Page 1 of Brass
ONE
Celeste
The alleybehind Murphy’s Pub reeks of stale beer and cigarettes. Water drips from fire escapes overhead, a steady rhythm against the slick pavement. I check my watch again—8:27 PM. Jared’s late.
He’s never late.
I hunch deeper into my coat, scanning both ends of the alley. My messenger bag hangs heavy against my hip, laptop and recorder tucked inside. Three months chasing shadows. Three sources gone silent: Quentin Hargrove’s “heart attack” at forty-two with no prior health issues, Zara Nouri’s single-car accident on a straight dry road, and Lachlan Reeves’s “suicide” despite the half-finished wedding invitations on his desk.
And now Jared Caldwell, former data analyst at Northridge Defense Solutions, is the only one still answering my calls. The only one who might know what connects them all.
My phone buzzes. Text from a number I don’t recognize:Change of plans. Come to the Windsor Hotel. Room 512. Walls have ears.
My stomach knots. This isn’t protocol. But Jared’s paranoia has kept him alive this long, so I rush to my car and head across town to the hotel.
The Windsor is all faded elegance—brass fixtures tarnished just enough to suggest character rather than neglect. I take the stairs instead of the elevator, checking over my shoulder at each landing.
Room 512’s door stands slightly ajar.
“Jared?” My voice echoes in the empty hallway. I push the door open with my fingertips.
The copper smell hits me first. Metallic. Primal. Wrong.
Jared lies sprawled across the bed. His throat—God, his throat. A red line carved from ear to ear, blood soaking the white hotel sheets. His eyes, fixed and dilated, stare at the ceiling. His laptop is gone.
Bile surges up my throat. I should call the police. Should scream. Should run.
Instead, I move on instinct—a safeguard we swore we’d never need. If it ever comes to this,check the remote.
My hands shake as I slide the back panel off the TV remote. Batteries spill onto the carpet. One is hollow, a dummy. The flash drive is taped beneath the cover, exactly where he promised it would be.
For a second, I can’t breathe. He knew. He planned for this.
I shove the drive into my pocket.
And then I run.
Now, speeding through D.C.’s rain-slicked streets, every shadow feels like a predator. Every traffic light is a countdown to something terrible. The flash drive burns in my pocket, heavy with whatever secrets cost Jared his life.
And someone is following me.
A black SUV has been in my mirror since the corner of K and 14th. At first, I dismissed it as paranoia—a coincidence, justanother vehicle caught in the same downpour. But when I switch lanes? They follow. When I deliberately miss my turn onto Massachusetts? They miss theirs, too.
Another glance in the rearview. The SUV looms larger now. Closer. Too close for coincidence. Its headlights bore through the rain like twin predatory eyes, high beams deliberately switched on to blind me. The windshield wipers can’t keep up with the downpour, each swipe buying only a second of clarity before the world blurs again.
I grip the wheel tighter, knuckles whitening. Switch lanes again. Rush through a yellow light. The SUV follows, matching my every move.
Twenty blocks from the hotel, and I’m certain. I’m being hunted.
My heartbeat drowns out the radio. Sweat slicks my palms despite the cold air blasting from the vents. I take a sharp right onto a one-way street, tires skidding slightly on the wet pavement. The SUV hangs back for just a moment—hesitating—then accelerates.
Amateur move on my part. The street narrows. Less traffic. No witnesses.
The black vehicle surges forward. Gains on me. Ten car lengths. Five. Three.
I slam the accelerator to the floor. The engine whines in protest. Not enough.
In the mirror, I catch a glimpse of the driver. A flash of pale skin under the streetlights. No expression. No rage. No hurry. Just cold, calculating eyes locked on my car.
