Page 14 of Brass

The answer isn’t one I particularly like.

“I don’t have an agenda,” I say finally. “I saw someone in trouble and acted. That’s it.”

“Nobody does that,” she counters, the cynicism of her profession showing. “Not without an angle.”

“Some of us do.” An edge creeps into my voice. “Some of us can’t walk past someone being targeted and do nothing.”

“I’m not moving until you tell me who you are.” Her chin lifts in defiance despite her exhaustion. “The full truth.”

“We don’t have time for this.” I check my watch. “The longer we stay in one place, the more likely those men will find our trail again.”

“Make time.”

I’m about to respond when something catches my eye—a faint light flickering in the maintenance shaft we just exited. Distant but approaching. They’ve found our route.

“We’re out of time,” I say, moving toward her. “They’re in the shaft.”

SIX

Ryan

Celeste turnsand sees the light. Fear flashes across her face, but the stubborn set of her jaw doesn’t waver. “Then answer fast.”

Something inside me snaps. The patience I’ve been clinging to evaporates.

“Fine. Ryan Ellis. Former Delta Force. Eight years Special Ops, too many combat tours. Now I run extraction and protection details for Cerberus Personal Security. I was in D.C. visiting my mother, who spent the entire weekend reminding me that at thirty-five, I should be married with 2.5 kids instead of ‘playing soldier’ across the globe. I was heading home to Seattle, with a loaf of her pumpkin bread in my bag, when I saw four men about to kill you. I intervened because that’s what I’m trained to do and because no matter how aggravating you are—and trust me, you’re setting records—I don’t let civilians die when I can prevent it.”

Her eyes widen slightly at my outburst.

“That’s who I am. Satisfied? Because in about forty seconds, those men are going to emerge from that shaft, and all your questions will be pointless if we’re dead.”

She stares at me, processing, calculating. The light in the shaft grows brighter.

“If you’re lying—” she starts.

“You’ll what? Report me to the Better Business Bureau? Write a scathing editorial?” I extend my hand to help her up. “Decide now. Trust me or face them alone.”

Her hand reaches for mine, but her leg buckles beneath her as she tries to stand. The color drains from her face as she gasps in pain.

“I can’t—” she manages through gritted teeth. “My knee?—”

The flashlight beam is now close enough to illuminate the shaft’s far end.

No time for debate. No time for trust-building exercises.

I make the call.

I hoist her over my shoulder in a fireman’s carry, supporting her weight across my shoulders with one arm anchoring her legs.

“Put me down.” Her whisper strikes hot, fierce as a slap.

“You can chastise me later,” I respond, already moving toward the service door. “Right now, we’re getting out of here alive.”

Her fists pound against my back in protest—impressively strong despite her injuries, though not enough to deter me. I kick open the rusted service door with more force than necessary, the metal groaning in protest as decades-old hinges give way.

A stairwell appears beyond, spiraling upward toward street level. I take the steps two at a time despite the extra weight, adrenaline overriding the strain in my shoulders and legs.

“This is assault,” she mutters near my ear, her breath warm against my neck as she hangs upside down.