The first snowfall of the year had come overnight, and it hadn't stopped. Flakes drifted in slow, deliberate spirals, soft enough to muffle the world. Harper's knees sank into the slush as she pulled the spike strip from its canvas sleeve, the coiled metal stiff with cold. Her gloves were already soaked through; the wet crept up her sleeves and bit into her wrists. Knuckles waited at the opposite shoulder, crouched low, clearing a patch of ice for the anchor spike. She fed the line across the center of the two-lane toward him, boots sliding on the glazed surface, and steadied herself on one palm to keep balance. When the tension came tight between them, he drove the anchor through the crust until it bit—the dull crack of metal on frozen ground, swallowed quick by falling snow.
Harper held her side firm, fingers clumsy from cold, the retract line trailing back toward the ditch. Every breath bloomed white against the dark road. Knuckles was already moving back toward her, crouched low, boots whispering over snow. He dropped to a knee to help settle the middle section, gloved fingers brushing hers when he reached to twist a misaligned barb. For a moment his hand lingered, pressing the strip flat until it locked. She felt the tremor in her own grip—not nerves, just the cold—but still hated that he'd notice.
He did. Without a word, he tugged her glove cuff down over her wrist, fixing it tight, then went back to watching the trees.
Her teeth clicked once as she exhaled. The air had the metallic taste of snow and brake dust, ghosts of traffic long gone. The road stretched out blank and waiting, edges swallowed by fog. She adjusted the last pin, hammering the anchor spike down until it bit, the blows syncing with her pulse. Knuckles had drifted closer while she worked, footsteps soft in the snow. He stayed angled toward the treeline, scanning after every strike for headlights that never came. When the final pin held, he stepped in beside her and swept a thin layer of snow over the strip with the side of his boot, hiding the shine until it vanished beneath white.
Every sound felt wrong here—the chime of metal, the hush of boots, even breath itself too loud. When the world finally stilled again, they stood there a moment, side by side in the road's empty vein. Harper flexed her fingers, trying to find warmth in motion. Knuckles' hand brushed her elbow once—not a gesture, a signal. Done.
They slid down the embankment and into the ditch, snow rising to their calves. Their rifles waited where they'd left them, propped against the frozen bank, barrels crusted with a film of ice. Harper grabbed hers first, brushed snow from the receiver, and thumbed the safety by instinct. Knuckles lifted his with the easy familiarity of repetition, checked the chamber once, then jerked his chin down the line. They started moving through the ditch, hunched low, snow squeaking under their boots. The embankment thickened with scrub farther on, good cover; the road above curved west toward the next rise—toward Brock's position they couldn't yet see. Harper pressed her shoulder into the bank, heart hammering from more than the cold, eyes fixed on the pale bend ahead. Knuckles checked his watch, breath fogging against the metal, then held up two fingers—two minutes until the patrol's usual pass. They didn't speak. There wasn't a need.
A hundred yards down the road, the Suburban sat angled into a service cut, half hidden behind a screen of birch. The ground rose slightly there, giving Brock a clear view of the curve where Harper and Knuckles worked. He was behind the wheel, engine off, rifle balanced across his knees. Through the scope, he caught the brief flash of Knuckles' hand—two fingers raised against the pale background. Two minutes. Brock eased the rifle aside and opened the door without sound, the cold biting his face as he stepped out. Snow whispered under his boots as he moved to the hood, bracing his forearms along the metal, eyes fixed on the bend. The world felt suspended, every breath waiting for headlights.
Across the road from Brock, the ridge climbed steep through a stand of pines. Kier and Onyx were dug in there, prone against the snow, rifles braced on their packs. From their vantage they had a clean line on the road's entire sweep and the curve where Harper and Knuckles waited. Onyx lay flat behind the scope, scanning the treeline for movement; Kier tracked the faint gestures below. When Knuckles raised two fingers, both men shifted tighter into position, shoulders to the stock, breath shallow in the cold. No comms. No talk. They all knew the pattern—wait for the spike strip to hit, fire only when the first vehicle lost control.
Harper crouched low in the ditch, snow brushing her knees, the rifle's barrel resting against the frozen bank. The curve ahead swallowed the road, hiding Brock's Suburban somewhere beyond it, though she could almost picture its pale shape behind the birch screen. Everything else was blind ground and white noise. Beside her, Knuckles watched the east bend, eyes fixed through a slit between branches. He didn't look her way; just lifted one hand, palm flat, then closed it slow. Ready.
Her breath stung her throat as she nodded once, the motion barely more than a twitch. She shifted her stance, boots sunk in the cold mud, feeling the burn in her legs fade to dull numbness. The air carried the thick, sharp edge of diesel and snow, the scent of machines that weren't there yet.
Then, faint through the trees, an engine rolled out of the distance—a thin mechanical hum threading through the wind. Knuckles' head tilted slightly, listening. Harper's heart climbed against her ribs. They shared one look, quick and wordless, the kind built on repetition, near-misses, and trust. Across the white expanse, unseen but certain, the rest of the crew waited in the same silence, every breath synced to the rising growl of the approaching engines.
Through the birch screen, movement broke the monotony of white—a flash of black against snow. Brock leaned into the scope, breath shallow. Two Syndicate Suburbans, glossy and clean, rolling fast down the center line. Too fast for the conditions. Their engines droned in low harmony, tires whispering on the frozen surface. He could see the first driver's overconfidence in the steadiness of the line, the nose of the second vehicle tucked tight in its wake. The road ahead looked clear—no reason for them to slow. Brock's pulse steadied, each beat counting distance. Fifty yards. Forty. The spike strip lay invisible under its dusting of snow. They'd never see it until they were on top of it.
The two Suburbans came on hard, engines laboring against the grade, headlights cutting through the snow haze. The first rolled clean over the buried spike strip. A split second later, the front tires blew—rubber shredding in a spray of slush and wire. The steering wheel jerked, the SUV yawed left, but the driver fought it, keeping the nose straight with the kind of muscle memory born from convoy work. Brakes screamed, rear end fishtailing as shredded tread flapped loose. The vehicle slewed across both lanes, skidding but staying upright, tires grinding against the rims.
Behind the lead vehicle, the second Suburban had no time to react. Its front tires burst in quick succession, the sudden drag snapping it sideways. Snow erupted in a white curtain as the driver fought the wheel, overcorrecting—too much, too fast. From Brock's position, the black shape lurched across the lane, nose dipping, grille angling toward the ditch. He saw the line instantly, the angle of descent, and where it would land. Right on top of them.
The thought didn't finish forming before instinct hit. He slammed his palm against the hood, heart hammering, vision tunneling on the impossible size of the thing—three tons of armored steel sliding straight toward Harper and Knuckles. The sound came a half-second later: the deep, grinding howl of metal losing grip, tires carving into ice. Brock's mouth moved without sound, a single curse lost to the snow.
The SUV broke free of the road completely, spinning broadside in a storm of white. Knuckles saw it coming—just a wall of black steel bearing down—and moved before thought caught up. He caught Harper by the back of her jacket and tore her backward with every ounce of strength he had. Her boots ripped out of the mud as the vehicle plunged nose-first into the ditch, the grille missing her by inches. The ground heaved. Snow and gravel blasted over them, the shockwave thudding through her ribs. They hit the earth together, her shoulder driving into his chest, the world a blur of noise and motion. For a heartbeat there was only the groan of twisted metal above them and Knuckles' breath against her ear, ragged, alive.
For a heartbeat the valley went silent. Both Suburbans sat crippled in the snow—one skewed across the lanes, the other buried nose-deep in the ditch, steam ghosting from its grille. Then the driver's door of the lead vehicle slammed open and a Syndicate gunner spilled out, boots skidding on ice, weapon jerking up.
Brock saw him first. His rifle cracked, the shot rolling down the road like thunder off stone. The gunner pitched backward into the snow, arms flailing, muzzle flashing once as he fell. Kier and Onyx joined in from the ridge, their fire stitching light through the pines. The windshield disintegrated under the impact, fragments glittering across the hood.
More movement inside—silhouettes ducking, muzzle flashes strobing through the tinted glass. Return rounds hissed wild across the asphalt, ricocheting off the frozen surface, snapping through branches overhead. The air filled with gunpowder and engine steam, the smell of burning rubber spreading fast through the cold.
Down in the ditch, the gunfire from the road jolted Knuckles back to life. He shoved Harper off him and rolled to his knees, snow cascading from his jacket. The Suburban beside them hissed and popped, rear tires still spinning, exhaust curling into the cold air. A door creaked, then a Syndicate shooter clawed his way halfway out through the shattered back window, pistol up and eyes wild. Knuckles fired first—two rounds through the chest that snapped him back inside the cab.
Harper was already moving, boots slipping as she found her footing. Steam burned her eyes; she blinked through it and tracked motion behind the fractured glass. A second figure shifted in the driver's seat, fumbling for his weapon. She raised her rifle and fired through the windshield. The crack of the shot merged with Knuckles' next burst—three more rounds that punched through the glass and stilled everything inside.
Brock eased his finger off the trigger and let the rifle hang for a beat, smoke coiling from the barrel. Through the drifting steam and snow he could see the first Suburban gutted—windows gone, bodies slumped, engine ticking itself to death. He raised a gloved hand and flashed a short signal toward the ridge. Two clenched fists. Cease. Muzzle flashes from Kier and Onyx vanished at once, leaving the air thick with burned powder and silence.
He climbed onto the hood of the Suburban, boots scraping against the thin crust of ice, and scanned the field. Down the grade, the second vehicle lay half buried in the ditch, tail lifted like a dying animal. For a moment he couldn't tell if it had taken Knuckles and Harper with it. His stomach knotted—the space between seeing the slide and hearing the impact felt endless. Then movement: Knuckles rising through the haze, arm lifting in a quick signal. All clear. Harper stood a second later beside him, unsteady but upright.
Brock exhaled hard, the tension leaving his body as quickly as it had built. He raised his hand toward the ridge and cut two sharp arcs through the air. Move down.
Kier and Onyx broke from their cover, shadows slipping through the trees, rifles low as they started the descent toward the road. Brock dropped back to the ground, the crunch of snow under his boots loud in the sudden quiet. He crossed to the rear of the Suburban, yanked a jerry can from the rack, and swung it down by the handle. The metal was cold enough to bite through his gloves.
He started down the road at a jog, snow whispering beneath his steps, the smell of fuel already ghosting out behind him. Ahead, the two wrecked vehicles waited—black hulks against white, steam twisting up from their hoods like smoke from a battlefield long since gone still.
Knuckles was already moving toward the wreck, rifle up, eyes cutting through the steam. "Strip," he called over his shoulder. His voice was steady, but the edge in it said he needed her moving, not thinking. Harper nodded, breath still catching in her throat, and turned down the ditch. Snow dragged at her legs as she pushed through, the cold biting through layers that were already soaked. The spike strip waited half buried where they'd left it, cable lines stretched across the lane like veins under ice. She climbed the bank, boots sliding, and braced herself against the shoulder. Each anchor came loose with a wrench and a dull crack of frozen metal giving way.
The men moved through the wrecks in silence, each falling into familiar rhythm. Knuckles worked the Suburban in the ditch, checking bodies, kicking weapons clear, shoving the dead back inside to keep them out of sight. Steam drifted around him in slow coils, his breath mixing with it. On the road above, Kier and Onyx swept the other vehicle—doors wrenched open, shells clinking onto the ice as they cleared casings and dragged loose gear free. Brock set the jerry can down beside the first SUV, glove tightening on the handle before he released it. The metallic tang of fuel hung in the cold air. He straightened, scanning the length of the road. Up ahead, Harper was on the shoulder, rolling the spike strip into its sleeve, her movements precise and deliberate against the white expanse.
Harper crouched by the shoulder, the spike strip coiling stiffly beneath her hands. Each metal barb scraped against the next as she fed it back into the sleeve. Her fingers wouldn't steady; the tremor ran deep, bone to tendon. It wasn't just the cold. Breath steamed in quick bursts that didn't match her pace, fogging the steel before it vanished into white air.
Bootsteps crunched behind her. She knew that cadence without looking. She kept her eyes on the strip, on the last few feet of cable sliding through her gloves. The air shifted as Brock knelt beside her, the weight of him settling close. His glove found hers where it pressed to the frozen ground, covering it, stilling it.
"You okay?"
She nodded, the word catching in her throat before it made it out. "Yeah. Fine."
His other hand came to rest lightly on her shoulder, steadying her. He didn't press or speak again, just stayed there, the warmth of his palm bleeding through the layers. When she reached for the next coil, he helped without needing to be asked—guiding the line, feeding the cold metal back into its sleeve until it folded neat and secure between them. Her breathing slowed as the work found its rhythm again.
They rose together, snow slipping from their knees. Down the road, Knuckles' voice carried through the quiet. "Ready to burn."
Brock's hand lingered at her back for a moment before he stepped away toward the wrecks. Harper followed, the smell of fuel already curling through the air.
─•────
The fire had burned down to a deep red glow, heat soaking the cabin's walls. The room smelled of smoke, oil, and melted snow. Gear was spread out across the floor—rifles broken open, magazines stacked in neat lines, rags blackened from use.
Knuckles sat cross-legged near the hearth, sleeves rolled, running a bore snake through his rifle barrel. The movement was slow, methodical, almost hypnotic. Beside him, Kier leaned back against the couch with a pile of magazines in his lap, tapping each one before sliding it into a row.
Onyx had claimed the armchair, boot heel hooked on the rung, cleaning kit balanced on his thigh. He hummed under his breath, some half-remembered tune no one else recognized. Every so often he'd glance at the window, the reflection of the fire cutting through the dark glass.
Brock was at the table, field-stripping the last of the rifles. The light from the fire caught in the lines of his face, the quiet there a different kind of exhaustion. He worked by touch more than sight—pins, springs, motion worn into muscle memory.
Brock set the bolt aside and reached for the rag. "Good run this morning," he said after a moment. "Clean, quick."
Kier gave a small nod without looking up. "Spike strip worked better than expected. First SUV didn't even see it."
Onyx's low hum turned into a laugh. "They never do. That's the beauty of snow—hides everything ugly underneath." He glanced toward Knuckles. "Except you, apparently."
Knuckles grinned, running the bore snake through again. "What can I say? I make ugly look fast."
"Fast saved your ass," Brock said. He didn't look up, just fitted the firing pin back into place. "That second SUV was a breath away from taking both of you."
Knuckles' grin faded. "Yeah. Felt that breath." He coiled the cord in his hand, the motion rougher than it needed to be. "Harper nearly wore the grille."
Kier let out a low whistle. "Didn't look like you had much room."
"Didn't," Knuckles said. "Wasn't thinking. Just grabbed."
Onyx tipped his head back, watching the ceiling beams catch the firelight. "Hell of a grab. I saw that thing go over the edge and figured you two were done."
Knuckles gave a short laugh. "Guess it wasn't our turn."
Brock looked up from the table then, meeting his eye across the room. "You moved fast," he said. "That's the only reason she's still breathing."
The words hung for a beat. Then Knuckles shrugged, half a smile creeping back. "Fast hands, lucky boots."
The quiet settled again, the kind that didn't feel awkward—just earned. The fire cracked, brass clinked, and the rhythm of their work filled the gaps between thoughts they didn't say out loud.
Kier broke the silence first, stacking the last of the magazines in a neat row. "We're running light again. Food, water, the works. If we stretch what's left, maybe two days."
Onyx snorted. "That's if Knuckles quits stealing extra coffee packs."
"Man's gotta keep his edge," Knuckles said without looking up, pushing a rag through his rifle's receiver.
Brock set the weapon down and rubbed a hand across his jaw. "We'll hit the store tomorrow. Same setup as last time—two inside, eyes out. In and out before anyone gets curious."
Kier nodded, leaning back against the couch. "Could use a clean run."
"Yeah," Onyx murmured, watching the fire. "One without bullets or flying cars would be nice."
The line earned a faint laugh, the sound small but real. Outside, the wind picked up against the cabin walls, and for a while none of them spoke—just the steady rhythm of cloth against metal, the quiet that always came after survival.
Brock reassembled his rifle, checked the action once, then set it on the table beside the others. "I'm calling it," he said, voice low. "Need a few hours before we move again."
Knuckles stretched his shoulders, the motion pulling at the seams of his shirt. "I'll take first watch."
"You always do," Onyx muttered, half-asleep already in the armchair.
Kier smirked without looking up. "Because you never sleep."
"Someone's gotta make sure you clowns don't snore the walls down." Knuckles stood, chambered a round out of habit, and slung the rifle over his shoulder.
Brock nodded once, satisfied. "Wake me at two."
Knuckles gave a short salute with two fingers. "Copy that, boss."
Brock pushed back from the table, the chair legs creaking against the wood as he picked his rifle up. The warmth from the hearth followed him only so far; the hallway beyond was cooler, the air carrying the faint scent of pine smoke and soap. Floorboards groaned under his weight as he made his way to the back room.
The door stood half open, the firelight from the main room spilling a narrow band across the floorboards. Inside, Harper slept curled into herself beneath the blanket, one arm tucked under her cheek. What little light made it this far found the ends of her hair and set them faintly gold against the dark. The room felt smaller with her in it—quiet, breathing, alive.
He stood a moment and let the silence take him. The faint crackle of the hearth down the hall ebbed, replaced by the soft measure of her breath and the winter hush pressing at the windows. His hand found the edge of the door. He slipped inside and eased it shut, careful with the latch, careful with everything.
Brock set his rifle against the wall and shrugged out of his jacket, the fabric holding the day's smoke and cold in its seams. He pulled his shirt over his head—warm from the fire, faintly salt and metal, the ghost of oil that never really left the skin. He moved quiet and economical, the floor complaining once under his heel. Air near the bed ran warmer, carrying the clean sweetness of her shampoo—soft and out of place here, like a promise he could smell.
He lifted the blanket and slid in behind her, the mattress dipping, the heat of her body finding him through the thin give of fabric—his shirt on her, loose and slouched, hem riding high on her thighs. One arm settled around her waist, the other slipped under the pillow; he drew her in slow until her spine aligned to his chest. She stirred, that familiar small sound—half breath, half recognition—like a door opening.
He rested his forehead to her shoulder and let the quiet take shape around them. Counted the small proofs of her—heat through cotton, the steady rise and fall beneath his palm, the way her scent lived at the hinge of her jaw. That had almost not been true. He breathed once, deep and even, and something in him unlatched.
His mouth found the nape of her neck, skin sleep-warm beneath the fall of her hair. The kiss lingered—no ask, just a promise set there and kept. She answered without words: a caught breath, the barest tilt of her head, her hips easing back until there was no space left to measure. Another kiss, lower, along the slope where neck becomes shoulder, and relief moved through his chest like thaw.
His hand slid under the hem, palm to her stomach—cool meeting heat. She tensed on instinct, then softened all at once, the line of her back arching into him. Fabric whispered as it shifted. Under his touch her breath changed, shorter for a moment, then deeper; a fine shiver lifted along her skin, rose and fell beneath his fingers. He traced up along her ribs and down again to the hollow of her waist, slow and deliberate, relearning what he already knew by heart. She pressed her thigh back into him in answer, a little more each time, testing, sure. His thumb rested just inside her hip and found the quick thrum there. A small, unguarded sound—barely a noise at all—escaped her, and then she went quieter still, as if listening to the places his hand had just been.
Her hand reached back, found his wrist, and guided him where she wanted, holding him there. He answered with his mouth at her nape again—patient kisses spaced like steady heartbeats—then lower, each one an anchor. She exhaled his name barely above a whisper, more feeling than word.
He eased the hem higher with his knuckles, careful, asking without asking. She tipped her head, offering more skin, and pressed back to him with quiet, certain permission. He curled closer, wrapped around her like a shield, like a vow, bodies fitting along every line. The mattress gave a soft complaint. Their breathing fell into the same measure.
She turned a fraction—just enough to angle her face to his—so his mouth could find the edge of her jaw. Fingers threaded into the back of his neck, bringing him in. The cotton climbed another inch. The world narrowed to warmth and touch and the shiver that moved through her when his hand traced a slower path.
No hurry; only the hush of the room, fabric whispering, her pulse under his thumb, his name soft in her mouth. Closeness like coming home after a long, bad road—held, not hurried; a promise kept in touch.
After that it was small sounds and gentle weight, the mattress answering, their rhythm finding one measure. Outside, the snow kept falling. Inside, warmth gathered and the dark folded over them, and for a long time nothing existed but the two of them breathing the same quiet air.
─•────
Gray noon pressed low over the lot, the sky the color of tin. Puddles wore a skin of ice, cracked spiderwebs where tires had rolled through earlier. The Suburban idled three rows back, heat whispering through the vents. Harper sat sideways in the passenger seat, boots on the dash, picking at a loose thread on her glove until it frayed into nothing. Brock cupped coffee in one hand and watched the storefront through the steam. In the back seat, Knuckles tracked the entrance without blinking, the kind of stillness that made the air feel thinner.
Kier and Onyx cracked their doors in the same breath. As they slipped past her window, Harper rolled it down and leaned an elbow on the sill. "Gum," she said, deadpan. "Mint. Not the toothpaste kind."
Kier flashed her the finger without breaking stride. "You get what you get."
"Mint," she repeated louder, and the corner of his mouth tugged despite himself.
"Fine," he said, and Onyx chuckled, bumping him with a shoulder on the way in.
The automatic doors took them in with a soft breath and closed on a wash of fluorescent hum. The Suburban settled back into its idle, a low, even purr. Somewhere out in the rows a cart rattled, metal on ice. Brock twisted his lid until it clicked and set the cup back in the holder. Harper dropped her boots to the floor, rolled the window up, and did her sweep—left mirror, right, rear—palm drumming once against the door out of habit. Knuckles shifted his shoulder against the belt, eyes on the entrance.
Out in the lot, breath plumed from a bundled couple loading salt bags into a trunk. A delivery van crept past with its hazards blinking, tires whispering over the thin crust of ice. A kid in a red hoodie jogged a cart to the corral and skidded the last two steps for his own amusement. The plow had left a gray ridge along the median; gulls worked at something frozen there and gave up. A sedan eased into a space three down from them, the driver angling twice to get it straight. A receipt fluttered across the asphalt, caught under a tire, stayed.
Inside the glass, Kier and Onyx became shapes in the aisle glow, then disappeared behind a rack of winter hats. The storefront reflected the parking rows in pale layers—ghost cars drifting over the bright posters taped to the glass. Harper watched the reflections more than the door. Brock took another small sip, eyes steady. Knuckles didn't move.
Fluorescents flattened everything—colors, faces, even the sound of their boots on the tile. Melted snow tracked a gray map down the main aisle, sparkling with rock salt that hadn't finished dissolving. Heat blasted from vents set too high, the kind of over-warmth that made noses sting.
Kier grabbed a handbasket, decided it was useless, and traded up for a cart when the plastic handle bit his glove. "Prices are criminal," he muttered, eyeing an endcap pyramided in canned chili. The labels shouted HEARTY HOMESTYLE in blocky red, steam curling off a bowl that had never met a real kitchen. "Five ninety-nine for beans wearing a Halloween costume."
Onyx peeled a pair of winter gloves off a peg, checked the stitching, put them back. "Get the beans. Beans don't lie. Marketing does."
Kier sighed and started loading cans anyway, metal ringing against metal. "Everything in this aisle is yelling at me—'artisan,' 'fire-roasted,' 'cowboy.' We're just paying for adjectives."
"Then buy the quiet ones," Onyx said, plucking the plainest labels from the stack—no scenery, no steam, just ingredients and a barcode. "Food that minds its business."
Kier held one up, turning it to the fluorescent light. "Now that's an honest can. Looks like it resents being here." He dropped three more in the cart, then swept soup and tuna pouches in after them. "Get us out before the slogans start rubbing off."
They moved like men who'd walked this list a dozen times. Kier steered the cart past a tower of novelty mugs and into the dimmer aisles where the useful things lived. Batteries first—AA's in bulk, then a smaller pack of CR123s for optics—blister packs clacking into the wire basket. Onyx reached over him for a brick of coffee filters, the brown kind that looked like folded paper hats. "Last box is down to origami," he said, letting them drop.
"Coffee," Kier answered, as if the word were a compass. Bottom shelf only: vacuum-hard rectangles that thumped when he tapped them. Two bricks went in, then a third for luck. "It won't be good," he said. "It'll be coffee."
"Good enough," Onyx said, snagging a tin of matches from a squeaking peg, then two disposables—lighters that felt too light in the hand. He added a small bottle of fuel tabs, shook it once to hear the rattle, nodded. Fire was a language they both spoke.
Kier cut across to a narrow run of gear by automotive and plucked a compact ferro rod from its hook—solid grip, honest striker. He dragged the steel once in the air, more memory than motion, and put it in the cart like a promise. On the swing toward the front they passed a wall of jerky; Onyx slowed. "Morale?"
Kier eyed a bag labeled SWEET HEAT like it might sue him. He grabbed the plainest one within reach. "If it tastes like a belt, I'm blaming you."
"I can live with that," Onyx said, tossing a second bag in anyway. "Insurance."
They rolled past plastic bins and discount Christmas lights that blinked with the sickly patience of a hospital monitor. Kier snagged three packs of gum without breaking stride—green foil, the heaviest stack on the peg, mint that promised to be real and not chalk. He palmed them, then let them slap into the cart. "Gum for the princess."
Onyx arched an eyebrow. "Bold to say that out loud."
"She can't hear me in here," Kier said, reaching back for a fourth pack. "And if she can, I meant 'your majesty.'"
At the rear of the store, a worker in a blue vest mopped slow circles around a yellow caution sign. Heat from the vents turned the floor's damp crescent to a thin, lazy steam. The PA crackled, asked for a price check on pet litter, and died like it regretted trying. Somewhere a kid coughed; somewhere else a scanner chirped like a small bird.
"Propane," Onyx said, nodding toward seasonal.
"Extra AA's," Kier answered, and they peeled off in opposite directions with the easy timing of a habit.
Onyx found the canisters stacked like squat green grenades, frost ghosting their bottoms from the draft along the back doors. He thumbed two valves, chose the ones that felt clean, then balanced a brick of hand warmers on top because some misery wasn't noble. The stack wobbled; he steadied it with his chin and kept moving.
Kier swept one more sleeve of AA's into the cart and paused at a rack of windshield scrapers. He lifted one with a foam handle, pictured Brock's expression, set it back like a guilty thought, and turned for the front.
They met again where the aisles opened—Onyx's ridiculous tower intact, Kier's cart squared away, the ferro rod riding on top like a key. "For morale," Onyx said, lifting the hand warmers a fraction.
"For fingers," Kier said. "Morale's a side effect." He angled the cart toward the registers, wheels ticking over tile seams, the load modest but dense—light, hot, bright, awake. Together, they pushed into the glow of the checkout lanes.
Checkout was half-asleep. A teenage cashier with a bandaid on one knuckle and a candy cane taped to her lane light blinked at them through lashes clumped with mascara. The belt was smudged white from dried salt and someone's spilled sugar. Kier eased the cart forward; Onyx began unloading with the practiced rhythm of a man who knew how to make a pile look smaller—filters tucked under batteries, beans marched behind coffee so the total wouldn't feel like an insult. Jerky slid under tape and gauze like contraband.
"Find everything okay?" the cashier asked, voice lilting up at the end as if she hoped for a no.
"Define 'okay,'" Kier said, then softened it with a quick, decent smile. "Yeah. We're good."
She started the belt. The scanner warbled; red light washed over silver foil and cardboard. Onyx produced two crumpled coupons he'd lifted from a wobbling display, the kind printed like they were ashamed of themselves. He smoothed them flat with a thumb and passed them over. One beeped, then the second—small, electronic mercies. The girl's mouth twitched like she'd seen rarer miracles.
"Paper or plastic?" she asked, already pulling plastic.
"Plastic," Kier said, because plastic carried better on cold hands.
Bags puffed open with that soft, tacky sound. Coffee bricks thunked into one, the weight promising mornings. Batteries chimed into another, a bright little chorus. Filters folded, lighters knocked together like teeth, fire tabs rattled like distant rain in a tin roof. The receipt unfurled in a shy scroll; the candy cane taped to her light bobbed like it was nodding along.
Kier hooked two bags in each hand, handles biting his knuckles through the gloves. Onyx took the heavier load with a small grunt, forearms braced. By the doors the heat swelled from the vents, then vanished as the glass slid wide and winter reached in under their cuffs. Gray light lay across the entry mat; wet tire tracks shone like old nickel. Onyx stepped out first, bags high on his arms, head down against the wind, angling off the curb toward the rows.
Kier followed—and his lace snagged the ribbed rubber at the threshold. He shifted both bags into the crook of one elbow, planted his boot on the low yellow curb, and worked the knot through cold-stupid fingers. "One sec," he said, but the blower over the doorway swallowed it.
The SUV didn't arrive so much as appear—one of the Syndicate's armored Tahoes, black and slab-sided, all blunt intent and tinted glass. It knifed into the entry lane from the blind angle by the cart corral, shouldering the space like a barge taking a berth. Weight transferred hard; the front end dipped, ABS thrummed; tires whispered and then screamed over ice. It slid broadside between Onyx and their Suburban, so close he could've reached out and palmed the paint. Doors were moving before the chassis finished rocking—rear latch kicked, a rectangle of darkness yawning open.
The taser hit like lightning caught in a fist—white-blue spit, a hard crack, the stink of hot ozone. The probes stitched him centerline through coat and shirt at near-contact range; Onyx arched, jaw open, breath ripped out, bags slamming at his knees. Coffee filters burst like pale birds; batteries ringed away in bright, stupid circles. Two Syndicate enforcers came out in the same breath—matte jackets, helmets down, gloved hands sure. One caught him high by the jacket yoke, the other hooked belt and waistband and hauled, a practiced jackknife that folded him inside. A second jolt—drive-stun to the ribs—made his legs forget themselves. The doorframe bit his boot; rubber squealed over steel; his head met something inside with a dull, intimate thud.
Kier's bags hit next, handles snapping his knuckles as he let go. "Hey!" tore out of him raw, half word, half noise, and his hand was already under his jacket, fingers finding the pistol's cold metal. He came up in a crouch, sights flashing across black glass. The first shot cracked and thudded into armor; the rear door was closing as the round struck, a dull spang off the hinge. The Tahoe's engine bellowed—fan howling over the V8—rear tires clawing for bite. He fired again at the quarter panel, then the rear glass, hunting a seam. Impacts hopped along the door in bright, useless stars off the trim. The whole vehicle snapped straight with a shudder that shoved wind into his face, sucked wrappers and receipts in its wake, and then it was gone—taillights smearing red through the gray, snow misting up in a dirty fan, the sound of it pouring down the rows like something heavy rolling downhill.
Brock saw it in the glass before the sound reached him—black shape, wrong angle, Onyx folding into a dark mouth that shouldn't exist—and his hand was already on the shifter. The Suburban wrenched from idle to drive with a hard clunk; his foot buried the pedal. Tires shrieked against wet ice, the whole chassis fishtailing a hand's width before the traction light found its stutter and they hooked. Slush fanned up behind them in a dirty veil. The armored Tahoe was already peeling out of the lane, taillights smearing red across gray.
"Go—go!" Harper's voice ripped forward from the passenger seat, the window already cranking down, her seatbelt caught in one fist as she twisted to track the fleeing rig. Coffee sloshed out of the cupholder and ran hot along the console seam. The half-loaded rifle at her knees knocked against the glovebox with a hollow thud.
Knuckles had the rear door open before Brock cleared the first row. He planted one boot on the sill, one hand braced on the headrest, body a wedge against the vacuum of speed. "Kier!" The name cut through the wind. Brock swung the wheel just enough to throw the nose past a sedan nosing out, horns blooming uselessly in their wake.
Kier pivoted toward them from the entry mat, gun already jammed back under his jacket, bags abandoned in a halo of batteries and filters. Brock dragged the brakes for a heartbeat—just enough slack to make it possible, not safe. The Suburban's rear quarter drifted a fraction; Knuckles reached into the blur, caught Kier's arm, and hauled. Kier hit the floorboard on a shoulder, boots scraping the sill; Knuckles slammed the door with the side of his fist and fell backward into the seat, breath hard, one arm still hooked around Kier to keep him from pinwheeling.
"Onyx!" Harper's voice cracked, then steadied into command. "Left out of the row—he's cutting for the side exit!"
"I've got him," Brock said, eyes locked on the gap as he threaded the Suburban between bumpers and abandoned carts. The engine rose into a hard, steady howl; the hood bounced once as they rode a shallow rise, snow spitting off the tires in glittering fans. Ahead, the Syndicate Tahoe skimmed past a stopped pickup, slid into the cross lane without signaling, and shouldered toward the exit like it owned the pavement.
"Of course it's the armored one," Kier rasped, bracing a hand on the seatback as they jolted over a frost heave. "Because why make it easy."
Brock punched the Suburban through the exit, the lot's chatter falling away as the street opened—plow berms like low white walls, traffic lights hanging dull in the gray. The armored Tahoe knifed left across two lanes, taillights smearing red through slush, throwing a curtain of dirty spray that hammered their windshield. Brock rode the howl of the engine, hands steady at ten and two, eyes reading gaps and angles instead of fear. Harper leaned into the open window, rifle braced low, mouth set; Knuckles was a solid weight behind him, one palm on Kier's shoulder to keep him planted as Kier sucked air in sharp, angry pulls. ABS juddered under Brock's boot when a delivery van drifted wide; he feathered through it and found traction again, the hood lifting and falling as they crested a ripple of frozen asphalt.
Ahead, the Tahoe bullied a yellow light and took another hard left, tires screaming, a dark certainty dragging a line through the city's pale afternoon. Brock followed, throttle down, the Suburban shouldering into the wake it left—snow, noise, cold—until the world narrowed to those receding taillights and the long, hungry road beyond.