Page 42 of Brass
The sight does nothing to ease the persistent ache that’s been my constant companion since the subway platform.
I turn away, dropping silently into push-ups. One. Two. Three. Physical discomfort is a useful distraction from other, more problematic sensations.
Twenty. Twenty-one. Twenty-two.
My body moves through the familiar exercise, muscle memory taking over where conscious thought fails.
This is becoming unsustainable. The lack of proper rest I can handle—I’ve operated on minimal sleep for weeks during particularly grueling missions. The constant tactical alertness is baseline for any operation. But the perpetual state of arousal triggered by Celeste’s proximity, her scent, her defiance—that’s an unfamiliar enemy I’m increasingly ill-equipped to fight.
Fifty. Fifty-one. Fifty-two.
Several more days to Seattle. Days of maintaining professional distance while every instinct urges me to close it. Days of her challenging my authority, pushing my boundaries, triggering responses that have no place in an extraction.
One hundred.
I rise soundlessly and head for the shower. Cold water. Another temporary solution to a persistent problem.
By the time I emerge, she’s curled under the blankets, eyes shut tight, feigning sleep. I don’t call her out on it. The room is thick with unspoken things, and silence is the only truce we have left since last night.
“Bathroom’s yours,” I mumble, shrugging on a shirt.
She heads inside and soon we’re back on the road—the hum of the engine filling the silence, the blur of mile markers marching by, and the weight of everything we’re not saying pressing down between us.
Her fingers tap nervously against her thigh, a rhythm that matches the thrum of the tires on asphalt, until she finally breaks the quiet.
“You’re sure we’re not being followed?” she finally breaks the quiet.
Celeste asks this as we cross the Illinois border, the SUV's engine humming steadily beneath us. We've been on the road for hours, taking back roads that double the normal distance, and this is the fifth variation of the same question she’s asked since we left at dawn.
“If we were being followed, I’d know.” I check the mirrors again—a habitual scan rather than a response to her question. “We implemented alternate routes and maintained irregular patterns. The first rule of successful evasion is breaking expected patterns.”
“And you’re sure that works?” She’s watching me with those analytical eyes that miss nothing.
“No one’s ever sure in this business. But I like our odds.”
I don’t tell her that getting her out of D.C. was the tactical key. Those men expect her to lie low within the city, to hide rather than run. Most civilians do—they retreat to familiar territory when threatened, a human instinct that makes them predictable. I’ve gained a significant advantage by extracting her across state lines.
“You keep checking the mirrors.” She’s observing me again, cataloging my behaviors.
“Force of habit.” I adjust the temperature control. The SUV’s air conditioning struggles against the summer heat. “Constant awareness keeps people alive.”
“Sounds exhausting.”
“It becomes second nature.” A half-truth.
The hypervigilance is exhausting, but it’s a familiar exhaustion. The kind I can manage through tactical napping and carefully portioned caffeine. Nothing like the unfamiliar drain of constantly fighting my body’s response to her.
“Get some rest,” I tell her, nodding toward the reclined passenger seat. “We’ve got a long day ahead.”
To my surprise, she doesn’t argue. Just settles against the headrest, eyes drifting closed. I envy the ease with which she transitions from alertness to rest. Perhaps a journalist’s skill is grabbing sleep between deadlines and danger.
Her breathing slows, deepens. I keep my eyes on the road, ignoring the urge to glance at her relaxed form. Ignoring how the sun catches in her hair, turning the auburn to fire.
I implement a micro-nap at a gas station outside Des Moines. We’ve covered nearly seven hundred miles of zigzagging since the Illinois border. Ninety seconds of controlled unconsciousness—a technique perfected during long surveillance operations. Eyes closed, head back, mind allowed to slip precisely seven layers down from full alertness. Ninety seconds to reset the system and clear the cognitive debris.
It helps, marginally. But not with the real problem.
The real problem walks out of the gas station holding two cups of coffee, her stride still carrying the hint of a limp from her injured knee. The real problem settles back into the passenger seat with a sigh that sends a ripple of awareness down my spine. The real problem keeps watching me with eyes that alternate between suspicion and something far more dangerous.
