Chapter 5 Ryan
FIVE
Ryan
Celeste looks at the tiny opening, then back at the passage where flashlight beams have begun to illuminate the distant curve, then back at me. Decision made.
“If we get stuck in there and die, I’m going to kill you.” Paradoxical threat, but I get the sentiment.
“Noted.” I boost her up, hands at her waist, trying to ignore the way her body feels under my palms. “Stay on your stomach. Army crawl. Elbows and toes. Move steadily but don’t rush.”
She slithers into the opening with surprising agility for someone with injured ribs. I follow immediately, pulling the access panel closed behind us as best I can from the inside.
Complete darkness engulfs us. The shaft is even tighter than it appeared from the outside. My shoulders scrape against both sides simultaneously, back brushing against the top. The claustrophobic squeeze would trigger panic in most civilians, but Celeste keeps moving ahead of me. Impressive.
We crawl in silence, every breath too loud, too shallow, trapped with us in the narrow dark.
Dust grits between my teeth, coats my tongue until swallowing feels like dragging sandpaper down my throat.
Each inhale burns, the stench of old wires and insulation clinging to my lungs like poison.
The metal closes in on all sides—cold against my palms, bruising across my shoulders as we squeeze past cross-braces.
When a train passes somewhere above, the whole shaft shudders, pressing the air tighter, as if the tunnel itself is trying to crush us.
And Celeste. Always Celeste.
Directly ahead of me in the darkness, close enough that my hand occasionally brushes against her foot or calf as we navigate the confined space. Each inadvertent contact sends an inappropriate jolt through me.
“How much farther?” Her whisper echoes slightly in the metal confines.
“I don’t know,” I admit. Vulnerability isn’t my default setting, but the situation demands honesty. “These maintenance shafts typically run between major junctions. Should be an exit panel eventually.”
“‘Eventually’ isn’t very reassuring.”
“Better than ‘we’re trapped.’”
She falls silent, continuing to crawl. I find myself oddly transfixed by the determination in her movements—steady, methodical, refusing to give in to what must be significant pain from her injuries. This woman has grit.
The shaft pitches upward without warning, narrowing as it angles into a brutal incline. Not quite vertical, but damn close. My shoulders barely clear the walls.
“This is getting steeper,” she warns, voice tight with effort. “I can barely get traction.”
“Use the cross-braces for leverage. Forearms locked—pull with your upper body strength.”
Ahead, fabric scrapes against metal, the hitch and drag of her movement uneven in the dark. Her breathing sharpens, each pull rougher, more strained, echoing off the walls of the shaft.
“I can’t—” A gasp, then the sound of her hands slipping.
Her body jerks, then slides backward. Boots slam into my shoulders, knocking the breath out of me. She claws for purchase, but there’s nothing—just her full weight pressing down.
Suddenly, her thighs clamp around my head, heat searing through layers of fabric. I’m caged, smothered, straddled in the worst possible way inside a damn ventilation shaft.
Fuck.
My hands shoot to her hips, steadying us both before we tumble into a heap. She goes rigid at the touch.
“This isn’t exactly how I pictured our first date,” I grind out, deadpan, because if I don’t joke, I’ll lose it.
A shaky breath rattles from her. “Shut up,” she mutters, voice trembling—not sharp with anger this time, but something far messier.
We freeze there, a tangle of limbs and bad timing. Her knees clamp on either side of my ears. One boot digs into the wall, the other grinds against my ribs. Every shuddering inhale drags her against me in ways neither of us should be noticing.
Hell of a place to get acquainted.
We are fused together in the darkness. Locked in a moment so electric, sparks dance down my spine.
“Sorry,” she murmurs, voice uncharacteristically soft.
“It’s okay.” My voice sounds strange to my ears. Lower. Rougher.
I should push her forward. Should maintain whatever minimal professional boundaries still exist in this absurd situation. Instead, I find myself hyperaware of every point of contact between us.
This isn’t my job. She isn’t my assignment. I have no obligation beyond basic human decency to help her escape these men. I could have walked away after the subway platform. Should have, probably.
But here I am, wedged in a maintenance shaft in complete darkness with a woman who challenged a hit squad, risking my life for reasons that increasingly have nothing to do with professional ethics or training protocols and everything to do with the inexplicable pull I feel toward her.
“I think—” she starts, then stops. Shifts slightly, creating a friction that sends heat coursing through me. “I can try again.”
“Like I said, use the cross-braces for leverage,” I manage to say, my voice rougher than intended. “Like climbing a ladder horizontally.”
“That seems to be working better,” she says after a few moments of renewed effort.
I follow her progress up the incline, keeping enough distance to avoid another collision but close enough to catch her if needed. We make steady progress upward until the shaft finally levels out again.
“There’s light ahead,” she whispers after several more minutes of crawling.
I angle over her shoulder in the cramped shaft, and a thin glow bleeds through the slats of an access panel about fifteen feet ahead—pale, fractured, promising air and space beyond the chokehold of steel.
“Good,” I acknowledge.
We reach the panel together. I maneuver around her to examine it, our bodies sliding past each other in a full-contact exchange that I try—and fail—to keep impersonal.
Her breath catches when my chest presses against her back.
Mine does the same when her hand accidentally grips my thigh for stability.
“Sorry,” we both mutter simultaneously.
I focus on the panel, working my fingers around the edge, feeling for a release mechanism. “I think it opens from this side.”
“Can you tell what’s on the other side?”
“Not without opening it.”
I find the latch and pause, listening for any sound indicating pursuit or danger. Nothing but the distant rumble of trains.
“Ready?” I ask.
She takes a deep breath. “As I’ll ever be.”
I shove the panel outward, hinges groaning, and white light crashes into the shaft. It sears after so long in the dark, stabbing my eyes until they water. I blink hard, shapes slowly sharpening—the wide room beyond, the stretch of concrete floor, the hum of fluorescent lights.
Air moves freer here, cool against my face, loosening the knot in my chest. But the space feels too open, too exposed, every shadow a place for danger to wait. My pulse lifts, caught between the release of fresh air and the prickling edge of being seen.
We emerge into what appears to be an abandoned platform section—a subway ghost, forgotten when they reconfigured the station above.
Crumbling tile walls. Ancient advertising posters, colors faded to sepia.
A single emergency light casts weak illumination over a space that hasn’t seen regular human traffic in decades.
Perfect. Unmonitored. Off the grid.
I help Celeste out of the shaft, supporting her weight as she winces from the movement. The crawl has taken a visible toll—her face is pale beneath the grime, jaw tight with pain she’s been suppressing. The adrenaline that’s been keeping her going is fading fast.
“Where are we?” she asks, voice strained as she leans against the tiled wall.
“Looks like an abandoned platform segment. Probably sealed off during renovations.” I scan our surroundings, identifying possible exit routes. A rusted service door stands at the far end, likely leading to maintenance stairs. “We’re making progress. That door should take us—”
“No.” The word is flat, final.
I turn to find her sliding down the wall to sit on the dusty concrete, one arm still wrapped protectively around her ribs.
“We need to keep moving,” I remind her.
“I’m not.” She shakes her head, eyes hard despite the pain evident in them. “Not until you tell me what’s happening here.”
“What’s happening is professionals are hunting you. We’ve covered this.”
“No.” She leans forward slightly, wincing at the movement. “You conveniently appeared at exactly the right moment. You know these tunnels like you designed them. You have combat training that dropped four armed men without breaking a sweat.”
“And?”
“And, now you’re dragging me through the bowels of D.C. without telling me where we’re going.” Her voice rises slightly. “For all I know, you’re leading me straight to whoever sent those men.”
I stare at her, incredulous. “If I wanted you dead, I’d have let those men handle it on the platform. Much cleaner than this subterranean tour.”
“Maybe you need me alive for questioning. Maybe you work for a competing interest.” Her journalist’s mind is spinning conspiracy theories. “Maybe this flash drive contains something you want.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, frustration mounting. This woman is the most stubborn, suspicious, infuriating civilian I’ve ever encountered. And considering I grew up with three older sisters who all joined the debate team, that’s saying something.
“I told you. I work private security. Cerberus Security.”
“Which could be contracted by anyone.”
“I was catching a train home after a holiday weekend. Period.”
“Convenient timing.”
I take a deep breath, trying to rein in my temper. “Look, I understand paranoia is a survival trait for investigative journalists, but this is ridiculous. I’m trying to help you.”
“Why?” She fixes me with an unnervingly direct stare. “Why risk your life for a complete stranger? What’s your stake in this?”
It’s a fair question. One I’ve been asking myself for the past hour. Why am I still here? Why didn’t I call local authorities and walk away?
The answer isn’t one I particularly like.
“I don’t have an agenda,” I say finally. “I saw someone in trouble and acted. That’s it.”
“Nobody does that,” she counters, the cynicism of her profession showing. “Not without an angle.”
“Some of us do.” An edge creeps into my voice. “Some of us can’t walk past someone being targeted and do nothing.”
“I’m not moving until you tell me who you are.” Her chin lifts in defiance despite her exhaustion. “The full truth.”
“We don’t have time for this.” I check my watch. “The longer we stay in one place, the more likely those men will find our trail again.”
“Make time.”
I’m about to respond when something catches my eye—a faint light flickering in the maintenance shaft we just exited. Distant but approaching. They’ve found our route.
“We’re out of time,” I say, moving toward her. “They’re in the shaft.”