Page 89 of Brass
“And Jeb?”
“Ex-Charlie team. He was a Guardian before he was injured. Had a building collapse on him during an operation. Crushed his leg.” I sip my coffee. “Technical genius with the same background as most of us—special ops. He and Stitch are seeing each other, which makes for some interesting team dynamics.”
“Anyone else?”
“Mitzy might come. She’s their technical lead—the real brains behind Guardian’s tech division. You’ll know her when you see her—tiny pixie with rainbow-colored hair that sometimes sparkles. Has this short, spiky cut.” I shake my head, remembering. “Absolute genius. Possibly the smartest person I’ve ever met, other than Forest, and that’s saying something in our circles.”
We spend the next hour readying the underground space—clearing workspace around the computer, organizing what we’ve learned from the flash drive, and establishing a functional command center. Celeste moves with the same efficiency she’s shown since D.C., anticipating needs before I voice them. We’ve developed a rhythm, a partnership that transcends our growing personal connection.
By the time the proximity alarm chimes—a simple mechanical bell triggered by one of Ghost’s perimeter wires—we’re fully prepared. I motion for Celeste to stay inside while I confirm it’s our people.
I approach the tree line cautiously, weapon ready but not raised. First rule of conflict: identify before engaging. The rustle of undergrowth gives me their position before I see them—four figures moving with the efficiency of professionals.
Ghost appears first, his tall frame unmistakable even from a distance. Behind him, a petite woman with rainbow-colored spiky hair that catches the light with an unnatural sparkle—Mitzy. Following her are two figures: one built like a linebacker with a full beard and the distinctive uneven gait of someone compensating for a crushed leg—Jeb. The fourth is lanky, almost too thin, with quick, nervous movements and eyes that never stop scanning—Stitch, her black hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, pale skin, and dark clothes completing her Goth aesthetic.
“Clear?” Ghost asks as he approaches, no greeting, no preamble. Pure operational focus.
“Perimeter secure. Site prepped.” I match his economy of language. “Drive’s ready for analysis.”
The corner of his mouth ticks up—Ghost’s version of a warm welcome. “Good man.” He claps me on the shoulder, the closest he gets to demonstrating affection. “Status on Torque?”
“Unknown. Taken alive from the Portland safe house.” I maintain a neutral and professional tone. “Obvious signs of struggle. Four-man team based on boot prints. Professional extraction.”
His jaw tightens. He and Torque go back even further than he and I do. “We’ll find him.”
I nod, though we both know the odds. In our world, “taken alive” rarely leads to positive outcomes.
Mitzy steps forward, breaking the moment. “Truck’s hidden two miles back,” she says, voice surprisingly gentle for someonewith her reputation. “Clean switch in Gresham, electronic ghosts running decoy patterns through seven states. No tail.”
“Equipment?” I ask.
“Everything Stitch requested.” She pats the heavy pack on her back. “Plus some toys Forest thought might help. Latest Guardian HRS tech, still in field-testing phase.”
Jeb limps up beside her, his beard splitting in a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Jesus, Ellis. You look like shit.”
“Still better looking than you.” I return his half-smile. Old jokes from old missions. The familiar rhythm of soldiers who’ve bled together.
Stitch hangs back, eyes constantly moving between the trees, the cabin, the sky—never settling, always analyzing. “Can we move this inside?” Her voice is cool, precise. “Too many satellites up there for my comfort.”
Ghost nods, already moving toward the cabin. “Full briefing in five. Mitzy, secure perimeter. Add our measures to Ellis’s.” The quick, efficient distribution of tasks that comes as naturally to him as breathing.
I fall in beside Stitch as we approach the cabin. “Thanks for coming,” I say quietly. “This one’s—complicated.”
Her eyes finally meet mine, sharp with intelligence and something else—excitement, maybe. “Heard you guys found something that might actually challenge me.” She almost sounds eager. “About fucking time.”
Inside the cabin, Celeste stands ready, professional mask firmly in place despite the tension evident in her posture. I make quick introductions, watching as she seamlessly transitions into journalist mode—observing, cataloging, assessing.
“So you’re the one who kicked the hornet’s nest,” Jeb says, extending a hand to her. “Respect.”
She takes it firmly. “Not sure I deserve respect for stumbling into something that’s gotten people killed.”
“People were already dying,” Stitch interjects, already unpacking equipment from her bag. “You just happened to notice the pattern.”
Ghost watches this exchange with careful attention before gesturing toward the trapdoor. “Let’s take this downstairs. More secure, and I want to see what we’re dealing with.”
The bunker feels crowded with the six of us, but everyone finds their place. Ghost moves to the communication station, Mitzy sets up a mobile command post on one side, Jeb and Stitch head straight for the Faraday cage and the computer setup.
Stitch whistles low as she examines the flash drive. “Original secure-drop protocol. Military grade encryption with at least three hardware authentication layers.” She glances at Celeste with newfound respect. “How’d your source get this?”
