Page 83 of Brass
We stop at a sad little gas station on the outskirts of town. I send Celeste in with instructions while I rip out the truck’saftermarket radio—the only electronic component besides the ignition.
She comes back loaded down: water bottles, beef jerky, protein bars, first aid stuff, a prepaid flip phone still in its package, and two disposable cameras.
I raise an eyebrow. “Disposable cameras?”
“Film.” She’s already stashing everything in her backpack. “Analog. In case we need evidence that can’t be erased with a keystroke.”
Smart. Damn smart. Add it to the growing list of reasons Celeste Hart keeps surprising me. Her quick thinking, her guts, her refusal to just be a victim in all this.
And the way she looks in the morning light, auburn hair catching the sun, determination etched into every line of her face…
Focus, Ellis.
We drive another fifteen miles before pulling over at a small bridge. One by one, I remove the batteries from my devices and throw them in opposite directions, then pitch the phone into the rushing water below.
“Feels primitive,” Celeste says as we get back in the truck.
“Primitive keeps us alive.” I start the engine. “Phoenix was built to track modern humans—people who can’t take a shit without checking Instagram first. We’re going Stone Age on its ass.”
That gets me a smile. Small victory.
We turn northeast, taking back roads that barely qualify as roads. Oregon transforms around us—farmland to forest, civilization thinning out until we drive for hours without seeing another car.
“You’re sure this cabin isn’t compromised?” Celeste asks after we’ve been quiet for a while.
“Nothing’s certain anymore,” I admit. “But Ghost built this place. Paid cash for everything. Used cutouts for the few materials he couldn’t source himself. If Phoenix found it, we’re dead anyway.”
“Comforting.”
“I’m not known for my bedside manner.”
“I don’t know,” she says, a hint of mischief in her voice. “I might disagree.”
My eyes lock onto hers, gaze heavy with intent. “What we’ve done so far?” I let my voice drop to the register I know affects her. “That was barely a preview.”
She shifts in her seat, the mischief in her expression replaced by something darker, hungrier.
“Promise?” she whispers, the single word both shy and eager.
“I’ve been thinking about what comes next,” I continue, one hand leaving the wheel to brush my knuckles lightly against her thigh. “All the ways I want to push you. Test your limits. See just how completely you can surrender.”
I curl my fingers around her thigh, squeezing hard enough to make her gasp.
“You’ve awakened something in me. Something I usually keep tightly controlled.” My voice is barely above a whisper now. “But what I want to do to you requires more time and privacy than we have right now.”
“But first we survive,” I continue, reluctantly returning my focus to the road. “The cabin has what we need. Emergency equipment. Communication gear that Phoenix can’t track. And a way to examine that flash drive without broadcasting our location to every killer in the Pacific Northwest.”
“That sounds paranoid.”
“Mason’s paranoid.” Simple as that. “And right now, his paranoia might save us both.”
Long hours pass as we head back toward Montana, another twelve hour day, but I don’t care. Not with Celeste by my side.
The roads narrow as we climb higher, the pavement giving way to gravel, then packed dirt. Tree branches scrape the truck’s sides like fingers trying to hold us back. We pass the remains of old logging operations—rusted equipment slowly being reclaimed by the forest.
I pull into a clearing barely large enough for the truck and kill the engine.
“We walk from here,” I say, already getting out. “About two miles.”
