Page 68 of Brass
A clearing appears ahead, moonlight illuminating what appears to be a maintenance area of some kind. As we drawcloser, details emerge—a small collection of storage sheds, equipment parked in haphazard rows, the glint of metal rails.
A railway yard.
Celeste sees it the exact moment I do, her pace faltering slightly as she processes the implications. “Train yard,” she gasps, breathing hard from our sustained sprint. “Could be a way out.”
My mind races through the possibilities, weighing options against pursuit timelines. A static location is a death trap with operators closing in, but the yard offers potential resources if we move quickly enough.
“There.” Celeste points toward a maintenance truck parked near one of the sheds. “Keys might be inside.”
I shake my head, scanning the area. “Too obvious. They’ll have the description of our rental. Any vehicle we take becomes an immediate target.”
Her eyes follow mine as I assess the yard, landing on the real opportunity—a freight train positioned on the far tracks, engine idling with the low rumble of diesel power. Workers move around the forward cars, loading final cargo before departure.
“The train,” I say, decision made. “Heading west. We can take it to Spokane and then hop on another to Portland.”
Understanding blooms across her features. “We have to switch trains?”
“Yes. But it gives us distance and time we don’t currently have. They’ll think we’re headed direct to Seattle.”
A shout from the forest edge confirms the pursuit has found our trail. Flashlight beams cut through the darkness, converging on the service road we just traveled.
I guide Celeste into the shadow of a storage container, eyes never leaving the train as I formulate our approach. “We need to reach those rear cars without being spotted by either the workers or our pursuers.”
She nods, gaze calculating as she studies the yard. “The loading equipment creates a corridor of shadow along the southern edge.”
Again, her observational skills impress me. It’s the route I already identified—using the loaders and stacked cargo as concealment. “Thirty seconds to cross open ground before we reach cover. Then we parallel the train until we find an accessible car.”
“Lead the way.”
The simple trust in those three words hits me with unexpected force. Six days ago, she fought me on every directive. Now she places her life in my hands without hesitation.
We move as one unit across the exposed ground, staying low, using the minimal available shadows. The pursuit has reached the yard perimeter, voices calling out positions as they establish a containment strategy.
Twenty feet to the first cover point. Fifteen. Ten.
A figure steps out from behind a forklift, the silhouette unmistakable—tactical posture, weapon at ready low. He’s facing away from us, attention focused on coordinating with his team rather than searching his immediate area.
A mistake that gives us our opening.
I signal Celeste to freeze, then advance alone, footsteps silent on the packed earth. The operative never registers my approach until my arm locks around his throat, cutting off both air and sound. His training shows in his immediate response—elbow driving back toward my ribs, foot stamping toward my instep.
I counter each move, maintaining the blood choke until his struggles weaken, then cease altogether. I lower his unconscious form to the ground, acquiring his radio in the process.
Celeste appears at my side, her expression a mixture of shock and admiration. “Is he…?”
“Unconscious,” I confirm, securing the operator’s weapon and checking his tactical vest for anything useful. “He’ll wake with a headache in about three minutes. We need to be on that train by then.”
The radio crackles with coded updates as the team continues establishing its perimeter. I clip it to my belt—tactical intelligence is invaluable, and monitoring their communications gives us a critical advantage.
We continue along our planned route, using the shadow corridor created by the loading equipment. The train rumbles fifty feet to our right, cars being sealed as final preparations for departure commence.
“How do we know which car to board?” Celeste whispers as we crouch behind a stack of shipping pallets.
Before I can answer, the radio at my belt crackles to life. “Echo One, status report. Echo One, come in.”
The operative I neutralized missing his check-in. Their response is immediate.
“All units, possible compromise at southwest quadrant. Converge and sweep.”
