Page 4 of Brass
The platform is sparse for a Tuesday night. Young couple at the far end, wrapped up in each other. Homeless man asleep on a bench. Elderly woman gripping her purse like it contains the nuclear codes. Group of teenagers sharing earbuds. Businessman buried in his phone. Standard nighttime metro crowd.
I roll my shoulders, trying to work the tension out. The briefcase at my feet contains the only decent thing from this visit—Mom’s pumpkin bread. Enough to share with the team back at Cerberus. Ghost will appreciate that at least.
Motion catches my eye. A woman practically flies down the escalator, her pace too urgent for casual travel. She’s favoring her left side—injured ribs most likely. Blood matting her hair at the temple. Rain-soaked.
Fleeing something.
She’s striking—all angles and determination. High cheekbones, full mouth set in a tight line, dark hair plastered across her shoulders. But it’s her eyes that grab me. Wide, wild, pumped full of adrenaline.
Hunted.
My pulse slows. Time dilates. The world crystallizes into data points and threat vectors—a skill honed across three continents and fourteen combat zones.
More movement at the top of the escalator. Four men descending. Not together, but synchronized. Staggered positions. Three-foot spacing. Too perfect to be coincidental.
Details snap into focus with photographic clarity. Then I do what I do best.
I protect.
Motion from the corner of my eye. I turn my head, maintaining peripheral awareness of the neutralized group. Four more men descend the escalator. Same tactical gear. Same purpose. Fresh operators while I’m already engaged.
Reinforcements.
The train approaches, brakes screeching. We need to be on it.
Gray Eyes follows my gaze, sees his backup. A smile spreads across his face despite his injury. “Like I said. Not over.”
I evaluate our position. First team: effectively neutralized for now, though Gray Eyes and the fourth man could still engageif pressed. Second team: four fresh operators moving with purpose. The woman behind me is injured, slowing our options. The approaching train won’t reach us before the new team does.
Only one viable option.
“Change of plans,” I mutter, grabbing her wrist.
“What are you?—”
I don’t wait for her to finish. I vault over the platform edge, dragging her with me. She lands hard beside me on the tracks, crying out as the impact jars her ribs.
“Are you insane?” she hisses, trying to pull away from me.
“Probably.” I pull her down into a service tunnel just as the train barrels past, covering our escape. “But we’re still breathing, so there’s that.”
She struggles against my grip. “Let go of me.”
“After I just saved your life?” The tunnel is narrow, pitch-black, except for the emergency lights creating pools of sickly yellow every fifty feet. “Keep moving.”
“Who are you? FBI? CIA?”
“Someone who risked his life for yours. Although the better question is: who are you, and why does a professional hit squad want you dead?” I navigate through the darkness, pulling her along.
“I had it under control.”
I stop dead in my tracks, spinning to face her. Even in the dim light, defiance blazes in her eyes.
“They were muggers,” she says, voice tight with obstinance. “I could have handled it.”
“Muggers? Are you fucking kidding me right now?”
“Language—”
