Page 6 of Brass
“I’ve always handled everything alone,” she whispers, but there’s less conviction now.
For three heartbeats, we stay locked together, breathing each other’s air. Her defiance making my blood run hot. Her vulnerability making my grip tighten. Both making my focus slip—a cardinal sin in my line of work.
I force myself to release her, creating distance. “We need to move.”
“Why should I go anywhere with you?” But she doesn’t back away.
“Because right now, I’m the only thing standing between you and whatever storm you’ve kicked up.” I check my watch. “We have about three minutes before they find the service entrance and come looking. So make your choice. Trust issues or survival?”
Her eyes search mine, looking for deception. “How do I know you won’t kill me yourself once we’re alone?”
“If that was my plan, I wouldn’t have bothered with the dramatic rescue.” I can’t keep the edge from my voice. “Contraryto what you might think, I don’t make a habit of saving women from professional killers for the exercise.”
For a moment, I think she might actually walk away. Then her shoulders slump, just slightly.
“Fine.” She swallows hard. “Where are we going?”
“Somewhere safe.” I take her elbow, gentler this time. “But first, I need to know: what’s your name, and why are there professional hit teams trying to kill you?”
She hesitates, calculating. Finally: “Celeste. Celeste Hart.”
“Well, Celeste Hart, I’m Ryan Ellis. And you’ve just made my already shitty week a whole lot more interesting.”
THREE
Ryan
I leadCeleste Hart deeper into the maintenance tunnel, my fingers locked around her slender wrist. Her pulse hammers against my thumb—rapid, erratic. Afraid, but moving. Good enough for now.
Water drips from rusted pipes overhead, each droplet striking concrete with metronomic precision.
The rhythm marks our progress—thirty drops, forty feet gained. Sixty drops, another junction cleared.
The emergency lights flicker at irregular intervals, casting our shadows into grotesque, elongated versions of ourselves that dance along mildew-stained walls. The air hangs thick with decay and ozone, coating the back of my throat with each breath.
“How far?” Her voice barely rises above a whisper.
“Far enough that they lose our trail.” I don’t slow our pace.
Three minutes and twenty-seven seconds since we entered the service tunnel. The hit team will have regrouped by now. The two I incapacitated won’t be mobile, but the others—including the reinforcements—will have established a search grid. Standard procedure after losing a target: secure all knownexits, then sweep inward. They’ll find the maintenance door we used in approximately ninety seconds.
I map our position in my head. These tunnels were part of my mental geography during my last D.C. deployment—six years, two months ago. A habit from training: memorize escape routes, alternative paths, choke points. Three service tunnels intersect seventeen yards ahead. Left leads to the Red Line, populated areas. Right stretches deeper into the maintenance network. Straight continues parallel to the main line.
I choose right. Deeper is safer. Less predictable.
Her breathing grows shallower and more labored by the second. Contusion on her temple. Favoring her left knee. Factoring her injuries, I estimate we can maintain this pace for another six minutes before she falters. Not enough to reach the Georgetown access point I’m aiming for.
“Slow down,” she hisses, tugging against my grip.
I don’t. “They’re behind us.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
She keeps glancing over her shoulder, flinching at shadows, eyes wide and darting. A woman involved in something deadly enough to warrant a professional hit is afraid of the dark.
Ironic.
