Page 2 of Brass
He wears what looks like a comm device in one ear. His mouth moves, speaking to someone I can’t see. Not alone then. Coordinated. Professional. He adjusts his grip on the wheel, gloved hands shifting. Our eyes meet in the mirror for a splitsecond. No emotion registers at all. Just the flat, dead gaze of someone doing a job.
This isn’t personal. It’s worse. It’s business.
The SUV kisses my bumper.
“Shit!” White-knuckle grip on the wheel. Heart hammering against my ribs.
A horn blares from somewhere to my left. The SUV taps me again, harder this time. My tires scream across wet asphalt.
I jerk the wheel right, trying to pull away. Slam the brake. Stomp the accelerator. Nothing matters.
They ram me.
Metal crushes against metal. The sound deafens—a terrible screech that vibrates through my bones. My world becomes a violent carousel. The steering wheel rips from my hands as the car spins. My head snaps forward, then back. Streetlights streak across the windshield in dizzy arcs of color.
My body slams against the door. Ribs crack. Air punches from my lungs.
The seatbelt cuts into my chest, burning across my collarbone, the only thing keeping me from becoming a projectile.
Headlights blind me—a taxi swerves, horn blaring, clipping my bumper. The impact sends my car spinning again. Something warm trickles down my temple. Blood or sweat or rain leaking through the fractured window, I can’t tell.
The SUV fishtails, regains control, then disappears into traffic. Leaving me. My car sputters, coughs, and dies in the middle of the intersection, steam billowing from the crumpled hood, hissing into the rain. The smell of burned rubber and antifreeze chokes me.
I claw at the seatbelt release.Click. Freedom. Pain shoots through my left side. Broken rib, maybe two. My legs tremble as I force the door open and stumble into the downpour.
Glass and plastic crunch beneath my boots. My knee buckles, sending lightning up my thigh. Rain pelts my face, washing away whatever’s trickling from my hairline. My wool coat hangs sodden, dragging at my shoulders, weighing me down.
Sirens wail in the distance. Police or ambulance. Questions I can’t answer. People who can’t protect me.
Across the street—salvation. The Dupont Circle subway entrance, its light spilling out onto the sidewalk like an invitation.
I run. Every step jars my ribs. Every breath burns.
The flash drive knocks against my thigh through my pocket. Worth dying for, Jared thought. Worth killing for, someone else decided.
Down the steps, gripping the handrail to keep from falling. The fluorescent lighting assaults my eyes after the darkness outside. The air down here hangs thick with humanity—stale perfume, wet clothes, the metallic tang of the trains, and beneath it all, the unmistakable reek of urine and mildew clinging to every surface.
My hair clings to my eyes. I swipe it back, wincing as my fingers graze a knot swelling at my temple.
Deeper into the station. Left turn. Another staircase. The rumble of an approaching train vibrates through the concrete. Safety in numbers. That’s my plan. Lose myself in the crowd. Catch the Red Line. Get to my apartment. Pack. Run.
I reach the platform.
There is no crowd.
Tuesday night. Late. Rain. Just a few scattered commuters huddled under flickering lights, faces buried in phones, purposefully ignoring each other. Three teenagers sharing earbuds. A homeless man is asleep on a bench. An elderly woman is clutching her purse. No safety in these numbers.
Then I hear it.
Footsteps. Synchronized. Deliberate. Different from the casual shuffle of commuters.
I turn. Cold sweat breaks across my neck despite the chill.
Four men descend the escalator. Dark coats. Identical builds. One adjusts something beneath his jacket—the telltale gesture of checking a weapon. Another lifts his chin, scanning the platform. His eyes lock onto mine.
Recognition flares. Not of me personally, but of a target acquired.
“Fuck.” The word escapes as vapor in the cold air.
