Page 9 of Brass
Ryan
We emergeonto the secondary tunnel level, a forgotten artery in the city’s underground circulatory system. The maintenance passage stretches in both directions and is narrower than the main tunnel below. Lower ceilings and exposed conduit pipes run along walls coated in decades of grime.
The air hangs heavy, carrying the sour tang of metal and dust. Not a breath stirs it, except for the faint scuff of boots that pass through every so often—workers moving fast, shoulders tight, as if eager to escape the draw of bad luck that landed them here.
I orient myself immediately. East-west alignment, running parallel to the Red Line. Approximately thirty feet below street level, if my mental mapping is correct. Two connecting vertical shafts within five hundred yards—one leading up to a ventilation grate near Dupont Circle, the other accessing a maintenance closet in Farragut North station.
Boots thunder past, then splinter in two directions. Silence hangs for a breath, broken by a radio’s clipped hiss—“check the ladder shaft.” Our scuffs streak the rust. They’ll smell the routewe took. Another cadence joins the first—heavier, closer—two squads tightening the noose.
Celeste leans against the curved wall, one arm wrapped protectively around her ribcage, the other pushing damp hair from her face. She’s favoring her left leg more now. The adrenaline is wearing off, and pain is seeping back in.
Despite this, her eyes remain alert, assessing. Taking stock of our environment with the sharp gaze of someone who observes for a living.
“How do you know these tunnels?” Her words snap out, sharp as the suspicion narrowing her eyes. “No normal person knows their way around service tunnels like they’re giving a guided tour.”
I should ignore her. Focus on the mission, the threat closing in. Instead, I catch the flicker of challenge in her gaze, the curl of her mouth daring me to break. A smile tugs, uninvited. Almost.
“I’m not a normal person.”
Her chin lifts, stubborn, reckless. “That’s not an answer.”
The space between us hums, tighter than it should be. Too dark, too close, too charged. The last thing I need is the heat rolling off her—defiance laced with fear, attraction pulsing beneath it all.
“It’s the only one you need right now.”
Her breath stumbles, quick and uneven, and I feel it like static in my chest. She doesn’t want to trust me, but her body leans, betraying her. I force my eyes forward, scanning the junction ahead, but the pull between us crackles hotter than the hunt at our backs.
“If I’m trusting you with my life, I deserve more than cryptic bullshit,” she counters.
Fair point. But opening up to targets—to civilians—creates complications. Attachments. Vulnerabilities. Rule one of protective detail: maintain professional distance.
But she’s also right. Trust requires something in return.
“Military,” I relent, keeping my voice low. “Stationed in D.C. for three years with a specialized unit. Part of our training involved urban navigation—knowing how to move through cities undetected, using infrastructure most people never see.”
Her expression shifts, suspicion tempered by understanding. “And now?”
“Now I make it my business to know escape routes wherever I am.” I check my watch. Seven minutes since we left the platform. “It’s kept me alive more than once.”
“Special Forces?” she guesses.
“Something like that.”
She’s fishing for details. Journalist to the core. Annoying and strangely admirable simultaneously. Persistence is an asset in her line of work, I suppose. In mine, it’s the quality that keeps targets alive when everything goes sideways.
Like now.
“We need to move,” I say, assessing our options. “There’s a maintenance exit that leads to Farragut North station. From there, we can blend with commuters and catch a train out of the area.”
She shakes her head immediately. “No. That’s exactly what they’ll expect. They’ll have men at every station exit by now.”
“Not this one. It’s access-restricted. Maintenance personnel only.”
“You really think professional killers won’t check staff exits?” She crosses her arms, wincing slightly at the pressure on her ribs. “We should head toward Connecticut Avenue. There’s more foot traffic, easier to disappear in crowds.”
I clench my jaw. This woman is questioning my extraction plan. My area of expertise. The audacity would be impressive if it weren’t so frustrating.
“Connecticut Avenue means going topside sooner. Exposing ourselves while they have vantage points.”
