"Easy."
Harper slid toward the open door, boots dragging on the cab mat, eyes narrowing against the late-afternoon glare. Knuckles waited square below, one boot braced under the step, the other planted back, arms open. His cheek was split and crusted, dried blood tugging whenever his jaw flexed; grit clung in the stubble, smoke still powdered his vest and shoulders.
She pushed her hands into the shelf of his shoulders and gave him her weight. He stepped in, one forearm cinched at her waist, the other under her near arm, and let his legs take it. Not a clean lift but a suspension—knees dipping deep so her body cleared the sill while he rode the strain through his frame. His jaw locked as the cut in his cheek pulled tight, a wince flashing before he ground it down.
He sank slow, thighs bearing the load, then eased back upright so she slid with him, the height of the door melting in a controlled descent. The ground met quicker than her body was ready for. Pain speared her thigh, her knee trying to fold; her grip slipped against his smoke-stiff fabric, nails dragging grit across his shoulder. His arm cinched hard at her waist until her footing caught. A streak of his grime smeared her sleeve where he'd leaned close, the air between them thick with iron and smoke.
They met no resistance after the choke. The drive to the warehouse stretched longer than the map, engine a low wall and the glass humming in its frame; quiet gave the damage room to speak—Harper's grazed thigh waking with each downshift, grit-stung cuts burning where sweat broke through, Knuckles breathing shallow with the tacky pull at his neck where the windshield had kissed and left glass lodged fine. Once, he pressed the heel of his hand there as if to hold it still. Neither of them tried for words; the cab carried the weight, the air thick with diesel and smoke.
In the bay, Keir and Onyx were waiting to unload, voices and metal clanging as Vale and Gunner slid out and the yard swallowed the truck. She and Knuckles stayed put, letting the seats take some of it, the passenger door cracked to cooler air. Twenty minutes and they were rolling again, the container hollow behind them. They reached the compound ahead of the other rig; Mason wasn't in the mirrors.
Knuckles let the hold at her waist fall to her elbow, a light check for give, dried blood brushing her sleeve. "You good?"
She nodded, her hand staying on his forearm a moment longer, fingers catching the grit roughening his sleeve. The engine idled close, heat hanging off the hood. The rigs were too tall for the garage, so they staged on the tarmac along the side wall, afternoon light flattening everything.
A diesel note thickened from the far corner. Knuckles eased her a half step toward the wall, keeping himself between her and the moving nose as the second rig swung in and shouldered alongside, big mirror gliding past, air brakes sighing. Mason brought it up parallel with Vale's, bumper even; the gap tightened to a clean lane, leaving them pocketed between the hulks. Sunlight flared across the other windshield, turning the soot-streaked faces inside to cutouts.
The driver's-side door swung before the last hiss faded. Mason dropped to concrete light for his size, dust dulling the creases of his jacket but little else touched. Brock came off the same door a step behind, sliding out from the bench with a hand on the frame. His vest was streaked with soot; grit grayed one cheek, and a thin line of dried blood ran from his ear into the stubble along his jaw. He swept the lot once, then found her.
Harper's fingers hooked the side seam of her cargos, calf tightening with the urge to step toward him. That blood-thread at his jawline pulled at her worse than the sight of her own thigh; she had to stop her hand from lifting, from wiping it away with her thumb like it was nothing. She held her ground and let herself take him in—the quick sweep, the way his eyes locked and didn't slide. His glance dipped to the uneven hold of her weight; his mouth tightened by a fraction. He shifted toward her, half a step, then caught himself and angled to Knuckles instead, giving him the business look.
They closed the space in two strides and clasped hard at the backs of each other's necks, a press that held before breaking in the thrum of the engines. Brock's eyes caught on the glitter still clinging to Knuckles' cheek, shards of glass dried into the blood. "You're ugly enough without the glass."
Knuckles' mouth twitched. "You should see the windshield." His gaze slid to the thin line of red at Brock's ear. "And you're dripping like a stuck pig. Don't lecture me."
Mason had already peeled toward the side entrance, leaving the three of them in thinning exhaust and the tick of cooling metal. Brock's mouth twitched at Knuckles' parting shot, then he tipped his chin at the door. "Let's get checked out." His eyes touched Harper long enough to make the inclusion clear.
They fell into step across the tarmac. She kept her stride even, but a catch threaded every other step. Knuckles glanced once and shifted closer, his shoulder brushing hers in the narrow pocket between rigs. He didn't slow, just matched her cadence, the set of him keeping her line straight. Brock took her other flank, close enough that she felt the warmth of his sleeve; his gaze stayed forward and missed nothing.
The side door opened Into the compound's quieter wing, the hum of the main floor falling away like a lid shutting. They cut a short hall and pushed into medical, air heavy with antiseptic and the iodine thread that lived under everything.
Dr. Graves already had a curtained station going—gloved hands working Cole's forearm, teasing out glittering grains of glass with forceps while saline ran and a kidney basin clicked against the rail. Dust streaked Cole's sleeve where the jacket had been cut away, skin welted red under the light. On the next cot, Price sat stripped to his undershirt, a gauze pad taped at his temple and a slow leak dried into his hairline; one eye squinted against the brightness, his focus steady but careful. Their voices carried low under the hum, workmanlike and calm.
Graves looked up as they came in, eyes skating over Knuckles' cut cheek, the guarded way Harper was standing, and finally Brock. She gave him a small nod that read as greeting and receipt of command, teased the last glitter from Cole's arm so it pinged the basin, stripped her gloves with a snap, and pulled on a fresh pair.
"Lawson—eyes."
Brock stepped into the wash of the lights without argument. Graves lifted a finger, steadying his chin with her other hand. "Follow." His gaze tracked clean left-right, up-down. A penlight flashed once.
"Blackout?"
"No."
"Nausea? Vomiting? Dizziness?"
"No. No. No."
"Memory gap?"
"Whole thing's there."
"Hearing?"
"Ringing left since the blast. Manageable."
She tilted his head with two fingers, bringing her face close to the ear. The cut traced the rim; when her knuckle brushed it, he flinched but held still. She angled the penlight, checked the canal. She angled the penlight, then straightened. "Surface only. Ice for the swelling—two minutes on, two off." She dropped a cold pack into his hand and moved on without pause.
Her attention slid to Harper. "Voss, table three—let's get that leg before it tightens." A glance to Knuckles. "Chair four, pressure on the neck line; hands off your face. I'm with you next."
Brock stepped out of the light and took the chairs, boot hooking one around before he sat, the ice pack Graves had pointed him to already in his hand. He set it to his ear and let it hiss cold.
Harper moved to table three, keeping that side light. Graves clicked a curtain half-closed and snapped on fresh gloves. Her gaze skimmed the faint grit lines and shallow cheek cuts. "Eyes." She held up a finger. "Follow." Left, right, up, down. A penlight flicked once.
"Dizzy? Blurry? Double?"
"No."
Satisfied, Graves set a folded drape by Harper's hip. "Cargos off."
Harper thumbed the button and eased the zipper, stood, and worked the fabric down carefully, peeling where dried blood tugged. She settled back on the vinyl under the drape, thigh exposed to the light.
Graves peeled the drape enough to see the wound. The graze ran hot and raw along the muscle, edges rasped from friction; a thin tack of dried blood clung where the skin had feathered. She pressed lightly on either side, not the wound itself, testing heat and give, then slipped two fingers under the knee for a quick bend. "Any numbness or pins in the foot?"
"No."
"Good. We'll flush the leg, pick out the grit, ointment, non-stick, light wrap."
She wheeled a tray closer, metal legs whispering over tile. The cap snapped off a saline bottle and she drove a steady stream across Harper's thigh, loosening crust into pink run-off that filled the kidney basin. Forceps clicked as she teased out grit, each sting sparking through the muscle in sharp waves. Harper's fingers curled into the vinyl; she kept her eyes off the work and on Brock across the room. He sat angled in the chair, forearm on a knee, the ice pressed to his ear. The overheads picked the soot along his jaw and the faint line between his brows as he listened to Knuckles' low rundown. His eyes kept moving—door, sink, Graves—skimming the room in tidy passes that brushed hers for a fraction and carried on.
Graves dropped the last fleck into the basin and reached for a tube, laying a thin sheen of ointment over the raw edge of skin. A non-stick pad went on next, cool against the heat, anchored with a loose conform wrap that left the joint free. "Keep it clean twenty-four; change it after that once a day. Watch for heat, streaking, or a push of pain—come back if any of that starts."
Graves peeled her gloves into the bin and was already reaching for another pair as she turned to chair four. "You're up."
Knuckles shifted the towel off his neck and leaned in, muttering something that earned him only a flat glance.
Harper drew her cargos back over the new wrap, easing the fabric past it, buckled, and settled her vest. She came off the table, boots soft on tile, kept that side light against the drag, and crossed to Brock.
Brock looked up as she came to him, the ice still at his ear.
"How's it holding?" Her voice stayed routine.
He tipped the pack a fraction to show the thin red line along the rim. "Fine. You?"
She angled her chin toward the fresh wrap under her cargos. "Handled."
Their eyes held for a breath; his thumb flexed once against the pack and the line in his jaw eased. Then the ice was back in place, his gaze moving on like it had never stopped.
The door swung and Vex stepped in, deliberate as ever. Harper's back found a line before she could think, a reflex born of every time he filled a doorway and bent the air tighter.
He took a slow inventory—Cole with his forearm dressed, Price under a temple wrap, Knuckles tipped forward while Graves worked, Brock with an ice pack to his ear. His gaze touched Harper long enough to register the torn cargo leg and the brown line of dried blood down the seam, the way she angled weight off that leg, then moved on.
"Briefing room. Thirty minutes. Everyone." No lift in the voice. He gave the room one last pass, a small nod for Graves and another for Brock, and was gone.
─•────
The briefing room still held the morning's residue—coffee gone cold in mugs, marker ghosting the laminated maps, the air warm and stale behind the shut door. They came in as they were, clothes marked with smoke, grit, damp. Mason had a clean jacket thrown over his shoulders and claimed his usual corner; Vale took the far side opposite, posture easy, only a skim of warehouse dust on him; Gunner slung into a chair sideways, forearm over the back, a grime line across his cheekbone. Cole's arm was bound wrist to elbow, Price's temple wrapped, both near the wall with Price squinting at the lights. Knuckles leaned back a few seats away, fresh dressing taped along his neck, shoulders loose from Graves' work. Harper slid in midway down, the tear in her cargos showing the dull shadow of the wrap beneath. Brock took the head, forearms on the table, the cut along his ear cleaned but still an angry line against soot. The overheads hummed. The room waited for a door to open.
The latch turned and Vex stepped in, jacket shrugged off across the nearest chair. He didn't sit.
"Walk me through it."
Brock started, voice even. "Spacing held to the drayage–rail choke. IED killed the lead SUV; Price rode it forward to block the pinch. Comms went mud under a sweep jammer—white panel van with a roof whip at the lane mouth. Rear SUV disabled under sustained fire, left in place."
Knuckles picked it up without pause. "High fire out of the drayage catwalks, low push off the rail yard—trailers and dock lip. We worked the engine block on rear and held the high line down."
His eyes shifted toward Harper, a pass of the floor. She straightened. "Rear guard. Called the panel van trailing us, flagged it for the jammer up front. When the net went noise, I dropped smokes to cut sightlines and lit scrap tires with a flare to thicken cover. Signaled Vale and walked Cargo Two back on my line."
Brock gave a small nod, taking it forward. "I moved with Price and Cole to Cargo Two's rail-yard corner, linked with Voss and Gunner, rode the dock wall, and built a corridor. Mason kept Cargo One angled. Vale and Mason backed in tandem and we exfilled the choke. Load intact. No tails."
Vex's gaze cut to him. "Equipment losses."
"Lead SUV gone to the IED. Rear shot out and left inside the pinch. Weapons expended within norms."
Vex looked to Mason and Vale; both gave a single nod. He let the quiet sit, then set his palms on the table and took one long look around the room. "Route review and contact patterns on my desk tonight. I want the choke diagrammed—catwalk elevations, rail-side approach lanes, jammer placement, and timings from blast to movement." His eyes settled on Harper and stayed there. The room held its breath.
"Voss."
Her name in his voice dropped between her shoulders like weight. The hum of the overheads pressed close; every gaze in the room seemed to turn without moving. Her jaw ticked once before she locked it still. The torn cargo leg shifted against the wrap, and the taste of old smoke sat sharp at the back of her throat. The job was done, the one that was supposed to prove her place. All that time measuring every step, every word, knowing one wrong one ended with a round to the skull in some back corridor—it all pressed into this moment.
"You handled yourself." No shift in tone, just fact. "Comms went dark and you adapted. Smoke where it mattered, cover built without drawing blast. You kept the trucks your priority and walked a driver back under fire. Took a hit and stayed in it." His eyes flicked once to her leg, then back. "That's combat intelligence. That's grit. That's loyalty. That's value."
The pause stretched. Harper felt Brock in her peripheral, still as stone at the head of the table, Knuckles a weight just off her shoulder. Their presence pressed in, silent but there, as if the room itself leaned to hear what came next.
"You're in." The words landed like steel set to stone. "Lawson has you. His command, his call. You move as you like inside. Outside the walls, you move with escort until he says otherwise. Earn the rest."
Something unclenched low in her back and the floor steadied by a degree; the relief came thin and metallic, like blood rinsed from the tongue. She gave the smallest nod, enough to mark that she'd heard, nothing more.
Vex let his eyes hold hers a moment longer, then cut to Brock. "Your call held. Don't waste it." The nod that followed was final. He straightened and let his gaze take the table. "Tomorrow is down. Rest. Patch. Seventy-two hours—we mark it then. Dinner. Voss's acceptance."
The latch clicked behind him; the room stayed fixed on the empty doorway.
The echo had barely faded before Cole pushed to his feet, jacket sliding off his shoulder. He tracked her a long moment, head tilted like he was matching two pictures. "Hell of a thing. First time I saw you, Lawson had a fist in your hair and blood on your face. Now you're at the table."
Mason leaned back, a half-smile curling like it might cut if it went further. "Better seat, better company. Guess you're harder to kill than I figured."
Price tipped his chin, arm still wrapped. "Today proved none of this was a coin flip."
Vale leaned forward on his knees, gauze catching the light at his temple. "Most people, you tell 'em hold a line under fire, they freeze or bolt. You didn't. That's the kind you want next to you."
Knuckles came next—two strides and his palm settled at the side of her neck, weight without threat. "Glad you made it," he said, pressure enough to be felt. "I'd take rear guard with you again any time." He let go.
Gunner's chair scraped as he turned to face her, the smirk gone. "Smoke call was the play. Kept us moving." He gave one short nod. "Alright, Voss."
Brock was last. No hurry. He came around the end of the table, stopping close enough that his shoulder brushed hers. His hand found the edge of her vest strap and set it straight like it was nothing; his thumb pressed once at her forearm and was gone. When she glanced up, his eyes held for a breath, and the room narrowed to that space before it widened again—voices filling in, the sound of belonging.
─•────
The lift sighed open on the muted hall of the residential wing. Noise from the day sealed behind them; only the hum of the vents and the soft tread of boots came along. Mason peeled for his end unit, Vale ghosting after with a two-finger wave. Cole and Price split toward the mid row, voices dropping to a murmur. Gunner gave Brock a small chin lift and turned off down his corridor. Knuckles drifted last; his lock caught with a solid click.
Brock set his hand to their latch, metal cool under his palm, and swung the door into the familiar dim. Coffee and clean linen still hung faint in the air. Harper stepped through, favoring her side, and the door fell home behind them with a sound that felt like the day ending.
The latch caught, shutting out the corridor's hum. Brock's vest hit the counter in a dull slump, buckles rattling once before they went still. Harper's followed, the pull from her shoulders almost enough to take her knees. She unthreaded her belt, the holster thumping against the table, and set both hands to the edge, head bowed as her breath came hard, then steadied.
When she looked up he was nearer than she'd realized—just out of reach, the cut at his ear cleaned but raw, soot along his jaw making his eyes read darker. For a heartbeat, neither moved.
Her chest pulled tight; she almost stopped herself. Then she closed the space.
It wasn't clean or measured—just the need to know he was solid and breathing. Her hands locked at his sides. His arm came around her back hard, palm anchoring between her shoulders, the other settling at the base of her skull like he meant to keep her there. He turned his head to spare the bad ear and drew her in until her weight tipped; when her thigh faltered, he took it and set her feet without letting go.
"I thought—" Her voice thinned against his shirt. "I thought you were gone."
His grip tightened, firm but steady. "I'm not." He said it near her temple, voice even. "I'm here."
She pulled back an inch. The sheen in her eyes caught the low light; she swiped once, quick, and his thumb found what she missed. It lingered at her jaw, warm. He hesitated there, breath close, the kind of pause that could still break away.
Then his mouth touched hers.
She went still. For a heartbeat she couldn't move, couldn't breathe, the shock of it locking her in place.
It started careful—gentle pressure, shared breath, the simple press that said I'm still here.
Then she yielded. Her shoulders softened, her lips parting under his, and the tightness in her breath gave way. Her fingers slid to his collar and fisted; his hand spread at the small of her back and drew her fully in, his mouth deepening over hers until the room dropped away. She made a sound into him, one that carried relief as much as want, and he answered by easing her back against the table's edge so her leg didn't take the strain, keeping his injured side angled away.
When he broke for air, his forehead rested against hers. "Harper."
"Say it again," she whispered.
"I'm here, Harper."
Something uncoiled in her chest and stayed loose this time. She closed the space on her own, her mouth finding his—slower, deliberate, like setting a mark she meant to claim. Her fingers pressed at his collarbone as she leaned into him—his arms closing, the world narrowed to the heat of him and the steadiness of his hold—until her breathing evened and the quiet felt earned.