Page 98 of Brass

Flames.

A towering column of fire licks the sky, orange and gold and terrifyingly beautiful, twisting upward from where the boat used to be. Burning shrapnel rains down in arcs, some pieces still glowing red-hot as they hiss into the water.

The ocean is a roiling mess of foam and heat, the acrid scent of fuel and char thick on the back of my tongue.

Ryan’s face is ghost-lit by the inferno, his expression unreadable—but his gaze locks on mine, solid and grounding.

“Keep moving,” he says, voice low and sharp over the hiss of burning wreckage.

We swim parallel to the coast, the burning wreckage receding behind us. From shore, witnesses will be calling 911, reporting the explosion. Within minutes, emergency services will respond—Coast Guard, local police, and fire boats. All arriving too late to save the couple tragically caught in a freak accident.

All documenting the deaths of Ryan Ellis and Celeste Hart with meticulous attention.

The cold seeps through my wetsuit as we swim, muscles protesting the continued exertion. Ryan stays close, occasionally checking our position against the shoreline. It’s a long swim. A thousand yards to the extraction point.

By the time we reach the shadowed edge of the cove, I’m half delirious from cold and adrenaline, my limbs sluggish, my strokes uneven. My muscles scream with every movement, lungs raw from salt and panic and the burn of escape.

Ryan grabs my arm, guiding me toward a low silhouette bobbing in the water. A dark shape—small, fast, and familiar.

The Zodiac.

A figure crouches at the bow, face obscured by a knit cap and low light, but the voice is unmistakable.

“Jesus, you idiots cut it close.” Jeb’s tone is all grumble and grit as he hauls me over the side like I weigh nothing. I collapse onto the rubber floor of the boat, gasping.

Ryan’s right behind me, swinging himself up with an ease that makes me want to hit him. Or kiss him. I haven’t decided yet.

“Nice to see you too, Jeb,” Ryan mutters, stripping off his mask and tossing it aside.

“Your fireworks made the evening news already,” Jeb says, gunning the engine. The Zodiac surges forward, bouncing hard across the waves. “I’ve got the Coast Guard scanner running. Search and recovery’s already underway.”

I huddle low beside Ryan, teeth chattering uncontrollably now that the movement has stopped. He pulls me into his side, wrapping one arm around my soaked shoulders and letting his body block the wind. No words. Just warmth. Just him.

Ten minutes later, the lights of a commercial fishing trawler rise out of the fog like a ghost ship. No name on the hull. Running lights dim. Every inch of it screams cover-op.

Jeb pulls alongside. A rope ladder drops. Ryan climbs first, agile despite the weight of wet gear and fatigue. Then he leans down, grips me under the arms, and hauls me up like he’s done it a hundred times.

The second we’re aboard, the Zodiac peels away into the dark.

No greetings. No introductions. Just a silent handoff as a man in oilskins leads us below deck where dry clothes, warm blankets, and hot coffee wait like a mirage. I barely have time to sip before the deep thrum of rotor blades builds above us.

Ryan grabs my hand. “That’s us.”

Up we go—onto the helipad welded to the rear deck. The wind hits like a slap, salty and sharp. The chopper hovers in the darkness, its belly open, side lights pulsing faintly in the mist.

The winch lowers. Ryan clips me in, fast and tight, then hooks himself beside me.

“Hold on,” he says, voice pitched to reach me over the roar.

I don’t let go.

Not as we rise.

Not as the trawler shrinks below.

Not as the darkness swallows everything behind us.

We vanish into the night, our deaths already on record.