Page 82 of Brass
“Everything?” Celeste’s hand goes to her pocket, where Jared’s flash drive sits like a ticking bomb.
“Everything except that.” I scan the mirrors as we pull away. “Phones, cards, anything with a circuit board. Phoenix has eyes everywhere. Time to go blind.”
She unfolds the map, fingers tracing potential routes. “How far to this cabin?”
He laughs. "Back in Montana. Ghost's cabin is in the northwestern mountains, completely off-grid. From here, it's mountain roads and logging tracks—slow going, but untraceable.”
“Montana? How ironic?”
“This time, we’ll be so indirect it’ll make a drunk snake look straight.”
We drive in silence for a while, the dense forest giving way to Portland’s sprawl. I keep us slightly under the speed limit—just enough to blend in, not enough to get caught on a traffic camera.
“I know a place in Gresham,” I say finally. “Guy named Mike. Ex-Marine. Runs a scrapyard. No cameras, cash only, and a pathological hatred of paperwork.”
“And the Chevelle?” She touches the dashboard like she’s saying goodbye to an old friend.
“Gets a nice vacation under a tarp while Phoenix chases false leads toward California.” I glance in the mirror again. Force of habit. Or maybe something more personal this time. “And when this is over, Mike will make sure it gets back to its owner. Leave a nice thank-you note for the unwitting loan.”
Morning traffic builds around us. Every car is a potential tail, every intersection a decision point. I weave through side streets and residential neighborhoods, avoiding main roads where cameras cluster like digital vultures.
“You’re worried about the rest of Cerberus,” Celeste says quietly. Not a question.
“If they’ve got into our systems, everyone’s exposed.” No point sugarcoating it. “Mason, Cooper, Jonah, Diego. The whole team.”
“Can you warn them?”
“Not with anything electronic.” I hang a right, doubling back on our route for the third time. “When things go this sideways, we go dark. Completely dark.”
“So how do you reach them?”
“Old school.” I tap my head. “Things we memorized. Places only we know about. Codes that never got written down. Real spy shit, but less sexy than the movies make it look.”
Mike’s scrapyard looks like tetanus waiting to happen. Rusted cars stacked three high, a chain-link fence that’s moreholes than metal, and a sign that says “MIKE’S” in letters faded by decades of Oregon sun and rain.
I pull around to the back, avoiding the front entrance, where there might be cameras, despite Mike’s paranoia. No sense taking chances. A massive man walks out of the garage, dirty rag in his hands.
“Wait here,” I tell Celeste. “Two minutes.”
“Ellis?” His eyes narrow, then he breaks into a yellow-toothed grin. “Holy shit, man.”
Mike still looks like he eats nails for breakfast—six-foot-four of muscle gone slightly soft around the middle, arms covered in fading Marine Corps tattoos, and the same high-and-tight he’s probably worn since Desert Storm.
“Need a favor, Mike.”
“You need wheels?” Mike asks after I explain just enough of the situation without getting into details. He knows better than to ask too many questions.
“And cash,” I add. “Account’s been compromised.”
Ten minutes later, we’re climbing into a truck that time forgot—a ‘92 Ford F-150 with more rust than paint and an engine that sounds like it’s coughing up a lung. Mike also handed over five thousand in cash stuffed in an old gym sock.
“Cerberus is good for it,” I told him.
“I know.” He clapped me on the shoulder. “Ghost saved my ass in Fallujah. Consider this payback with interest.”
The truck might be ugly, but it starts right up. “This thing will make it?” Celeste eyes our new ride like it might disintegrate under her.
“It’ll make it. And nobody looks twice at another piece-of-shit truck in the backwoods.” I pat the dashboard affectionately. “They only notice the pretty ones.”
