Page 15 of Brass
“Sue me when we’re not being hunted.”
“I will.”
“I’ll look forward to it.”
Her struggling gradually subsides as we ascend, either from resignation or the pain of her injuries—probably both. Her body goes slightly limp across my shoulders, though her breathing remains steady.
The staircase seems endless, winding upward through the layers of infrastructure that compose the city’s hidden skeleton. My thighs burn with the effort. Sweat trickles down my spine. But I maintain a steady pace, driven by the knowledge that those men aren’t far behind.
And by something else. Something I refuse to examine too closely.
An irrational, overwhelming need to protect this maddening woman who’s hijacked my evening, my plans, and—increasingly—my better judgment. A woman whose stubborn courage and sharp intelligence keep catching me off guard. Whose body feels disturbingly right pressed against mine, even in this awkward carry position.
Whose safety has somehow become more important than my own.
Completely unprofessional.
Completely inexplicable.
Completely undeniable.
The stairwell narrows as we approach street level, decades of neglect evident in the crumbling concrete and exposed rebar. My lungs burn from exertion, thighs screaming in protest as I take the final flight with Celeste still slung over my shoulder.
She’s gone quiet—concerning, given her earlier protests, but her steady breathing against my neck tells me she’s conscious.
My tactical awareness kicks into overdrive as I assess our exit point: the emergency door at the top of the stairs, heavy steel with a push bar and a red alarm trigger panel beside it. Based on the outdated model, it’s not part of the active security grid but is likely still connected to local monitoring.
I pause, calculating options. Triggering the alarm creates two conflicting outcomes: it alerts security to our location, but also provides useful chaos.
Emergency response protocols will send personnel to this exit point, diverting resources from the pursuers’ search grid. The benefit outweighs the risk, especially since we’ll be gone before anyone responds.
“Hang on,” I warn Celeste. “This is going to get loud.”
I shift her weight slightly on my shoulder, positioning myself for a quick exit, then slam my palm against the alarm panel. The effect is immediate—a piercing siren wails through the stairwell, red strobe lights casting disorienting pulses across the walls.
I hit the push bar with my hip, and the door bursts open. Rain-soaked night air rushes in, cold and clean after the stagnant tunnel atmosphere. I emerge onto a narrow service alley several blocks from where this all began, the Dupont Circle area visible at the far end.
Water pelts us as I navigate around dumpsters and delivery pallets. The storm has intensified, sheets of rain turning the alley into shallow rivulets that splash under my boots. The sound of the alarm fades behind us, replaced by the ambient city noise of distant traffic and whining sirens.
I scan for immediate threats—clear for now. Then for surveillance—two cameras on the adjacent building, but angled toward the main street, not the alley. Acceptable risk.
“Putting you down,” I say, carefully lowering Celeste to her feet in the shelter of an awning.
She sways slightly as her good leg takes her weight, instinctively grabbing my arms for stability. For a moment, we’re face-to-face, close enough that I can count the water droplets clinging to her eyelashes, see the pulse jumping at her throat.
“You okay?” I ask, hands lingering at her waist longer than necessary.
She nods once, still catching her breath. “Next time, ask before throwing me over your shoulder like a caveman.”
“Next time, don’t argue when professional killers are thirty seconds behind us.”
Her lips twitch, almost a smile. “Fair point.”
That near-smile hits me with unexpected force. Makes something in my chest tighten. I step back abruptly, breaking contact, refocusing on our situation.
“We need transportation.” I peer toward the street beyond the alley. Late night in D.C., but cabs still circulate for the bar crowd and late-shift workers.
“I have a car—” She shakes her head, closes her eyes, and tightens her lips. “Had. Ihada car.”
