The hatchet spun end over end and buried itself a hand's width off the mark, thudding into the weather-cracked stump. Bark splintered loose and scattered across the frosted grass. The air held that thin bite of late fall, cold enough to fog their breath, not yet enough to drive them inside.
"Close," Kier said, teeth flashing as he lounged against the porch post. He tugged the hood of his sweatshirt tighter against the wind, head tipped like he was judging an Olympic event. "But close don't split skulls."
Harper wrinkled her nose at him, tugging Brock's jacket tighter around her frame. The sleeves hung long past her wrists, swallowing her hands as she crossed the yard. Leaves whispered under her boots as she reached the stump. She gripped the handle, yanked the blade free, and brushed her hair back before pacing to the scuffed line in the dirt. The jacket dwarfed her, but the way she set her stance was steady as stone. "Shut up and watch."
She threw. The hatchet spun true this time, buried itself dead-center with a crack that echoed off the trees.
Kier pushed off the post with a low whistle, shoving his hands into his pockets against the chill. "Alright," he said, grin wide. "Maybe you can be taught."
Harper rolled her eyes so hard it nearly hurt. "Spare me," she muttered, striding back across the yard. Frost crunched under her soles as she tugged the hatchet free again, the handle stiff with cold. She carried it back and held it out to him, palm flat like she was presenting a relic. "Your turn, hotshot."
Kier plucked it from her hand with a bow so dramatic she nearly smacked him with the handle. "Observe greatness," he said, strutting to the line like it was a stage. He wound his shoulders up, lips pursed like he meant business.
The hatchet spun—then clipped the stump, bounced, and thunked nose-first into the dirt with the handle sticking up like a crooked gravestone.
Harper slapped both hands over her mouth, but her laughter still came out in a rush, bright and loud. "Oh, stunning. Truly a masterclass." She bent double, clutching the sleeves of the jacket to keep it from slipping off her shoulders. "Should I get you a butter knife instead?"
Kier glared, stomping out to retrieve the hatchet, muttering the whole way. "That slipped."
"Uh-huh," Harper said, trailing him with a grin that was all teeth. "Slipped right into nothing. Good thing nobody's relying on you to keep the human race alive."
He reset, jaw tight, threw again—this time the blade bit into the outer edge of the stump, wobbling like it barely stuck.
"Progress!" Harper clapped once, mock-cheerleader. "You've graduated to hitting the actual target! Baby steps."
"Keep it up," Kier warned, stalking back for another go. He spun the hatchet in his hand, set his stance wide—boot sliding just over the dirt scuff.
"Oh, no you don't," Harper said, spotting it.
Kier smirked, lifted the hatchet high—
—and Harper lunged, grabbing his shoulders and shoving. He stumbled forward with a yelp, hatchet nearly flying out of his hand.
"Cheater!" she shouted through her laughter, hooking an arm around his neck to haul him back.
"Get off—I was testing it!" he gasped between helpless laughs, twisting like a cat trying to get loose.
"Testing my ass!" she shot back, clutching at his sweatshirt with both hands. They slipped and jostled, boots tearing through piles of leaves, laughter spilling louder and wilder with every second.
Her grip finally slid and she went down hard, landing on her back with a thump that knocked the wind out of her. She burst out laughing anyway, sprawled across the grass, gasping for air. Kier dropped to one knee beside her, clutching his stomach, wheezing through his grin like he'd just won a prizefight.
The two of them lay there howling, leaves in Harper's hair, mud smeared across Kier's knee, both so far gone they couldn't stop even if they tried. Their laughter stretched until it had no air left in it, tapering into hiccups and ragged sighs.
Harper let her head fall back against the cold ground, chest still rising with leftover giggles. Pale sky stretched above her, clear but thin, the kind of light that made the frost in the grass glitter. She breathed out, watching her breath lift in soft clouds and vanish into the chill. For once, she didn't feel the need to fill the silence.
Beside her, Kier flopped onto his back, arm thrown over his eyes, still chuckling under his breath. "You're a menace," he muttered.
Harper smiled up at the sky, the ache in her ribs a good kind of hurt. "Still beat you."
Kier groaned like he'd lost a war and let his arm slide off his face. "Yeah, yeah. Don't let it go to your head."
Harper tilted her head just enough to glance at him, grinning without bothering to hide it. "Too late."
The sound of tires crunching over gravel pulled both their heads up. Down the lane, the Suburban came into view, dust kicking off its tires, the grill flashing dull in the thin sun.
Kier pushed himself up on his elbows, brushing leaves out of his hair. "Guess the hunters return," he said, smirk creeping back.
Harper sat up beside him, tugging Brock's jacket tighter around her. Knuckles had the window down, elbow hooked on the sill, and even from here she could see his head shake when he caught sight of the two of them sitting in the grass.
The SUV rumbled closer, the back heavy with supplies, Brock behind the wheel, Onyx a shadow in the passenger seat. For once, Harper didn't feel the knot in her stomach twist. Just the kind of quiet that followed laughing too hard, and the warmth that came with it.
Harper pushed herself up, brushing at the back of Brock's jacket where grass clung, while Kier hauled her to her feet with a tug. They made their way toward the lane as the Suburban rolled to a stop, engine ticking as it cooled.
Knuckles swung the door open and stepped out first, a bag of groceries balanced on one hip. He gave them both one long look—leaves in their hair, dirt on their sleeves, faces still red from laughing—and shook his head. "I don't even wanna know."
Kier smirked, snagging a box from the back before Knuckles could block him. "Good. Saves me the explanation."
Brock rounded the hood with a crate in his arms. His eyes found Harper fast—like they always did—but lingered this time, softer as he caught her flushed cheeks, the wild tangles of hair, the smile she hadn't even realized was still there. He set the crate down on the porch with a grunt, straightened, and reached for her before she could tuck herself back into composure. His fingers brushed through her hair, tugged free a brittle leaf and held it up between them like evidence.
"You're a mess," he murmured, pitched low so only she caught it. The corner of his mouth bent, half a smile, half something else. "But you wear it better than anyone I know."
Harper tilted her head at him, caught between embarrassment and warmth, and for a breath she didn't move. Then his hand slid to the back of her neck, drawing her in just enough for him to press his lips to the crown of her head—quick, steady, grounding.
The jacket hung loose on her, sleeves swallowing her hands as she looked up at him. "Guess I should've cleaned up before you got back," she said, quiet but teasing, the grin tugging her mouth despite herself.
Brock shook his head, thumb brushing once against the nape of her neck before he let her go. "Leave it. I like you this way. Looks like you finally breathed."
Her chest tightened, in that good, dangerous way he always managed. The grin lingered, softer now, as she ducked past him to grab the next load, hoping he didn't see how much those words landed.
─•────
Harper sat in the Suburban's passenger seat, flannel buttoned tight, the fabric still carrying a faint smell of woodsmoke from the cabin stove. Through the windshield the gravel road stretched empty ahead, a narrow strip cut between walls of pine that leaned close, shadows already lengthening in the late-afternoon light. This was the spot Price had agreed to—neutral ground, out of the way, just enough cover to stage a drop without drawing eyes. They were supposed to bring supplies, maybe intel if they'd managed to pull any, and while they trusted Price and Cole more than most, trust didn't mean blind.
That was why Kier and Onyx were somewhere in the trees, rifles ready, keeping watch from angles she couldn't see. Out front, Knuckles and Brock waited in the open just ahead of the bumper, the two of them side by side but standing different—Knuckles with that loose roll in his shoulders, Brock squared and still, his stare locked down the stretch of road like he could force headlights into existence. Harper shifted in her seat and breathed against the glass, her breath ghosting pale as she kept her eyes on the gravel, listening to the hush settle heavy around them.
Through the windshield she caught the shift—Knuckles straightening a fraction, Brock's chin lifting as if on the same cue. Harper leaned forward over the dash, squinting down the gravel stretch until she saw it too: a thin plume of dust hanging in the cold air, rising above the trees in slow curls. Someone was coming. Her fingers tightened against her arms, shoulders creeping up toward her ears as she watched the haze swell, waiting for the shape of a vehicle to break through.
Brock's jaw locked as the Suburban rolled into view—same make, same bulk as theirs, its tires grinding slow over the road. It crept closer, sunlight flashing off the hood, but the windshield stayed black, unreadable. He couldn't see who was inside. A muscle ticked in his cheek as his gaze cut to the treeline, to the places where he knew Kier and Onyx were buried in with rifles. Nothing stirred there, only the pines whispering overhead, but the quiet pressed in heavier with every yard the truck closed. He shifted his stance, shoulders tight, eyes fixed on the dark glass.
The Suburban crawled the last few feet and came to a halt ten yards out, the engine's low rumble carrying across the space between them. For a beat nothing moved. Brock felt the weight of it in his chest, the hair on the back of his neck bristling. Beside him, Knuckles straightened, bracing like a man walking into a fight. Then both front doors opened at once, hinges giving a long groan. Brock's hand twitched at his side—until the figures stepped out. Price, collar turned up against the cold. Cole, jaw set, scanning the tree line like he already knew he was being watched. Relief cracked through him hard, loosening something he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Not Syndicate muscle. Not Roth's dogs. Just theirs.
Knuckles didn't move in right away. His voice carried low but firm across the gap. "Gonna check your ride." It wasn't a request. Price lifted his hands a fraction, palms easy, no edge in it. Cole just gave a short nod, weight set casual like he understood exactly why. Knuckles stalked past them without another word, boots grinding over the frosted gravel as he swung open the back doors one by one. Empty seats. Supply bags stacked neat. No shadows waiting with rifles. Only then did his shoulders ease, the barest shift, as he shut the last door and came back around.
Once he'd circled back around, Knuckles let the edge drop from his posture. "Cole. Price." He stepped in, bumping fists with one, then an elbow with the other, his grin quick and rough in the cold air. For a moment it felt like old ground—like they were still on the same side of the same floor.
Brock didn't move to join them. He cut straight for the Suburban instead, crouching low at the front bumper and running his hand along the undercarriage. Fingers traveled methodically over bolts and seams, lingered at the wheel wells, then swept the rear frame before he rose. No extra weight, no foreign metal. His eyes stayed flat, all business, while Knuckles traded low words with the two men a few feet off.
Cole's eyes flicked past Knuckles again, restless. He searched the trees, then the empty stretch of road behind, before his voice came low, carrying a thread of nerves. "That it?" Price shifted his weight, glancing once at Brock crouched by the bumper. "You two out here alone?"
Brock straightened, wiping his hand on his thigh as he met their looks. "Not exactly." He tipped his chin toward the Suburban where Harper sat, then let a short whistle cut through the quiet.
The response came in two places at once. From the treeline, Kier stepped out first, Onyx a half-stride behind, rifles slung but hands easy as they moved into the open. From the Suburban, Harper pushed her door shut and drew her flannel close, pausing a breath longer than she meant to before starting forward.
The three of them converged on the same stretch of gravel, different angles narrowing toward the group. Kier and Onyx kept their distance a touch, spacing deliberate, while Harper crossed alone from the truck. Cole's eyes found her the second she moved into the open. His posture softened without him meaning to—hard lines slipping, jaw unclenching—and for a moment his hands twitched at his sides like he meant to close the gap and pull her in. He didn't. He only held her gaze as she came up, the restraint clear in every line of him.
Price broke the still first, dragging a hand across his mouth before nodding back at their Suburban. "We brought what we could carry without drawing eyes—couple crates in the back. Rifles, sidearms, ammo, vests, spare plates. Enough to buy you time if someone pushes too close." His voice stayed low, but the words carried.
Cole gave a short nod to echo it, stepping half a pace toward the rear door. "No strings on any of it. Yours to take. Just figured we'd lay it out straight before you start digging."
No one moved at first. Then Brock tipped his chin at the rear doors. "Let's get it done."
Knuckles stepped up to swing them open, Cole close behind to drag the first crate out. Brock caught the other end and carried it across to their Suburban, the weight shifting hard in his grip, steel clinking inside—magazines, loose plates, cold metal knocking together.
Kier and Onyx fell in without a word, rifles still slung across their chests but hands on the boxes now, hefting gear out two at a time. Harper stepped in too, catching a smaller load and hauling it over the bumper, sleeves tugged over her hands against the chill. The rhythm found itself quick—boxes passing, boots pacing between bumpers, gear stacking neat behind their own seats. No one talked; the only sounds were the scrape of crates on metal and the dull thud as each one landed in place.
By the time the last bag was hauled over, both SUVs were breathing different—theirs lighter, the crew's heavier. Everyone straightened at once, air fogging in front of them, the silence settling heavier now that the work was done.
Price rested his hands on his hips, breath steaming in the cold. For a moment no one said anything. Then he glanced at Brock, then at Knuckles, and finally let it out.
"Mason knows," he said. His voice was steady, but low, like the words weren't meant to carry past the circle. "I told him what really happened with Vale. That it was an accident. That nobody could've seen it coming. He… believes me. Believes you." His gaze cut briefly toward Brock, weight behind it. "And he believes Vex's death went the way you said it did—not the way Roth and Dane are spinning it."
Brock's shoulders shifted once, but he stayed quiet. Knuckles gave the barest nod, like that was the first solid ground they'd had in days.
Price drew a slow breath and rubbed a thumb along his jaw. "I haven't told Gunner or Jensen. Not yet." He shook his head. "They're swallowing Roth's line like it's gospel. Both of them. If I push too hard, I tip my hand and lose the chance to steer it at all. So for now they stay in the dark."
Price's eyes didn't leave the stacked crates as he spoke. "Listen — it's worse than we thought." He let the words sit a second before going on. "They've posted bounties. Money for dead or alive. Bigger if you bring someone in alive." His voice dropped. "Bigger yet for Harper and Brock."
Harper's stomach dropped. Heat drained out of her face, her hands knotting tight in her sleeves until the seams dug in. She kept her jaw locked, but her eyes flicked once toward the ground, betraying the hit.
Brock caught it. His face didn't change, but his hand came up, firm and steady at the small of her back, a weight she could lean into. His stare stayed on Price, flat and hard, like he'd take the words himself if it meant she didn't have to carry them.
Cole picked up the edge, voice low. "Not just cash. They want spectacle. Roth and Dane are running this as theatre — the thinking is public capture, public punishment. Drag it out so everyone sees what happens when someone crosses the floor." He spat the last word like it tasted. "They'll prefer you breathing if they can make you scream for a while first. That's… the play."
No one flinched, but the air pinched tighter. Knuckles' hands clenched at his sides and then eased. Kier's teeth clicked once, sharp in the quiet; Onyx didn't look away.
Price straightened, palms flat on the crate like he was holding the weight of the words down. "They're hunting you," he said, voice low but carrying. "Nothing clever, no tricks—boots on pavement, wheels on back roads. Crews moving through the city, trucks sweeping the outskirts, eyes open for your vehicle, your faces. They're not subtle. They're steady. They're out there every day."
Cole gave a grim nod. "Same routine we used to run. Drive, stop, lean on the right doors. Check the places we'd hide if we were you. They're not guessing. They're working a list."
Kier's jaw tightened as he spoke up for the first time. "So they're out there."
"Out there and closing the distance," Price said. His gaze moved from Brock to Harper. "Not a scare tactic. A fact. They want you breathing if they can, and they won't stop looking until they get you or you make them stop."
The words sat heavy, pulling silence down over the circle. No one rushed to fill it. Brock flexed his hand once against his thigh. Kier's boot shifted a slow line through the grit. Harper stared at the dirt, sleeves drawn tight in her fists.
Knuckles finally broke it, his voice low but carrying. "Alright." He scrubbed a hand down his jaw, like he was forcing the edge back into place. His eyes moved across his crew before cutting back to Price and Cole. "We've got what we need." He gave a short nod. "Appreciate you bringing this out. We'll keep the line open—same time tomorrow."
Price gave a curt nod. "I'll call. Won't risk another meet unless there's no choice." He looked around the circle once, the weight of it written plain on his face, then settled on Brock. "Stay smart."
Brock dipped his chin in acknowledgment, nothing more.
Cole shifted his weight, rubbing a hand down the back of his neck before reaching for Knuckles. They bumped shoulders rough, then clasped hands quick, old habits that came too easy even now. "Watch your asses," Cole muttered. "All of you."
Onyx stepped forward just enough to trade grips with Price, nothing said but something carried in the nod he gave. Kier followed, a brief tap of fists with Cole that ended quicker than it started.
Knuckles clapped Price's shoulder on the way past, voice low. "We'll keep breathing if you keep feeding us."
Price's mouth tightened, but he nodded once more.
Harper stayed back, hands buried in her sleeves as she watched them all trade gestures she didn't feel like she'd earned anymore. Cole's eyes caught hers, and for a second he hesitated—then he crossed the step and pulled her in, fast and fierce. His arms went around her shoulders like he couldn't stop himself, just one hard squeeze before he let her go again. "Don't fold," he said, voice rough.
She didn't answer, frozen more than anything, but she didn't pull away either.
Price gave her a look as he turned, not soft but steady. "Stay alive," was all he said.
Then it was over—doors shutting, the engine rumbling back to life, tires spitting grit as their Suburban swung back toward the trees. The sound lingered long after the taillights were gone, leaving only the cold air and a silence that pressed heavier than before.
No one spoke. They just stood there a moment longer in the empty stretch, steam rising from their breath, the loaded SUV waiting behind them. Harper pulled her sleeves tighter around her hands and stared at the road until the dust settled back to earth. Beside her, Brock's shoulders squared like he was bracing against something he couldn't put down. Knuckles exhaled hard through his nose, then finally tipped his chin toward the truck.
The quiet followed them as they turned back, each step carrying the weight of what Price and Cole had left behind.
─•────
"Read 'em and weep," Knuckles said, tossing his hand down flat on the table. The cards slapped against the wood, and he grinned like he'd been waiting all night for this. "Full house. Pay up."
"Bullshit," Kier muttered, flicking one of his cards aside as he squinted at the rest. "You're stacking the deck."
Onyx didn't even look up as he gathered the cards back into a neat pile, movements methodical, steady. "He's not stacking. You're just bad at this."
On the couch, Harper lay curled on her side, head pillowed in Brock's lap, blanket bunched at her shoulders. At first she watched the table through half-lidded eyes, the corners of her mouth tugging faint whenever Knuckles and Kier went at it. But as the hands wore on, she rolled, slow and drowsy, until her face turned into him instead. She tucked herself smaller beneath the blanket, knees drawn closer, her cheek pressed to the warmth of his leg. Her hair spilled loose across his thigh, and she nuzzled once like she meant to burrow there, a faint sigh slipping out as she settled. Brock's hand drifted down to rest against her side, steady and protective, while she curled tighter into him with the soft weight of someone who felt safe enough to stop pretending she wasn't tired.
Brock looked down at her, the game at the table fading to background noise. Her face was soft in the low light, all the fight edged out by sleep tugging at her eyes, and it hit him in a way gunfire never could. His thumb brushed a slow line along her arm through the blanket, more instinct than thought. "Look at you," he murmured, just low enough that only she could hear. "Curled up like you got nothing to worry about." His mouth pulled into something that wasn't quite a smile, but close. "That's better. That's the you I like seeing."
Brock's words barely reached her through the haze pulling her under, but Harper made a sound anyway, something between a hum and a murmur. She shifted closer, eyes already closed, cheek rubbing faint against his leg like she meant to answer but couldn't string the words. Brock let her have it, his hand steady on her side, the weight of it enough to anchor her while the card game carried on.
The table noise dwindled after a few more hands—shuffling, low mutters, the scrape of chairs. Harper was already slipping, her breaths steadying, fingers loose in the fold of the blanket. When Knuckles dropped onto the far end of the couch with a heavy thump, her eyes cracked open at the jolt, hazy and unfocused. They flickered shut again just as quick, her cheek nestling back into Brock's leg like she hadn't moved at all.
Kier pulled one of the living room chairs closer and straddled it backward, arms hooked along the top rail. Onyx crossed to the hearth instead, crouching to stir the coals and lay on another split log. The fire caught slow, throwing fresh light across the room as the quiet settled over all five of them at once.
Knuckles stretched out where he sat, one arm thrown across the back of the couch, his eyes on Harper curled against Brock. Her breathing had evened out, her cheek pressed into his leg, the blanket riding high on her shoulders. For a second Knuckles just watched, the fire painting the room in warm flicker, the last echoes of their card game still hanging in the air.
"Feels almost normal," he said finally, voice low enough it didn't stir her. His eyes cut to Brock, then to the others. "First day it's felt that way since we got here."
Kier tipped his chair back on two legs, staring up at the ceiling beams. "Normal don't last." He let the chair fall flat again, the thud muffled by the rug. "We all know it."
Onyx was crouched by the fire, feeding another split log to the coals. Sparks jumped up the flue, and he stood, brushing his palms against his thighs. "Price and Cole didn't come out here to tell us fairy tales. We're on the board, and Roth and Dane are not going to stop moving pieces."
Knuckles leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees. "So the question's simple. We keep laying low, or we make the first move?"
Brock's hand moved slow through Harper's hair, careful not to wake her, thumb brushing the ridge of scar behind her ear. He watched the fire spit and settle before answering. "They'll find us here," he said, voice even. "Question's when. And how." His eyes stayed on the flames, but the weight of the words was for all of them. "Could be one truck that catches us on the road, tails us back. Could be dumb luck—patrol sweeping this stretch, turning down the wrong road, and we're done. I don't want to sit around and gamble on which it's gonna be."
Knuckles let the words slide in and out like a stone across black water. He rubbed his thumb along the edge of the crate by the couch, thinking. "Then we don't pretend this quiet means nothing. We work the edges." He turned his head the way he always did when he wanted everyone to feel the weight of what came next. "Price can watch from inside. Let him look for patterns — how big the sweeps are, where they tighten, how long they hang on a corner. We don't need a map of every truck; we need to know if the thing is a scatter or a system."
Onyx straightened from the hearth and folded his arms, the corners of his mouth flat. "That's the only way we get a handle on it without throwing ourselves at the whole floor." He didn't lecture; he framed the arithmetic. "We're five. We're running on what we've got. If we move, it has to be for something that matters. If we hit anything, it can't put civilians in the way or hand them the photo op they're craving."
Kier tipped his chair forward and laid his elbows on his knees. "So we test," he said, not eager but blunt. "Quiet stuff. Probe. Pull back. If a patrol looks thin, maybe we nudge it — make it take a wrong turn. See what follows. See if it's a pattern or a knee-jerk." He glanced at Brock. "And if Price says something's wrong, we bail. No hero moves."
Harper didn't speak. She listened — that was what she could do — and let the others make the decisions that would carry their lives. Her fingers found Brock's hand and squeezed once. That was answer enough for him.
Brock nodded slow. "Talk to Price. Do it over the next few days. Feed us what he finds and we'll pick our moments." He met each face around the room. "If we do anything, it's precise and small. No public circus. No bodies left where they can hang a headline. We don't give them the footage or the show." His voice hardened on the last words — a promise with teeth. "We make it sting. A patrol here, a cache gone there. Enough to make them look over their shoulders, not enough to hand them what they want."
Knuckles pushed himself up and stretched, the motion a way to shake off the stillness. He looked at each of them — at Harper curled in Brock's lap, at Kier and Onyx, at the firelight carving lines across their faces — and let the plan harden into something they could carry. "We keep moving, and we keep our mouths shut. Price feeds us intel. Cole keeps his head down and passes what he can. We chip away where we can, but only in ways that don't hand them a show."
They sat with that a long time, the kind of silences that were not empty but occupied with lists and contingencies. Outside, the night settled back over the trees; inside, the small arrangements of people and blankets and the smell of smoke held them together. When they finally drifted apart for the night, it was with a kind of brittle calm — not safety, not by a long shot, but a plan that felt like a thing they could try to live with.