Page 7 of Brass

I guide her around a corner where the tunnel narrows, the ceiling dropping lower. To our right, a junction box hums with electrical current. The vibration through the concrete signals an approaching train somewhere above—Red Line, based on the timing pattern.

The floor changes from smooth concrete to uneven brick, with sections crumbling from decades of moisture damage. Maintenance crews don’t prioritize areas passengers never see.

She stumbles, foot catching on exposed rebar. Her body pitches forward. I release her wrist, pivoting to catch her beforeshe hits the ground. My arms wrap around her waist, pulling her hard against my chest. The impact forces a small gasp from her lips.

For one suspended moment, we freeze. Her body flush against mine, soft curves pressed into hard angles. Her breath warm against my throat. The scent of her hair—citrus shampoo and rain—cuts through the tunnel’s mustiness. Even in the dim emergency lighting, I can count her eyelashes, see the tiny flecks of gold in her brown eyes as they widen, registering our sudden proximity.

Something electric passes between us. A current more dangerous than the humming junction box.

My hands should move. They don’t.

Her palms rest against my chest, neither pushing away nor pulling closer. Her heartbeat accelerates where our bodies connect—no longer from fear alone.

“I—” she starts.

The distant clang of metal against concrete freezes us both. The service door—forced open with what sounds like a breaching tool. Professional equipment. Professional team. Of course.

“What was that?” Her voice pitches higher, echoing slightly in the confined space.

I press my index finger against my lips. “They found our entry point.”

Voices bounce off concrete walls. Flashlight beams slice through the darkness behind us, sweeping methodical patterns across tunnel walls. Tactical search formation. They’re being thorough.

“Move,” I whisper, releasing her but maintaining contact. A tactical mistake. Less control, more connection. I do it anyway.

Sixty seconds until they reach our position. No time to outrun them.

I scan our surroundings. Twenty feet ahead, a maintenance alcove cuts into the left wall—electrical access point, judging by the junction box mounted inside. Deep enough to conceal two people if we press back into the shadows.

Perfect.

Without explanation, I pull her toward the alcove. Her resistance is immediate—tense muscles, heels dragging.

“Trust me for thirty seconds,” I mutter.

“Trust isn’t my strong suit.”

“Survival instinct better be.”

I guide her into the recess, positioning her against the back wall, then crowd in after her. The space is barely three feet deep, four feet wide. We’re chest to chest, her back pressed against decades-old brick, my body effectively pinning her in place.

Hiding her.

The intimacy is immediate and unwelcome. This close, I can feel the warmth radiating from her skin. Can smell that citrus scent mingled now with sweat and adrenaline. Can see the pulse point at the base of her throat fluttering like a trapped bird.

Damn it, Ellis. Focus.

“They’ll find us,” she whispers, eyes wide in the darkness.

“Not if you shut up and stop talking.”

She glares up at me, defiance sparking even in fear. This woman is the human equivalent of a lit fuse—explosive, unpredictable, and undeniably incendiary.

And she completely fucked my evening. I should be on a plane back to Seattle by now, back to the team and the mission docket waiting on my desk.

Instead, I’m pressed against a stranger in a dank subway tunnel, playing human shield against professional killers.

The footsteps grow louder. At least three sets, moving with purpose.