Page 36 of Brass
“Yes.” No elaboration. Just that infuriating certainty again.
The rental agency is a small, independent company. No national chain logos or computerized systems. Just a middle-aged man with a ring of keys and a paper ledger.
I hang back, watching as Ryan transforms before my eyes. His posture changes, becoming more relaxed. A smile appears—easy, friendly, completely at odds with the rigid commander who’s been ordering me around all morning. He even adopts a slight Southern drawl as he chats with the clerk.
Money changes hands—cash only, no credit cards that could be tracked. ID is presented—not his real one, I’m certain, though I can’t see it from here. The entire transaction takes less than ten minutes.
“We’re set,” he says, returning to my side with keys to a nondescript gray sedan. “Let’s move.”
Outside, he conducts a thorough inspection of the vehicle—checking under the chassis, examining the wheel wells, and even popping the hood to inspect the engine.
“What exactly are you looking for?” I ask.
“Tracking devices. Explosives. Anything that shouldn’t be there.” His voice is matter-of-fact, as if checking for bombs is as routine as checking tire pressure.
The casualness with which he approaches potential death is more unsettling than the possibility itself.
Once satisfied, he opens the passenger door for me. I slide in, watching as he circles to the driver’s side. It doesn’t escape my notice that he adjusted the seat and mirrors before letting me in—establishing from the outset that he’ll be the only one driving.
As we pull away from the curb, I realize something else. “My laptop, my phone, my ID—everything was in my car or apartment.”
“All compromised,” he says, checking the mirrors as we merge into traffic. “We’ll get you new secure devices in Seattle. Until then, we stay unplugged.”
“What about my editor? My colleagues? They’ll be worried.”
“Anyone you contact becomes a vector for those men to track you.” His tone brooks no argument. “Going dark is the only option, and safest for them.”
I lean back against the headrest, frustration building. My entire life—career, friends, home—has vanished overnight. And I’m at the mercy of a man who parcels out information like it’s classified intelligence. Which, to be fair, it probably is.
The city gradually gives way to suburbs, then to open highway. Ryan maintains a precise five miles over the speed limit—fast enough to make good time, not fast enough to attract attention. Every few minutes, he checks the mirrors. Every thirty minutes, he changes lanes without signaling, watching for any cars that follow the movement.
Two hours pass in tense silence. The monotony of the highway, combined with the events of the past twenty-four hours, begins to weigh on me. My eyelids grow heavy.
“You can sleep,” Ryan says, glancing over. “I’ll wake you if anything changes.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re exhausted. And we have a long way to go. Rest while you can.”
I want to argue on principle, but exhaustion wins. “Wake me in an hour. I can take over driving.”
His hands tighten on the steering wheel. “You won’t be driving.”
This jolts me back to full alertness. “Excuse me?”
“I said, you won’t be driving.”
“I heard you. I’m questioning the logic.” I straighten in my seat. “You can’t possibly drive the entire time.”
“I can, and I will.”
“That’s ridiculous.” My voice rises despite my effort to remain calm. “I’m a perfectly capable driver. We should share the responsibility.”
“It’s not about capability.” He keeps his eyes on the road. “It’s about training.”
“Training? It’s driving, not disarming explosives.”
A muscle in his jaw tightens. “When was the last time you practiced evasive maneuvers? Counter-surveillance driving techniques? Tactical vehicle handling?”
