Page 69 of Brass
Our timeline just accelerated dramatically.
“We take the first opportunity,” I tell Celeste, already moving toward the train. “Any car we can access.”
We parallel the tracks, searching for an opening while staying within the diminishing shadows. The train shudders, couplings tensing as the engine builds power. Departure is imminent.
“There,” Celeste points to a boxcar with its door partially open about four cars ahead. The gap is narrow but viable.
Voices rise behind us—the search pattern tightening as they close in on our position. We abandon stealth for speed, sprinting the final distance to the train as it begins its slow roll forward.
“You first,” I boost Celeste toward the narrow opening. She grips the edge, muscles straining as she pulls herself up and through the gap. The train moves, accelerating, momentum building with each passing second.
Movement flashes in my peripheral vision—three operators emerging from between cargo containers, instantly identifying us as their targets.
“Contact. Targets boarding westbound freight. Sector seven.”
I leap for the moving train, hands finding purchase on the metal edge as my body slams against the car’s exterior. Celeste’s hands appear through the gap, gripping my wrists to help pull me inside.
The first shots impact the metal beside my head as I haul myself through the opening. I tumble through the gap into the safety of the boxcar’s interior, rolling to absorb the impact. Celeste is already flattened against the far wall, minimizing her exposure to the door.
Outside, voices fade as the train builds speed, but one persistent operative runs alongside, weapon raised for a final attempt. His determination is impressive—the kind of focused persistence that defines elite operators.
I calculate trajectories, angles, and risks. The gap in the door provides him a narrow shooting window as he parallels our car. One chance for a clean shot—at me or Celeste.
Not acceptable.
I lunge back toward the door, timing my movement to coincide with his approach. As his weapon appears in the gap, I strike—fingers clamping around his wrist, twisting with precise application of force. The sickening pop of dislocating joints is followed by the clatter of the weapon falling to the tracks below.
His momentum carries him forward as the train accelerates, putting him off-balance at a critical moment. Training or not,physics remains undefeated. He stumbles, his grip failing as the train outpaces his sprint.
I watch dispassionately as he falls away, cursing into his comms as his target escapes. The growing distance transforms him from an immediate threat to a diminishing figure, until darkness swallows him completely.
Only then do I register a burning sensation in my left shoulder. I press my hand against it, fingers coming away wet with blood. Sometime during the engagement, a round found its mark—a shallow furrow across my deltoid, painful but not debilitating.
“You’re hit.” Celeste appears beside me, concern etched across her features as she examines the wound in the dim light filtering through the door.
“Flesh wound,” I dismiss, more focused on securing our position than on minor injuries.
“It needs cleaning. You’re bleeding.”
“Later.” I move away from the door, scanning our surroundings. The car contains stacked pallets of what appear to be mechanical components, secured with shipping straps but leaving adequate space between them for concealment if necessary.
The captured radio crackles with frustrated updates as our pursuers coordinate their response to our escape. Vehicle deployments. Notifications to stations ahead. Helicopter assets being considered.
“They’re mobilizing to intercept at the next station,” I inform Celeste, mentally calculating distances and timeframes. “We’ll need to exit before then.”
She nods, processing this with the same adaptability she’s shown since the motel room. Then, without warning, her fingers press against my wounded shoulder.
“Not later,” she says, voice taking on that stubborn edge I’ve come to recognize. “We deal with this now. Before infection sets in. You’ve been so focused on patching me up these past days—time to return the favor.”
The command in her tone nearly draws a smile despite our circumstances. I relent, allowing her to guide me to a seated position against one of the pallets.
“First aid kit in the bag,” I direct, watching as she retrieves it.
“I know.” She kneels beside me. “I’ve been paying attention to where you keep things.”
Of course, she has. Observant to a fault—the quality that makes her both an excellent journalist and a surprisingly adept student of tactical operations.
Her touch is gentle but confident as she cleans the wound, applying antiseptic. The sting is insignificant compared to the warmth of her hands against my skin.
