Page 80 of Brass
Ryan parks the Chevelle beside a nondescript SUV. He sits motionless, studying the property.
“Something feels wrong,” he says finally, voice barely audible.
I follow his gaze, trying to see what’s triggered his concern. The cabin looks peaceful in the morning light. No obvious signs of disturbance. No movement visible through the windows.
“What is it?” I whisper, tension climbing my spine in response to his alertness.
“No acknowledgment of our arrival.” His hand moves to the weapon concealed beneath his jacket. “Torque should have signaled by now.”
The quiet that surrounds us suddenly feels oppressive rather than peaceful. No birds call in the trees. No sounds emerge from the cabin. Just the faint tick of the Chevelle’s cooling engine and our measured breathing.
“Stay here,” Ryan instructs, his voice taking on that command quality that brooks no argument. “If I’m not back in three minutes, or if you hear gunfire, drive away immediately. Head east. There’s an emergency cache at the coordinates in the map’s legend.”
My heart hammers against my ribs, but I nod. “Be careful.”
His eyes meet mine, something fierce and protective blazing in that ice-blue gaze. “Always.”
He exits the vehicle, moving in a half-crouch toward the cabin. I watch him advance, using trees and the SUV for cover, his weapon now drawn and held at the ready, low.
One minute passes. Two. The silence stretches, each second an eternity of anticipation.
Then—a flash of movement at the cabin’s window. Too fast to identify. Ryan freezes, pressing himself against the broad trunk of a Douglas fir.
My fingers grip the steering wheel, ready to start the engine and flee as instructed. But something about the movement strikes me as wrong. Not stealthy enough for an ambush. Too erratic for a professional.
Another flash. A curtain billows in the breeze from an open window.
Ryan approaches the window, peering carefully inside before moving to the front door. Tests the handle. Finds it unlocked.
For one heart-stopping moment, he disappears inside the cabin. Then he reemerges, weapon lowered but not holstered, and beckons me forward.
I exit the Chevelle on shaky legs, adrenaline making my movements clumsy after hours of contained tension. When I reach Ryan at the cabin’s entrance, his expression has transformed from tactical alertness to something darker.
“Torque’s not here,” he says, voice flat. “But he was.”
He pushes the door wider, revealing the cabin’s interior. My journalist’s eye catalogs details automatically—rustic furnishings, advanced communications equipment partially concealed behind wooden panels, tactical gear stored in open cases.
And blood. A spray pattern across one wall. A larger stain on the wood floor near the communication station.
“Signs of struggle. Three, maybe four attackers, based on the boot prints. Professional entry through the rear window.”
My stomach twists as the implications become clear. “They knew we were coming.”
Ryan’s expression hardens. “They knew we’d contact Torque.”
“Phoenix,” I whisper, the name feeling like a curse now. “It anticipated our next move.”
“Not just anticipated.” Ryan crouches beside the blood stain, examining it with clinical detachment that doesn’t quite mask the anger beneath. “It accessed information it shouldn’t have. Operational protocols. Secure communication channels.”
“Is he?—”
“No body,” Ryan cuts me off, standing again. “Blood spatter indicates injury, not fatal trauma. They took him.”
A new kind of dread settles over me—not just the fear of being hunted but the deeper horror of what it means that Phoenix could penetrate Cerberus this thoroughly.
“We need to contact Ghost,” I say, the urgency clear. “Warn him.”
Ryan shakes his head once. “Not from here. This location is compromised. Everything electronic could be monitored.”
