Page 73 of Brass
I follow Ryan’s lead, placing my feet where he places his, moving as silently as possible. The woods are alive with small sounds—rustling leaves, the occasional crack of a branch as some nocturnal creature moves through the undergrowth, the whisper of wind through the canopy. It’s beautiful, eerie, and strangely peaceful, despite the danger we’re fleeing.
After thirty minutes of steady hiking, Ryan pauses, raising one hand in a silent signal to stop. I freeze instantly, senses straining to detect whatever has triggered his caution.
“Listen,” he whispers.
I hold my breath, filtering out the natural forest sounds. There—a low mechanical rumble. An engine, but not a car or truck. Something older, with a distinct chugging rhythm.
“This way,” Ryan says, adjusting our course toward the sound. “Quietly.”
We move with increased caution, Ryan testing each step before committing his weight to it. The trees begin to thin, the forest gradually giving way to what appears to be overgrown farmland. The rumble grows louder until we emerge at the edge of a clearing.
In the moonlight, I can make out the outline of several buildings—a farmhouse, dark and seemingly abandoned, and what looks like a large garage or barn set back from the main structure. The mechanical sound emanates from this second building, along with a faint glow visible through grimy windows.
“Stay here,” Ryan directs, his voice barely audible. “I’ll reconnoiter.”
I nod, pressing myself against the trunk of a massive oak at the forest’s edge. From here, I have a clear view of the property while remaining hidden in shadow.
Ryan moves across the open ground like a shadow among shadows, utilizing every bit of cover available. I lose sight of him as he approaches the outbuilding, only to spot him again near one of the windows, peering carefully inside.
Minutes pass, my nerves stretching tighter with each second he’s out of reach. Finally, he returns, materializing beside me so suddenly I nearly gasp.
“It’s perfect,” he says, satisfaction evident in his voice. “Abandoned garage. Someone’s squatting there occasionally—there’s a generator running an old space heater and some lights. But no one’s home now.”
“And?” I prompt, sensing there’s more.
A smile crosses his face—a real one, not the ghost version I’ve become accustomed to. “Classic cars. At least five. And gas cans. Lots of them.”
The implication is clear. Transportation Phoenix won’t anticipate. No electronic components. No tracking systems.
“Can you hot-wire one?” I ask.
His smile turns wolfish in the moonlight. “I’m offended you even have to ask.”
We approach the garage together this time, moving cautiously despite Ryan’s assessment that it’s currently unoccupied. The building is larger than it appeared from the forest edge—a commercial garage rather than a residential one, with multiple bays and a high, rusted metal roof.
Ryan tests the side door—locked. He examines it briefly, then produces a small tool from a pocket. Within seconds, the lock clicks and opens.
“Breaking and entering to add to our resume,” I murmur as he eases the door open.
“Borrowing,” he corrects. “I have every intention of compensating the owner when this is over.”
The interior is a gearhead’s paradise—and a time capsule. Vintage automobiles in various states of restoration fill the space. The smell of oil, gasoline, and metal permeates the air, mingling with leather and something vaguely alcoholic. Beer cans are scattered near a workbench, alongside fast-food wrappers and empty chip bags. Someone uses this place regularly, but not as a permanent residence.
Ryan moves to the generator, checking its fuel level. “Three-quarters full. Running the space heater and some lights. Been on for hours, judging by the temperature in here.”
I examine our surroundings more carefully as my eyes adjust to the dim light. The cars range from 1950s classics to muscle cars from the 1970s. None newer than about 1980. Perfect.
“That one,” Ryan says suddenly, pointing to a dark shape beneath a half-removed tarp. “1967 Chevelle SS. Beast of an engine, minimal electronics. Just what we need.”
He moves to the car, pulling the tarp away completely to reveal a gleaming black muscle car with red racing stripes. Even to my untrained eye, it’s beautiful—aggressive lines, wide stance, the promise of raw power. It’s not conspicuous at all.
“Will it run?” I ask, circling the vehicle.
Ryan is already examining the engine, his hands moving with the expertise of someone who knows exactly what he’s looking for.
“Beautifully. Someone’s been restoring her. Fresh rebuild on the engine, new hoses, clean fuel lines.” He straightens, scanning the garage. “We need to check for keys first. Then siphon gas from the other vehicles to fill extra cans. We want to avoid stations as much as possible.”
I nod, moving to search the cluttered workbench while Ryan checks a pegboard covered in hooks and keys. My hands rifle through tools, parts, and debris, searching for anything useful.
