Page 65 of Brass
“Portland. Safe house. One of our operatives will meet us there.” I check my weapon, confirming its readiness. “We leave in five minutes.
She nods, already sorting through the few possessions we’ve accumulated. “The flash drive?—”
“Keep it on you. Always.” I move to the window, checking the parking lot. Clear for now, but that could change at any moment.
“Ryan.” Her voice draws my attention back. She’s dressed now, hair pulled back, ready for whatever comes next. “What aren’t you telling me?”
Perceptive, as always. I consider deflection and decide against it. “The project you’ve been investigating goes deeper than we thought. Willow’s ex-husband—the federal judge I told you about—was involved. Judicial authorization for domestic surveillance. Legal cover for Phoenix and Obsidian.”
Her eyes widen slightly as she connects dots I haven’t explicitly drawn. “A federal judge with security clearance could authorize almost anything under national security protocols.”
“Exactly.”
“So this isn’t a private corporation. This is?—”
“A shadow operation with governmental connections.” I finish packing our bag, zipping it closed with finality. “Which makes it infinitely more dangerous. And more importantly, that we get you and that evidence somewhere secure.”
She nods, the journalist in her processing the implications, the stories waiting to be told. “How long until we leave?”
“Three minutes.” I conduct another visual sweep of the parking lot, which remains clear.
Then I hear it. Faint but unmistakable. The soft crunch of tactical boots on gravel outside. The barely perceptible click of a radio transmitting on a secure frequency. The sounds of a professional team moving into position.
Our time has just run out.
TWENTY-THREE
Ryan
“Down,”I hiss, grabbing Celeste by the shoulder and pulling her to the floor beside the bed.
She moves without question or resistance—a far cry from the woman who fought me on every directive four days ago. Her body tenses beneath my hand, but her eyes remain sharp, focused. No panic.
Good.
“How many?” she whispers.
I cock my head, filtering ambient noise to isolate movement patterns outside. “Six, maybe seven. Standard tactical formation. Three at the front, two covering the rear exit, at least one on overwatch.”
“Options?”
The single-word question earns her a flash of approval. She’s learning to think operationally, prioritizing information by necessity rather than curiosity. The journalist is becoming a tactical asset.
“Bathroom window,” I murmur, already calculating dimensions, drop height, and path to cover. “It’s tight, butviable. Twenty-foot sprint to the tree line behind the motel. Forest cover from there.”
Her eyes dart to the small window I noted during my initial sweep. Understanding blooms across her features. “They’re expecting us to exit through the door.”
“Exactly.” I reach for our bag, movements economical and silent. “When I say move, you go straight through that window.”
She nods once, decisive.
Outside, the tactical team continues their quiet deployment. Their discipline is impressive—minimal communication, practiced movements. Not local law enforcement. Not even standard federal. These are specialized operators with advanced training.
“They’re about to breach,” I say, hearing the subtle shift in position, the minute adjustments of a stack team preparing to enter. “We need a distraction.”
I move to the bathroom, Celeste following like a shadow. Inside, I assess the plumbing—old pipes, poor maintenance, high water pressure. Perfect.
“Cover your ears,” I warn before striking the exposed pipe beneath the sink with the butt of my weapon. The metal ruptures with a shriek, water spraying in a high-pressure jet across the small space. Steam billows instantly as the hot water line feeds the growing flood.
