Page 8 of Brass
I shift slightly, angling my body to better conceal hers from view. The movement brings us impossibly closer. Her breath catches. Mine too, though I’d never admit it.
Our faces are inches apart now. Her eyes hold mine, no longer just afraid, but aware. Aware of me, of our bodies, of the bizarre intimacy forced upon us by circumstance.
My heartbeat accelerates to match hers. Medical impossibility, but I swear I feel them synchronize.
Voices echo through the tunnel.
“Spread out. They can’t have gone far.” American accent. Military cadence. Private contractor confirmed.
“Check all access points and maintenance areas.” Another voice, deeper. “Alpha team, continue straight. Bravo, take the south fork.”
They’re coordinating a sweep. Teams designated by phonetic alphabet—standard special ops procedure. These are ex-military, possibly Delta or SEAL based on their tactical discipline.
Celeste’s fingers grip the front of my jacket, knuckles white. Her eyes squeeze shut, her breath shallow. The enclosed space is getting to her.
“Look at me,” I whisper, barely audible.
Her eyes snap open.
“Breathe with me.” I maintain eye contact, deliberately slowing my breathing. In for four, hold for four, out for four. A technique from sniper school. Control your body, control the situation.
After three cycles, her breathing matches mine. Her grip on my jacket loosens slightly.
A flashlight beam sweeps past our alcove, illuminating the tunnel just beyond where we hide. We both freeze. If they do a thorough check, we’re cornered.
That’s when I see it. Above the junction box—a utility ladder embedded in the wall, leading to a maintenance shaft. It disappears into darkness, but I’m familiar with these systems.
It’ll connect to the secondary tunnel level, used for accessing the primary electrical conduits that run beneath the track beds.
The footsteps approach. Twenty feet away. Fifteen.
“Up,” I mouth silently, pointing to the ladder.
She follows my gesture, eyes widening with understanding.
I let her go first, keeping my body between her and the tunnel entrance as she grips the rusted metal rungs. She climbs silently, movements fluid despite her injuries. Journalist or not, she’s in decent shape. Adaptable.
Ten feet away. I need to follow now.
I grab the ladder and ascend rapidly, just as a flashlight beam cuts across the alcove entrance.
The shaft is narrow, barely wide enough for an average-sized man. Decades of grime coat the metal rungs. The darkness above us is absolute, save for a faint glow of emergency lighting filtering through what must be a ventilation grate higher up.
My hand accidentally grazes her thigh as I climb, the contact electric even through the fabric of her jeans. She sucks in a sharp breath, audible in the confined space.
“Sorry,” I mutter, the apology foreign on my tongue.
“It’s fine,” she whispers back, voice tight with something that isn’t just fear.
We climb in silence, but something has changed in the air between us. A charge. A recognition. The kind of spark that has no place in a professional extraction. The kind that gets people killed.
I clench my jaw and focus on the ladder rungs, on the voices fading below us, on anything but the woman climbing above me and the inexplicable pull I feel toward her.
Focus on the mission, Ellis. Get her out. Hand her off. Walk away.
We know that’s not happening.
FOUR
