Page 13 of Brass
“Can you tell what’s on the other side?”
“Not without opening it.”
I find the latch and pause, listening for any sound indicating pursuit or danger. Nothing but the distant rumble of trains.
“Ready?” I ask.
She takes a deep breath. “As I’ll ever be.”
I shove the panel outward, hinges groaning, and white light crashes into the shaft. It sears after so long in the dark, stabbing my eyes until they water. I blink hard, shapes slowly sharpening—the wide room beyond, the stretch of concrete floor, the hum of fluorescent lights.
Air moves freer here, cool against my face, loosening the knot in my chest. But the space feels too open, too exposed, every shadow a place for danger to wait. My pulse lifts, caught between the release of fresh air and the prickling edge of being seen.
We emerge into what appears to be an abandoned platform section—a subway ghost, forgotten when they reconfigured the station above. Crumbling tile walls. Ancient advertising posters, colors faded to sepia. A single emergency light casts weak illumination over a space that hasn’t seen regular human traffic in decades.
Perfect. Unmonitored. Off the grid.
I help Celeste out of the shaft, supporting her weight as she winces from the movement. The crawl has taken a visible toll—her face is pale beneath the grime, jaw tight with pain she’s been suppressing. The adrenaline that’s been keeping her going is fading fast.
“Where are we?” she asks, voice strained as she leans against the tiled wall.
“Looks like an abandoned platform segment. Probably sealed off during renovations.” I scan our surroundings, identifying possible exit routes. A rusted service door stands at the far end, likely leading to maintenance stairs. “We’re making progress. That door should take us?—”
“No.” The word is flat, final.
I turn to find her sliding down the wall to sit on the dusty concrete, one arm still wrapped protectively around her ribs.
“We need to keep moving,” I remind her.
“I’m not.” She shakes her head, eyes hard despite the pain evident in them. “Not until you tell me what’s happening here.”
“What’s happening is professionals are hunting you. We’ve covered this.”
“No.” She leans forward slightly, wincing at the movement. “You conveniently appeared at exactly the right moment. You know these tunnels like you designed them. You have combat training that dropped four armed men without breaking a sweat.”
“And?”
“And, now you’re dragging me through the bowels of D.C. without telling me where we’re going.” Her voice rises slightly. “For all I know, you’re leading me straight to whoever sent those men.”
I stare at her, incredulous. “If I wanted you dead, I’d have let those men handle it on the platform. Much cleaner than this subterranean tour.”
“Maybe you need me alive for questioning. Maybe you work for a competing interest.” Her journalist’s mind is spinning conspiracy theories. “Maybe this flash drive contains something you want.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, frustration mounting. This woman is the most stubborn, suspicious, infuriating civilian I’ve ever encountered. And considering I grew up with three older sisters who all joined the debate team, that’s saying something.
“I told you. I work private security. Cerberus Security.”
“Which could be contracted by anyone.”
“I was catching a train home after a holiday weekend. Period.”
“Convenient timing.”
I take a deep breath, trying to rein in my temper. “Look, I understand paranoia is a survival trait for investigative journalists, but this is ridiculous. I’m trying to help you.”
“Why?” She fixes me with an unnervingly direct stare. “Why risk your life for a complete stranger? What’s your stake in this?”
It’s a fair question. One I’ve been asking myself for the past hour. Why am I still here? Why didn’t I call local authorities and walk away?
