The elevator doors parted with a sigh that echoed too loudly in the hour, and Harper stepped out a half-pace behind Brock into the stillness of the operations floor. At four in the morning the corridor lay hushed, fluorescents throwing their sterile glow over polished linoleum, the hum of the fixtures the only sound. Brock had ditched his jacket for the plain black uniform layers the Syndicate favored: dark thermal shirt stretched over his frame, cargo pants cinched with a heavy belt, boots laced tight, everything clean lines meant to disappear under a vest once the armory kitted him out. Harper wore the same charcoal fatigues, seams rough against her skin, her older boots scuffed from drills but broken to her stride. A single braid trailed between her shoulder blades, tight and neat, practical in the same way the uniform was: everything designed to erase softness, to reduce her to function as they walked that burnt coffee-scented hall toward briefing.
Brock led the way toward a set of double doors that stood open just far enough to let sound spill through — paper rustling, soles shifting on tile. They gave under Brock's shove, and they stepped into a room that felt less like an office and more like the inside of a gun barrel. Long tables were shoved together into a crooked U, their surfaces scarred with knife gouges and cigarette burns, ringed by heavy chairs already half-claimed by early risers. A wall of monitors glared from the far end, stacked three high, each one bleeding grainy footage—traffic cams, warehouse feeds, live drone eyes jittering over East Halworth rooftops. Maps papered the rest of the walls, taped edges curling, grease-penciled lines looping across districts, clusters of colored pins marking debts, shipments, threats. The projector on the center table hummed as it warmed, casting a low mechanical flicker across the faces gathered there.
The Syndicate called it a briefing room, but everything about it said war room: no polish, no corporate gloss, just a space bent toward tactics and control, the kind of place where names got circled in red and lives got measured in numbers.
Conversations clipped off when they stepped in—not to silence, just to that watchful lull that follows something unexpected.
Brock's hand brushed her elbow—light, but enough to guide her toward a chair along the side wall. As she moved, a ripple went down the table, low murmurs breaking against the scrape of her chair legs. She sat, angling herself so she could see both the doors and the table.
Brock went on to stand beside Knuckles at the head, and the room's voices dulled again, pulled toward him.
Five faces she knew, the rest strangers. Onyx and Keir were off to the right, set back near the wall so the overhead light struck them hard, carving their features into planes of bone and shadow. Neither moved, but their stillness had a patience that dragged at her, like deep water hiding a pull strong enough to drag a body under. Seeing them was like brushing a live wire she already knew would burn— Keir pulling the trigger on Wedge, Onyx standing over Lena when her eyes stayed open after. Now both sat here, calm as stone, about to run a job in the same room as her.
Near the monitors, Gunner leaned against the table, arms folded, gaze already fixed on her. The look jolted back the fight from earlier in the week—his hand where it had no right to be, the crack of her head driving into his face—before she shoved it down.
And then beside her: Mason on her left, Vale on her right. Mason's glance was quick, sharp, weighing. Vale gave her a faint, almost companionable tilt of his head, the barest recognition, and then left it there. Anchored between them, Harper felt the shape of the room close around her, the weight of those five familiar faces pressing in as she braced for what came next.
"Alright," Brock said, voice carrying without effort. "Convoy's two trucks, military-grade weapons, moving south from Eastport. Heavy escort — two SUVs up front, one behind, foot security riding the rails. We keep this lean for speed. Too many bodies clogs the road; too few, we get overrun. We're hitting them before they're anywhere near the city."
He tapped the map. "Choke point's here—port road halfway down the container stacks. We hit the lead truck at the pinch, take out the front escort before they block the lane. Tail truck gets stopped and the rails cut before foot security can bring guns up. Overwatch locks down both ends, burns the first shooters that break cover. Once both rigs are ours, drivers roll them out. Fast in, fast out."
"Team One: me, Voss, Price, Cole — lead truck. Team Two: Knuckles, Onyx, Keir, Gunner — tail truck. Overwatch: Jensen, Briggs — one end each. Drivers: Mason, Vale — take over once we've cleared them."
No one argued, but the weight of certain glances said plenty. Brock ignored them and angled toward Knuckles.
Knuckles took the pointer, zooming the overhead feed tight on the port road. "Their timing's been clean from Eastport to here — no stops, no side runs. That'll hold unless we put pressure on them. This spur off the main road—" he tapped the narrow lane "—is our risk. If Truck Two makes it that far, it's gone. Team Two owns that choke, Overwatch calls movement the second it starts. If they push back harder than expected, fall to secondary cover here and here." He marked two more points with quick jabs. "Don't get pinned in the open. We're here to take the rigs, not trade bodies."
Knuckles capped the pointer and set it down. The room settled into the low hum of shifting chairs, pens tapping against the table.
Brock's gaze swept the group. "Does anyone have any questions before we move?"
For a moment, no one spoke. Then a voice cut through, careful but edged. "With all due respect… I'm curious why Voss is here."
The silence that followed had weight. Harper felt eyes swing her way, the scrape of them across her skin. It took everything in her power to avoid curling in on herself.
Brock didn't flinch. "Do you have a problem with this, Jensen?"
Jensen's mouth tightened. "I just find it a little odd that a prisoner's sitting in this room about to ride on a job. She's a Viper. She could still be loyal."
Harper leaned forward, meeting his stare head on. "There aren't any Vipers left to be loyal to," she snarled. "All of you made sure of that."
The air tightened. Brock's eyes slid to her, a warning more pointed than words. Then he turned back to the table. "Voss is in training to be an enforcer, same as the rest of you. She's under my command. I advise you to trust my judgment."
No one answered, but the silence shifted, less open challenge than uneasy acceptance. He fielded a few quick questions—timing on lights, comm handoff at the pinch, where the block trucks stage—then cut the feed. "Locker room in ten. Final checks on the floor."
A couple of the newer faces traded looks at that, one tilting his head toward the other in a way that didn't need words. Whatever was muttered drew a thin smirk from the second. Both of them flicked their eyes her way—quick, but not quick enough to hide it. The kind of look that said she didn't belong here, and everyone knew it.
She kept her gaze on the far wall, jaw tight. Out of place didn't even start to cover it; she wasn't Syndicate, wasn't one of them, and no briefing or team list was going to change that.
Brock's gaze cut their way—flat, cold—and the smirk vanished.
Chairs scraped back and the hum of voices swelled, relief bleeding into the room now that the briefing was finished. Brock's hand touched Harper's shoulder—steady, directional—and she rose with him, falling into his pace as they headed for the door.
Gunner let her reach the threshold before speaking, voice pitched low, just enough to carry. "Try not to fall behind."
She didn't turn, but her head angled slightly, the words leaving her clipped and cold. "Try not to get in my way."
The remark drew a ripple—half chuckle, half tension—before Knuckles' voice cut through it. "Enough." He hadn't raised it, but the weight in the word was enough to flatten the sound out of the room.
The door swung shut behind them, muting everything to a dull hum. The hall beyond felt cooler, emptied of eyes.
"Locker room," Brock said, and she matched his stride without looking over.
The locker room was wide but crowded, rows of dented steel under a wash of fluorescent light that bleached everything to bone. The smell hit as soon as the door swung open—gun oil, sweat ground into fabric, the bite of solvent that never quite killed either.
Conversations stayed short, clipped down to function. Mags were slapped into place, bolts drawn back, boots braced on benches to drag laces tight. Someone laughed low at the far end; someone else cut it off with a reply sharp enough to bite.
Brock walked the aisle with her tucked at his shoulder. Heads turned, glances slid off her and back again, never lingering but never hiding either. He stopped at an open bench, tugged a locker open, and began stacking gear in front of her one piece at a time—vest, belt, holster, sidearm, mags. "Suit up."
The vest was heavier than she expected. Plates settled against her chest and back like dead weight, the straps stiff as she worked them through the buckles. Brock had already started fitting his own gear, rifle easy on his shoulder, but when she fumbled one strap he reached over without pause. His hand dragged it through in a slow, steady pull until the vest locked down tight against her ribs. A quick tap of his knuckles on the plate—habit, not ceremony—and he moved on.
He handed her the sidearm next. "Holster rides high." She clipped it in and felt its weight settle against her thigh. The knife came after, hilt cold against her palm before she slid it into the sheath on her belt. Then the mags, one after another, the rasp of nylon loud in the compressed space. She adjusted the belt, the weight balancing across her hips in a way that felt foreign, too heavy for how bare her hands were.
Across the row, Knuckles was stripping his rifle down and checking every piece before snapping it back together, methodical as a machine. Onyx and Keir worked in near-silence at the far wall, optics swapped without a word, the quiet precision worse than noise. Gunner's voice carried from two lockers down, casual and cutting, and she didn't need to make out the words to know they weren't worth hearing.
"Ten minutes," Brock said, not raised, but the room adjusted around it. Buckles yanked tight, bolts slammed forward, conversations bled off.
Harper slid the comms earpiece into place, tucking the wire beneath her collar. Brock passed her the rifle last. She slung it over her shoulder, fumbling with the strap until it cut clean across her chest. He glanced over it once, gave a nod, and pulled on his gloves.
When she bent to grab her own, she caught her reflection in the steel of the locker door—bleached under the fluorescent light, braid trailing down her back, vest tight to her frame, pistol at her hip, rifle stock brushing her shoulder. For a second she didn't look like herself at all. Just another Syndicate body in the room.
Her throat tightened, but she shoved the thought down and tugged the gloves into place.
The air thickened with the smell of oil and leather as the room sealed itself for work. Brock slung his rifle with one smooth motion. "Let's move."
Footsteps struck tile in rhythm, the sound filling the narrow hall. Harper fell in beside him, the weight of steel and Kevlar pressing close against her chest, her pulse drumming steady under it.
Brock's stride stayed steady, the muted thud of his boots syncing with hers as they took the service corridor toward the garage. "You've got this," he said low, pitched so it belonged only to her. The words landed in that thin space between reassurance and command—steadying, but edged enough to remind her who she was tethered to. The coil in her gut eased by a fraction. She gave a short nod, not trusting her voice, and kept pace as the hallway widened ahead.
The first thing that hit was the smell—exhaust, motor oil, concrete still damp from the night. Then sound bled in: patient idles, the low shift of weight on suspension, the hollow ring of boots on cement. The fluorescents overhead barely reached the far wall, leaving rows of vehicles in alternating bands of glare and shadow.
Most of the spaces held the Syndicate's usual fleet—black Suburbans lined like soldiers, their glass pale in the light, plates stripped clean. But at the center, set apart like they'd been staged, waited the four for today's job.
Two black Tahoes squatted heavy, broader across the shoulders than the Suburbans, the blunt matte grilles built to shove through anything in their path. Opposite them, a dark-blue WRX crouched nose-out, its wide tires and flared arches itching forward like it could spring. Beside it, a black Charger idled with a low, rolling growl that carried under the concrete.
Harper clocked the pairing without needing it explained—muscle for the hit, speed for the eyes. The sight pulled at her chest, something cold and certain in the way each machine radiated purpose.
Brock angled toward the nearer Tahoe, hand lifting just enough to signal her in behind him. Around them the rest of the teams converged, boots echoing, rifles slung tight, clipped voices cutting through the churn of engines. The air thickened—fuel, oil, sweat—everything winding toward the point of release.
The sound changed first—conversations thinning, boots shifting aside without needing to be told. Another set of steps crossed the concrete, unhurried but carrying the weight that bent the air around them. Vex.
He wore plain black, no gear, a phone in one hand, his gaze sliding over the garage like he was tallying stock. It stopped on her.
The look dragged slow, head to toe, pausing on the rifle across her shoulder, the vest cinched tight against her ribs. Not surprise. More like a man checking the odometer on a car he'd left in a ditch, curious how far it had been pushed since.
"Little ahead of schedule, aren't we?" His voice carried light, but the edge was there. He didn't glance at Brock, though the words might have been for him. His eyes never left hers.
Harper held her face still, jaw locked, but her pulse hammered against the plates. The last time they'd been this close, he'd beaten her until she couldn't stand and was a breath from pulling the trigger before Brock stopped him. The distance between that memory and this moment felt paper-thin. Her fingers tightened on the rifle strap without meaning to.
Brock didn't slow. He popped the Tahoe's passenger door and gave her a look that said get in. "She's ready," he said flatly, not sparing Vex a glance.
Vex's mouth curved—amusement laced with warning—before he stepped aside. The weight of his stare stayed fixed on her. Brock rounded the hood, boots echoing off the concrete, and swung into the driver's seat. She followed, sliding into the passenger side, the vibration of the idling engine already humming through her feet. Her rifle stayed slung across her chest, stock pressed awkward against the seat as she shifted, pistol holstered against her thigh. Brock propped his own rifle muzzle-up between the console and his knee, one hand still easy on the wheel.
Behind them, Cole, Price, and Mason filled the back row, the dull clatter of gear shifting into place—magazines checked, safeties tapped, rifles angled muzzle-down between boots. Doors slammed in staggered beats, the hollow thump sealing them into the cab.
The Tahoe felt crowded, heat from bodies and gear rolling into the recycled air. Harper settled back against the seat, eyes front, forcing her breathing to steady. Vex's stare lingered like a thumb pressed at the base of her neck, his voice still slick in her ears. She flexed her fingers against her thighs, shaking it off before it could root too deep.
Outside, engines growled alive across the garage, steady and low, a chorus of caged weight waiting to be loosed.
Brock's eyes flicked her way, a quick, assessing pass before he gave the barest nod—not a question, not sympathy, just a steady you're good. Then his hand shifted to the gear lever, and the Tahoe rolled forward into the line.
Ahead, the WRX's lights flared in the dim garage, its engine's sharp note breaking the low idle of the others. It rolled out first, tires humming over the concrete ramp. Brock followed, the Tahoe's bulk settling into motion with a smooth pull. In the mirrors, Knuckles' SUV fell in behind them, the armored shape cutting a dark line in the exit lights. The Charger slid in last, low and predatory, holding the tail as the convoy threaded deeper in the early-morning dark.
The hum of the engine and the low crunch of tires on wet asphalt filled most of the silence, but Cole leaned forward between the seats. "Hate this hour. Brain's still somewhere between sleep and coffee."
Price didn't look up from checking the action on his rifle. "Then you should've had more coffee."
"Didn't have time," Cole said, a half-smile twitching. "Someone was hogging the pot."
Mason snorted, eyes on the side mirror. "You're still talking. Means you'll live." He shifted forward, voice angled at Brock. "Once we take the rigs, you want them split at the bypass or straight back to the yard?"
"Straight back," Brock said.
Mason gave a short nod, leaning back again — but not before his gaze slid to Harper, measuring. She met it briefly, cool and steady, before looking away.
The Tahoe settled back into the steady, purposeful quiet of men used to waiting for the fight to start.
Outside, the city slid past in slow, measured frames—storefronts shuttered for the night, streetlamps pooling light onto wet pavement. Ahead, the twin red eyes of the WRX cut a path through the dark, every turn signal flashing quick and precise before fading back to a glow. Now and then, the headlights from the SUV behind them pushed forward in the side mirror, catching the edges of the raindrops as they began to fall.
The first beads pattered against the windshield, chased by the wipers in their steady arc. A low rumble rolled somewhere above the skyline, distant but promising more. Harper kept her eyes on the glass, watching the raindrops spread into thin rivers before the blades swept them away. The rhythm was hypnotic, but it didn't slow her thoughts—if anything, the sound made the air feel heavier.
"You good?" Brock's voice was quiet, meant to stay between them. He didn't glance over long, just enough for the weight of his eyes to press the question deeper. She gave a small nod, not trusting her voice. The quiet acknowledgment landed like a stone in her chest—steadying and heavy at once. He let it go.
She let the backseat chatter fade, eyes on the streaks of rain as if they could pull her somewhere else. The job loomed ahead—steel, gunfire, that narrow choke point between container stacks—but her mind kept dragging back to the roof. The cartons between them, the sprawl of light and neon below, the hum of the city pressing against the night. The way he'd told her she was supposed to be here. That she would make it through, find her place, have purpose.
The memory pressed at her now, as steady as the engine beneath her. She shifted in the seat, pulse tight against the vest, and wondered if she believed him—or if she just needed to.
Brock's hands stayed loose on the wheel, eyes forward, but she felt the weight of him beside her all the same.
Headlights from the SUV behind swung briefly across the mirrors as Brock kept the Tahoe in line with the WRX ahead. Its taillights flared once before dipping left, engine note barking as it vanished down a side street—the same spur Knuckles had tapped on the map. She tracked the glow until it was gone, the sound trailing after like a fuse burning down. The Charger followed a moment later, red brake lights flashing as it swung wide into its lane. Knuckles' Tahoe peeled away next, bulk gliding toward the opposite choke before the rain swallowed it from view.
Brock didn't move to follow any of them. He kept straight, hands steady on the wheel, the wet hiss of the tires loud in the sudden absence of other engines. Streetlights thinned, darkness closing in until the looming walls of containers began to rise ahead. Without a word, he reached forward and killed the headlights. The cab dropped into shadow, only the faint glow of the dash casting light across his hands on the wheel. Rain ticked harder against the glass, her pulse climbing in rhythm with the measured pace of the engine. They were close.
Brock's hand left the wheel long enough to key the radio. "Jensen, status."
Static hissed through before a voice cracked back, low and clipped. "Convoy's on pattern—two trucks, two SUVs front, one tail. Rail riders on both rigs. Speed steady."
The words hung heavy in the cab. Harper felt them in her chest more than her ears—the confirmation that it was real, that the steel and gunfire waiting in her head had shape now, headlights already cutting through the rain behind them.
"Two minutes," Brock said, voice even but edged with command. "Jensen, call it as soon as the lead SUV crosses the pinch. Cole, Price—out before the choke. Left and right, burn the drivers before they cut us off. Voss—on me for the cab. I'll take the rail, you clear the door. Once the cab's ours, Mason moves in and drives. Keep it clean. Keep it fast."
His eyes stayed fixed on the narrowing stretch of asphalt ahead, but the weight of his tone filled the cab. "Clear?"
"Clear," Cole answered first.
Price and Mason both nodded, rifles angled down between their knees.
Harper's throat worked around the word before she forced it out. "Clear." It felt strange in her mouth, like trying on someone else's skin, but once it was out she couldn't take it back.
Rain thickened against the windshield, drumming a steady rhythm. The silence that followed wasn't empty—it pressed in from all sides, filling every breath, every heartbeat.
Then Jensen's voice snapped back over comms, harder now. "Convoy in sight. Two SUVs, two trucks, one tail. Coming fast."
Brock's grip tightened on the wheel, his knuckles pale in the dashlight. "Copy." He pushed the Tahoe forward, the engine's climb blending with the pounding of the rain as the distance to the choke point bled away.
The cab held its silence, taut and coiled, every sound sharpened down to the thrum of tires on wet asphalt.
"Lead SUV's at the pinch," Jensen reported.
Brock shifted his grip, voice flat as steel. "Copy." The Tahoe surged, carrying them into the dark.
The narrowing lane funneled the rain into sheets, streetlight glare stuttering across the slick walls of stacked steel. Ahead, the convoy's lights bled through the gloom—pinpricks swelling into the hard glare of twin SUV grilles, closing fast. Harper's stomach knotted. In less than a half-minute there'd be no easing out, no undoing it. Once Brock threw them across that lane, it was on, and the rest of her life—however long it lasted—would be shaped by the next few minutes.
"Cole, Price—ready," Brock's voice cut through, steady and hard.
"Ready," came the answer, one after the other, voices too calm for what was about to hit. It punched the reality deeper into her chest.
"Set."
The Tahoe braked hard, weight pitching forward before Brock snapped the wheel. Tires shrieked against wet tarmac as the back end swung wide in a controlled slide, steel bulk sealing the lane in one decisive motion. The impact jolted her sideways, shoulder slamming the door, pulse hammering up into her throat.
The SUVs ahead reacted in a heartbeat—brake lights flaring, tires throwing fans of spray. Cole and Price were already moving, doors banging wide as they hit the pavement at a dead run. Cole's rifle barked first, muzzle flash burning white against the dark as the lead SUV's driver's-side window spiderwebbed and blew. The vehicle lurched, nose dragging toward the container wall. Price's fire stitched across the hood of the second SUV, glass shattering, sparks leaping from the block. The driver jerked hard, losing the fight with the skid before the vehicle slammed sideways into steel with a crunch that rattled in Harper's chest.
Both shooters kept advancing, hunched low, muzzles sweeping for return fire.
Brock's hand hit his door handle. "Voss—out!"
She shoved her own door wide, rain slashing in cold as she swung down onto slick pavement. The world was noise—rifle fire cracking sharp, engines groaning, water running in rivulets under her soles. She cut around the Tahoe's nose to reach Brock's side, heart hammering as the rig loomed up ahead, cab windows black and faceless.
Movement on the rails above—Brock's rifle snapped up, three sharp bursts chewing through the guard. A body pitched over the side, rifle clanging against the container wall before it hit the ground.
"Door!" he barked.
She sprinted for the passenger side of the cab, rain breaking over her shoulders in cold ribbons. The handle was solid under her glove, locked. Her pulse spiked. She planted a boot on the step rail, braced hard, and drove the rifle butt upward. Glass exploded above her head in a spray of shards that rattled down her arm, the crack drowned under the roar of engines and rain.
Her boot slipped on the wet metal, hip banging the door, balance jolting hard for a second—
Brock was there in the same heartbeat, one hand braced on the frame above, the other clamping her hip. His lift wasn't gentle, just raw efficiency. His shove lifted her the last inches she couldn't reach on her own, forcing her up into the broken frame, close enough to see inside.
The driver's face whipped toward her, eyes wide, hand already dropping. She didn't stop to see what he was reaching for. Instinct dragged the barrel forward through the broken glass. Two shots punched loose inside the cab, the blast an airless concussion that left her ears ringing, the world muffled at the edges. The man's head snapped back, body collapsing sideways over the wheel.
She tore the door wide, climbing in past him. Diesel fumes, hot oil, cordite, and blood slammed together in her lungs. Her eyes swept fast—seat empty, sleeper dark, nothing else moving.
Her throat rasped. "Clear!"
"Out," Brock barked from below, close enough she felt it more than heard it through the ringing in her skull.
She turned, boots finding the wet step as she swung back out. He caught her at the hips when she dropped, grip firm, guiding her weight so the landing drove clean up her legs instead of buckling. For a single beat the world steadied under his hands before her boots splashed hard into the runoff, rifle slick against her chest, heart still pounding from the shots she'd fired.
Cole and Price were already closing in from the disabled SUVs, rifles high, steps kicking water into low arcs as they angled for the cab. Their eyes cut over steel and shadow, scanning for threats even as they moved.
Brock turned toward the Tahoe, thumb already on his comms. "Mason—"
A low diesel churn cut through the rain from behind the rig, deep enough to turn her head. Headlights cut harsh across the wet lane, swelling as the second truck began to edge out from behind the first, angling toward the spur lane. The massive shape loomed, tires throwing water wide as it tried to nose past.
Knuckles' voice cracked through comms, clipped and urgent. "They're trying to move!"
Brock's focus snapped back to Cole and Price. "With her. Hold this rig." No hesitation—just the order—and then he was gone, boots splashing through water as he cut for the sound of gunfire, rifle rising in the same motion.
Cole reached the cab, his glance flicking to her, voice pitched low but carrying. "You hold that door, we'll hold the lane."
Price never took his eyes off the stacked shadows downrange. "Anyone pops up, drop 'em."
She gave a short nod, glove tightening on the passenger-side doorframe. The steel loomed above her, slick with rain, cold and unyielding under her grip. Without Brock beside her the rig felt impossibly huge, an iron wall separating her from the fight spilling farther down the lane. Water hissed off its roof, ran in quick rivulets down the panels, every drop loud against the sudden hollow quiet that pressed in around their stretch of road.
Cole and Price peeled away, slipping past the rig's nose and disappeared toward the rear, rifles sweeping the walls in slow arcs. Their figures vanished into the blur of rain, leaving her with only the thrum of the idling engine.
Mason rounded from the far side, his bulk filling the step in a heartbeat. He didn't waste words—just hooked the dead driver by the collar, dragged him across the seat, and heaved the body out. It hit the pavement with a sodden thud that carried even over the storm. Sliding in behind the wheel, he gave the dash one quick sweep before setting his hands like he'd done it a hundred times.
The crack of a shot split the lane, a metallic shriek as the door inches from her head took the hit. Paint curled back around the neat hole, rain hissing against the hot edge. Harper flinched hard, pulse surging, ears still ringing from her own rifle fire. For a half-second all she could register was the shock—how close, how easy it would've been for the round to punch through her skull instead of steel.
Her eyes tore to the shadows, sweeping the stacked walls until she caught it: a flicker of movement in a narrow cut between containers, the muzzle flash already gone but the image stamped on her sight. "There!" she barked, rifle coming up on the gap.
Mason's gaze followed, then cut back to her. His voice was low, steady but urgent. "Go. Find them. I've got this side."
She broke from the door, boots hammering through the runoff toward the narrowing gap. For a moment her stride faltered—every step felt like crossing a line, away from the fight they'd planned for and toward something that didn't fit. But the surge in her chest shoved her forward. If a shooter had made it this far without drawing Syndicate fire, it meant one of two things: they'd slipped past every gun in the lane… or they'd been waiting here all along.
The lane's noise dropped away like a door closing as she slipped between the stacks. Cold steel pressed close on either side, rain slicking the walls and funnelling her into a tunnel of shadow and water.
She slowed, pulse roaring in her ears, rifle cutting across the tight angles. Nothing but the hiss of rain—until something shifted under it. Not loud, not obvious. Just enough.
She started to turn—
The hit came low and hard, legs knocked clean out from under her. Her shoulder smashed the container wall, pain flaring hot up her arm as the rifle tore from her grip and clattered into the dark. Rain and steel blurred as she hit the ground, breath ripped from her chest, his weight crashing down before she could drag air back in. The stink of wet clothes, gun oil, and sweat closed in with the crush of his forearm against her throat—