Page 38 of Brass
“It means options. Witness protection. New identity. Off-grid relocation. Or, if the threat can be neutralized, eventual return to your normal life.”
The casual way he outlines potential futures—none of which resemble the life I’ve built—leaves me momentarily speechless. He’s talking about my existence as if it’s a tactical problem to solve, a mission parameter to be adjusted.
“And I’m supposed to just—trust you with all this? A stranger who appeared out of nowhere and has been controlling every aspect of my life since?”
“Yes.” No hesitation. No qualification. Just absolute confidence.
“Why?”
His eyes meet mine briefly. “Because you’re still alive.”
The simple statement carries more weight than it should. He could have walked away at any point—after the subway, after getting me to the hotel, this morning. Nothing obligated him to upend his life for mine. Yet here he is, driving me across thecountry, risking his life for a woman he met barely twenty-four hours ago.
I turn toward the window, watching the landscape blur. He’s right, and I hate it. Trust doesn’t come naturally to me—not in my profession, not with my history. Every instinct honed through years of investigative journalism screams to question, to doubt, to verify.
But sometimes survival means knowing when to yield.
“I need to use a bathroom soon,” I say finally, changing the subject.
“There’s a rest stop in about thirty miles. We’ll stop there.”
We lapse into silence again, but something has shifted. Not quite a truce, but perhaps an understanding. For now, at least, I’ll follow his lead.
The hours on the road blend in a haze of highway miles and hypervigilance.
Ryan maintains a punishing pace, stopping only for absolute necessities. Bathroom breaks at busy rest areas, where crowds provide cover. Fast-food drive-thrus instead of restaurants. Gas stations selected for their blind spots and escape routes rather than convenience.
At each stop, the routine is the same. Ryan scans the surroundings before allowing me to exit the vehicle. He positions himself with clear sightlines to both me and potential approach vectors. When I use public restrooms, he waits outside, acting as both guardian and jailer combined.
We switch vehicles once—at a prearranged location where a Cerberus contact meets us with a different SUV, an older model that Ryan says is harder to track electronically. The efficiency of the exchange suggests a well-established protocol, making me wonder how often Ryan extracts people from dangerous situations.
The flash drive burns in my pocket, a constant reminder of why we’re running. Several times, I consider telling Ryan exactly what’s on it, exactly what I know. But something holds me back. Not distrust, exactly. More like professional caution. The information is explosive—potentially worth killing for, as we’ve discovered. The fewer people who know the full picture, the safer they are.
At least that’s what I tell myself.
After twelve hours on the road, taking circuitous routes that doubled what would normally be a six-hour drive, stopping only for the bare necessities, we finally pull into a motel parking lot just outside Cleveland, Ohio. The place is dated but clean, the kind of roadside establishment that asks few questions of guests paying in cash.
“Wait here,” Ryan says, cutting the engine.
I don’t argue. Exhaustion drags at every muscle, too heavy for a fight. He gives orders; I’ve learned when to obey.
Five minutes later, he’s back with a key—an actual metal key, not a card. “Room 17. Last one on the end. Good sight lines, two exit points.”
We enter together. He does his ritual sweep—closets, bathroom, under the bed, window locks. I sag against the doorframe, too wrung out to tease him for his thoroughness. Only when he declares the room clear do I notice the inevitable problem: one bed.
“Seriously?” I gesture at the queen-sized mattress. “How do you keep managing to get us rooms with only one bed?”
“Low profile. Couples attract less attention than solo travelers or business associates.” He drops our bag on the dresser like the argument’s settled. “You take the bed. I’ll sleep on the floor.”
“This is ridiculous.” Fatigue sharpens my words. “You’ve been driving for twelve hours straight. You need real rest. The bed is big enough for both of us.”
“Not a good idea.” He’s already spreading the spare blankets on the carpet, movements clipped, controlled.
“Is it propriety you’re worried about? Or don’t you trust yourself?” The taunt escapes before I can cage it, echoing his words from that first night.
He stills. When his gaze lifts, danger burns there, hot enough to pin me.
“Both,” he admits, voice low, threaded with something dark. “And more importantly, I don’t trust you.”
