Harper moved down the dirt road with no company but the whisper of wind through the pines. Her hair spilled free, a copper flare in the waning light, catching every stray glint like it refused to be hidden. Dust clung to her boots and rose in soft clouds behind her, each step swallowed by silence once it settled. The ditch at her side was a clutter of browned cattail stalks and rusted cans, shallow water slicked with a film of leaves that had blown down and stuck where they rotted. The frogs were gone with the cold, replaced by the dry rattle of oak leaves clinging stubborn to their branches, clicking against each other whenever the wind pushed through. Somewhere higher up, a crow called once and then wheeled into the gray sky, its sound dropping quick into quiet.
Not far up the road, a billboard leaned on its rusted frame, weathered paint peeling in strips that fluttered whenever the wind pressed against them. The grinning face once meant to sell cigarettes or soda had bled into a ghostly blur, eyes washed out by years of storms. It stooped forward like it might collapse any day, its bulk throwing long, ribbed shadows across the gravel. Harper kept her gaze fixed on it, as if crossing that stretch toward the sign was all that mattered, the rest of the world pared down to this one forgotten relic and the road that led her there.
She slowed her stride, shoulders hunching against the chill that had settled with the light. She shoved her hands deep into the pockets of her flannel, curling her fingers tight to chase back the stiffness. The air had gone still enough that each footfall cracked through the quiet.
Then she heard it—distant, faint at first. A low growl rising behind her, the unmistakable roll of a car working its way down the same road, still far enough that it blurred with the wind but steady, closing.
The sound gathered weight with each breath, no longer a suggestion but a presence, pressing itself into the stillness. She fixed her eyes on the billboard ahead, watching its bulk stretch long across the pale road, every step bringing her closer yet never close enough. The engine behind her climbed in pitch, tires humming over loose grit, a steady reminder that whatever was coming was now committed to her road.
The SUV appeared in her periphery, then swelled to fill the lane, crawling up close enough that the push of air off its grille brushed against her back. Gravel hissed under its tires, the kind of slow roll that felt deliberate. The front passenger window was rolled partway down, enough for a man inside to lean closer, his face angled toward her. Their eyes met as the vehicle slid past, a brief lock that carried weight in its plainness, a silent acknowledgement she couldn't shake. The SUV slowed a fraction, not enough to halt, but enough to make the moment feel drawn out.
The tailgate was bare when it cleared her—no plates, no numbers, nothing but raw metal freckled with rust and scarred by old grit. Syndicate. The word struck through her body, made her chest stumble in its rhythm, her knees wanting to fold under her. She forced herself onward, boots striking steady, refusing to give the road that weakness.
The SUV drifted ahead, tires grinding as it straightened into the center line. It reached the shadow of the billboard and slipped under, the hulking sign blotting it away like a curtain. Harper lengthened her stride, chin low, eyes pinned forward, each step quicker than the last as if the rusted frame was the only destination left in the world.
The sound didn't fade. It thickened, dragged low as the SUV braked. Gravel popped under its tires, the slow crunch of weight pulling off center. Harper's breath hitched—she didn't need to look to know. They knew it was her.
Ahead, past the billboard's leaning shadow, the vehicle's shape wavered, nose drifting wide. Then it swung, a slow, deliberate arc across the road, a turn with no hesitation in it. Not some wrong address, not a driver second-guessing the way—just a circle back, casual in its certainty. The growl of the engine swelled again, deeper now, pointed straight at her.
Harper's stomach pitched. Her legs wanted to lock, to betray her, but she pushed on, boots ticking faster as if she could outrun inevitability. The billboard loomed closer, its rusted ribs blackening with shadow, and every revolution of those tires coming back at her made the air feel thinner. They weren't leaving. They were coming for her.
Then, the road ahead changed. From the billboard's shadow, another shape pushed forward—silent at first, then roaring into the lane with intent. The Suburban broke cover like a predator stepping out of brush, its dark flank rolling across both lanes until steel spanned the road from ditch to ditch. Dust lifted in curtains around its tires, hanging heavy in the air, and in the span of a breath the open stretch ahead of her became a barricade.
The Syndicate SUV had no space to slip past. Brakes screamed, tires chewing the gravel raw as its nose pitched low. Pebbles rattled like shot into the ditch. For a heartbeat Harper thought the two hulks would collide, but the Syndicate rig jerked to a halt angled hard against the Suburban's side, the gap between them narrow enough she could have stretched an arm through it.
Engines snarled at one another, metal beasts locked in opposition, their exhaust and hot rubber rolling together in a thick, choking haze.
Then the Suburban's doors slammed open. Brock came out first on the driver's side, boots grinding into the dirt as his weapon came up, eyes flashing to Harper for the briefest instant before he angled toward the front of the vehicle. He braced there, half-shielded by the Suburban's engine block, barrel fixed across the hood at the Syndicate SUV. On the opposite side Knuckles spilled from the passenger seat, violent and certain, muzzle cutting toward the driver's glass. Kier dropped low from the rear door behind him, compact, steady, sight already lined with the cab. Onyx came last, crouched and wide, his carbine tracking like a pendulum on the passenger side, the trap snapping closed with brutal finality.
"Out of the car!" Brock's voice ripped across the narrow stretch, deep and commanding, carrying off the billboard's ribs and into the treeline. His stance at the Suburban's front was carved into stone, barrel unwavering on the blacked-out windshield.
Nothing. The engines idled, exhaust curling thick and blue into the cold. The cab was blind, opaque, offering nothing — no movement, no surrender. Seconds dragged. Dust lifted and hung in the still air, making the silence feel suffocating.
The first flash was his. Brock's rifle cracked, the windshield spidering in a violent blossom of fractures. Another shot punched through, then the others joined in — rifles hammering in bursts, each report rattling the roadbed. Glass shredded inward in a storm of shards, screams tearing loose from the black interior. The driver's head burst back against the rest, the passenger's chest caved as rounds tore him sideways, blood misting against the webbed windshield. The volley didn't stop until both figures slumped boneless, twitching once, then going slack.
The gunfire died as fast as it began. The sudden silence was vicious, ringing in the ears, every ragged breath too loud. Powder smoke hung heavy, mixing with the bitter sting of pulverized glass, choking the air with the taste of iron.
Knuckles' voice cut through it, harsh and unrelenting: "Out! Anyone left inside—out now!"
A rear door groaned, then another. Two men spilled from the back, one on each side. They came unsteady, hands up, blood already streaking their faces from where the glass had cut them. Their arms trembled, shirts torn, fragments of safety glass clinging to their skin. They stood there under the weight of four rifles, their steps aborted before they could even move.
Onyx and Kier fired as one. Two cracks split the night, clean and merciless. Each round punched straight through a skull, jerking heads back in sprays of red. Both bodies dropped instantly, folding into the dirt like strings cut, faces smacking against the ground with a wet finality. Blood fanned outward fast, soaking into the dust until the road itself looked stained with it.
Silence rolled back, heavier than before. Knuckles moved in quick, crossing to the SUV and tearing open a front door. He leaned inside, rifle barrel sweeping over the limp bodies, checking for twitch or breath. A moment later he straightened, eyes hard, voice clipped into one word that sealed the scene:
"Clear."
Harper broke into a run, dust whipping around her ankles, the echoes of gunfire still clinging to the trees. She reached the Suburban and wrenched open the rear hatch. The hinges shrieked as it lifted, and her hands closed around a red jerry can strapped into the side panel. The plastic sloshed heavy in her grip, fuel fumes bleeding into the cold air the moment she pulled it free. She swung it down and set her pace toward the Syndicate SUV, jaw tight, shoulders squared as she crossed the strip that still stank of blood and burnt rubber.
At the wreck, Brock and Knuckles were already working the front seats, methodical in their violence. Brock leaned into the driver's side, yanking spare magazines off the dead man's vest and shoving them into his own. Knuckles had his arm buried in the glovebox, pulling papers and tossing what didn't matter onto the floorboards, fingers searching for maps, IDs, anything worth taking. The cab still stank of copper and smoke, the corpses slouched awkward and red in their harnesses.
On the far side, Onyx and Kier dragged the two fresh corpses by the collars, boots leaving red streaks in the gravel. They heaved the bodies up one by one, muscling them back into the rear seats of the SUV. The limbs knocked limply against the frame, glass crunching underfoot as they shoved the dead weight inside. The vehicle was being repopulated with its own, turned into a coffin on wheels.
Harper closed in, jerry can heavy in her hand, the smell of gasoline mixing with cordite and blood until it was hard to tell which scent claimed the kill zone.
The others shifted without a word, giving her room. Harper wedged the can into the open rear door and tipped it. Fuel splashed over the seats, soaking the dead, running in slick rivulets down the floor mats. The stench rolled out thick, cutting through the reek of blood. She dragged the nozzle across the interior, pouring over torsos, faces, pooling on the glass-strewn floor until the cab dripped with it.
She circled to the front, popped the passenger door wider, and spilled more across the dash and footwell. Gasoline dribbled from the steering column and over the slumped driver's legs, soaking into cloth already dark with blood. The bodies glistened under the wash, their wounds filling with fumes, their hair wet with the stink of accelerant.
By the time the can was empty her arms ached. She let it dangle at her side and stepped back, boots sticky with what had splashed onto the gravel.
Brock's voice cut across the quiet, clipped and absolute. "Back in the Suburban. Now."
The crew didn't argue. They moved as one, boots crunching over broken glass, leaving the doused vehicle sagging under the weight of its dead.
He lingered a moment, rifle still braced across his chest, watching each of them climb back into their seats. The slam of doors echoed down the empty road, one after another, until the Suburban was sealed. Only then did he reach into his pocket, strike a match against the doorframe, and hold it between his fingers. The flame hissed in the wind, small against the cold. He didn't move until he was sure they were all watching from behind glass.
With a flick, he tossed it into the ruined cab. For a heartbeat nothing, then the fumes caught and the interior bloomed with fire. It raced across soaked upholstery, swallowing the dead where they sat, tongues of orange writhing over splintered frames and shattered glass. The heat surged back across the road, the stench of fuel and burning flesh climbing into the sky.
Brock stood there, jaw locked, eyes fixed on the blaze. He didn't flinch when a muffled pop thumped from inside, or when flames licked out through the side windows. He just watched, the reflection of the fire running across his face. These weren't faceless enemies — they were Syndicate, men he'd once commanded, voices he'd known in the dark of the barracks, eyes he might have met across a table. He watched them burn anyway, silent, the firelight catching in the lines around his mouth as his teeth clenched hard behind closed lips.
When the roof sagged inward and the flames roared higher, he finally moved. He turned without a word, boots grinding over glass and gravel, and walked back toward the Suburban. The blaze spat behind him, lighting the road in his wake, but he didn't look back.
─•────
Steam gathered against the tile, a soft hiss filling the cabin's small bathroom. Brock stood under the spray, palms pressed flat to the wall, water running off his forearms in thin, restless streams. It wasn't dirt he was washing off—there hadn't been much of that—but the film of the night still clung to him: smoke, cordite, the memory of fire. The heat worked its way into his shoulders, unwinding muscle that hadn't stopped bracing since the ambush. He let the water run over his face, eyes shut, breath steady but shallow, the image of the burning SUV still alive behind his lids.
He tilted his head forward, letting the stream hit the back of his neck until it burned. The water was too hot, but that was the point—heat to drown out the cold edge still wired through his chest. The tiles blurred in front of him, steam curling over his hands where they gripped the grout. His mind replayed it in flashes: the glass blowing out, the recoil against his shoulder, the smell of blood cut with fuel. The silence after. He tried to breathe past it, but the rhythm came off wrong, shallow and staggered. He hadn't spoken since the fire, hadn't trusted his own voice not to break.
The bathroom door creaked open, letting a breath of cooler air curl through the steam. Brock lifted his head, water sheeting down his face as he listened to the familiar rhythm of her movements — the soft thud of boots set aside, the quiet slide of fabric over skin, the faint metallic click of the belt hitting tile. The curtain stirred, and Harper stepped into the fog.
She was small compared to him, the mist softening her outline, her skin mapped with fine, pale scars that caught the light before the water traced them clean. The viper tattoo wound bold along her ribs, the black line carved through its center a scar in ink, stark against the heat-flushed skin. Strands of copper-dark hair clung to her neck and shoulders, water running down in silver threads. The faint scent of gasoline lingered beneath the steam, mixing with soap and heat until it was impossible to separate one from the other.
Brock turned slightly, the spray cutting between them, and she met his eyes — steady, unafraid, something almost tender hiding behind it. She smiled, small and sure, then closed the space between them. Her palms found his chest, slick with water, and she rose on her toes to press her mouth to his, a slow, quiet kiss that carried the weight of everything neither of them had said.
Harper's mouth lingered a heartbeat before she drew back, the water sliding between them. She reached for the bar of soap resting on the ledge, worked it between her palms until it slicked with suds, then touched it lightly to his shoulder. The motion was unhurried—small, deliberate circles that smeared away the faint traces of soot clinging to his skin.
Brock didn't move. His gaze stayed fixed on the tile ahead as her hands moved down his arm, across the curve of his chest, following the path of the water. The sound of it filled the small room, steady and constant, a rhythm to fall into. When she finally spoke, her voice was low, meant for this space only.
"You're still in it," she said, sliding her hand over his forearm, rinsing away the foam. "You never really left that road."
He exhaled slowly through his nose, not answering.
"You don't have to talk," she added, softer, her fingers tracing the tense line at the back of his neck. "But you can."
Brock drew in a slow breath, chest rising under her hands. The air was thick with steam, carrying the smell of soap and something heavier beneath it—metal, fuel, the faint ghost of the night that hadn't burned away. Harper's palms moved across his stomach, the lather tracing the hard lines of muscle before she rinsed it clean, water catching in the grooves and running down the drain in cloudy streams.
"It's different," he said finally, voice low, barely carrying over the water. "When it's people you know."
She didn't stop moving, just waited.
"Not friends. Not faces you'd mourn. Just… people you used to nod to in passing. Work beside. Eat near. The kind who wore the same patch, believed the same things once." His jaw flexed as he spoke, eyes fixed on the tile. "You spend years building something alongside them—same orders, same cause, same goddamn air—and then you're the one tearing it apart. Watching it burn. Watching them burn."
Harper didn't answer at first. The water ran steady, hissing off tile, her hands moving slow and deliberate over his chest before she reached for the shampoo. She poured a small amount into her palm, rubbed it to a lather, and lifted it to his hair. Brock leaned forward instinctively, the line of his shoulders loosening under her touch as she worked through the strands, fingertips dragging foam through grit and dust. Steam curled up between them, softening the edges of the room.
She spoke only when the lather was thick between her hands. "I know," she said, voice low. "You don't have to explain what that feels like."
Her hands moved through his hair, rinsing the suds free, sliding down to his neck. "I still see Skiv sometimes," she said quietly. "He's still in the photo on my phone." She paused long enough for him to lift his head slightly, eyes finding hers under the spray. She flashed him a pained smile. "You were there. You saw what it took."
He nodded once, slow. He'd never forget watching that desperate fight from the other side of the glass.
"I didn't want to do it," she went on, working the last of the soap away. "But he gave me no choice. It was him or me, and I chose me." Her fingers traced the base of his skull, water slicking over his skin. "This isn't different. Those men tonight—they would've killed us, Brock. They would've killed you. You did what you had to. They were out specifically looking for us."
Her touch lingered, palms resting against his shoulders, thumbs pressing small circles into the muscle. "It doesn't make it easier," she said, voice dipping to a whisper, "but it was necessary. We've both lived the kind of lives where that's the only choice left."
Brock stayed still for a long moment, the spray running over his shoulders, steam curling off his skin where her hands pressed into him. Then he turned toward her, slow and deliberate, water streaming down his face as he reached for the soap she'd left on the ledge. His touch was careful—reverent—as if he were afraid she might break. He started at her arms, sliding the lather over them in long, patient passes, then across her collarbone and down her sides, washing away the gasoline, the dirt, the ghosts still clinging to her.
"I shouldn't have used you like that," he said quietly. "As bait."
Her gaze lifted to meet his, steady even through the haze. "You didn't use me," she said. "I volunteered."
He hesitated, thumb tracing the edge of her shoulder. "Still."
"I knew what I was walking into, Brock. You think I'd ever let you send me out there if I didn't?" She caught his wrist, fingers slick against his skin. "At no point did I think they'd get to me. I trusted you. I trusted all of you. And you came out."
The water kept running between them, heat rising off their skin, the space closing until her forehead rested lightly against his chest. "That's what matters," she murmured. "We walked away."
He didn't answer, only nodded once, slow and heavy, the kind of gesture that carried more weight than words. The soap slid from his hand to the ledge with a dull tap, and he reached for her again. His hands moved with quiet care, tracing over her back, down her arms, across her ribs—methodical, almost ritual. The water ran clean over her skin, warm and constant, chasing away the cold and the faint gasoline scent that still clung to her hair.
She watched him for a while, her expression unreadable through the haze, until her voice came, soft but certain. "You don't have to carry all of this alone," she said. "You don't have to be tough every second of the day. You're human, Brock."
The words hit him harder than he expected. His shoulders tensed, then eased, the line of his jaw faltering as the fight bled out of him. He dropped his head forward until his forehead rested against her hair, breath spilling out against the crown of her head.
Harper slipped her arms around him, pressing her face into the side of his neck. Neither of them spoke. The water kept running, steady and warm, washing down the ghosts of the road, the fire, the blood—leaving only their breathing, slow and in sync, as the steam wrapped the two of them in silence.
─•────
The pullout sat half-buried in frost and gravel, a wedge of broken asphalt bitten out of the shoulder and forgotten by every map that still pretended to be current. Pines crowded close on both sides, their trunks lined like ribs, the wind moving through them in a thin, restless thread. The Suburban idled at an angle against the guardrail, exhaust unwinding white in the morning chill. The smell of it mixed with sap and cold metal until the air tasted like a garage built inside a forest.
Brock stood outside the driver's door with his coat half-zipped and his hands bare. He'd planted himself where he could see up and down the road in a single sweep—gray ribbon, frost, the beginning of a blind curve that swallowed sight. His breath showed with every exhale, fading quick, like the world was erasing evidence he'd ever been there. He said nothing, but the set of his shoulders wrote the same line over and over: hold.
Knuckles had the burner phone out on the Suburban's hood, balanced on the flat of his palm while his other hand hovered as if the cold might steal the number if he didn't press it fast enough. The skin across his knuckles was split in shallow crescents that had bled and then sealed in the night, and the cold worried at those seams like it wanted them open again. He thumbed through the bare-bones contact list—no names, just single letters they all knew by feel—and tapped the one that mattered. The speaker hissed when he set the phone down on the metal. Static crawled along the edge of the connection like something alive.
Kier drifted farther down the pullout, boots steady on frozen grit as he looked for fresh tire ruts that didn't belong to them. He crouched once, gloved hand skimming the frost, then straightened, scanning the tree line with that stillness he carried everywhere—coiled, awake, and unwilling to admit it.
Onyx moved the opposite way, up toward the guardrail where the shoulder dipped to brambles and dark leaves, his gaze turning slow as if the forest's seams could be read like a text. Every few steps he stopped and looked back the way they'd come, not because he expected company, but because the habit had grown into something that eased the mind the way a prayer might have once.
Harper stood by the open passenger door. She tucked her hands under her arms for warmth and let her back rest against the seat frame, the Suburban's interior heat brushing faint across her legs. She listened to the engine idle and watched Brock instead of the road, the way a line of tension ran from the base of his neck down into his shoulders. The scent in the pullout had layers—diesel, pine, frost, old dust—nothing of last night's work except what clung inside the lungs.
The call clicked open with a dry snap, and Price's voice came raw, as if he'd sanded it down to the words that mattered. "Tell me you're not out in the open."
Knuckles tipped his head closer to the speaker. "We're good." He didn't bother to look at Brock when he said it, but the reassurance was pitched so Brock could hear.
Brock stepped in closer to the hood, one hand braced on the metal, the other resting easy at his side. "We're fine," he said. "Talk."
Paper moved on the other end, the sound dampened like it had been stuffed into a jacket pocket with the phone. Price took a breath that fuzzed against the mic. "Syndicate patrol found what's left of that SUV this morning. Burned to frame. Four bodies. Word's already up the chain. They're lit."
Cole's voice bled through from somewhere beside Price, the words thin and quick as if they were being spoken around other people. "They're arguing it's Black Maw," he said. "Command likes that story. It keeps the heat south."
Price cut back in, quieter. "Not everyone's buying it. There's talk it might've been you."
Harper watched Brock's jaw move once, almost nothing at all, then go still again. Knuckles let out a dry sound that could've been a laugh if the day had been different. He reached up and smoothed his palm over the Suburban's hood like he was petting a dog he didn't trust.
"We that obvious?" he asked.
"Not obvious," Price said. "Capable. There's a difference." He paused long enough that the static started to creep louder. "They've doubled patrols. Shifted routes. They're going to sit on that area until they feel like they've choked it."
Kier had come back in close enough to hear every word; he stood just behind Harper's shoulder, eyes on the road, attention on the phone. Onyx leaned against the guardrail and crossed his arms, gaze tilted up the treeline as if listening could see further than sight.
Brock's eyes flicked toward the trees. "Let them," he said. "We picked our ground."
"They think whoever did it is still nearby," Price went on. "They're behaving like the killers camped in the next valley over."
Cole, in the background: "They're already talking about pulling two squads off city duty to sweep hills for the next few days. That'll make them sloppy, but it'll make them loud."
Harper didn't smile, but something eased at the edge of her mouth. Far away was the point. Far away was why she'd walked that dirt road with her hair out like a flare. The map inside her chest had already measured the distance between that intersection of gravel and the cabin door. It was not a distance the Syndicate could cross by accident.
Knuckles tapped a restless rhythm beside the phone and then stopped himself. He slid his hand into his coat pocket as if the pocket might quiet him. "They can throw bodies at it," he said. "Doesn't change where we are."
"Don't do the talk-me-down routine with me," Price said, but there was no bite in it. Only tired. "I'm telling you how it is. They're focused on the blaze, and they're angry they don't have a face to feed it."
Brock didn't answer right away. The engine idled. The wind carried a dry clatter of needles off the pines and let them fall somewhere out of sight. Harper brushed a strand of hair back from her cheek and realized her hands had warmed enough to feel like they belonged to her again.
"Copy," Brock said. "We know where they're looking. It's not here."
"Don't get careless," Price said. "When they can't find what they want, they widen the circle. And when they widen it, people like me and Cole get asked questions."
At the name, Cole's voice came in closer to the mic, like he'd leaned down over Price's shoulder. "We're fine," he said. "We're careful." There was a muffled sound—maybe a door, maybe a chair leg. "But command is asking who knew that patrol's route. It's not a long list."
Brock's gaze went to the asphalt at his boots and stayed there, as if the road could talk if stared at long enough. "You two stay ghosts," he said. "No favors. No extra calls. If they start pulling strings in your direction, cut them."
"Already cut," Price said. "We keep it to this line. Nothing else."
Harper shifted her weight against the door frame, letting her shoulder take the lean. She could feel the Suburban's warmth against her back, the way the heater's air bled into the cabin and slipped out in thin drafts at the hinges. Kier took a half-step nearer the phone so he could hear without looking like he was listening too closely.
"Anything else?" Brock asked.
A thin scrape of paper again. Price's voice lowered. "Just this: the story about Black Maw is the one they want. The story about you is the one they fear. Keep it that way."
Knuckles huffed, but he was done smiling. He kept his eyes on the frost line along the guardrail, where a beetle had traced a path in the thin glaze like a pen run out of ink.
Brock looked up. The cold made a color of his breath. "We'll keep it quiet," he said. "We hit far enough from home that they'll be circling smoke for days. We're not shifting position because they're angry about a fire."
"Still," Price said, and Harper could hear the word drag a little, "be careful. Don't do the thing where you convince yourself the distance is the same as safety. It never is."
"We have our own eyes," Brock said. "We'll use them."
Silence walked across the line for a second, carrying the weight of every other call they'd made and all the ones they wouldn't. Cole spoke again, closer, almost an echo. "We'll be cautious here too. They've already asked for names. They're testing doors, polite first."
Harper's mouth went dry at that, because she could see those doors in her head and the hands that would knock on them if polite stopped working. She pushed her hands deeper under her arms and kept her eyes on Brock.
Knuckles leaned in, voice flattening to business. "You two stay small," he said. "No heroics, no meetings, no patterns."
"We know the dance," Price said. A breath, then: "Same time tomorrow. If the network's clean."
Brock gave a single nod they couldn't see. "Same time."
The line went dead. Not a click so much as a soft absence. The phone's screen reflected the gray of the morning back up at them—cloud, treeline, a warped triangle of Brock's jaw.
No one spoke for a few breaths. Kier looked down the road again, longer this time, as if the call had made the horizon move closer. Onyx pushed his hands into his coat pockets and rocked once on his heels, like a man measuring something no one else could see. Knuckles picked up the phone, stared at the blank screen, then set it face down on the hood as if a covered eye couldn't watch them.
"Good news is good news," he said at last, though he didn't sound like he believed the sentence belonged to any category.
Brock closed his coat and worked the zipper up until the metal clicked at his throat. "They'll keep looking where the heat is," he said. "We gave them heat." It wasn't bravado. It was a fact put on the table to see how the light hit it.
Harper stepped away from the door and came up beside him, the soles of her boots scuffing frost that had only barely survived the sun. "We hit far," she said. "On purpose." She didn't say the rest aloud: that the run from that dirt road to this pullout had eaten a good chunk of the night, that the route back to the cabin twisted through nowhere like a strand of wire no one had reason to touch. She didn't have to. He knew it as well as she did.
Kier rolled his shoulders, a small adjustment to settle the weight he carried the same way every day. "They'll talk themselves in circles," he said. "They always do when there's no witness left to argue."
Onyx gave the forest one last slow turn of his head. "Let them double whatever they want out there," he said. "We're not there."
Knuckles wiped a thumb across a smear of frost on the hood and left a clear arc, a small, pointless mark in a morning that didn't need more. "Still don't like standing still," he muttered, but he went for the passenger door anyway.
Brock looked at the road a final time. In the far distance, somewhere you could only reach by letting the mind go quiet, a bird stuttered once and went quiet again. The wind threaded the pines and pulled away any answer the trees might've wanted to give.
"Mount up," he said.
The others moved. Doors opened and closed. The Suburban's heater coughed and then steadied. Harper climbed in and watched Brock circle the front of the vehicle, his hand brushing the headlight as if to steady it, or himself, or both. He slid behind the wheel. The phone lay face down between them on the console, a mute witness that would give them nothing they didn't already carry.
Brock eased the Suburban out of the pullout, tires whispering over frost and grit. The trees took them back the way they'd come, the road narrowing and then unspooling again, the place where the call had happened already receding behind them like steam off a cup in cold air—visible for a moment, then gone, leaving only the taste.