Morning light slanted thin across the dead factory lot, cool before the sun climbed high enough to bleach it. Asphalt lay pale and cracked, seams filled with wiry weeds that had split the surface like stitches gone slack. The chain-link along the perimeter rattled when the breeze pressed through. Loading bays yawned dark along the brick face, teeth missing from a broken jaw. Somewhere beyond the smokestacks, a semi hit its engine brake on a downhill grade—low, hammering cough that rolled through the hollow district and then thinned to nothing. The air carried dust, oil ghosts, and the damp memory of last night's rain.
The Tahoe sat square in the middle of the lot where chalk lines had been scuffed into place. Armored, broad-shouldered, built to shrug off trouble. Matte black wrap dulled with scratches, push bar braced across the grille, roof strobes dark. Ballistic glass carried a faint green edge, thickness obvious at every frame. Steel wheels set wide on fat run-flats, fenders dusted white from earlier passes.
The idle rumbled low enough to thrum through the pavement, steady as a held breath. Out here in the emptiness, the truck looked less parked than waiting—patient, like it knew work was coming.
Brock paced the chalk arcs he'd dragged across the pavement, plain gray tee damp between the shoulder blades, cap pulled low, boots leaving white scuffs where they pressed the dust. He set his thermos on the Tahoe's hood, not drinking from it yet, just marking territory while he checked the angle of the next turn. His presence felt as squared as the truck itself—broad, steady, patient with the geometry.
Harper leaned against the driver's door, jacket unzipped, sleeves shoved high so the tape on her wrist caught the morning light. Cargo pants cut to move, sneakers worn down at the edges. Her hair had slipped out of its knot again, strands tugged free by the breeze. She wasn't armed for war, not today—just standing loose, weight shifting heel to toe as her eyes tracked every line Brock measured like she meant to memorize it all.
Knuckles had parked himself in the bay-door shade, black hoodie despite the sun, cargo shorts, old sneakers that looked like they'd survived three summers too many. Clipboard balanced on his forearm, stopwatch looped on a lanyard that swung lazy with every shift of his weight. Beside him on the concrete ledge sat his breakfast, a half-eaten sandwich sagging in its wax paper, grease bleeding through. He'd forgotten about it the second they started chalking lines, eyes fixed on posture and tempo instead of food. When Harper caught him staring, she lifted her brows at the sandwich in silent question. He smirked but didn't answer, just clicked the stopwatch once like a punctuation mark.
Brock circled back from the far chalk arc, wiping dust onto his jeans, and came up alongside the Tahoe. He stopped close enough that Harper could feel the heat rolling off him, his shadow folding across the driver's door. The thermos thunked back into his hand, one mouthful gone before he set it on the hood again.
"Wheel's yours," he said, low, eyes flicking once to her wrist, then to her neck where Skiv's choke had left its map in yellow, the color bruises settle into after a week. His gaze lingered on her stance—looser now, steadier—like he was measuring how far she'd come since the med bay.
Knuckles pushed off the ledge at last, grease-stained wax paper left crumpled where it fell, clipboard tucked under his arm. The stopwatch swung once before he caught it in his palm. "You even know how to drive, Firefly?" he called, grin lazy, voice carrying over the Tahoe's idle.
Harper cocked her head, rolled her eyes just enough to make it clear she wasn't taking the bait, and let a smirk tug her mouth. "I know which pedal makes it go. That enough for you?"
Knuckles snorted, fell in beside the truck, and let the stopwatch click once—more taunt than time. "Long as you don't run me over, we'll call it a success."
Harper shot him a look as he passed close, mouth quirking. "No promises."
Brock came up beside her door, hand braced on the Tahoe's hood. "This isn't a car," he said. "It's heavy steel, armored through and through. High center of gravity, and it doesn't forgive mistakes. You keep it steady by watching weight, mirrors, and distance. Today we work spacing, brake control, lean through turns. Get those right and the rest follows."
He gave a small nod toward the open door. "I'll be riding shotgun. Knuckles times and watches angles."
Knuckles tipped his clipboard like a salute, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Don't worry, kid. If you flip it, I'll make sure they spell your name right on the report."
Harper slapped at the board as he passed close, the crack of it against her palm enough to jolt the stopwatch swing. "Try not to trip over your own sandwich wrapper before then."
Knuckles barked a laugh, tucking the clipboard back against his chest. "Spicy this morning."
Brock didn't comment, just tapped the door with two knuckles of his own, eyes steady on her. "Inside. We start slow."
Harper gave Knuckles one last side-eye, then pulled the door handle. The Tahoe's weight came through even in the hinges, the door swinging wide with a groan. She climbed up, sneakers brushing the running board, and dropped into the driver's seat. The cabin swallowed her in black vinyl and thick glass, the low idle thrumming up through the floor into her ribs. She slid the seat forward, adjusted the mirrors until the chalk lines cut neatly across them, then wrapped both hands on the wheel, tape on her wrist glaring pale against the dark leather.
Brock circled around the hood without a word, boots scuffing dust, and opened the passenger door. He settled in beside her, broad frame fitting tight against the cabin bulk, thermos tucked into the cup holder. His hand found the dash, flat and steady, as if he were grounding the truck itself.
Knuckles planted himself a few paces off the nose, stopwatch dangling, grin never leaving.
Brock settled back in the seat, one arm braced against the door. "You've driven before. This isn't the same. She's heavy. Everything you do—brake, throttle, turn—it lags. Learn the delay and you stay ahead of it."
Harper set her hands on the wheel, nudged the Tahoe forward. The engine's growl filled the cabin, steady, patient.
"Good. Now watch your mirrors. Blind spots on this beast can hide a whole car. Check them constant—left, right, rear—make it rhythm, not habit."
She flicked her gaze quick across the glass. The side mirror threw her a view of Knuckles pacing outside, stopwatch swinging loose.
"Spacing," Brock said, tapping the dash with two fingers. "Give yourself lanes to work with. You're not threading alleys anymore—you're carrying weight. Hold room like it belongs to you."
She let out a short breath. "So bossy."
He didn't look at her, eyes still on the chalk lines ahead. "Better bossy than upside down."
Brock rested one arm on the door, voice level. "Ease her forward. Don't rush—feel how the weight carries before you add speed."
Harper nudged the Tahoe out of idle. The truck rolled heavy, the hood rising a fraction as though reluctant to move. The vibration came through the floorboards into her ribs, steadier and deeper than anything she'd driven before.
"Brake," Brock told her.
She pressed down smooth. The Tahoe didn't stop quick, not like the cars she knew. It pushed forward first, nose dipping late, the bulk demanding space. Her grip cinched tight on the wheel until the tape across her wrist bit skin.
"That's the delay," he said. "Start earlier, stay smooth. If you fight it, you'll just pile weight forward and lose the line."
Harper exhaled through her teeth, nudged the throttle again. The truck gathered, slower this time, her body leaning into the feel of it.
"Turn coming," Brock said, tapping two fingers on the dash. "Wide arc. Let the body roll, don't choke the wheel."
She fed the wheel in. The Tahoe leaned hard on the outer tires, suspension groaning, mirrors cutting the chalk line in a sway. Instinct said to hold it stiff; instead she eased her hands, let the weight settle where it wanted. The truck rocked once, then straightened clean on the far line.
Brock gave a single nod. "Better."
They worked the basics until she stopped needing his cues. Accelerate, brake, plan for the lag. Ease the turn, guide the lean back. Each lap smoothed out, the Tahoe less an animal to wrestle and more a weight she could predict. Only then did Brock glance at the wider stretch of lot, the unmarked space where the real maneuvers waited.
Brock pointed down the stretch of empty lot. "Next drill—evasion. You're running thirty, then you change lanes. No braking. No hesitation. Commit and carry it through clean."
Harper flexed her grip on the wheel, tape biting at her wrist. "And if I don't?"
"You hit what's in front of you." His tone made it sound more like math than threat.
She pushed the throttle down, the Tahoe answering slow, then heavy, pressing her back into the seat as it built speed. The chalk faded under the hood in a blur.
"Now," Brock said.
She snapped the wheel right. The Tahoe leaned, suspension groaning as the weight caught up late. The window frame pressed against her shoulder, her ribs tightening with the roll, but she steadied her hands and let the truck settle. By the time she straightened out, the lane change was clean.
"Better than I thought," Brock said, braced easy against the door. "Again. This time smoother. Let the weight move first, then guide it."
She ran the lane change until the sway stopped surprising her. The lag became something she could plan for instead of brace against. Brock's voice pared down to single words—"now," "again," "smooth"—until there was nothing left to add.
Brock finally tapped the dash. "Next drill." His eyes cut to the far stretch of asphalt where the chalk lines ended and open space waited. "Reverse to forward. Clean pivot. You stall or hesitate, you're dead in the lane."
Harper's fingers tightened on the wheel. "That's the spin move?"
Brock shook his head. "Not spin. Pivot. Straight back until I call it, then crank, shift, and roll forward clean. If you rush the hands, you'll stall. If you're late, you'll tip the balance and eat your own bumper."
She slid the Tahoe into reverse, the heavy body rolling back across the lot. Pavement lines blurred past in the mirrors, engine rumbling deeper under the strain.
"Now," Brock said.
She snapped the wheel, jammed the shifter, and the Tahoe bucked—weight slamming forward, tires barking against asphalt. The frame rocked like it wanted to go over before it caught itself and settled nose-first toward the open lane.
Brock braced a palm flat on the dash, steady as stone. "Messy. But you made it. Again."
They worked the pivot again. The first time she rushed the shift and the Tahoe lurched, tires squealing before she wrestled it back under control. The second, she hesitated, the nose hanging crooked in the lane while Brock's hand pressed flat against the dash, silent but steady. By the third, she'd stopped holding her breath—still messy, still too much muscle, but the truck came around faster, the recovery cleaner.
"Reset," Brock said each time, voice even, patience unshaken.
She circled back, sweat damp at her hairline, jaw set against the ache in her wrist. On the fourth pass she found the timing—reverse clean, wheel hard, shift decisive, throttle steady—and the Tahoe snapped nose-forward without a hitch, rocking once before settling straight in the lane.
For half a second she caught it: Brock's mouth pulled just enough to show the ghost of a smile, quick and faint, gone before she could be sure it was ever there.
"Again," he said, voice flat. But his eyes stayed on her a beat longer than they had before.
They stayed in the rhythm until the heat coming through the windshield made Harper's shirt cling to her back and the wheel felt like part of her hands. Brock kept her running pivots and lane changes, mixing them without warning—his voice pared down to single commands: "Brake." "Now." "Reset." The Tahoe groaned and rocked through each maneuver, dust rising behind the tires in soft plumes that drifted across the empty lot. She could feel the pattern starting to live under her skin, the weight no longer a fight but a force she could work with.
When they finally rolled back toward the chalk start line, Knuckles pushed off the bay wall and wandered over, clipboard tucked under his arm. He rapped the hood once with the flat of his hand, then swung open the rear door.
"Congratulations," he said, sliding into the back seat. "First lesson and nobody's intestines are decorating the dash. That's progress."
Brock glanced her way. "Alright, take us back. Real streets this time."
The Tahoe rolled out of the lot and onto the street, bulk shifting under her as the lanes opened. Morning traffic crowded the avenue—delivery vans stacked in the right lane, sedans nosing too far into crosswalks, a city bus coughing black smoke at the light. The moment she merged, space opened around her. Cars drifted wide, mirrors tilting as drivers glanced back and then slid aside. Nobody wanted to sit boxed next to black steel with windows thick enough to hide everything inside.
Harper kept both hands tight on the wheel, eyes moving mirror to mirror. She felt it—the way the Tahoe changed the rhythm of the street. Not just a truck, but a presence, something that carried weight beyond its size.
From the back seat Knuckles let out a low chuckle. "See that? Doesn't matter who's driving—out here, this thing clears its own lane. Folks smell the armor and they don't ask questions."
Brock stayed quiet beside her, one arm braced against the door, eyes on the mirrors like hers.
At the next light, Harper eased the Tahoe to a stop. The cars in the next lane hung back a length, no one pulling even with her window. The idle thrummed through her ribs while the cross-traffic rolled. For the first time, she felt the Tahoe as more than just a machine—it was cover, warning, authority, all in one.
Traffic thinned the farther they went, the Tahoe's presence still opening lanes, until the skyline broke into the edge of Syndicate ground. Concrete walls climbed high, razor wire coiled like teeth, cameras swiveling in their housings. The gates waited ahead—thick steel drawn across the road, guard post set just inside.
The Tahoe slowed into the checkpoint, rumble echoing off the walls. A man in black fatigues stepped out of the post, rifle slung, ball cap pulled low over a weathered face. His nametag patch read Doyle.
He gave the Tahoe a once-over, then leaned toward the driver's side, eyebrow raised when he saw Harper behind the wheel. "Didn't expect you up front." His voice carried a rasp, but there was no hesitation when he waved them through. The gate clanked and rolled back on its track, letting the Tahoe nose into Syndicate ground.
Brock pointed toward the surface lot that spread beside the main building, rows of black steel already lined up in formation. "Put it in there."
Harper eased the Tahoe between two Suburbans, the mirrors tight, engine dropping to a low idle before she cut it off, dropping the keys into the console. The silence after the shutdown felt thick.
Knuckles swung the rear door open, stretching like he'd been on a road trip instead of a training loop. He slapped the roof once and grinned. "That'll do. I've got work with Cole and Price—intel's piling up. Try not to wreck anything while I'm gone." He disappeared toward the far wing of the building, clipboard tucked under his arm.
Brock waited until the rear door thudded shut and Knuckles' footsteps faded. "Hungry?"
"I'm starving," Harper said, already reaching for the handle. She shouldered the door open, one foot hitting the pavement—until his voice stopped her.
"Not here."
She froze, half-turned, frowning back at him. He tipped his chin toward the wheel, the faintest suggestion in his eyes.
"Drive."
For a moment she just blinked at him, then slid back into the seat with a rush of energy, pulling the door closed again. The Tahoe's key fob was still tucked in the console; Brock scooped it up and set it into her palm before circling around to the passenger side. The message was plain: the training wasn't over, just changing shape.
The Tahoe rolled back toward the checkpoint, Doyle already waiting with the gate drawn wide. He gave Brock a nod, then a curious glance at Harper in the driver's seat, but didn't ask. The steel slid closed behind them, shutting out the compound's walls.
Brock leaned an arm on the window frame, guiding her with small gestures. "Left. Keep straight. Slow at the next corner." His voice never lifted, but every cue set her threading the Tahoe through the streets like he'd mapped them himself.
The city thickened around them—delivery trucks double-parked, storefronts with steel shutters halfway raised, pedestrians giving the Tahoe wide berth. Harper kept her eyes flicking mirrors, her grip steady on the wheel as Brock's directions carried them deeper until the traffic thinned again.
"Here," he said finally. She pulled the Tahoe against the curb of a narrow side street, brick walls crowding both sides, the noise of the avenue dulled to a murmur. She dropped it into park, engine ticking as the heat bled off.
Brock pushed his door open first, the quiet order of the drive hanging in the air between them as they stepped out.
Harper thumbed the lock, the Tahoe chirping once as she pocketed the fob. For a moment she stood still on the curb, air different here—car horns two blocks over, voices drifting from an open storefront, the press of a city that hadn't seen her in months. It felt strange, too ordinary, like she'd slipped through a seam in her own story.
She caught up quick, shoes slapping against the sidewalk until she was even with him, jacket brushing his plain gray tee when the walkway narrowed. The city felt loud after months locked behind Syndicate walls—car horns rolling from the avenue, chatter spilling from shopfronts, the scent of fry oil carried on the air. Her pulse ticked quick under it all, the strangeness settling in her chest like static.
"So what are we doing?" she asked.
"Figured you wanted a break from what Mess calls lunch." His eyes stayed on the street ahead, voice flat but not unkind.
She tilted her head at him, mouth tugging sideways. "So what's this, then? A date?"
That earned her a sidelong look, steady, enough to hold her for a beat. "Not that." His tone set it down without weight, final but not rough.
She grinned anyway, letting the silence stretch, and kicked a pebble off the curb as they walked.
They reached the diner's door—a squat brick box with fogged windows and a neon sign half burned out. The door gave way under Brock's shoulder, a brass bell overhead giving a tired jingle. Heat and scent hit first—grease that clung to the walls, old coffee, sugar burnt onto the griddle. The place was narrow, the kind of diner that had been there too long to care about fashion.
A counter ran down one side, stools bolted to the floor, red vinyl patched with tape where the seams had split. The booths along the windows sagged in the middle, laminate tabletops etched with initials and knife scars. A jukebox leaned in the corner, lights dead but coin slots still taped over with handwritten OUT OF ORDER.
Two men in work coats hunched over plates of eggs at the counter, not looking up. A waitress in sneakers darted between booths with a carafe of coffee, bracelets clinking as she poured. Somewhere in the back a fryer hissed, punctuating the low murmur of voices and the scrape of forks.
A hostess in a black apron stepped out from behind the counter, smile worn thin but professional. "Two?" she asked, already reaching for menus.
Brock gave a single nod.
"Right this way." She led them down the line of booths and waved to one near the back, out of the glare from the windows.
The hostess dropped two laminated menus on the table, edges curled and corners worn soft. Harper slid into the booth first, pressing against the vinyl that gave a tired creak under her weight. Brock followed, setting himself across from her, broad shoulders filling the space until the table looked smaller than it was.
The hostess flipped open her order pad, pen ready. "What can I get you to drink?"
Harper leaned forward, smile bright and unguarded, the kind she hadn't shown anyone in months. "Iced tea, please. If it's sweet, even better. And extra ice if you don't mind." She tilted her head a little, softening the words with a warmth that made the hostess' expression shift from routine to genuine for the first time all morning.
"Of course," the woman said, scribbling it down, a small smile flickering back. She turned her gaze to Brock.
"Coffee," he said. "Black."
She gave a brisk nod and left them with the menus, sneakers squeaking on the linoleum as she disappeared toward the counter.
Harper turned the menu over in her hands, studying the smudged photos and faded prices. For a moment it felt almost easy—ordinary—like she could just pick pancakes or a burger and be another face in the crowd.
But the longer she sat, the more the room pressed in. It wasn't the volume; Mess's cafeteria was worse. It was the way this noise had no shape, no leash. Strangers shifting in booths, a fork clattering too hard at the counter, a laugh breaking sudden from the door. At the compound, no one brushed her shoulder without knowing who sat at her table. They respected Brock, feared him when they had to, and that respect bled onto her whether she wanted it or not. Out here, none of that held.
"You're wound up," he said quietly.
Her fingers tightened on the menu until the laminate creaked. "It's just loud."
Brock leaned in just enough, voice low. "You're fine. Nobody here's looking at you."
Her shoulders eased a fraction at his words, the tightness in her grip loosening until the menu lay flat on the table again. She let out a breath she hadn't noticed she was holding, eyes dropping back to the faded photos until they finally settled on something that looked good.
The hostess returned with their drinks—tall glass of iced tea sweating onto a napkin in front of Harper, a heavy mug of black coffee for Brock. She set them down with a practiced smile. "Ready to order?"
Harper nodded quickly, bright again. "Patty melt with fries, please. And if you've got extra pickles, I'll take them."
"Sure thing." The pen scratched the pad before the hostess turned.
Brock didn't bother with the menu. "Cheeseburger. No onions."
"Coming right up." She gathered the menus and slipped away toward the counter, leaving the iced tea cold at Harper's hand and the coffee steaming between them.
Harper wrapped her fingers around the sweating glass of tea but didn't drink yet. She let her gaze wander instead, tracing the scuffed linoleum tiles, the cracks in the vinyl booths, the faded photos of baseball teams tacked on the wall above the counter. A waitress laughed at something one of the workmen said, bracelets chiming as she poured, and Harper found herself smiling at the sound without meaning to.
She looked young there, almost out of place in her cargo pants and taped wrist, eyes wide in the dim light as though she were cataloguing the world one detail at a time. The longer she sat, the more the tension bled out, leaving her quiet, curious, almost innocent in the way she watched.
Brock didn't touch his coffee. He sat steady across from her, gaze fixed not on the room but on her, measuring the small shifts in her shoulders, the way her expression softened when she thought no one was paying attention.
Her eyes lifted from the baseball photos and found his fixed on her. She cocked her head, mouth tugging faintly. "What?"
Brock didn't look away, didn't fidget. "Nothing. Just making sure you're settled."
She huffed a soft laugh through her nose, shaking her head, and finally took a sip of her tea. The glass clinked down on the coaster. "You stare like I'm going to bolt for the door."
Brock's mouth barely moved. "You wouldn't get far."
She smirked, leaning her elbows on the table. "Not with that attitude."
He lifted his coffee, took a slow drink, eyes still steady on her over the rim. "You're not as sneaky as you think."
Harper rolled the straw between her fingers, pretending to study the condensation on her glass. "Good thing I'm not trying."
The corner of his mouth almost shifted, but then the plates clattered in the pass-through window and the sound of their food being set up pulled the moment away.
The plates landed heavy on the table—patty melt steaming on Harper's side, cheeseburger planted in front of Brock. The fries smelled like salt and oil, fresh from the basket.
"Careful, they're hot," the hostess warned, sliding a small dish of pickles onto the corner of Harper's plate with a wink before she moved off again.
Harper didn't wait. She picked up half the melt, cheese stretching in long strings, and bit down like she hadn't eaten in days. Grease hit her tongue, perfect and heavy, and she shut her eyes for a second before chasing it with iced tea.
She set her sandwich down, wiped her fingers on a napkin, and caught him still tracking the room. A grin tugged at her mouth. "Nobody here's looking at you."
He didn't answer, eyes steady past her shoulder.
She leaned back in the booth, voice light. "Figures. Too busy watching everyone else to notice me."
Brock finally looked at her then, just a flicker, the kind of glance that landed heavier than words. He went back to his burger without comment.
They let the food do the talking after that. Harper ate until the plate was bare, iced tea drained to clinking ice. By the time she leaned back in the booth, she looked more at ease than when she'd sat down. Brock hadn't rushed her, just worked through his burger and let the quiet stretch.
When the plates cleared and the check came, Brock slid a few bills onto the tray before Harper could think to reach. The server whisked it away, and Harper leaned back in the booth, smirk tugging at her mouth.
"You paid," she said, voice sing-song. "So it was a date."
Brock's eyes cut to hers, steady. "You don't even have a wallet. Unless you're planning on dining and dashing, I don't have a choice."
Her laugh came quick, soft enough not to draw eyes, and she shook her head, still grinning as she reached for the last pickle on her plate.
─•────
Night pressed against the windows, glass black enough to throw back the lamplight instead of letting anything through. The compound outside was quiet, only the occasional sweep of headlights moving along the perimeter.
The leather couch held Harper easy, cushions softened to her shape as if they'd been waiting. Harper had stretched out sideways, sweatpants loose at her hips, a tank falling casual against her frame. Bare feet brushed the armrest, toes flexing once in absent rhythm as her eyes traced the page.
Her hair was down now, falling across her shoulders, strands catching the lamp glow when she shifted. The paperback lay balanced in her hands, open at the middle, spine bent from someone else's years of reading. She turned a page slow, the sound soft in the quiet room, then let her weight sink deeper, body slack in a way it never was outside these walls.
Harper shifted, curling onto her side now, knees tucked in as the book tilted against them. The couch leather sighed under the movement, its cushions swallowing her small frame until she looked more cocooned than sprawled. She turned another page slow, thumb dragging the crease, eyes narrowing as if the words demanded more of her than she wanted to give.
A flat crack of paper broke the quiet—Brock dragging a map across the island counter, palms flattening it against the wood. Her gaze flicked over without meaning to. He'd been there an hour already, sleeves pushed high, paperwork stacked in uneven piles beside him. Files lay open under the lamp glow, corners curled, his pen resting in the notch of his fingers while he scanned another line.
She watched him for a minute, chin tucked into the crook of her arm, book forgotten at her knees. The scratch of his pen, the low shuffle of papers, the steady patience of it—he could've been carved there.
At last she set the paperback on the coffee table, spine up, and uncurled from the couch. Bare feet padded across the floor as she slipped into the small kitchen. Cabinet door, the quiet rattle of glass, then the sink running low while she filled it halfway.
Brock didn't look up until she turned back, glass in hand, water sloshing against the rim. His palm flattened another folder, holding it in place under the lamplight.
"What's all that?" she asked, tilting her chin at the spread across the counter.
She sipped her water, leaning against the counter now, eyes on him. He kept writing, pen scratching over the margin of a map, as if he hadn't heard.
When the silence stretched, she tilted her head. "Well?"
Brock finally set the pen down, rubbing a hand over his jaw before looking at her. "Routes. For an upcoming job."
Her brows went up. "What kind of job?"
He held her stare for a moment, then pushed the folder aside, the edges of the map curling back on themselves. "Remember the two trucks we pulled off the Maw?"
"Yeah." She said it without hesitation, glass lowering to the counter.
He nodded once. "We're moving them out of the city. About a week from now."
The glass felt heavy in her hand now, cold sweating down her palm. She set it back on the counter before it slipped. "Am I going?" The question came quiet, but she couldn't stop the edge of dread that curled in her gut.
Brock paused, eyes still on the papers. For a moment it looked like he'd leave it there. Then he exhaled slow, lifted his gaze to her. "Yes. You're coming."
Her stomach turned, though she kept her face still. "Doing what?"
"Rear guard," he said. "With Knuckles. That's what I've got planned for now." His hand tapped once on the edge of the map before he folded it closed. "That's why we practiced in the Tahoe today."
She didn't answer. Her stomach gave a slow, heavy twist, the kind that made her throat tight. Not because she'd be with Knuckles. Not because she'd be at the back of the convoy with a Tahoe under her hands. It was the count. The clock. This would be her second job. Her last job before Vex decided if she was worth keeping—or if she wasn't. Now there was an end date.
Brock's eyes lifted, catching her silence, the way she stood too still. He read it wrong. "I'll be on the job too. Up front of the convoy." He shifted one file aside, steady as ever. "Knuckles is a good partner."
Her eyes flicked to him, quick and weak, before she managed a nod. "Okay."
Brock studied her for a moment, the way her voice flattened, the way her shoulders stayed tense even as she tried to mask it. He didn't buy it. The silence hung, papers spread under his hands, until something clicked in his eyes.
"Harper." His voice was lower now, steady but firmer. "I know this is the last job before Vex makes his call."
She stilled, fingers tightening on the glass where it sat on the counter.
"You've got nothing to worry about." He leaned forward, forearms braced on the island. "When this job's done, the timer's off your head. You won't be waiting for Vex's knife. You'll be under me—not him. That's the end of it."
Her breath caught rough, words tumbling before she could stop them. "If I don't fuck it up. If Vex just decides I'm not worth it, even if I do everything right, if—"
"Harper." Brock's voice cut clean across hers. "Look at me."
She did.
"You have nothing to worry about." His tone was iron, steady enough to feel like it could anchor her. "This is your last job under his thumb. Not your last job ever. You'll make it through this job, and you'll keep going. It's not ending here."
Her chest tightened, the floor of her stomach dropping out. He sounded so sure, as if the outcome wasn't up for debate. As if Vex's decision, the knife she felt at her throat every day, couldn't touch her so long as Brock said it.
She searched his face, eyes narrowing as if she could peel back the surface and find the lie underneath. Some crack, some shift that proved he was just steadying her because that's what he did.
But there was nothing. No flicker, no dodge. Just him, steady as stone, like the words had been carved there long before she'd asked.
Her throat worked once, dry, and she gave a small nod. "Okay."
The word came quiet, but it held.