Page 77 of Brass
“Even when it might get you killed.”
“Says the man who jumped into a subway tunnel to save a stranger,” I counter with a small smile.
He acknowledges the point with a slight inclination of his head. “Perhaps we’re not so different.”
The observation hangs between us as the landscape shifts again, forests giving way to rolling hills. The connection it creates feels more significant than our physical intimacy—this recognition of kindred spirits who understand what drives the other, even if the manifestations differ.
We stop shortly before sunset to refuel from our reserves rather than risk a gas station. Ryan works methodically, transferring fuel from the cans to the Chevelle’s tank while I keep watch, scanning our surroundings with the new awareness he’s helped me develop.
The rural highway stretches in both directions. No cars have passed in nearly thirty minutes. The isolation should be comforting—fewer opportunities for surveillance—but something about it makes my skin prickle with unease.
“Ryan,” I call softly, not wanting to break the stillness too abruptly. “Something feels wrong.”
He pauses immediately, attuned to the tension in my voice. “What are you seeing?”
“Nothing.” I shake my head, frustrated at my inability to articulate the sensation. “That’s what bothers me. It’s too quiet. Too empty.”
He caps the gas tank, movements unhurried but purposeful as he stows the empty can in the trunk. His casual demeanor contradicts the alertness in his eyes as he scans our surroundings.
“Good instincts,” he says finally. “This road should be moderately busy. We’ve seen two cars in thirty minutes.”
The validation that my unease isn’t baseless sends a chill down my spine. “They’ve cleared the route.”
“Possibly.” He completes a full 360-degree scan. “Or they’ve restricted civilian traffic to create a controlled environment for interception.”
“What do we do?” My heart rate accelerates, but I keep my voice steady.
Ryan moves to the driver’s side door, opening it with deliberate calm. “We adapt.”
He reaches into the back seat, retrieving the map. “There’s a logging road about five miles ahead. Doesn’t appear on standard maps. It connects to a service route that parallels the Union Pacific rail line.”
“Northeast,” I realize, tracing the route. “Away from Portland.”
“For now.” He folds the map decisively. “We’ll circle back. Approach from an unexpected direction.”
Ryan’s posture has subtly shifted as we pull back onto the highway. His weight is balanced differently; his hands are positioned for maximum control, and his gaze systematically sweeps our surroundings in a pattern that misses nothing.
“They’re closing in, aren’t they?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
“They’re trying to predict our destination,” he corrects. “Phoenix’s algorithm is running scenarios, allocating resources to the highest probability routes.”
“Portland,” I murmur. “It knows we’re heading to Portland.”
“Correct. Unfortunately. It’s calculating the statistical likelihood based on available routes and our last known trajectory.” His voice remains calm, matter-of-fact. “But it can’t anticipate what it can’t predict.”
“Which is?”
His mouth curves in a smile that holds no humor—just pure, focused determination. “Us.”
The logging road is barely more than a track cut through dense forest—rutted, overgrown in places, clearly unused for months if not years. The Chevelle’s suspension protests as we navigate the uneven terrain, but the powerful engine handles the inclines without strain.
Shadows deepen around us as the sun sets behind the mountains. Soon, we’re driving in near darkness.
“There should be a fork ahead,” he says, peering through the windshield at the deepening gloom. “Left branch leads to an old fire watchtower. Right continues to the rail service road.”
I squint, trying to see anything beyond the immediate foreground. “How can you possibly?—”
“There.” He points to a barely visible divide in the track. “Left.”
