Page 5 of Brass
“No.” I step closer, invading her space. “Muggers don’t move in tactical formation. Muggers don’t coordinate through comm units. Muggers don’t execute professional flanking maneuvers. And you know that.”
She lifts her chin defiantly despite being cornered. “You don’t know what you saw.”
“I know exactly what I saw.” My voice drops dangerously low. “I’ve spent fifteen years watching men like that operate on three continents. That was a professional hit squad with military training.”
“You’re paranoid,” she challenges, but her eyes dart away.
“And you’re lying.” I press closer, my frustration mounting with every heartbeat. “Why would a team of professional assassins target a random woman for a mugging?”
“I don’t know, maybe?—”
“Stop.” I slam my palm against the tunnel wall beside her head. She flinches but doesn’t cower. “Whatever you’re involved in has painted a target on your back. Your refusal to acknowledge the danger isn’t just stupid—it’s going to get you killed.”
The tunnel suddenly vibrates, a distant rumble growing louder. Another train approaching.
“I don’t need your protection,” she hisses, face inches from mine. “And I certainly don’t need your lectures. You think I’m supposed to trust a guy who just snapped a man’s windpipe like it was nothing?”
“Would you prefer I let him put a bullet in your skull?” I counter, temper flaring. “Because that was the alternative.”
“How do I know you’re not one of them?” Her eyes flash with fear disguised as anger. “You appeared out of nowhere, killed three men without breaking a sweat?—”
“Incapacitated,” I correct through gritted teeth. “And a simple ‘thank you’ wouldn’t kill you.”
“Thank you?” She shoves against my chest. “For what? Dragging me into a dark tunnel? For all I know, you’re worse than they are.”
The train’s rumble becomes a roar. The tunnel walls tremble.
“If I wanted to hurt you, I wouldn’t have saved you.” I have to shout over the growing noise. My patience unravels with each word. “Jesus Christ, woman, are you always this stubborn, or is it just when someone’s trying to keep you alive?”
“I don’t need a man to save me.” Her voice trembles despite her bravado. “I’ve handled worse.”
“Clearly not, or you wouldn’t have blood in your hair and men with military training hunting you.” I lean closer, can almost taste the defiance radiating off her. “Because from where I was standing, you had about ten seconds before those men put a bullet in your head and dumped your body on the tracks.”
“You don’t know anything about me or my situation.” Fear breaks through her voice now—real, raw fear.
The train’s rumble becomes a deafening roar.
“I know enough.” I shout over the noise. “You’re in over your head. Those weren’t ordinary criminals. And if you keep running without help, you’ll be dead before morning.”
Her jaw clenches. “I’ve never trusted anyone in my life, and I’m not about to start with some—some violent stranger who appears from nowhere.”
The approaching train’s headlight illuminates the tunnel, casting harsh shadows across her face. In seconds, tons of metal will hurtle past inches from where we stand.
“Trust this then.” I grab her shoulders and press her against the wall, shielding her body with mine as the train barrels toward us.
She gasps, hands instinctively gripping my arms. I flatten myself against her, pressing us both into the shallow alcove in the tunnel wall. Her breath comes in sharp bursts against my neck.
The train thunders past. Deafening. Violent. The wind it generates tears at my clothes, threatens to suck us into its path.I brace one arm above her head, the other wrapped around her waist, holding her secure against the wall, against me.
Chest to chest. Hip to hip. Her heartbeat hammers against mine.
Her face turns, cheek brushing mine, lips nearly touching my ear so I can hear her through the chaos. “This doesn’t mean I trust you.”
Something electric passes between us. Anger, fear, adrenaline—and something else entirely. Something dangerous.
The train passes, leaving us in near darkness, still pressed together. I should step back. I don’t.
“Doesn’t mean you don’t need me either,” I respond, voice rough. “Whatever mess you’re in, whoever those men are, they’re professionals. You can’t handle this alone.”
