Sunlight crept across Harper's face, warm on one cheek, fierce enough to sting behind her lids. She stirred, curling tighter against the mattress, limbs still tucked in on themselves. For a moment she believed she was in her own room—until the bed registered beneath her. Broader. Flatter. The sheet under her palm smoother, the weave unfamiliar. No blanket. No cover. Just dark sheets she hadn't claimed.
She opened her eyes, blinking hard against the brightness, and frowned. The ceiling gave nothing back. The angles overhead cut at her—too precise, too clean. Her gaze drifted sideways, searching for an anchor, finding none. The quiet here felt different—thick, suspended. Not absence, but pause. As if the room itself were holding its breath.
Then it came—warm breath, brushing faint across her spine. A presence. Quiet. Steady. Her body went rigid. The warmth stayed. Breath. Human. Close.
Memory followed—not clean, not whole, just fragments. Her knuckles against his door. The hallway light slicing into the dark. His voice saying her name. Then—sudden, cutting. Inside. Not soft. Not cruel. Just something she couldn't refuse.
And she'd moved. Crossed the threshold. Sat at the edge of his bed like she didn't know what she was asking for. Curled tight, barely breathing, waiting for the snap that never came.
He'd let her stay. Said nothing. Did nothing. Just lay back, solid and silent on the other side of the mattress.
Her fingers curled tighter in the sheets. She was still here. In his bed. In his room. And he hadn't moved.
She didn't move right away. Just stared at the seam where ceiling met wall, mind crawling toward full awareness in jagged pieces. What the fuck was she doing here? She should have gone back to her own room. Closed the door. Stayed behind it. Yet the sheets beneath her still held warmth, and her body hadn't budged all night. For the first time in weeks the nightmares hadn't touched her—no blood, no screaming—just a clean black stretch she couldn't even remember falling into.
Her fingers pressed tighter against her ribs. Slowly, carefully, she rolled onto her back, every shift measured, as if the whisper of fabric alone could rouse him. Her shirt clung damp to her skin. The mattress carried his imprint, a hollow of weight sunk deep on the other side.
Brock was still asleep, turned toward her. His head rested heavy against the pillow, one arm folded loose at his chest, the other tucked beneath him. In sleep, he looked almost like someone else. The edges had fallen away—jaw slack, brow uncreased, every hard line blurred as if the part that guarded, the part that bit, had been wiped clean. Stubble shadowed along his cheek and chin. His shirt lifted and fell with steady breaths, each exhale a faint warmth that brushed her skin. The space between them felt thinner than she remembered.
She let herself look, just for a second. The stillness in his face pulled at her—unguarded in a way he never allowed awake. No weight of watching, no constant measure. Like sleep had stolen the violence right out of him. Stripped the man who had dragged bleeding bodies off concrete, the voice that once spoke threats low in the dark. What lingered was quieter, unsettling in its ease. She hated how it settled over her now—not a standoff, just rhythm. Worse, she'd slept inside it. Deep. Dreamless. No fights. No blood. As if her body had finally forgotten to brace for pain.
Harper shifted the rest of the way onto her side, the sheets sliding cool against her skin as she turned to face him. His breath moved steady between them, slow tide in and out. Over the curve of his shoulder the red digits glowed on the nightstand: 5:58. Two minutes, and the alarm would split the hush. Two minutes, and the day would start.
Her lashes lowered. She held onto the dark a little longer, breathing in the silence before it shattered. But the weight in her chest wouldn't settle. Her mind ran routes and sightlines, positions in the convoy, the way Vex's eyes would strip her bare when she came back. Every breath felt rationed, like she was already spending what little she had. Seconds slid past until, at 6:00, the clock's thin, synthetic chirp cut the dark, think and insistent.
Brock's eyes opened, heavy-lidded, and found hers across the narrow space. For a moment they just stared, breaths crossing, the alarm still whining at his back. Then he rolled, broad shoulders shifting as he reached behind him and silenced it with a quick slap.
He turned back, eyes on her again. Closer now. Voice low, rasped from sleep.
"You ready to show Vex why you're still here?"
Harper didn't answer right away. Her gaze held his, steady, the silence stretching. Then she gave a small nod, a promise sealed without words.
─•────
The briefing room hummed with stale light and thicker silence. Morning bled pale through the blinds, painting long stripes across the U-shaped table where the crew spread themselves unevenly.
Brock sat at the corner hinge of the U, posture straight despite the hour, a cup of coffee untouched at his elbow. To his right, Harper had folded into the chair small as she could, arms crossed tight, her gaze lowered to the table's scarred surface.
Knuckles leaned back two seats over, mug in hand, the steam curling up past his face as if he could hide in it. Mason sat opposite him, heavy shoulders hunched, a half-drained cup clutched like it was the only thing keeping him vertical. Vale had his boots propped on a chair beside him, chair tipped back dangerous, a lazy sprawl that didn't match the bruise-colored shadows under his eyes.
Gunner slouched low on the far side, arms folded, lids half shut like the alarm had dragged him from too little sleep. Cole tapped the edge of the table with a pen, not taking notes, just keeping rhythm against the quiet. Price sat closest to the door, a file open in front of him though his eyes hadn't moved past the same line in minutes.
Coffee clung bitter in the air, but it wasn't enough to cut through the drag of exhaustion and the taut thread of nerves. Nobody said much. Chairs creaked, boots scuffed tile, and the room carried the kind of quiet that meant orders were coming whether anyone was ready or not.
The door swung open without warning, and every spine in the room stiffened. Vex stepped in like the air already belonged to him, boots striking tile in a rhythm that cut the low murmur of chairs. His gaze swept the U in a slow arc—Knuckles lowering his mug, Vale's boots sliding off the chair, Cole's pen falling still. The sweep landed on Harper and stayed there, a fraction longer than it should have. The silence thickened around her, the scrape of her pulse louder than the clock on the wall. Then Vex moved on, casual as if he hadn't left the weight of his stare pressed hard against her skin.
He didn't bother with preamble. He flicked a hand to the map and began. "Lead SUV—Price driving, Brock in charge, Cole on radio. Cargo One—Mason driving, Gunner passenger. Cargo Two—Vale driving. Rear SUV—Voss driving, Knuckles up front. Keep a car and a half between you unless the road forces you tighter." He tapped the radio schematic pinned beside the map. "One main channel, one backup. If the main gets scrambled, Lawson switches you. Keep it short. Keep it clear."
His knuckle tracked the route across the map. "Industrial road to the secure warehouse. Two fallback points—Rally Alpha here, Rally Bravo here." He circled them in red, then lifted his hand. "Priority is the trucks. They don't stop unless blocked. If someone goes down, SUVs drag them under cover and the trucks keep rolling. If an unknown vehicle tries to slot into the line, rear blocks, lead sets pace, cargo holds spacing."
He tapped the bold block letters—CONVOY ORDER—then flicked to a photo strip pinned beside the map. "Black Maw's been on this route three days. They're looking. Expect a stall, a split, a fast grab."
His hands cut the air through the signals—stop, back up, peel, dismount, close up—each motion sharp, unhesitating. Three narrow choke points tapped on the map. Then his eyes lifted, locking on Harper.
"Rear guard with Knuckles means nothing gets past you to those trucks."
That was all. His gaze swept the table once more. "Questions?"
Harper found Knuckles across the papered surface. He was already looking at her; a silent acknowledgment passed—rear guard together, no gap in coverage. She gave the smallest nod before his attention shifted back to Vex.
No one spoke. The quiet was answer enough.
"Gear up," Vex said, straightening from the table. "Garages in ten." Chairs scraped back as the team stood and filed toward the locker room.
Harper moved out with the others, the hallway narrowing their stride to a steady, purposeful march. She found herself between Mason and Price, their boots striking in unison on the concrete. Behind them, Knuckles and Brock brought up the rear, their low voices too far off to catch. The air carried the mix of oil, cold steel, and the faint bite of rain drifting in from the loading bays.
The locker room opened onto a wall of neatly hung gear. Harper went straight to the vests, pulling one down and cinching the straps tight over her base layer before clipping a utility belt around her hips. Pouches settled into place—tourniquet, spare mags, multi-tool. She crossed to the weapons wall, palmed the AR slotted at shoulder height, added a sheathed knife, slid a sidearm from its rack. The weight gathered piece by piece, dragging across her shoulders and waist until it reshaped her, a harder outline than the one she'd woken with.
Around her, the others moved in the same unspoken rhythm—Velcro ripping, buckles locking, radios popping static as check-clicks ran down the line. She seated her earpiece and snugged the mic line under her collar.
One by one, the team drifted out, boots scuffing a retreat down the hall toward the bays. By the time she re-checked the angle of her rifle sling and pulled her belt snug, the room had thinned. Cole slipped through the doorway last, and the hinge settled. She started to follow—then stopped at the sound of her name.
She turned. Brock stood at the far end, already geared, eyes locked on hers. They were alone now, the vents humming softly overhead. He crossed the space in a few unhurried steps.
"You've got this," he said, low and certain. "Stick to what we drilled. Keep your head clear. You'll do fine."
She nodded, but the tension in her shoulders stayed tight. His hand came up, settling firm at the back of her head where the braid began, steady pressure grounding her. For a moment he held her there, his gaze level, his voice close.
"You're gonna be okay."
Her nod came smaller this time. She drew a breath, slow and deliberate, before letting his hand fall away. Then they stepped out together, the door swinging closed behind them.
The hallway was quiet except for the low, constant hum of engines ahead. Their footsteps echoed off concrete, the air cooling as they neared the wide double doors. Pushing through, they stepped into the garage—last to arrive. The two armored Tahoes idled under the overhead lights, exhaust feathering toward the open bay. Doors hung open, Cole's voice cutting through a final comms check.
Up on the mezzanine, Vex leaned on the rail and watched them load, expression unreadable. He said nothing. In the rear SUV, Knuckles sat in the passenger seat, one hand resting easy on the dash. His glance slid over them in brief acknowledgment before turning forward again.
Brock slowed at the lead Tahoe, looked down at her. "See you out there," he said, voice pitched low enough to stay between them. She gave a single nod, fingers tightening on her sling. He brushed her arm once, then climbed in, setting his travel mug in the door rack as he went.
Harper crossed to the rear SUV. She pulled the driver's door open, stowed her mug in the console, and swung in behind the wheel. The cabin hummed with the low idle, warm air pushing faint from the vents.
Knuckles glanced over as she settled, a flicker of acknowledgment before his eyes returned forward. Harper clipped her sling short to keep it clear of the wheel, ran the belt across her vest, and settled her hands on the grip. The rifle rode tight against her chest, angled down toward the floor, safety on and ready if she needed it.
Knuckles' eyes flicked over her gear, then back to the windshield. "You ready for this, kid?"
"As I'll ever be," she said, snugging the belt and seating her earpiece with a thumb.
He gave a brief nod, mouth twitching like he might say more, but the radio crackled with Cole's voice. Ahead of them, Brock's Tahoe eased forward over the damp concrete. Harper dropped the shifter and rolled after it, tires humming low in the garage.
They cleared the compound gates, the guard's hand lifting in a brisk signal before the heavy steel slid shut behind them. Brock's Tahoe swung first into the empty stretch of road. Harper brought the rear SUV up to the threshold and held, idling in place.
The two cargo trucks rumbled past in sequence—Mason at the wheel of Cargo One with Gunner riding shotgun, Vale alone in Cargo Two, eyes fixed forward, engine humming steady. Their trailers swayed once as they cleared the gate and straightened into the road.
When the last truck's tail slipped past, Harper eased forward and slid the rear SUV into position. The convoy stretched ahead in clean order, a dark line of steel and glass, engines low and steady. Tires whispered over wet asphalt, the whole column moving as one as they took the route.
The dash clock glowed 07:05 when Harper glanced down, the digits trembling faint against the vibration through the wheel. Outside, the sky sagged low and heavy, clouds stacked in dull iron; rain pressed close in the air. Engines ahead hummed in unison under the static crackle of radios.
Cole came through first, crisp and steady: "Radio check." Replies followed in order—Brock, Mason, Vale, Knuckles—each voice carrying its own cadence. Harper matched names to tones without thinking, slotting them into memory the way she always did, a roster she could lean on if things went bad.
The Industrial district slid by in long, empty blocks—chain-link crowned in rust, shuttered docks, blank windows like blind eyes. The road narrowed and bulged, forcing small swerves around potholes and windblown trash.
Knuckles broke the quiet, voice calm, almost conversational. "Your job's the wheel first, eyes second. Mine's the gun. You keep us in line, keep spacing tight, and tell me if something moves where it shouldn't. Doesn't matter if you're sure—better to call it than let it slide."
He tipped his chin toward the cargo trucks ahead of them. "That's your priority. If something comes up behind us, I'll deal with it. You just make sure those trucks keep rolling. Rear guard buys them time—that's the only measure."
They passed a row of parked forklifts and rust-bitten machinery. Knuckles tipped his chin toward them. "If we get forced to stop, angle the truck. Give me an engine block, container corner, something solid to fight off. Sheet metal's nothing but a blind—won't stop a round."
He tapped the dash, voice steady. "This nose'll hold better—radiator, frame, block. Keep us squared and running. Dead truck makes us easy meat."
Harper's grip tightened on the wheel. "What if they cut between us and Cargo Two?"
"Then I push them out or burn them off," he said, simple as breath. "You keep the trucks moving. That's the job."
He threw her quick situational checks—two bikes closing in the rearview? Van door sliding open at the curb? Flash off glass on a rooftop? She answered most without hesitation, admitted what she didn't know, steady voice, no flinch. Knuckles logged each response in silence, eyes forward on the slick road.
He was mid-question—spotting movement on rooftops—when a white panel van eased into view at a cross street ahead. Harper caught it in her peripheral as it rolled to a stop at the curb, broadside to the convoy. No logos, plain sheet metal. Could be contractors, could be nothing. Weekends drew plenty of both.
"Could be nothing," Knuckles said, catching her glance. "Could be a delivery. Or a hide."
She drifted half a lane to give Cargo Two breathing room as they passed the van, eyes locked on the road.
Knuckles' voice stayed even. "Doesn't matter which until it matters. If something lingers, you log it."
She checked the mirror again. The van still idled back at the curb, blurred by drizzle as the gap closed between them and Cargo Two.
"The night you and Brock took me," she said finally, voice low, "I saw your SUV. Parked off the curb, right before the yard."
Knuckles didn't look over. "Yeah?"
"I never told anyone."
"Why not?"
Her grip tightened on the wheel. "Because if I said it out loud, it meant I was being hunted. Easier to pretend it was nothing."
Knuckles' answer came flat. "Wasn't nothing."
"I know," she said, jaw tightening as she forced her hands steady on the wheel.
The memory pressed in—the black SUV in the fog, the stillness before the night cracked open. Back then it was the shape of danger, the thing she ran from. Now it was the shape she carried forward, the thing she was meant to keep alive. Different seat. Different crew. Same gut certainty that the road ahead bled red.
The quiet held for a few blocks before Knuckles spoke again. "Quiz is one thing. What matters is how you handle the wheel when it goes loud. I can't put rounds where they need to go if you're weaving all over. Keep it steady, hold spacing, and don't freeze if I tell you to brake or push. Trust me to work the gun—you just keep the truck alive."
They rolled through a set of lights that flashed yellow over wet asphalt, the convoy's reflection shivering in the puddles.
Up ahead, the cross street opened onto a stretch of shuttered shopfronts. A white panel van nosed out from a side lane two blocks ahead—the same one she'd marked earlier, plain sheet metal, no logos. It idled just long enough for the lead SUV to pass before easing forward into the main road.
It kept rolling, angling for the space between Cargo Two and their SUV. Harper fed in throttle, closing up to Vale's bumper until there wasn't room to breathe. The van's nose wavered, then straightened, forced to tuck in behind them instead.
Knuckles watched it in the side mirror—a little too steady, a little too deliberate. He keyed the mic, voice clipped. "Rear guard to convoy—white panel van, no markings, trailing rear vehicle. Holding distance."
Static hissed before Cole's reply came through. "Copy, rear guard. Eyes on."
Knuckles didn't glance her way, eyes on the wet ribbon of road ahead. "Good. You don't give them that space. Ever."
The van lingered in their mirrors, holding a steady half-block back. When Harper bled a little speed, it did too; when she picked it up, it floated at the edge of engagement, never quite close enough to draw a challenge.
Two blocks later it slid into the turn lane and slipped down a side street without so much as a signal. Knuckles watched until the roofline vanished behind a stack of rust-bitten containers, then keyed his mic. "Rear to net—white panel van broke off eastbound, no markings. Last seen at the yard entrance." Cole's acknowledgment clicked once in her ear and fell silent.
The column rolled on. Ahead, the road pinched between a drayage yard on one side and a rail yard on the other, both wide open to the street. Inside the drayage yard, container stacks rose in uneven rows, gaps deep enough to swallow a vehicle; catwalks and laddered gantries cut the air above them. Across the way, parked flatbeds and idle railcars sat in the lee of a low loading dock, plenty of dark spaces to disappear into.
A knot coiled low in Harper's chest. This wasn't just a bottleneck; it was exposure, flanked on both sides with nowhere to put her back to. She tightened her grip on the wheel, eyes working every open gate and shadowed gap—and the high lines above—as they rolled through. Beside her, Knuckles shifted his rifle, angling it out the window, ready if the dark corners stirred.
She flicked a look at Knuckles. "Do you think—"
The rest died as a pressure-hard blast punched the air ahead. Black smoke and shrapnel flowered around the lead SUV; the shockwave thumped their doors and set the glass buzzing. Rain turned grimy in the backdraft, flecking the windshield with soot.
Brock was in that truck.
Her chest seized. Fingers clenched too tight on the wheel, breath caught in her throat. The world narrowed to that burning shape in the road—metal twisting, glass scattering. For a heartbeat she wasn't driving, wasn't anything but the terror of him gone in that fire.
"Fuck," Knuckles snapped, rifle already up. His voice cut through, hard and certain. "Ease it back—hold here."
She forced her foot off the gas, braked hard short of the choke. Cargo One's brake lights flared; Gunner's rifle was shouldered into the passenger window. Vale slid Cargo Two behind Mason, spacing clean, the column holding.
"Half a lane right," Knuckles barked. She obeyed on instinct, edging over, giving him a sightline past the rig. Wheels canted, brake pressed, the engine loaded and ready, her pulse hammering against the belt across her chest.
Up front, Price muscled the blown Tahoe another car length, steam hissing, then angled it across the narrowest part of the lane—a deliberate block. Seconds later Cole cut through the static: "Lead disabled, crew good. Vehicle is down and blocking. All eyes out—watch flanks and high."
Relief punched through her chest at Cole's voice—Brock was alive. She let herself have one quick breath, then shoved it down and scanned the lane through the windshield, fingers twitching against her seatbelt buckle. Instinct said to free it, to be ready to run, but the truck was still rolling hot. She forced her hand back to the wheel. Beside her, Knuckles settled his rifle across his lap, muzzle low, eyes already hunting angles.
Gunfire cracked from the catwalks strung high over the drayage yard, muzzle flashes stuttering between container stacks. At the same time, fast shapes broke from the rail yard side, using parked flatbeds and the low lip of the loading dock to close distance. An L-ambush—high fire raking from one flank while the other pressed in head-on.
"Contact high drayage, contact low rail," Cole cut in, calm and clipped.
Cargo One halted in the open. Mason threw the cab at an angle, giving Gunner a block of steel to work behind. Gunner kicked the passenger door wide, braced on the hinge, and drove bursts at the catwalks, but the shooters kept moving through gantries, hard to pin down.
Vale snapped Cargo Two to a stop, nose nudged toward the drayage yard, part of the cab buried behind a parked forklift. The engine still rumbled, ready to punch if a gap opened.
In the rear SUV, Harper hugged the wheel, kept the brake firm, wheels canted, engine hot. Beside her, Knuckles was already up on his rifle, muzzle tracking high across the yard. "Hold her steady," he said low, eyes never leaving the catwalks.
The world in front of her blew white—glass crazing, steel hammering—then darkened to soot. Steel-core rounds scythed down from the right, jackhammering the hood and windshield; every impact slammed her skull against her own breath. The laminate spiderwebbed, bowed, and then gave—bursting in a violent shudder that blasted dust, shards, and acrid grit across her lap and into her mouth. She and Knuckles ducked together, vision blown open to the storm of muzzle flashes strobing through the ragged hole where the windshield had been.
Harper stayed low, both hands locked on the wheel, fighting the shudder as rounds tore through the open frame. The cab shook with every hit, pressure thumping her chest, glass dust sifting down onto her hair and arms. Beside her, Knuckles yanked his rifle in, blood striped across his cheek where the glass had split him, but his voice stayed level. "High drayage—two on the gantry." His muzzle cleared the gap, barking fire upward.
Something slammed through the column; the wheel jolted under her palms, then went slack. The Tahoe lurched down on its front-right corner, frame groaning as the tire blew and the rim bit asphalt. Steam hissed up the cowl, curling across the cracked glass.
"She's done," Knuckles said, already booting his door. "Out my side."
Harper was already loose from the belt. She scrambled across after Knuckles as he shoved the passenger door wide, both of them dropping to the front wheel well, pressed in tight behind the engine block while rounds chewed the passenger side and A-pillar.
Her earpiece hissed—Brock breaking through in chopped fragments. "Cover… keep them boxed…" Then only static.
It came in a rhythm—two seconds clear, then drowned again. Harper flicked her eyes up-route. A white panel van sat at the mouth of the lane, fat whip antenna swaying from its roof.
"There," she breathed.
Knuckles followed her line, gave a curt nod. "Jammer. They're boxing the trucks. We're noise, nothing else."
Knuckles' voice stayed calm, close. "Catwalk left—rail the gap." She let it anchor her aim, worked the pillar, controlled bursts over the hood. When her mag ran light, she ducked, swapped clean, stowed the partial, popped back up.
"Rear guard—" she started into the mic, but the words drowned in static. Her jaw clenched. Useless. She cut it, eyes back on the lane.
Knuckles didn't even glance her way. "Forget the net. You talk to me."
The SUV bled coolant onto the asphalt, steam curling from under the hood in pale ribbons. Harper stayed tight to the front wheel, cheek gritty with glass, eyes on the gantry. When Knuckles called it, she rose and cut short bursts over the hood, brass scattering hot across her arm, before dropping back down. Between volleys, her off hand worked the passenger-door pouch—two smokes, one flare—clipped fast to her vest. Static hissed in her earpiece, useless.
Knuckles held the corner beside her, his rifle steady, bursts crisp and measured. Fresh cuts striped his cheek, one thin line of red trailing along his jaw. He wiped it once with his wrist, never shifting the muzzle off the high steel.
Vale kept Cargo Two tucked behind the forklift, engine rumbling. But they couldn't sit boxed forever. The longer they held, the closer the Maw would press—and once they reached the rigs, the trucks were gone.
Knuckles ducked back from a snap of rounds overhead. "They've got this angle pinned," he said, voice flat but edged with pain. "I'll hold the gantry. On your smoke, shift down the passenger side—call moving. If they press low, hug the wheel."
She nodded once, cracked the pouch, palmed the flare but yanked the two smokes. "Rear popping smoke," she sent. "Cover." His reply came as a hard rake across the gantry.
"Set."
Training slotted in—make smoke, change angles, turn the trucks into moving walls. She thumbed the first pin and skipped the can low toward mid-lane; white hissed out, curling, then billowing, hugging wet asphalt. The second she long-lobbed to the drayage-side curb, a cross-curtain building to chew up sightlines.
"Moving!" she called to Knuckles. Staying low, she edged along the passenger side to the rear bumper, kept the Tahoe between her and the catwalks, then slid off the tail into the rail-yard gutter and pushed under the smoke.
Halfway down the line she picked a welding rig by the loading dock—bottles on a dolly, a toppled stack of tires against it. She shot the small acetylene line—kept her fire clear of the bottles—then cracked a flare and rolled it under the tires. The hiss turned into a ripping whoosh as the gas caught, a jet of fire kicking sideways into the stack. Rubber blackened, smoke boiling up thick and fast. Orange light licked through the haze, heat lifting the curtain until it curdled dense and low.
The street narrowed to shifting shadows; behind her, Knuckles' rifle cracked and kept the high rail stitched. She edged one step out of the gutter into a brighter pocket of haze where the backlight would silhouette her to the cabs. Mason caught her first; his hand lifted off the wheel in acknowledgment. Past the forklift's frame, Vale's head turned, finding her through the gray.
She edged up just enough to be seen, raised her forearm chest-high, and gave the signals: roll, crawl, hold. Mason's lights flashed once in acknowledgment, then Vale's. They held position, waiting on her next cue. She ducked back down, slid into the gutter, and moved along the rail-yard edge toward the SUV, boots riding the shallow groove between broken asphalt and the dock wall. Knuckles' rifle kept the catwalks stitched, covering her shadow as she moved.
Static bit through the channel, Brock's voice ragged under the hiss: "Rear, report—Harper—" The rest drowned in white noise. She double-clicked her mic in reply and shoved it from her mind. The call didn't matter. What she could see did.
Knuckles shifted his fire with her, angling past her shoulder to keep the open lane suppressed. He didn't pull her back—he let her hold the forward corner. The smoke and confusion weren't for retreat. They were for the trucks.
She ducked behind the A-pillar, grit sticking to the sweat on her cheek, then brought the rifle in tight again. Muzzle just off the hood, eyes working through the thinning haze. Shapes were hardening where it tore. Time was bleeding out; one more push and the Maw would have a lane clean through.
Harper saw it in the gaps: the road ahead bent into another choke, tighter, dirtier than the one already bleeding them. No way to punch forward without handing themselves over. The only way out was back. But Mason and Vale hadn't moved—they were sitting disciplined, waiting on her to guide them.
She leaned in, shoulder brushing Knuckles, voice low. "They're holding for me. I've got to get to Vale and walk him back. Crossing your muzzle."
Knuckles flicked her a glance, gave one tight nod. His fire cut for a breath and came back higher, long, pinning the catwalks while she prepared to break.
She broke from the SUV's shadow and ran the gutter two car lengths, smoke wrapping her in and out of sight, then cut across to the rail-yard side of Cargo Two. She stomped the step and hammered the mirror housing, leaned close to the glass. Vale snapped his head over.
Her hands cut fast through the air: point down the lane—out; palm flat, slow wave—crawl; two fingers to eyes, tap chest, thumb over shoulder—on me. He caught it, hard nod, then the reverse lights flared and the tires bit.
She dropped off the step, slid back into the gutter, and started leading him along her line while Knuckles' rifle kept the catwalks pinned. His bursts were lean, tight, a low curse between them, then back on target—never wasting a round, never dragging heat over her.
On her signal, Cargo Two began backing. Cargo One eased a half-length to open a seam, Mason keeping his grille tucked tight behind the blocker so the choke stayed covered. Up front, the disabled SUV stayed canted across the pinch, hood steaming; Brock and Price crouched behind the driver-side fender, rifles up, while Cole worked the rear door, eyes on the rail-yard flank.
Harper cut along the rail-yard side of Cargo Two, knees bent, smoke curling at shin height. A round snapped close, and something hot and blunt tore across the outside of her thigh. The shock was white and sudden, buckling her stride for half a breath. Heat spread through the rip in her pants, the sting already burning deeper as she forced herself back upright.
Through the passenger glass, Vale's face jerked toward her, eyes wide. His mouth shaped something she couldn't hear over the fight, but his hand lifted off the wheel in a tight grip of concern. Harper slapped the panel twice—keep coming—and pushed on, rifle braced against the steel as the rig crept in reverse.
Behind them, Knuckles never broke rhythm. He saw her stagger in the smoke, teeth bared, and shifted his fire higher, keeping the catwalks pinned so nothing pressed while she kept the line moving.
Two Maw fighters broke low through the gaps between rail-yard flatbeds by the dock. Harper planted, sighted, and dropped the first mid-run; the second folded behind a stack of tires as her follow-ups sparked along the rubber and drove him off the angle. From the SUV, Knuckles walked fire across the drayage catwalks, covering the high steel and keeping her lane clear.
Up front, Brock, Price, and Cole shifted off the disabled Tahoe on the rail-yard side, catching what she was doing. Cole tried the mic; it came back static. Through a thin seam in the smoke Brock found her and lifted two fingers—eyes, then forward: with you. She tipped her chin once, two fingers to her vest: good.
They moved—short bursts, quick positions—stripping shooters off the trailers, keeping the rail-yard flank clean so Vale had room to bring the rig back. No speeches, no heroics; the line tightened around the plan.
Smoke thinned at the far mouth of the choke, movement hardening into a rush—more Maw spilling from the blind side of the drayage yard, shapes flickering between container rows. They came fast, rifles up, gambling on a push before the trucks could get clear.
Harper set her toe to the box's lower rail and leaned hip and shoulder to the panel, weight on the good leg, grazed thigh angled out so the fabric didn't drag. She worked her front sight into the rush—dropped a runner with a round through the thigh before he reached the forklift mast. Another vaulted the dock rail and sprinted the shadow under the trailers, sling hardware flashing; she walked two rounds into him, knocking him sideways into the grit as return fire sparked off the box beside her.
Seeing her exposed on the angle, Knuckles picked her up. His fire climbed and raked the high line, dragging catwalk muzzles off her lane and buying her seconds at the box.
Farther up, Brock, Price, and Cole worked the rail-yard flank—short bursts, quick shifts—stripping shooters off the trailers so Vale had space to keep backing. The net was still dead, static chewing anything Cole tried to push through. Through a seam in the haze Brock's hand cut forward—with you—and their fire pinned gaps she couldn't cover from where she was.
The push kept coming. Feet slapped wet asphalt between volleys, ricochets singing off the dock face. Harper locked her forearm to the steel, let the truck take the recoil, and hammered tighter groups down the lane. A burst stitched sparks along the panel near her head; she stayed on the angle and rode it out. Somewhere behind the crossfire, Mason's air horn blasted once—signal clear through the haze.
She kept low along Cargo Two's flank as it crept back, the smoke shifting in broken swirls around her. Then the lane ahead lit—short, brutal bursts raking low from fighters using the trailers as cover, hammering the box inches from her side. Sparks jumped off steel; hot dust peppered her cheek and sleeve; scorched paint went acrid in her nose.
She flattened to the panel, clear of the tire's bite, and slapped the box twice—hold. The truck checked. In the lull she slid to the rear corner, leaned out, and sent tight, deliberate bursts. One Maw fighter, caught crossing open ground between a trailer and the dock rail, went down. Another tried to crawl along the smoldering tires she'd set earlier; her follow-ups shoved him back into shadow.
Up-lane, Knuckles kept the catwalks loud, angles pinned off her side. She chopped a tight circle—roll, keep moving—then palmed the box low—crawl, slow. Reverse lights steadied and Vale eased back on her line while she swung her muzzle toward the next push.
Harper welded herself to Cargo Two's flank, shoulder hard to the steel, fire low and controlled while muzzle flickers needled through the haze. Knuckles never let the high guns breathe, but the weight pressing her side wouldn't ease.
Mason checked the truck a hair, and in that breath Gunner swung down from Cargo One's passenger step on the rail-yard side. He kept himself small and fast, a blur through the smoke, splashing once in the shallow run-off before he slid against the panel beside her. Of all people—Gunner. No words. Just a quick look to catch her sightline and a flat nod that meant he had his lane.
They worked anyway—clean, efficient. She took the openings; he hunted the shapes trying to use them. A figure lunged from the trailers and she clipped his thigh; another hugged the stack of burning tires and Gunner chewed the rubber to rags until the man rolled off the heat. He didn't crowd her. He stayed low, kept his strings short, matched her tempo without asking.
From the catwalks above the drayage yard, the flashes thinned, pressure on the lane easing by degrees. She slapped the box and flicked her hand back—the kind of signal anyone could read. Vale answered with a slow creep in reverse, brake lights dull through the smoke. Oil and wet metal coated her tongue, soot drifting down; Gunner steady at her shoulder, muzzle tracking. This doesn't change anything, she told herself, and still she let his fire buy her the room to keep the trucks alive.
From her flank on Cargo Two, Harper caught the shift ahead—Brock peeling off the blocker with Price tight on his hip. They cut low across the lane and dropped in at Cargo Two's front corner on the rail-yard side, rifles chopping in short, exact bursts that shaved back anything pressing from the dock wall. Boots splashed through pooled runoff; they slotted in like it was a drill.
Cole broke the other way, skirting the blocker's tail and sliding wide toward the street side. He posted on the gap the trucks had to back through, rifle already laid in. Every few seconds he cracked a single round—measured, deliberate—to keep the lane clean.
From his post at the rear SUV, Knuckles read the play and shifted higher, walking his fire down the catwalks—past the old ladder platform and into the far gantry joints—so nobody could rebuild overwatch. Casings clicked and hissed in the wet; the high line stayed quiet.
The pressure changed—less bite from above, the lane in front starting to open. She felt it in the way the smoke moved, gaps widening, light slipping under the murk. The trucks had a window, and everyone knew it.
The lull snapped like a tripwire. A fresh run of muzzle flash flared at the far end of the dock lane—closer now, heavier. Figures broke through the thinning smoke, running low between rail-yard flatbeds and the ribs of old forklifts. Someone up front hurled a bottle; it shattered across the stack Harper had lit earlier, and flame jumped higher, orange clawing into the black haze.
"Push coming!" Cole shouted from his curbside post, rifle cracking in steady rhythm. Brock peeled off the blocker and dropped to a knee at Cargo Two's rail-yard front corner, Price tight on his hip; their rifles punched short, exact strings that shaved back anything pressing off the dock wall.
At Harper's shoulder, Gunner held her angle. They worked in cadence—her burst, his—keeping a muzzle lit every second. The first runner through folded to a knee and skidded; the next vaulted him and nearly made the corner before Brock's cut dropped him cold.
The Maw tried the high steel again—dark shapes flickering between catwalk braces—but Knuckles was waiting. He'd held fire for it, then raked right to left across the rail until the flickers vanished. Diesel lugged in reverse as Vale kept easing back on her line.
Then came a man built heavy, plates strapped across his chest, charging the gap and hosing wild from the hip. Rounds hammered into the side of Cargo Two, a harsh metallic snarl that drove Harper's face tight to the panel. If he forced Vale to brake, even for a breath, the trucks would stall—and the rest would pour in.
Gunner leaned into her, shoulder plate brushing hard against her braid, his bulk blotting half her sightline as he rolled to the edge of the box. His rifle barked in a hard, climbing string that walked up the man's center and smashed him off his feet. Brass spun hot across Harper's vest, smoke curling as the body crumpled. Gunner stayed close, steady in the press of his shoulder, holding the angle like he'd braced there for her.
For a breath the lane held—fewer flashes above, less bite ahead. The window was open. Not for long.
Vale had both mirrors full—smoke, firelight, movement—but the lane was clear. Harper slapped the panel, palm forward—go—and the truck fed more throttle, easing faster on her line.
Brock didn't waste the seconds. He pushed off Cargo Two's front corner with Price on his hip, Cole sliding wide to hose the strip between the dock and the trucks. "Move!" Brock's voice cut through even without comms.
Harper caught Knuckles break from the rear SUV, rifle still barking as he hit the gutter. He ran the rail-yard edge, cut around the nose, and came up on Cargo Two's passenger door. She slapped the panel—hold—while Gunner kept her lane hot. Knuckles tucked in at the sill, rifle canted down the lane, eyes already on her.
Up ahead, Mason held the wheel on Cargo One while Brock yanked open the passenger door and climbed in. Cole scrambled up past the mirror and jammed onto the bench; Price wedged in last, kit clattering against the dash. Doors slammed half-shut, not clean, and Mason kept the rig rolling in reverse.
Harper held the smolder gap two counts longer until Knuckles tapped her arm—up. Gunner yanked the handle and went first, boots on the step, one hand on the grab bar. He spun, fisted her vest at the shoulder and the back of her belt, and hauled; her thigh flared as she scrambled the step, and he dragged her across the sill onto the bench. Vale kept it straight and steady. Knuckles came in last, shouldering through the opening; the door bounced, and he hit It with his forearm until it caught. Four bodies crammed tight, muzzles down, elbows in, as Vale kept the truck creeping back.
Vale didn't wait on neat—both cargo trucks backed in tandem, steady and quick, smoke folding in behind them while the Maw's last wild shots chased empty air.
He kept the wheel tight, moving in step with Mason. The lane opened—smoke folding, firelight pulsing in the gray. Shots still cracked from the dock, but Knuckles leaned forward over his knees, braced on the dash, and worked the passenger window; his bursts raked the gaps and drove shapes off the steel.
The dead rear SUV loomed on their right, canted where Knuckles had abandoned it. "Tight," Gunner said, and Vale took it tight—mirror brushing plastic, box corner kissing the Tahoe's nose and nudging it a foot. They slid past. Mason followed in the space Harper and Knuckles had carved.
They cleared the pinch and Mason swung his wheel, bringing Cargo One across the lane. Vale matched the arc, the two boxes offset just enough to keep the open side covered. The gap between them became the way out.
Harper stayed hunched between Gunner and Knuckles, thighs pressed to steel, the cab's heat soaking her shoulder where it met the door. Every brake check pulsed in her grazed leg, but her hands locked on the rifle, muzzle low, safety off. The air was hot with cordite and engine heat, cut by the cold that knifed in when Vale cracked his window.
The last cross street flashed wide in the mirrors. Vale dropped it into drive and fed throttle. The boxes straightened; the orange and smoke fell away until it was just sky again—wet, empty. They were moving. They were clear.