The charge hit like a hammer dropped on the block. Pressure seized the street—air ripped, water jumped, Harper's chestplate thunked hard into her ribs and her hearing went white around the edges. Steel shrieked and peeled, slats scissoring in a glitter of sparks; hot grit peppered her cheek. The roll-up door collapsed inward on its track and the opening exhaled rot—wet, chemical, old heat dragging smoke over the threshold.
Figures surged through the gap—Knuckles first, rifle cracking, his snarl carried in the smoke. Gunner and Cole pressed the threshold in lockstep, muzzles flashing with tight, surgical bursts that strobed the bay. Brass clattered across concrete, rolling hot under boots.
Jensen followed, cord trailing, shoulders hunched low as he drove in after them, the whole line folding through the breach like it had been drilled a hundred times. Smoke clung and swirled, sparks still spitting from twisted metal. Inside, shadows shifted—racks, crates, the jagged silhouettes of bodies snapping to return fire. Shots sparked steel just past Knuckles' shoulder, biting the frame and showering grit across the entry. The breach roared alive, not a pause, not a breath—only the push forward, steel and flesh colliding in the dark.
Brock's team stormed in on their heels, rifles already hammering. He swung their line left, controlled and steady, the pace dragging Harper and Vale shoulder to shoulder at his flank. Smoke clawed Harper's throat as she drove her rifle up, Mason and Price closing behind to lock the wall. Together they pressed forward in rhythm, brass skittering underfoot as the warehouse swallowed them.
Gunfire strobed the interior—white flares high in the haze, tracers ripping green through the smoke. Shadows jerked along the upper rails, too fast and broken to count. Rounds smashed shelving, cartons bursting into powder, sparks cascading from raked steel. Brock's fire cut lanes through the dark; Vale tore through cover with punishing bursts. Harper tracked her lane, sightline jerking between flare and shadow, each trigger squeeze folded into the rhythm of their advance, her pulse anchored to the drum of the team. Mason's heavy volleys and Price's measured shots stitched into the storm, the whole wall pressing forward, step by step, into the churn of noise and fire.
Behind them the breach kept pouring bodies—smaller squads fanning in with practiced certainty, boots pounding through smoke as each group peeled into its own lane. The warehouse floor fractured into arcs of movement, muzzles flaring as teams split for the far aisles, others driving toward the stairwells, the whole space filling with the Syndicate's thunder. Their push was a tide—disciplined, merciless, unstoppable—rolling deeper with every step, the sound of war building until the air itself felt thick with lead.
Brock pushed them deeper, muzzle rising with each stride, their wall chewing through the first racks in measured bursts. The smoke thinned just enough for Harper to glimpse the ceiling struts—catwalks running the length of the bay, railings alive with bodies. Then the dark bloomed white with fire, muzzle flare strobing in jagged rhythm as a flood of rounds raked their lane. Steel screamed, sparks fountained, cartons ripped apart in clouds of dust and fabric.
The air turned lethal in a blink. "Cover! Left side—now!" Brock's roar cut through the chaos, part command, part fury. His arm chopped the direction, and the whole line veered with him, boots pounding, rifles still spitting defiance at the rails above.
Harper slammed into the cover in step with Vale—an island of stacked crates and hulking machinery that caught the firestorm meant for their ribs. Her shoulder bounced hard off steel, teeth rattling from the impact, the edge vibrating under the constant rain of rounds. Vale leaned into the gap beside her, weapon flaring in ruthless rhythm, his curses lost in the noise. Mason and Price crashed in tight behind, both pouring heavy fire skyward, their muzzles snapping the dark open.
Sparks cascaded over them, brass clattered under their boots, and the crate wall trembled with every strike. Brock was pressed in just ahead, rifle bucking high, his voice still cutting the chaos: "Pin those rails! Keep their heads down—don't let 'em breathe!"
Pinned, but not broken. The advance stalled, the world shrunk to muzzle flash above, the stink of cordite in their lungs, splinters biting skin, and the hammering need to ride out the next volley alive.
Vale broke his fire long enough to slam a palm into Harper's arm and point. "Ladder—here!" he bellowed, muzzle snapping back up toward the rails as another volley raked their cover.
Brock's head whipped, following the line Vale had cut with his hand. The ladder was buried against the crates, half-shrouded in shadow, running straight into the catwalk overhead where fire kept spilling down. He popped for a glance across the bay, the far side strobing with muzzle flash—Ryker's team moving toward another ladder under their own storm of fire. A round snapped off the steel inches from his temple, forcing him back hard against cover.
He spat the call, voice cutting through the chaos. "Ryker's got the far side! Vale—Harper—you take this one!" His hand chopped the ladder as bullets rattled against the crates. "Mason, Price—keep the lane busy!"
Figures slid in at their flank, boots striking hard against concrete—Briggs, Onyx, and Keir, stacking into cover, rifles already cracking. Brock snapped his head toward them, teeth bared. "You three—lock the rail! Burn it down!"
Briggs, Onyx, and Keir's rifles lit first, their bursts scything the rail above until sparks rained in sheets. Mason and Price locked in, muzzles churning steady, the combined roar turning the catwalk into a cage of lead. The air shook with it, each volley chewing the steel overhead, driving the Maw gunners back behind the rails.
Vale and Harper shifted in tandem, rifles slung in one practiced motion, metal clattering against plates. Vale crouched low, weight pitched forward, eyes cutting up through the sparks. Harper dropped lower still, one knee biting concrete, palms spread to the grit. Her shoulder pressed near his thigh, close enough to feel the flex of muscle as he braced, both of them strung tight in the heat and noise, waiting for the break.
She risked a glance back. Through smoke and muzzle flash, Brock's eyes locked on hers. Hard, unyielding—but underneath, the flicker of something only she knew. A promise. Get up there. Come back to me.
Then his voice ripped the storm. "Go! Ladder—move, move!"
The pair launched together, boots exploding off the floor. The cover fell away behind them and the warehouse swallowed them whole—thirty feet of open ground lit by muzzle flare, every stride a gamble. Suppression fire wailed overhead, Syndicate rifles shredding the rails, but rounds still snapped low, ricochets chasing at their heels as they tore across the floor.
The ladder loomed against the crate wall, set high, first rung five feet above the ground. They hit it at full speed, skidding in hard. Vale slammed a shoulder into the crates, one hand braced to steady himself, Harper dropping into the slide beside him, boots screeching across concrete. They braked just short of collision, lungs dragging smoke and fire.
Vale spun, slammed his back to the wall, and dropped an arm low. "Up!"
Harper planted a boot into his hands, the heave launching her skyward. Fingers caught steel, the rung rattling under her grip as sparks hissed close. She hauled herself up, boots scrambling at the wall until she hooked the next rung and pulled higher, chest burning with the climb.
Vale shoved off in her wake, catching the ladder as she cleared space. Boots slammed into the crates for leverage, his bulk rising fast, the metal shuddering under both their weight while covering fire thundered overhead, every shot meant to buy them seconds.
Vale's bulk pressed close beneath, his voice cutting through the roar in a bark meant to drive her faster: "Go! Keep moving!"
Harper cleared the lip, boots hitting steel that trembled under her weight. Two Maw fighters were braced at the railing barely fifteen feet away, rifles angled down into the floor below. Smoke swirled around them, muzzle flare white at eye level, their focus locked on pouring fire into the Syndicate wall.
Her rifle snapped up before thought. The first burst punched through the closer one's chest and face, folding him backward over the railing. He toppled with a strangled cry, body vanishing into the smoke below, weapon clattering after him.
The second spun at the sound, half a magazine hanging loose in his grip. Harper cut him down before it locked, three shots staggering him sideways into the steel rail. He slammed chest-first against it, ribs catching on the bar; his rifle tumbled free while his body hung there, twitching once before going still.
Vale swung off the ladder behind her, the whole frame shuddering under his weight. He clocked the two bodies—one gone into the void, one slumped against the rail—and gave Harper the barest nod before pivoting left, muzzle already hunting deeper movement along the walkway.
Harper pressed forward into the storm, boots rattling on steel that flexed with each step. The Maw opened up ahead, three rifles sparking white through the haze, muzzle flare strobing twisted faces for split-seconds at a time. The first burst shredded sparks at her boots, fragments stinging her shins; the next shrieked off the railing, a round passing close enough to set her head ringing.
She dropped low, braced on a knee, rifle shouldered tight. Her bursts were short, savage, stitched into the smoke, each squeeze tearing new sparks from the steel.
Vale stayed tall over her, broad shoulders hunched against the recoil, his muzzle raking high across the rail. The catwalk shook under their combined weight, brass streaming down through the grating into the fight below. Together they worked in brutal rhythm—Harper's fire chewing low, Vale's raking higher—forcing the Maw fighters ahead to break, duck, and fire blind.
One gunner braced against the railing, spraying wild bursts straight down the walkway. Rounds tore off the grating at Harper's boots, hot metal scoring her leg. Heat ripped her sleeve open, shrapnel slicing skin; she grit her teeth, ignored the sting, and slammed a fresh magazine home.
She surged back up, muzzle flashing, cheek seared by the heat. Sparks sprayed wide where her rounds met steel, then a body lurched sideways in the haze, collapsing into the rail. Vale drove another burst through the gap, the fighter beside him folding and vanishing into smoke.
The walkway had become a furnace—no cover, no retreat—every step a gamble on exposed steel. Boots hammered forward, brass poured down like rain, the whole catwalk screaming with weight and violence as they forced their way deeper through fire.
They pushed on through the haze, rifles sweeping, steps heavy on the trembling grating. The catwalk stretched in a narrow tunnel of smoke and light, but no more figures broke the line. Only the hiss of gunfire from below and the groan of stressed steel kept them company as they advanced.
Then—movement. A flicker through the haze.
Both rifles snapped up in the same instant, Harper crouched low, Vale looming high. Three shadows solidified through the smoke—Ryker and two Syndicate men, rifles shouldered, muzzles aimed straight back down the lane. The air tightened, one heartbeat away from tearing apart in friendly fire.
Recognition hit in the same breath. Faces lit by muzzle flash, insignia caught in strobe. Muzzles dipped, shoulders eased. Harper exhaled through her teeth, lowering her rifle, and Ryker's scar-split grin flickered at her like he'd been waiting to see if she'd flinch.
"Didn't think you'd make it up here," he rasped, voice low enough for only her.
She kept her rifle steady at her hip, eyes locked on his. "Disappointed?"
The grin widened by a hair, but he turned his muzzle down, pivoting back toward the haze ahead.
Vale's muzzle swung off the haze and down toward the floor below. He thumbed his radio, voice ragged but steady. "Catwalks clear. Left side's open—repeat, left side clear."
The reply came half-buried in static, another voice snarling through the channel as automatic fire ripped in the background. Below, the fight still churned—racks collapsing under the weight of fire, crates bursting into powder, Syndicate squads pressing in wedge formations through the aisles.
Harper leaned into the rail, smoke boiling up past her face. From above she caught flashes of movement, Syndicate muzzles flashing steady, the Maw answering wild from cover that was splintering by the second. The catwalk rattled under her boots with every heavy burst from the floor.
The catwalk roared with fire, every rifle angled down into the haze. Harper braced tight against the rail, Vale crouched low beside her, Ryker and his men stretched along the flank. Together they poured punishment into the Maw below, stitching the aisles with fire where Syndicate squads were pinned. From above, the lines opened—Maw fighters breaking from cover as crates splintered, bodies staggering into the open only to be cut apart by the storm raining down.
The effect was brutal, decisive. The floor shifted under their guns, Syndicate squads surging as the weight eased. For a breath, it looked like the tide had turned.
Then the return came.
A sudden barrage ripped through the haze, a dozen muzzles flaring at once from the far racks. Rounds tore upward in a barrage of sparks and steel, chewing into the catwalk. Harper felt the grating hammer against her ribs as she dropped flat, Vale slamming down beside her. The rail spat shards into her cheek; brass rattled under her chest as she pressed herself into the steel.
Ryker didn't make it down. The burst caught him full, rounds stitching across his chest and shoulder, snapping him hard into the rail. His rifle skittered away, clanging down the grating as his body jerked under the impact, armor splitting under the weight of fire. Blood sprayed across the steel in ragged arcs before he sagged against the railing, head lolling as another volley chewed sparks inches from where he hung. For a heartbeat he clung upright on reflex, hands twitching at nothing, then gravity pulled him down until his weight bowed the rail, the metal groaning under him.
"Stay down!" Vale roared, throwing his weight across Harper and forcing her shoulder flat. His bulk covered her, armor scraping as another volley ripped overhead. The catwalk shook under the strike, bolts whining, shards cascading from the struts in a metallic rain.
Her breath seized under his weight, ribs burning, ears ringing with every impact. The air was thick with cordite, the reek of burning steel pressed hard against her tongue. Her world narrowed to Vale's weight, the vibration of steel under her chest, and the smear of blood inches away where Ryker had folded into the rail—still fresh, still spilling, even as the firefight raged on.
From the floor, Brock pressed his back into the machinery, Mason and Price braced tight on either side. Fire still chewed the racks ahead, tracers hissing past as they leaned out in bursts to keep the Maw pinned. Then the upper catwalk lit—muzzle flashes jagged through the haze, a punishing volley hammering from the far racks. Sparks cascaded down in showers as the whole frame above shook under the weight of fire.
Brock's eyes cut upward, jaw tight. He couldn't make out shapes through the smoke, only shadows flaring and vanishing in the strobe. The sound carried worse than the sight—bolts whining, steel groaning—but what twisted his gut wasn't the racket. It was knowing Harper was up there in it, and he had no eyes on her.
His jaw clenched. He shifted tighter into cover, every instinct screaming to break position and get eyes on her, drag her out of that storm himself. But the racks ahead still spat fire, keeping him and the others locked in. Mason leaned in hard on the trigger, Price feeding clean shots into gaps, both of them holding the line while Brock keyed his comms, voice flat and cutting against the chaos.
"Catwalk—report."
For a moment, only static and the thunder of rifles answered. Then Vale's voice cracked through, ragged and raw: "Ryker is down. Repeat, Ryker is down."
The words hung in the noise, heavy as the steel shuddering overhead. Mason's jaw clenched tight, Price spat a curse, and Brock bared his teeth, rifle slamming short bursts down the aisle. He keyed comms mid-volley, voice cutting through the static like a blade.
"Catwalk, disengage! Get off that steel now!"
His tone was flat, merciless, no space for argument. He knew what the fire was doing up there—bolts whining, metal whining, the whole frame ready to peel loose under the barrage. Smoke poured down in sheets, the catwalk rattling like it was about to shake free from the struts.
"Vale—Harper—find a way down. Move!"
Vale didn't waste any time—he rolled off Harper, armor grinding steel, and swung toward Ryker's men. His voice cut through the barrage like a whip.
"Back down! Other side, now!"
The two enforcers hesitated a half second, eyes flicking toward Ryker's body still hooked on the rail, then they scrambled, dragging themselves low along the catwalk toward the far ladder. Rounds chewed the grating around them, sparks spraying as they vanished into the smoke.
Vale dropped flat again, shoulder pressed to Harper's as he shouted over the gunfire. "We crawl. Stay low."
She slung her rifle tight across her back, metal digging against her plates as she flattened herself to the grating. Vale mirrored her, weapon hugged close to his side, barrel pointed rearward to keep it clear. Together they slid forward, bellies scraping steel, keeping tight to the deck as rounds licked overhead.
The catwalk shuddered with each impact, vibrations buzzing up through their ribs. Smoke curled low along the grating, sparks showering down through it from the struts above. Harper pressed her cheek to the steel, eyes fixed on Vale's boots dragging just ahead, every inch a fight against the storm tearing itself apart above them.
They crawled hard, keeping flat to the steel until the ladder loomed through the smoke. Vale reached it first, swung his rifle across his back, and dropped feet to rungs. He slid the last few meters, boots slamming the floor as he turned to cover.
"Down!" he barked.
Harper was right on him, boots finding rungs, hands slipping once on the hot steel before she let herself slide the rest of the way. She hit hard, knees jarring, then Vale's grip caught her arm and yanked her tight into cover.
They dove behind a stack of crates, steel splintering under fresh fire that chased them down. Harper pressed her back against the wood, lungs dragging smoke, the rifle tight across her chest again. Vale crouched beside her, weapon up, eyes cutting through the haze as he sucked air between his teeth.
For a moment the cover held. The gunfire hadn't stopped, but it was thinning—bursts more scattered now, Syndicate shouts tightening the floor into order. From behind splintering wood and scorched metal, Harper and Vale stayed close, a moment's shelter carved out of violence.
Vale jerked his chin toward the far side of the aisle. "Move—we're not sitting here."
They broke from cover together, boots hammering across concrete as ricochets sparked off racks. Rounds still chased them, but the weight had shifted—the Maw's fire turning ragged while Syndicate muzzles drove the floor forward step by step.
Harper and Vale skidded into Brock's line, diving behind the machinery where Mason and Price were locked in. Vale hit the steel with his shoulder, muzzle swinging out, while Harper slammed in beside him, back scraping metal, chest heaving. Blood flecked her face, dark and wet across her cheek and collar, catching in the lines of her armor.
Brock's eyes snapped to hers. For a breath the fight dulled in his ears—the muzzle flare, the shouts, the grind of gunfire all washed thin against the sight of her crouched there, still breathing, bloody but unbroken. Her gaze held his, hard and steady, no words passing but everything carried in the lock between them.
The comms cracked alive, Knuckles' voice punching through the static. "We're moving to set charges. Burn phase starting—teams keep pressure on. Pick off what you can, but get ready to clear to the exits."
Around them the fight was still ragged, but the cadence had shifted. Syndicate bursts came sharper now, squads sweeping the aisles instead of trading fire, cutting down stragglers as the Maw bled back toward the shadows. The momentum was turning—but Knuckles' words made it clear time was running short.
Brock risked a glance over the machinery, head just high enough to cut a line through the haze. Across the fray, two figures moved fast along the racks—Cole and Gunner, packs stripped, pulling charges from satchels and fixing them to the steel. Sparks hissed where wires kissed metal, the prep for fire already in motion.
He ducked back down, jaw set, and swept his gaze across Harper, Vale, Mason, and Price. "We don't have time. On my word, we're breaking for the exit. Rendezvous back at the Tahoe—nobody lags, nobody stops. Understood?"
They nodded quick, weapons checked and ready, eyes on him for the signal.
Brock held them a beat longer, timing the rhythm of the fire. Then he gave the nod, and they pushed as one—boots pounding concrete, rifles up, driving toward the doors cut into the far wall. Light leaked thin through the split, just in reach, but the Maw had been waiting.
Gunfire erupted from the racks ahead, muzzles strobing in brutal rhythm. The volley didn't falter—it ripped through the aisle in a roar that turned it into a wall of lead. Rounds shredded crates, punched holes through steel, and gouged the concrete under their boots.
"Cover!" Brock bellowed, hauling the team hard right. They smashed into a collapsed stack of shelving, the barricade quaking as bullets tore through it, fragments spitting in showers. Each strike jolted the frame, vibrations running through their bones like the warehouse itself wanted to shake them out.
Pinned tight, they fired back in rhythm. Mason dumped blind bursts to keep heads down, Price's shots snapping clean whenever a flash gave him a target. Vale anchored the edge, his muzzle rattling in steady streams that chewed the racks. Brock pressed Harper low, his shoulder taking the spray, but she shoved up beside him anyway, bursts biting along the floor as his cut higher—their muzzles overlapping in punishing tandem.
The barrage built, pounding until wood splintered and steel groaned. Smoke rolled through the wreckage, every breath thick and bitter, every inch of cover rattling under the weight.
The comms flared: Knuckles' voice, hard and merciless. "Charges prepped. Burn in thirty."
"Fuck!" Brock snapped, teeth bared. He slammed his mic open. "Lawson. Pinned, heavy fire—west aisle, two racks short of the exit. We're not moving without cover!"
Gunfire still lashed their barricade, relentless. Harper braced into Brock's side and fired again, Vale swore into the haze as he slammed a fresh mag home, Mason's bursts tearing wild arcs to keep the Maw back. For a breath it felt like they were holding—barely—but the walls kept closing in.
Then Knuckles came back over comms, his tone stripped raw. "Brock, you need to move. Right the fuck now. Everyone out—the building goes, do you hear me? Get the fuck out of there!"
Static swallowed the tail, but the message cut through: there were no more buffers. Seconds only.
The channel cracked again, jagged and worse: "Briggs is down!"
Brock froze for half a beat, breath locked, then snapped another burst without looking, jaw tight. He didn't need eyes on it—the call was enough. Another man gone.
"Hold steady!" he barked, voice ripping through the roar. "We break on my call!"
Harper's eyes cut to Brock, waiting for his call. His mouth opened, breath drawn—
The floor convulsed. Steel tore. Fire ran the racks in a chain of thunder.
Then the blast took everything.