Page 70 of Brass
“I’ve been thinking,” she says as she works, voice deliberately casual in a way that immediately triggers my tactical awareness. “About Project Phoenix. About what I found in Jared’s files.”
The train rumbles beneath us,carrying us westward into uncertainty. Whatever revelation she’s about to share, I sense it will alter our understanding of the danger pursuing us—and perhaps the very nature of our mission.
I settle back against the pallet as she secures a bandage over my wound. Beyond the partially open door, darkness rushes past, punctuated by occasional lights from the world we’re temporarily escaping.
“I’m listening.”
TWENTY-FOUR
Celeste
The metallic tangof blood fills my nostrils, sharp and coppery against the musty smell of the freight car. My fingers tremble as I clean Ryan’s wound, the antiseptic wipe coming away red as I work.
“Hold still,” I murmur, though he hasn’t moved a millimeter. Even injured, his control remains absolute.
The train sways beneath us, a rhythmic rocking that travels through my knees where they press against the cold metal floor. Every joint, every vibration through the tracks transmits directly into my bones. The mechanical heartbeat of our escape.
“It’s not deep,” Ryan says, voice steady despite what must be significant pain. “Through-and-through across the deltoid. No arterial damage.”
Of course, he’s already made his assessment. Probably knew exactly what happened the moment the bullet struck, cataloging the damage with the same clinical precision he applies to everything.
“I’ll be the judge of that,” I reply, injecting authority into my voice. “My turn to play doctor.”
A ghost of a smile touches his lips, there and gone so quickly I might have imagined it. But I didn’t. I’m learning to read the micro-expressions that constitute Ryan Ellis’s emotional range. The slight crinkle near his eyes. The momentary softening around his mouth. The infinitesimal relaxation of his jaw. They all broadcast to me if I pay close attention.
And I do.
Pay attention.
It’s what makes me good at my job, what keeps me alive as an investigative journalist in war zones and cartel territories, and what makes me increasingly effective as Ryan’s partner rather than just his protectee.
Partner.
The word sends an unexpected warmth through me despite our circumstances.
The scent of machine oil, dust, metal, and something agricultural I can’t quite identify permeates the space. Thick straps secure the container stacks that form our shelter, their contents marked with shipping codes and destination markers. In the shadows between them, we’ve found temporary sanctuary.
I press a clean gauze pad against the wound, feeling the solid muscle beneath my fingertips. Ryan watches me work, his gaze a tangible weight. The intensity of those ice-blue eyes hasn’t diminished since our first encounter on that subway platform—if anything, it’s deepened, gained layers of meaning beyond tactical assessment.
“You’ve done this before,” he observes as I secure the bandage.
“I spent six months embedded with a medical unit in Syria,” I explain, focusing on the task rather than his proximity. “Picked up a few skills.”
The train hits a rough section of track, jostling us both. Ryan’s hand steadies me, warm palm against my waist. The touch sends electricity through me even now, after everything we’ve shared. The power of it is still disorienting—how quickly this man has gotten under my skin.
Into my blood.
His shoulder beneath my hands is a map of previous injuries—scars I’ve traced with my fingers, my lips. Evidence of a life lived at the edge of danger. Now, a new mark is added to his collection. Because of me. Because he chose to protect me when he could have walked away.
The guilt that’s been building since D.C. intensifies. If he knew what I’ve been holding back…
“There,” I say, securing the last piece of medical tape. “Not my best work, but it’ll hold until we can get somewhere to treat it properly.”
“It’s good,” he says, rolling his shoulder experimentally. “Clean. Professional.”
The compliment shouldn’t matter given our circumstances, but it does. His approval carries weight, though I’d never admit how much.
Outside, the night rushes past, occasionally broken by distant lights—a farmhouse, a road crossing, the scattered illumination of rural America sliding by as we rattle westward. The partial opening in the boxcar door lets in cold air, raising goosebumps along my arms. It carries the scent of pine and water—we must be near a river or lake.
