Page 22 of Brass
I stand frozen for a moment,processing Ryan’s words.
Lifeline. Drowning.
The metaphors grate against my nerves. Who is he to decide what I need? I’ve spent my entire career in dangerous situations. I’ve extracted information from warlords, negotiated with armed militants, and navigated corrupt government officials. I don’t need some ex-military man telling me how to survive.
I survived before he showed up on that platform. I can survive without him now.
The thought settles in my mind with surprising clarity. I don’t actually need this man. I’ve always protected myself. Always relied on my own instincts. I need space to think without his intimidating presence filling every corner of the room.
I move to the door, engaging the deadbolt and security chain as instructed. Then I lean against it, listening to his retreating footsteps until they fade completely.
Alone for the first time since the subway platform, I feel oddly unmoored. The silence of the room presses in, broken only by the hum of the heater and my ragged breathing.
My hand moves to my pocket, fingers closing around the small rectangle of the flash drive. Everything that’s happened—Jared’s murder, the car crash, the men hunting me—it all traces back to what’s stored in these few megabytes of data.
Evidence that powerful people would kill to keep hidden. Evidence, I still haven’t fully processed myself.
My other hand finds the slip of paper Ryan gave me. I unfold it—a corner from the hotel notepad with a phone number written in neat, precise handwriting. No name. Just ten digits that connect to people who apparently have the resources to “extract” me if necessary.
I should memorize it as instructed. Should do as I’m told for once.
Instead, I limp to the bed and finally surrender to its gravity, sinking onto the edge of the mattress. The springs creak beneath my weight. My soaked jeans cling uncomfortably to my legs, but I lack the energy to remove them.
The mirror across from the bed reflects a stranger wearing my face. A hunted woman with wild eyes and blood in her hair.
I close my eyes, unable to look at her any longer.
Twenty minutes, he said. Twenty minutes alone with my thoughts, my pain, and the weight of the evidence that’s turned my life upside down in the span of a day.
What happens when he returns depends entirely on how much I decide to trust him. And trust isn’t something I give easily. Not anymore. Not after everything I’ve seen.
I wait exactly three minutes after Ryan’s footsteps fade down the hallway.
Three minutes to gather my resolve. Three minutes to remind myself who I am. Three minutes to decide I won’t be controlled.
The slip of paper with his emergency contact number burns in my palm. I fold it carefully, tucking it into my bra rather than my pocket. Safer there. Water-resistant. Accessible.
I press my ear against the door, listening for any movement in the hallway. Nothing but the distant hum of ice machines and the muffled sound of a television from another room.
Twenty minutes, he said. I only need five.
My fingertips brush the cold metal of the doorknob. I hesitate, not out of fear but out of practicality. If I’m going to do this, I need a plan. Strategy has always been my strength—whether investigating corrupt officials or navigating hostile territories.
I assess my resources: flash drive and about sixty dollars in wet bills from my pocket. No phone—lost in the crash or the tunnels. No ID—deliberately left behind when it became clear those men knew exactly who I was. No room key—Ryan kept both.
Limited resources, but enough to get away. I can walk four blocks to the all-night drug store I noticed on our taxi ride. Buy necessities. Find somewhere to think, to process, to plan my next move. Away from his overwhelming presence and the confusion it creates.
This isn’t about running away, I tell myself. It’s about regaining autonomy. Independence. Space to breathe without him watching my every move.
Once I leave, I can’t come back—the door will lock behind me. But maybe that’s for the best. Ryan Ellis is a complication I never asked for, a variable I don’t know how to calculate.
I unlock the door, disengaging the security chain with minimal noise. One last deep breath. I pull the door open?—
And freeze.
Ryan leans against the opposite wall, arms crossed, expression unreadable. He hasn’t gone anywhere. He’s been waiting silently, knowing—knowing—I would try to leave.
“Going somewhere?” His voice is deceptively soft.
