Chapter 3 Ryan
THREE
Ryan
I lead Celeste Hart deeper into the maintenance tunnel, my fingers locked around her slender wrist. Her pulse hammers against my thumb—rapid, erratic. Afraid, but moving. Good enough for now.
Water drips from rusted pipes overhead, each droplet striking concrete with metronomic precision.
The rhythm marks our progress—thirty drops, forty feet gained. Sixty drops, another junction cleared.
The emergency lights flicker at irregular intervals, casting our shadows into grotesque, elongated versions of ourselves that dance along mildew-stained walls. The air hangs thick with decay and ozone, coating the back of my throat with each breath.
“How far?” Her voice barely rises above a whisper.
“Far enough that they lose our trail.” I don’t slow our pace.
Three minutes and twenty-seven seconds since we entered the service tunnel.
The hit team will have regrouped by now.
The two I incapacitated won’t be mobile, but the others—including the reinforcements—will have established a search grid.
Standard procedure after losing a target: secure all known exits, then sweep inward.
They’ll find the maintenance door we used in approximately ninety seconds.
I map our position in my head. These tunnels were part of my mental geography during my last D.C.
deployment—six years, two months ago. A habit from training: memorize escape routes, alternative paths, choke points.
Three service tunnels intersect seventeen yards ahead.
Left leads to the Red Line, populated areas.
Right stretches deeper into the maintenance network.
Straight continues parallel to the main line.
I choose right. Deeper is safer. Less predictable.
Her breathing grows shallower and more labored by the second. Contusion on her temple. Favoring her left knee. Factoring her injuries, I estimate we can maintain this pace for another six minutes before she falters. Not enough to reach the Georgetown access point I’m aiming for.
“Slow down,” she hisses, tugging against my grip.
I don’t. “They’re behind us.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
She keeps glancing over her shoulder, flinching at shadows, eyes wide and darting. A woman involved in something deadly enough to warrant a professional hit is afraid of the dark.
Ironic.
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 before she 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.
I shift slightly, angling my body to better conceal hers from view. The movement brings us impossibly closer. Her breath catches. Mine too, though I’d never admit it.
Our faces are inches apart now. Her eyes hold mine, no longer just afraid, but aware. Aware of me, of our bodies, of the bizarre intimacy forced upon us by circumstance.
My heartbeat accelerates to match hers. Medical impossibility, but I swear I feel them synchronize.
Voices echo through the tunnel.
“Spread out. They can’t have gone far.” American accent. Military cadence. Private contractor confirmed.
“Check all access points and maintenance areas.” Another voice, deeper. “Alpha team, continue straight. Bravo, take the south fork.”
They’re coordinating a sweep. Teams designated by phonetic alphabet—standard special ops procedure. These are ex-military, possibly Delta or SEAL based on their tactical discipline.
Celeste’s fingers grip the front of my jacket, knuckles white. Her eyes squeeze shut, her breath shallow. The enclosed space is getting to her.
“Look at me,” I whisper, barely audible.
Her eyes snap open.
“Breathe with me.” I maintain eye contact, deliberately slowing my breathing. In for four, hold for four, out for four. A technique from sniper school. Control your body, control the situation.
After three cycles, her breathing matches mine. Her grip on my jacket loosens slightly.
A flashlight beam sweeps past our alcove, illuminating the tunnel just beyond where we hide. We both freeze. If they do a thorough check, we’re cornered.
That’s when I see it. Above the junction box—a utility ladder embedded in the wall, leading to a maintenance shaft. It disappears into darkness, but I’m familiar with these systems.
It’ll connect to the secondary tunnel level, used for accessing the primary electrical conduits that run beneath the track beds.
The footsteps approach. Twenty feet away. Fifteen.
“Up,” I mouth silently, pointing to the ladder.
She follows my gesture, eyes widening with understanding.
I let her go first, keeping my body between her and the tunnel entrance as she grips the rusted metal rungs. She climbs silently, movements fluid despite her injuries. Journalist or not, she’s in decent shape. Adaptable.
Ten feet away. I need to follow now.
I grab the ladder and ascend rapidly, just as a flashlight beam cuts across the alcove entrance.
The shaft is narrow, barely wide enough for an average-sized man. Decades of grime coat the metal rungs. The darkness above us is absolute, save for a faint glow of emergency lighting filtering through what must be a ventilation grate higher up.
My hand accidentally grazes her thigh as I climb, the contact electric even through the fabric of her jeans. She sucks in a sharp breath, audible in the confined space.
“Sorry,” I mutter, the apology foreign on my tongue.
“It’s fine,” she whispers back, voice tight with something that isn’t just fear.
We climb in silence, but something has changed in the air between us. A charge. A recognition. The kind of spark that has no place in a professional extraction. The kind that gets people killed.
I clench my jaw and focus on the ladder rungs, on the voices fading below us, on anything but the woman climbing above me and the inexplicable pull I feel toward her.
Focus on the mission, Ellis. Get her out. Hand her off. Walk away.
We know that’s not happening.