Page 26 of Brass
I wasn’t. That’s the problem. For those few seconds, instinct overrode training. Desire trumped protocol. A rookie mistake I haven’t made since—ever.
The scent of her lingers—rain and sweat and beneath it all, that citrus note that’s been driving me quietly insane since the subway platform. Even filthy from the tunnels, she smells incredible. Looks incredible, with those defiant eyes and that stubborn set to her jaw.
A fucking journalist, of all things. Professional skeptics with death wishes and the self-preservation instincts of lemmings.
I shake my head, moving toward the elevator with measured steps. This is not how I expected my evening to go when I boarded the Metro after dinner with my mother. Should be halfway to Seattle by now. Instead, I’m shopping for a woman who just tried to escape the protection she desperately needs.
My mouth curves into an unwilling smile. She’s got nerve, I’ll give her that. Most people wouldn’t have the balls to try walking out after what we’ve been through tonight. Most people would be curled in the fetal position, processing the trauma. Not Celeste Hart. She’s plotting escape routes while nursing broken ribs.
There’s something admirable in that, even if it’s tactically idiotic.
The elevator doors close, and I study my reflection in the polished metal. I look like shit—hair still damp, clothes rumpledand dirt-streaked, the scar beneath my eye more pronounced after the fight. There’s a tear in my shirt I hadn’t noticed before. Perfect.
At the front desk, the same clerk from check-in eyes me warily.
“Need something, sir?”
“Nearest place to buy clothes and toiletries?” I keep my tone casual. “We had—unexpected travel delays. Lost our luggage.”
His eyebrows lift slightly, no doubt filling in a colorful backstory. “Convenience store three blocks east. 24-hour pharmacy about six blocks west.”
“Which is better stocked?”
“Pharmacy. More selection.” He hesitates. “Your, uh, wife okay? She looked a little roughed up.”
Not his business, but I appreciate the concern. At least he’s checking.
“Car accident,” I say smoothly. “Taxi hydroplaned. She got the worst of it.”
He nods, satisfied with the explanation. “Pharmacy has basic first aid too.”
“Thanks.”
I head toward the door, then pause. “Any chance you have a plastic bag? Wallet got soaked in the rain.”
The clerk reaches beneath the counter and produces a small plastic bag.
“Appreciate it.”
Out of his sight, I extract the cash from my wallet, separating damp bills from dry. I can’t use credit cards—too easily tracked. Cash is anonymous. Untraceable. Essential when professional operators are hunting you.
Outside, the rain has slowed to a steady drizzle, the kind that soaks through gradually rather than all at once. I scan the street—force of habit—noting potential threats, exit routes, andvantage points. The neighborhood is quiet at this hour. Few pedestrians, minimal traffic.
I walk quickly, constantly aware of my exposure. Six blocks feel like a tactical error, leaving Celeste alone for too long. But I need proper supplies, and I’m not naive enough to think she won’t try to leave again given enough time.
I make no apologies for waiting outside the door to catch her. She might resent the tactic, but she’s alive to resent it. That’s the part that matters.
The street stretches before me, glistening under sodium lights. I maintain a brisk pace while memorizing the route. Always know your terrain. It’s the first rule they teach in special ops. Always know at least three ways out of wherever you are.
The woman back in that hotel room has no idea how much danger she’s in. Those men on the platform weren’t street thugs or corporate security. The way they moved, the way they coordinated without verbal communication—that was advanced training. Military or intelligence background.
Whatever she’s carrying on that flash drive, it’s big enough to pull in a professionalwetteam—the kind that leaves blood and bodies behind. We’re not running from hired muscle now. We’re running from resources. From networks. From people with access to cameras, databases, and tracking capabilities far beyond civilian scope.
I estimate we have twelve hours before they identify the hotel. Maybe less. By tomorrow, we need to be on the move, with altered appearances and no electronic footprint. I’ll need to call in favors and activate resources.
But first: supplies. Can’t run effectively if you’re still wearing clothes soaked in tunnel water.
The pharmacy’s fluorescent lighting assaults my eyes after the dim street. A bored cashier glances up from her phone, thenback down, dismissing me as non-threatening. Smart girl. In my current mood, I’m anything but.
