Page 67 of Brass
We crawl toward the shallow trench, using its minimal depression for concealment. Not ideal cover, but better than nothing. The damp earth molds beneath us as we wordlessly coordinate our movements—my hand on her lower back guiding her forward, her body responding with intuitive understanding.
Ten more yards to the trees. Shouting intensifies behind us as our pursuers reorganize. Flashlight beams dance across the parking lot, narrowing the search grid.
“The tree line isn’t our goal,” I whisper as we pause in the shadow of a maintenance shed. “It’s what they expect. We need to create distance on an unexpected vector.”
Celeste processes this with remarkable speed. “There’s a service road on the north side. I saw it when we checked in.”
Another approving nod. She’s integrating tactical awareness into her journalist’s observational skills. “We’ll angle there once we hit initial cover. Use the trees as concealment, not destination.”
The final stretch to the tree line feels endless; each inch gained is a small victory against exposure. The darkness works both for and against us—concealing our exact position but making navigation treacherous. Celeste’s breath catches once when her injured ribs connect with an unseen root, but she makes no sound.
We reach the first trees just as a shout confirms we’ve been spotted.
“Movement at the perimeter. Sector four.”
The professional response is immediate—repositioning of assets, convergence on our last known location. We have perhaps thirty seconds before they establish a new containment perimeter.
I pull Celeste deeper into the woods, our path deliberately erratic. Straight lines are predictable. Survival requires unpredictability. She follows without question, feet finding secure placement despite the uneven terrain and limited visibility.
Fifty yards in, I pause, listening. The pursuit has entered the tree line, spreading out in a standard search pattern. Their communication is minimal but effective—clicks and shortphrases that convey positions without revealing intentions to potential listeners.
“North,” I whisper, orienting us toward the service road Celeste mentioned. “Stay low, watch your footing.”
We move with deliberate care—speed balanced against stealth. The forest floor is treacherous in the dark, fallen branches and hidden depressions waiting to betray our position with a telltale crack or stumble.
Behind us, our pursuers have split into teams, some maintaining the original search pattern while others circle wide to cut off potential escape routes. The tactic is sound, exactly what I would do in their position.
Which is why we need to do something unexpected.
“There,” Celeste breathes, pointing toward a break in the trees ahead. The service road she mentioned—narrow, unpaved, but distinctly different from the surrounding forest.
Before we can reach it, movement flickers to our right—a shadow detaching itself from deeper darkness. I pull Celeste behind the broad trunk of an ancient pine, pressing her against the rough bark with one arm while my other hand draws my weapon.
Two figures emerge into a small clearing twenty feet away, moving with the coordinated precision of experienced operators. Their tactical gear absorbs what little ambient light filters through the canopy, rendering them as moving voids against the forest backdrop.
“Grid section clear,” one murmurs into his comms. “Moving to sector six.”
“Copy that,” comes the response, voice low but carrying in the still night air. “Beta team has potential movement near the north perimeter.”
They’re tracking us effectively, narrowing the search grid with each passing minute. We need to move now, before they complete their encirclement.
I glance at Celeste, finding her eyes already on me. No fear there—just focused determination. I indicate the direction with a slight tilt of my head. She nods once, understanding without words.
The operatives move deeper into the forest, away from our position. I count three breaths, then guide Celeste forward, our progress deliberately slow to minimize sound.
We’re ten feet from the service road when a branch snaps beneath my boot—a sound that seems deafening in the tense silence. The reaction is immediate—both operatives spin toward the noise, weapons raised.
“Contact.” The word cuts through the night as their flashlights click on, beams sweeping toward our position. “Two targets, north sector.”
No more stealth. No more careful navigation.
“Run,” I command, pushing Celeste toward the road. “Now!”
We break from cover at full sprint, abandoning concealment for speed. Shouting erupts behind us as we’re spotted. The first shots follow moments later—disciplined fire, controlled bursts toward our moving forms.
I position myself between Celeste and the shooters, my larger frame offering what protection I can provide. The service road appears, a pale slash through the darkness. We hit it at full speed, boots finding purchase on the packed gravel.
“Left,” I direct as we reach a fork in the road. The right path shows signs of recent use—tire tracks, disturbed gravel. We take the less-traveled option, banking on their expectation that we’d choose the more obvious route.
