Chapter 2 Ryan
TWO
Ryan
Rain hammers the platform roof, echoing through the station.
Four days in the nation’s capital is about three and a half too many.
Especially when those days revolve around my mother’s endless parade of “suitable” women at her Thanksgiving table.
Four potential daughters-in-law, each more aggressively cheerful than the last.
“You could have a normal life, Ryan. A good job. Children. Not running around the world getting shot at for people who don’t even know your name.”
My jaw tightens. Twenty years since Dad died, and she still doesn’t understand that some men are built for what I do. It’s in my DNA, just as it was in my father’s.
The platform is sparse for a Tuesday night.
Young couple at the far end, wrapped up in each other.
Homeless man asleep on a bench. Elderly woman gripping her purse like it contains the nuclear codes.
Group of teenagers sharing earbuds. Businessman buried in his phone. Standard nighttime metro crowd.
I roll my shoulders, trying to work the tension out. The briefcase at my feet contains the only decent thing from this visit—Mom’s pumpkin bread. Enough to share with the team back at Cerberus. Ghost will appreciate that at least.
Motion catches my eye. A woman practically flies down the escalator, her pace too urgent for casual travel. She’s favoring her left side—injured ribs most likely. Blood matting her hair at the temple. Rain-soaked.
Fleeing something.
She’s striking—all angles and determination. High cheekbones, full mouth set in a tight line, dark hair plastered across her shoulders. But it’s her eyes that grab me. Wide, wild, pumped full of adrenaline.
Hunted.
My pulse slows. Time dilates. The world crystallizes into data points and threat vectors—a skill honed across three continents and fourteen combat zones.
More movement at the top of the escalator. Four men descending. Not together, but synchronized. Staggered positions. Three-foot spacing. Too perfect to be coincidental.
Details snap into focus with photographic clarity. Then I do what I do best.
I protect.
Motion from the corner of my eye. I turn my head, maintaining peripheral awareness of the neutralized group. Four more men descend the escalator. Same tactical gear. Same purpose. Fresh operators while I’m already engaged.
Reinforcements.
The train approaches, brakes screeching. We need to be on it.
Gray Eyes follows my gaze, sees his backup. A smile spreads across his face despite his injury. “Like I said. Not over.”
I evaluate our position. First team: effectively neutralized for now, though Gray Eyes and the fourth man could still engage if pressed.
Second team: four fresh operators moving with purpose.
The woman behind me is injured, slowing our options.
The approaching train won’t reach us before the new team does.
Only one viable option.
“Change of plans,” I mutter, grabbing her wrist.
“What are you—”
I don’t wait for her to finish. I vault over the platform edge, dragging her with me. She lands hard beside me on the tracks, crying out as the impact jars her ribs.
“Are you insane?” she hisses, trying to pull away from me.
“Probably.” I pull her down into a service tunnel just as the train barrels past, covering our escape. “But we’re still breathing, so there’s that.”
She struggles against my grip. “Let go of me.”
“After I just saved your life?” The tunnel is narrow, pitch-black, except for the emergency lights creating pools of sickly yellow every fifty feet. “Keep moving.”
“Who are you? FBI? CIA?”
“Someone who risked his life for yours. Although the better question is: who are you, and why does a professional hit squad want you dead?” I navigate through the darkness, pulling her along.
“I had it under control.”
I stop dead in my tracks, spinning to face her. Even in the dim light, defiance blazes in her eyes.
“They were muggers,” she says, voice tight with obstinance. “I could have handled it.”
“Muggers? Are you fucking kidding me right now?”
“Language—”
“No.” I step closer, invading her space. “Muggers don’t move in tactical formation. Muggers don’t coordinate through comm units. Muggers don’t execute professional flanking maneuvers. And you know that.”
She lifts her chin defiantly despite being cornered. “You don’t know what you saw.”
“I know exactly what I saw.” My voice drops dangerously low. “I’ve spent fifteen years watching men like that operate on three continents. That was a professional hit squad with military training.”
“You’re paranoid,” she challenges, but her eyes dart away.
“And you’re lying.” I press closer, my frustration mounting with every heartbeat. “Why would a team of professional assassins target a random woman for a mugging?”
“I don’t know, maybe—”
“Stop.” I slam my palm against the tunnel wall beside her head. She flinches but doesn’t cower. “Whatever you’re involved in has painted a target on your back. Your refusal to acknowledge the danger isn’t just stupid—it’s going to get you killed.”
The tunnel suddenly vibrates, a distant rumble growing louder. Another train approaching.
“I don’t need your protection,” she hisses, face inches from mine. “And I certainly don’t need your lectures. You think I’m supposed to trust a guy who just snapped a man’s windpipe like it was nothing?”
“Would you prefer I let him put a bullet in your skull?” I counter, temper flaring. “Because that was the alternative.”
“How do I know you’re not one of them?” Her eyes flash with fear disguised as anger. “You appeared out of nowhere, killed three men without breaking a sweat—”
“Incapacitated,” I correct through gritted teeth. “And a simple ‘thank you’ wouldn’t kill you.”
“Thank you?” She shoves against my chest. “For what? Dragging me into a dark tunnel? For all I know, you’re worse than they are.”
The train’s rumble becomes a roar. The tunnel walls tremble.
“If I wanted to hurt you, I wouldn’t have saved you.” I have to shout over the growing noise. My patience unravels with each word. “Jesus Christ, woman, are you always this stubborn, or is it just when someone’s trying to keep you alive?”
“I don’t need a man to save me.” Her voice trembles despite her bravado. “I’ve handled worse.”
“Clearly not, or you wouldn’t have blood in your hair and men with military training hunting you.
” I lean closer, can almost taste the defiance radiating off her.
“Because from where I was standing, you had about ten seconds before those men put a bullet in your head and dumped your body on the tracks.”
“You don’t know anything about me or my situation.” Fear breaks through her voice now—real, raw fear.
The train’s rumble becomes a deafening roar.
“I know enough.” I shout over the noise. “You’re in over your head. Those weren’t ordinary criminals. And if you keep running without help, you’ll be dead before morning.”
Her jaw clenches. “I’ve never trusted anyone in my life, and I’m not about to start with some—some violent stranger who appears from nowhere.”
The approaching train’s headlight illuminates the tunnel, casting harsh shadows across her face. In seconds, tons of metal will hurtle past inches from where we stand.
“Trust this then.” I grab her shoulders and press her against the wall, shielding her body with mine as the train barrels toward us.
She gasps, hands instinctively gripping my arms. I flatten myself against her, pressing us both into the shallow alcove in the tunnel wall. Her breath comes in sharp bursts against my neck.
The train thunders past. Deafening. Violent. The wind it generates tears at my clothes, threatens to suck us into its path. I brace one arm above her head, the other wrapped around her waist, holding her secure against the wall, against me.
Chest to chest. Hip to hip. Her heartbeat hammers against mine.
Her face turns, cheek brushing mine, lips nearly touching my ear so I can hear her through the chaos. “This doesn’t mean I trust you.”
Something electric passes between us. Anger, fear, adrenaline—and something else entirely. Something dangerous.
The train passes, leaving us in near darkness, still pressed together. I should step back. I don’t.
“Doesn’t mean you don’t need me either,” I respond, voice rough. “Whatever mess you’re in, whoever those men are, they’re professionals. You can’t handle this alone.”
“I’ve always handled everything alone,” she whispers, but there’s less conviction now.
For three heartbeats, we stay locked together, breathing each other’s air. Her defiance making my blood run hot. Her vulnerability making my grip tighten. Both making my focus slip—a cardinal sin in my line of work.
I force myself to release her, creating distance. “We need to move.”
“Why should I go anywhere with you?” But she doesn’t back away.
“Because right now, I’m the only thing standing between you and whatever storm you’ve kicked up.” I check my watch. “We have about three minutes before they find the service entrance and come looking. So make your choice. Trust issues or survival?”
Her eyes search mine, looking for deception. “How do I know you won’t kill me yourself once we’re alone?”
“If that was my plan, I wouldn’t have bothered with the dramatic rescue.” I can’t keep the edge from my voice. “Contrary to what you might think, I don’t make a habit of saving women from professional killers for the exercise.”
For a moment, I think she might actually walk away. Then her shoulders slump, just slightly.
“Fine.” She swallows hard. “Where are we going?”
“Somewhere safe.” I take her elbow, gentler this time. “But first, I need to know: what’s your name, and why are there professional hit teams trying to kill you?”
She hesitates, calculating. Finally: “Celeste. Celeste Hart.”
“Well, Celeste Hart, I’m Ryan Ellis. And you’ve just made my already shitty week a whole lot more interesting.”