Chapter 4 Ryan
FOUR
Ryan
We emerge onto the secondary tunnel level, a forgotten artery in the city’s underground circulatory system. The maintenance passage stretches in both directions and is narrower than the main tunnel below. Lower ceilings and exposed conduit pipes run along walls coated in decades of grime.
The air hangs heavy, carrying the sour tang of metal and dust. Not a breath stirs it, except for the faint scuff of boots that pass through every so often—workers moving fast, shoulders tight, as if eager to escape the draw of bad luck that landed them here.
I orient myself immediately. East-west alignment, running parallel to the Red Line.
Approximately thirty feet below street level, if my mental mapping is correct.
Two connecting vertical shafts within five hundred yards—one leading up to a ventilation grate near Dupont Circle, the other accessing a maintenance closet in Farragut North station.
Boots thunder past, then splinter in two directions. Silence hangs for a breath, broken by a radio’s clipped hiss—“check the ladder shaft.” Our scuffs streak the rust. They’ll smell the route we took. Another cadence joins the first—heavier, closer—two squads tightening the noose.
Celeste leans against the curved wall, one arm wrapped protectively around her ribcage, the other pushing damp hair from her face. She’s favoring her left leg more now. The adrenaline is wearing off, and pain is seeping back in.
Despite this, her eyes remain alert, assessing. Taking stock of our environment with the sharp gaze of someone who observes for a living.
“How do you know these tunnels?” Her words snap out, sharp as the suspicion narrowing her eyes. “No normal person knows their way around service tunnels like they’re giving a guided tour.”
I should ignore her. Focus on the mission, the threat closing in. Instead, I catch the flicker of challenge in her gaze, the curl of her mouth daring me to break. A smile tugs, uninvited. Almost.
“I’m not a normal person.”
Her chin lifts, stubborn, reckless. “That’s not an answer.”
The space between us hums, tighter than it should be. Too dark, too close, too charged. The last thing I need is the heat rolling off her—defiance laced with fear, attraction pulsing beneath it all.
“It’s the only one you need right now.”
Her breath stumbles, quick and uneven, and I feel it like static in my chest. She doesn’t want to trust me, but her body leans, betraying her. I force my eyes forward, scanning the junction ahead, but the pull between us crackles hotter than the hunt at our backs.
“If I’m trusting you with my life, I deserve more than cryptic bullshit,” she counters.
Fair point. But opening up to targets—to civilians—creates complications. Attachments. Vulnerabilities. Rule one of protective detail: maintain professional distance.
But she’s also right. Trust requires something in return.
“Military,” I relent, keeping my voice low. “Stationed in D.C. for three years with a specialized unit. Part of our training involved urban navigation—knowing how to move through cities undetected, using infrastructure most people never see.”
Her expression shifts, suspicion tempered by understanding. “And now?”
“Now I make it my business to know escape routes wherever I am.” I check my watch. Seven minutes since we left the platform. “It’s kept me alive more than once.”
“Special Forces?” she guesses.
“Something like that.”
She’s fishing for details. Journalist to the core. Annoying and strangely admirable simultaneously. Persistence is an asset in her line of work, I suppose. In mine, it’s the quality that keeps targets alive when everything goes sideways.
Like now.
“We need to move,” I say, assessing our options. “There’s a maintenance exit that leads to Farragut North station. From there, we can blend with commuters and catch a train out of the area.”
She shakes her head immediately. “No. That’s exactly what they’ll expect. They’ll have men at every station exit by now.”
“Not this one. It’s access-restricted. Maintenance personnel only.”
“You really think professional killers won’t check staff exits?” She crosses her arms, wincing slightly at the pressure on her ribs. “We should head toward Connecticut Avenue. There’s more foot traffic, easier to disappear in crowds.”
I clench my jaw. This woman is questioning my extraction plan. My area of expertise. The audacity would be impressive if it weren’t so frustrating.
“Connecticut Avenue means going topside sooner. Exposing ourselves while they have vantage points.”
“So, your plan is to stay in the tunnels? For how long?” She gestures at our surroundings. “This isn’t exactly five-star accommodations, and in case you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly in peak condition.”
My gaze drops to her ribcage, where she’s still cradling her injury, then to her leg, which she’s favoring more with each passing minute. She has a point, damn it. Extended tunnel navigation will only worsen her condition. But surface exposure creates different risks.
“What we need,” I say, mentally recalculating our position, “is to get you somewhere secure for medical attention. Somewhere they can’t trace.”
“My apartment …” she offers.
“Isn’t safe anymore.” I shake my head. “If they found you once, they’ve burned all your known locations.”
Her expression darkens. “You don’t know that.”
“I do, because it’s what I would do.” I hold her gaze steadily. “These aren’t amateurs. They had a four-man team on primary intercept and a second team as backup. That’s not a mugging. That’s not even a standard hit. That’s a high-priority termination order.”
She goes silent, the reality of her situation finally sinking in.
I soften my approach slightly. “I have contacts. Resources. But we need to get clear of this area first.”
Her eyes search mine, looking for deception, for an angle, for God knows what. I maintain eye contact, letting her see whatever she needs to see to trust me for the next hour.
“Fine,” she finally says. “So, what’s the compromise?”
I process our options, weighing variables such as her injury, pursuit patterns, environmental factors, and time constraints. An alternative emerges.
“R Street water drainage tunnel,” I decide. It connects to these maintenance passages about three hundred yards east. It’ll take us to an outlet near Rock Creek Park. It’s less monitored, has good cover, and gives us surface access away from cameras.”
She considers this, then nods reluctantly. “How far?”
“Fifteen minutes at a steady pace.”
“Then let’s go.” She pushes off from the wall, determination overriding pain.
Something shifts in my assessment of her. Stubborn, yes. Argumentative, definitely. But also, resilient. Adaptive. The kind of person who keeps going when others would collapse.
I take point, leading us east through the tunnel, slowing just enough for her to keep up with the limp in her stride.
Her breathing trails me, uneven, soft at first, then catching on a sharp inhale whenever a step jars her ribs.
Each flinch threads into the silence, pulling tighter with every echo off the concrete walls.
I check back more often than necessary. Noticing the determination in the set of her jaw when she thinks I’m not looking.
Annoying. Inconvenient. Intriguing.
Definitely not part of the mission parameters I’ve set for myself.
Definitely not within my control anymore.
We round the corner into the eastern passage and stop dead. The tunnel ahead is completely blocked—a section of the ceiling collapsed into a mountain of concrete chunks, twisted rebar, and severed pipes. Water sprays from a ruptured line, pooling at the base of the debris.
“Shit,” I mutter, surveying the blockage. No way through. No way around.
Celeste steps up beside me. “Please tell me this isn’t our only route.”
“It wasn’t on my mental map.” I scan the blockage, looking for any gap large enough to squeeze through. Nothing. “Infrastructure collapses happen. Nature of aging systems.”
“So, what now, navigator?” Her voice carries an edge of panic beneath the sarcasm.
Before I can answer, a sound echoes from the passage behind us. Voices. Distant but clear. Our pursuers have found the access ladder.
“They’re on our level,” I say, keeping my voice low.
Her eyes widen. “How is that possible?”
“They’re good.” I grab her arm, turning back the way we came. “We need to move.”
“To where? You just said this was our exit route.”
Valid question. I scan our surroundings with renewed urgency, calculating options. The voices grow louder. Two minutes, maybe less, before they reach our position.
Then I spot it—a maintenance access panel set into the wall about three feet off the ground. The kind that leads to utility crawlspaces where workers access pipes and wiring between main passages. Overlooked on my first assessment because it’s not a primary transit route.
“There.” I move toward it, working my tactical knife into the edge of the panel. The corroded screws give way with minimal resistance, and the panel swings open to reveal a narrow shaft. Very narrow. Pitch-black beyond the entrance.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Celeste shakes her head vehemently. “I’m not crawling in there.”
“It’s that or explain to those men why you have classified data on that flash drive in your pocket,” I counter, hearing the voices grow closer.
Her face goes still. “How did you know about—”
“I didn’t. Until now.” I give her a pointed look. “Your hand keeps checking your right pocket every thirty seconds. Classic tell for carrying something valuable.”
Her fingers instantly move away from said pocket. Guilt confirmed.
“What’s on it?”
“Nothing that concerns you.” Defensive now.
“It concerns me when it’s getting us both killed.” I gesture to the shaft. “Now get in. You first.”
“Why me first?”
“Because I need to replace this panel behind us.”
The voices are close enough now to distinguish words. They’ve found the junction box I tampered with. They know we came this way.