Page 11 of Brass

“They’re good.” I grab her arm, turning back the way we came. “We need to move.”

“To where? You just said this was our exit route.”

Valid question. I scan our surroundings with renewed urgency, calculating options. The voices grow louder. Two minutes, maybe less, before they reach our position.

Then I spot it—a maintenance access panel set into the wall about three feet off the ground. The kind that leads to utility crawlspaces where workers access pipes and wiring between main passages. Overlooked on my first assessment because it’s not a primary transit route.

“There.” I move toward it, working my tactical knife into the edge of the panel. The corroded screws give way with minimal resistance, and the panel swings open to reveal a narrow shaft. Very narrow. Pitch-black beyond the entrance.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Celeste shakes her head vehemently. “I’m not crawling in there.”

“It’s that or explain to those men why you have classified data on that flash drive in your pocket,” I counter, hearing the voices grow closer.

Her face goes still. “How did you know about?—”

“I didn’t. Until now.” I give her a pointed look. “Your hand keeps checking your right pocket every thirty seconds. Classic tell for carrying something valuable.”

Her fingers instantly move away from said pocket. Guilt confirmed.

“What’s on it?”

“Nothing that concerns you.” Defensive now.

“It concerns me when it’s getting us both killed.” I gesture to the shaft. “Now get in. You first.”

“Why me first?”

“Because I need to replace this panel behind us.”

The voices are close enough now to distinguish words. They’ve found the junction box I tampered with. They know we came this way.

FIVE

Ryan

Celeste looksat the tiny opening, then back at the passage where flashlight beams have begun to illuminate the distant curve, then back at me. Decision made.

“If we get stuck in there and die, I’m going to kill you.” Paradoxical threat, but I get the sentiment.

“Noted.” I boost her up, hands at her waist, trying to ignore the way her body feels under my palms. “Stay on your stomach. Army crawl. Elbows and toes. Move steadily but don’t rush.”

She slithers into the opening with surprising agility for someone with injured ribs. I follow immediately, pulling the access panel closed behind us as best I can from the inside.

Complete darkness engulfs us. The shaft is even tighter than it appeared from the outside. My shoulders scrape against both sides simultaneously, back brushing against the top. The claustrophobic squeeze would trigger panic in most civilians, but Celeste keeps moving ahead of me. Impressive.

We crawl in silence, every breath too loud, too shallow, trapped with us in the narrow dark. Dust grits between my teeth, coats my tongue until swallowing feels like dragging sandpaper down my throat. Each inhale burns, the stench of old wires andinsulation clinging to my lungs like poison. The metal closes in on all sides—cold against my palms, bruising across my shoulders as we squeeze past cross-braces. When a train passes somewhere above, the whole shaft shudders, pressing the air tighter, as if the tunnel itself is trying to crush us.

And Celeste. Always Celeste.

Directly ahead of me in the darkness, close enough that my hand occasionally brushes against her foot or calf as we navigate the confined space. Each inadvertent contact sends an inappropriate jolt through me.

“How much farther?” Her whisper echoes slightly in the metal confines.

“I don’t know,” I admit. Vulnerability isn’t my default setting, but the situation demands honesty. “These maintenance shafts typically run between major junctions. Should be an exit panel eventually.”

“‘Eventually’ isn’t very reassuring.”

“Better than ‘we’re trapped.’”