Page 17 of Brass
“My team.”
Her eyebrows lift. “Your—team?”
I initiate the secure connection protocol, then look directly at her. “Welcome to Cerberus, Ms. Hart. Your life is about to get a lot more complicated.”
As the call connects, I maintain eye contact with her, aware that I’ve just irrevocably changed both our trajectories. This was supposed to be a simple extraction—get her somewhere safe, hand her off to local authorities, catch the next flight home.
Instead, I’ve brought her into my world. Made her my responsibility in ways that go beyond Good Samaritan intervention.
Ghost is going to kill me.
But watching her chin lift in that now-familiar gesture of defiance despite everything she’s been through, I can’t bring myself to regret it.
“Brass.” Mason’s voice answers on the second ring. “You missed your flight.”
“Change of plans.”
“Situation?” One word, loaded with questions.
I glance at Celeste, who watches me with wary curiosity, still fighting to stay alert despite pain and exhaustion.
“I’ve acquired an asset with high-value intel and a professional hit team on her tail. Multiple hostiles, military training, well-equipped.”
“Casualties?” Mason’s voice is clipped, efficient.
“None on our side. Yet.”
“Can you hand this off to local authorities?” Mason asks.
A brief silence as he processes. I glance at Celeste, who’s watching me intently. “I need to ask—should we involve local authorities?”
She stiffens beside me, her expression shuttering. Her hand moves instinctively to the pocket with the flash drive. That’s answer enough.
“Not an option,” I tell Mason, reading her reaction. “Whatever she’s involved in, it’s sensitive.”
“Understood.” No questions. No hesitation. That’s why I trust him.
“What’s your plan?”
“Hotel tonight. Cash only. Rental under shell credentials tomorrow morning. I’ll call when we’re secure.”
“Brass.” His voice shifts slightly—the tone that means what follows is personal, not protocol. “This isn’t your mission.”
“It is now.”
“Understood.” A beat of silence. “Her intel better justify this detour.”
“It will.” I have no idea if that’s true, but I say it with conviction.
The call ends without pleasantries. That’s Ghost—economical in all things, especially words.
I tuck the phone away, feeling Celeste’s scrutiny like a physical touch.
“Asset?” she repeats, voice dangerous. “Is that what I am?”
“Figure of speech.”
“And how exactly do you think your ‘team’ can help me?”
