s the compromise?”
I process our options, weighing variables such as her injury, pursuit patterns, environmental factors, and time constraints. An alternative emerges.
“R Street water drainage tunnel,” I decide. It connects to these maintenance passages about three hundred yards east. It’ll take us to an outlet near Rock Creek Park. It’s less monitored, has good cover, and gives us surface access away from cameras.”
She considers this, then nods reluctantly. “How far?”
“Fifteen minutes at a steady pace.”
“Then let’s go.” She pushes off from the wall, determination overriding pain.
Something shifts in my assessment of her. Stubborn, yes. Argumentative, definitely. But also, resilient. Adaptive. The kind of person who keeps going when others would collapse.
I take point, leading us east through the tunnel, slowing just enough for her to keep up with the limp in her stride. Her breathing trails me, uneven, soft at first, then catching on a sharp inhale whenever a step jars her ribs. Each flinch threads into the silence, pulling tighter with every echo off the concrete walls.
I check back more often than necessary. Noticing the determination in the set of her jaw when she thinks I’m not looking.
Annoying. Inconvenient. Intriguing.
Definitely not part of the mission parameters I’ve set for myself.
Definitely not within my control anymore.
We round the corner into the eastern passage and stop dead. The tunnel ahead is completely blocked—a section of the ceiling collapsed into a mountain of concrete chunks, twisted rebar, and severed pipes. Water sprays from a ruptured line, pooling at the base of the debris.
“Shit,” I mutter, surveying the blockage. No way through. No way around.
Celeste steps up beside me. “Please tell me this isn’t our only route.”
“It wasn’t on my mental map.” I scan the blockage, looking for any gap large enough to squeeze through. Nothing. “Infrastructure collapses happen. Nature of aging systems.”
“So, what now, navigator?” Her voice carries an edge of panic beneath the sarcasm.
Before I can answer, a sound echoes from the passage behind us. Voices. Distant but clear. Our pursuers have found the access ladder.
“They’re on our level,” I say, keeping my voice low.
Her eyes widen. “How is that possible?”
