Chapter 6 Ryan
SIX
Ryan
Celeste turns and sees the light. Fear flashes across her face, but the stubborn set of her jaw doesn’t waver. “Then answer fast.”
Something inside me snaps. The patience I’ve been clinging to evaporates.
“Fine. Ryan Ellis. Former Delta Force. Eight years Special Ops, too many combat tours. Now I run extraction and protection details for Cerberus Personal Security. I was in D.C. visiting my mother, who spent the entire weekend reminding me that at thirty-five, I should be married with 2.5 kids instead of ‘playing soldier’ across the globe. I was heading home to Seattle, with a loaf of her pumpkin bread in my bag, when I saw four men about to kill you. I intervened because that’s what I’m trained to do and because no matter how aggravating you are—and trust me, you’re setting records—I don’t let civilians die when I can prevent it. ”
Her eyes widen slightly at my outburst.
“That’s who I am. Satisfied? Because in about forty seconds, those men are going to emerge from that shaft, and all your questions will be pointless if we’re dead.”
She stares at me, processing, calculating. The light in the shaft grows brighter.
“If you’re lying—” she starts.
“You’ll what? Report me to the Better Business Bureau? Write a scathing editorial?” I extend my hand to help her up. “Decide now. Trust me or face them alone.”
Her hand reaches for mine, but her leg buckles beneath her as she tries to stand. The color drains from her face as she gasps in pain.
“I can’t—” she manages through gritted teeth. “My knee—”
The flashlight beam is now close enough to illuminate the shaft’s far end.
No time for debate. No time for trust-building exercises.
I make the call.
I hoist her over my shoulder in a fireman’s carry, supporting her weight across my shoulders with one arm anchoring her legs.
“Put me down.” Her whisper strikes hot, fierce as a slap.
“You can chastise me later,” I respond, already moving toward the service door. “Right now, we’re getting out of here alive.”
Her fists pound against my back in protest—impressively strong despite her injuries, though not enough to deter me. I kick open the rusted service door with more force than necessary, the metal groaning in protest as decades-old hinges give way.
A stairwell appears beyond, spiraling upward toward street level. I take the steps two at a time despite the extra weight, adrenaline overriding the strain in my shoulders and legs.
“This is assault,” she mutters near my ear, her breath warm against my neck as she hangs upside down.
“Sue me when we’re not being hunted.”
“I will.”
“I’ll look forward to it.”
Her struggling gradually subsides as we ascend, either from resignation or the pain of her injuries—probably both. Her body goes slightly limp across my shoulders, though her breathing remains steady.
The staircase seems endless, winding upward through the layers of infrastructure that compose the city’s hidden skeleton. My thighs burn with the effort. Sweat trickles down my spine. But I maintain a steady pace, driven by the knowledge that those men aren’t far behind.
And by something else. Something I refuse to examine too closely.
An irrational, overwhelming need to protect this maddening woman who’s hijacked my evening, my plans, and—increasingly—my better judgment.
A woman whose stubborn courage and sharp intelligence keep catching me off guard.
Whose body feels disturbingly right pressed against mine, even in this awkward carry position.
Whose safety has somehow become more important than my own.
Completely unprofessional.
Completely inexplicable.
Completely undeniable.
The stairwell narrows as we approach street level, decades of neglect evident in the crumbling concrete and exposed rebar. My lungs burn from exertion, thighs screaming in protest as I take the final flight with Celeste still slung over my shoulder.
She’s gone quiet—concerning, given her earlier protests, but her steady breathing against my neck tells me she’s conscious.
My tactical awareness kicks into overdrive as I assess our exit point: the emergency door at the top of the stairs, heavy steel with a push bar and a red alarm trigger panel beside it.
Based on the outdated model, it’s not part of the active security grid but is likely still connected to local monitoring.
I pause, calculating options. Triggering the alarm creates two conflicting outcomes: it alerts security to our location, but also provides useful chaos.
Emergency response protocols will send personnel to this exit point, diverting resources from the pursuers’ search grid. The benefit outweighs the risk, especially since we’ll be gone before anyone responds.
“Hang on,” I warn Celeste. “This is going to get loud.”
I shift her weight slightly on my shoulder, positioning myself for a quick exit, then slam my palm against the alarm panel. The effect is immediate—a piercing siren wails through the stairwell, red strobe lights casting disorienting pulses across the walls.
I hit the push bar with my hip, and the door bursts open. Rain-soaked night air rushes in, cold and clean after the stagnant tunnel atmosphere. I emerge onto a narrow service alley several blocks from where this all began, the Dupont Circle area visible at the far end.
Water pelts us as I navigate around dumpsters and delivery pallets. The storm has intensified, sheets of rain turning the alley into shallow rivulets that splash under my boots. The sound of the alarm fades behind us, replaced by the ambient city noise of distant traffic and whining sirens.
I scan for immediate threats—clear for now. Then for surveillance—two cameras on the adjacent building, but angled toward the main street, not the alley. Acceptable risk.
“Putting you down,” I say, carefully lowering Celeste to her feet in the shelter of an awning.
She sways slightly as her good leg takes her weight, instinctively grabbing my arms for stability. For a moment, we’re face-to-face, close enough that I can count the water droplets clinging to her eyelashes, see the pulse jumping at her throat.
“You okay?” I ask, hands lingering at her waist longer than necessary.
She nods once, still catching her breath. “Next time, ask before throwing me over your shoulder like a caveman.”
“Next time, don’t argue when professional killers are thirty seconds behind us.”
Her lips twitch, almost a smile. “Fair point.”
That near-smile hits me with unexpected force. Makes something in my chest tighten. I step back abruptly, breaking contact, refocusing on our situation.
“We need transportation.” I peer toward the street beyond the alley. Late night in D.C., but cabs still circulate for the bar crowd and late-shift workers.
“I have a car—” She shakes her head, closes her eyes, and tightens her lips. “Had. I had a car.”
She leans against the brick wall, rain slicking her hair flat, clothes glued to her body in a way I shouldn’t be noticing. She’s cut, bruised, filthy, and running on fumes—yet still, she carries herself like she’s carved from iron. Defiant. Untouchable.
My pulse spikes anyway. Every drop sliding down her throat, every stubborn tilt of her chin, sparks in places I’d sworn were locked down. She’s sexy as hell, dangerous as hell, and every inch of her is pushing buttons I shouldn’t have.
I was supposed to be on a flight back to Seattle right now. Quiet seat, bad coffee, maybe a bourbon if the flight attendant didn’t hate her job. Instead, I’m here, half-drowned in a back alley, holding up a woman who looks like sin wrapped in barbed wire.
And if I have to admit it—which I won’t—this beats the hell out of First Class.
“Wait here.” I move to the alley entrance, scanning the street. A yellow cab approaches, light on. I step out and raise my hand with the authoritative gesture that somehow always gets a response—a combination of military bearing and pure certainty.
The cab slows, pulls to the curb. I return to Celeste, who’s watching me with narrowed eyes.
“Your chariot awaits.” I offer my arm for support.
She hesitates, then takes it, her fingers surprisingly strong as they grip my forearm. We move awkwardly toward the waiting taxi, her injured knee forcing a limping gait that I adjust my stride to match.
The cabbie eyes us suspiciously as we approach—two bedraggled figures emerging from an alley in the rain, covered in tunnel grime, one visibly injured. Can’t blame him for the wariness.
I open the back door and help Celeste into the car before circling to the other side. After the tunnels and rain, the warm interior of the cab feels like luxury, and the familiar smell of air freshener and upholstery is oddly comforting.
“Where are we going?” Celeste asks as I settle beside her, careful to leave appropriate space between us.
“Somewhere they can’t find us.”
“I still don’t trust you.” The words lack their earlier heat and are spoken more from principle than conviction.
“Noted.” I meet her gaze directly. “But you’re already in the damn cab.”
Her mouth quirks again—that not-quite-smile that does strange things to my focus.
I give the driver an address for a small two-star hotel in Georgetown.
The cab pulls away from the curb, its wipers battling the downpour. I scan the streets as we move through the city, checking mirrors and tracking any vehicle that maintains position behind us for more than two turns. These are old habits. They are necessary habits.
Celeste watches me watching the streets. Her analytical gaze misses nothing.
“Do you ever stop?” she asks quietly.
“Stop, what?”
“Scanning. Assessing. Looking for threats.”
“No.” Simple truth. The day I stop scanning is the day I or someone under my protection ends up dead.
We fall into silence, the cab’s heater gradually warming the space, fogging the windows slightly. The rhythmic sweep of wipers and hum of tires on wet pavement creates a strangely intimate atmosphere after the chaos we’ve just escaped.
Her breathing brushes the space between us, steady until the cab jolts over a pothole and she gasps, sharp, clutching at her ribs.
Dust and damp cling to everything, but beneath it clings a thread of citrus—faint, stubborn, cutting through the grime to reach me.
It coils tighter than I want, every small sound, every shift reminding me she’s there, too close.
Her hand rests on the seat between us, pale against the dark upholstery. The cab lurches into a turn, and my palm skids across the leather until it collides with hers.
The jolt that shoots up my arm damn near short-circuits me. Her eyes fly to mine, wide, startled, like we’ve both touched a live wire. For one suspended beat, neither of us move—skin pressed to skin, heat sparking hotter than the cramped dark ever did.
Which is saying something, considering the last time we were this close, she was practically riding my face in a ventilation shaft. And somehow, this—this stupid brush of fingers—is worse. Way worse.
We yank apart at the same instant, too fast, too obvious, the contact gone but the charge still humming in the air between us.
I clear my throat, reaching for my phone. Time to call this in. The situation has escalated beyond what I can handle solo, especially with her injuries requiring medical attention.
“Who are you calling?” She watches my movements with that journalist’s attention to detail.
“My team.”
Her eyebrows lift. “Your—team?”
I initiate the secure connection protocol, then look directly at her. “Welcome to Cerberus, Ms. Hart. Your life is about to get a lot more complicated.”
As the call connects, I maintain eye contact with her, aware that I’ve just irrevocably changed both our trajectories. This was supposed to be a simple extraction—get her somewhere safe, hand her off to local authorities, catch the next flight home.
Instead, I’ve brought her into my world. Made her my responsibility in ways that go beyond Good Samaritan intervention.
Ghost is going to kill me.
But watching her chin lift in that now-familiar gesture of defiance despite everything she’s been through, I can’t bring myself to regret it.
“Brass.” Mason’s voice answers on the second ring. “You missed your flight.”
“Change of plans.”
“Situation?” One word, loaded with questions.
I glance at Celeste, who watches me with wary curiosity, still fighting to stay alert despite pain and exhaustion.
“I’ve acquired an asset with high-value intel and a professional hit team on her tail. Multiple hostiles, military training, well-equipped.”
“Casualties?” Mason’s voice is clipped, efficient.
“None on our side. Yet.”
“Can you hand this off to local authorities?” Mason asks.
A brief silence as he processes. I glance at Celeste, who’s watching me intently. “I need to ask—should we involve local authorities?”
She stiffens beside me, her expression shuttering. Her hand moves instinctively to the pocket with the flash drive. That’s answer enough.
“Not an option,” I tell Mason, reading her reaction. “Whatever she’s involved in, it’s sensitive.”
“Understood.” No questions. No hesitation. That’s why I trust him.
“What’s your plan?”
“Hotel tonight. Cash only. Rental under shell credentials tomorrow morning. I’ll call when we’re secure.”
“Brass.” His voice shifts slightly—the tone that means what follows is personal, not protocol. “This isn’t your mission.”
“It is now.”
“Understood.” A beat of silence. “Her intel better justify this detour.”
“It will.” I have no idea if that’s true, but I say it with conviction.
The call ends without pleasantries. That’s Ghost—economical in all things, especially words.
I tuck the phone away, feeling Celeste’s scrutiny like a physical touch.
“Asset?” she repeats, voice dangerous. “Is that what I am?”
“Figure of speech.”
“And how exactly do you think your ‘team’ can help me?”
I turn to face her fully, letting her see the absolute certainty in my expression. “Because protection is what we do. And whoever wants you dead badly enough to send pros after you just made a critical mistake.”
“What’s that?”
“They made it personal.”
Her eyes widen slightly at the intensity in my voice. The cab turns onto Georgetown Street, approaching our destination. In fifteen minutes, this will become an official Cerberus operation—protocols, procedures, professional distance.
But for now, in the warm confines of this taxi, with rain drumming on the roof and her eyes locked with mine, nothing about this feels professional.
And that might be the most dangerous development of all.