Page 20 of Brass
“Oh.” The word sounds small in the quiet room.
He reaches up to run a hand through his damp hair, the movement pulling his sodden shirt across broad shoulders. Water droplets cling to his neck. For the first time, I allow myselfto really look at him—not as a threat or an unwanted protector, but simply as a man.
The jagged scar beneath his left eye. The focused intensity of his blue eyes. The way he holds himself, always balanced, always ready. In another context, I might have found him attractive. Might have approached him at a bar or a fundraiser, curious about his story.
But context is everything, and ours is a nightmare.
I catch my own reflection in the dresser mirror and freeze. The woman staring back is unrecognizable.
My normally sleek dark hair hangs in wet, filthy tangles. Dirt and grime streak across my face, mingling with mascara that raccoons beneath my eyes. Dried blood forms a rust-colored crust at my temple where my head hit the dashboard during the crash. My white blouse—or what was white—clings translucent to my skin, torn at one shoulder. The knee of my jeans is ripped open, revealing angry red abrasions beneath.
I look feral. Hunted. Broken.
A hysterical laugh bubbles up my throat before I can stop it.
“What’s funny?” Ryan asks, watching me with that unnerving focus.
“Twelve hours ago, I was having coffee at my favorite café, working on an exposé about corporate tax evasion.” My voice cracks. “Now I’m standing in a cheap hotel room with a stranger I watched incapacitate four men, wearing clothes I crawled through sewer tunnels in, while professional killers hunted me.” I gesture at my reflection. “And I look like this.”
His expression softens almost imperceptibly. “Could be worse.”
“Really? How exactly could this be worse?”
“You could be dead like your source.”
The words slam into me, harder than a fist. Air punches out of my lungs, and I stumble back, weight jolting onto my bad kneeuntil it nearly gives beneath me. Pain lances up my leg, sharp and hot, but it’s nothing compared to the crack tearing through my chest.
“What do you mean?” My mouth goes dry.
Ryan shakes his head. “I don’t know the specifics. But I recognize the pattern. You’re carrying classified data that powerful people want contained. Someone with insider information is typically the first casualty—a.k.a., your source. Then they clean up loose ends.” He points at me. “You are a loose end.”
A chill crawls up my spine that has nothing to do with my wet clothes. He’s right, of course. That’s exactly what happened. But I haven’t told him any of this.
“You don’t know anything,” I manage, the denial weak even to my own ears.
“I know enough.” He moves toward the bathroom, speaking over his shoulder. “You’re a journalist. You have evidence of something dangerous enough to warrant a professional hit team. And you’re smart enough to know going to authorities isn’t an option because you can’t tell who’s compromised.”
He disappears into the bathroom, returning moments later with two white towels. He tosses one to me, which I catch reflexively.
“How do you know I’m a journalist?” My fingers clench the towel without using it. It’s a dumb question, seeing as I just told him I was working on an exposé, but I’m curious.
“You ask too many questions and notice everything.” He runs his towel over his hair, drying it with efficient movements. “Classic journalist behavior.”
I feel simultaneously exposed and oddly validated by his assessment. It’s unnerving to be read so easily by someone I’ve just met. Someone trained to observe as meticulously as I am.
The towel in my hands is rough but clean. I press it against my face, wiping away grime, wincing when it catches on the cut at my temple. When I lower it, the white fabric is streaked with dirt, mascara, and blood.
My ribs throb with each breath. My knee threatens to give out entirely. The adrenaline that’s been keeping me upright for hours is draining away, leaving bone-deep exhaustion in its wake.
“We have nothing,” I realize aloud, looking around the room. “No clothes. No toiletries. Nothing.”
“I noticed.” Ryan’s tone is dry.
“So, what do we do? Sleep in wet, filthy clothes? I can’t—” I gesture vaguely at myself, suddenly overwhelmed by the sheer practicality of our predicament. “I need a shower. Clean clothes. A toothbrush.”
“Basic necessities.” He’s already moving toward the door. “I’ll go.”
“I’m coming with you.” I straighten, ignoring the pain that shoots through my side.
