Rain slicked the streets in silver ribbons as the SUV wound through East Halworth's industrial belt, tires hissing over standing water. Warehouses loomed in blocks of rust and corrugated steel, their windows spilling fractured light across the asphalt. Inside the cab, the air carried the faint tang of rain and wet concrete, the silence stretched taut between three bodies who didn't need words to measure distance.
Harper sat in the back, shoulder leaned to the window, watching neon smear across the glass as the city rolled past. Up front, Brock drove with his usual precision, hands steady on the wheel, eyes forward. Nolan rode passenger, broad frame angled toward him, the two of them trading words too low for her to catch. The murmur carried like a current she wasn't meant to follow, leaving her with the reflection of her own face in the glass and the steady hum of the engine beneath her feet.
That night hovered just a few days behind her—the one where her own scream had dragged him into her room and dawn had found him still in the chair. She hadn't said a word about it; just rolled toward the wall, feigning sleep until the chair creaked and his footsteps carried him out. He never spoke of it. Neither did she. She wasn't even sure he knew she'd opened her eyes.
Now, in the hush of the SUV, she watched him in the rearview, the memory tugging closer than she liked. Brock seemed to have felt the shift and let his eyes brush the rearview, catching her stare for a breath before turning back to the road. Without breaking his focus on the lane ahead, he let the silence go.
"Straight talk," he said. "We're meeting a yard broker. He runs traffic through this section—what trucks use which lanes, who gets waved through, who sits. I need him to run a Black Maw convoy down a lane I choose. He does that, we can choke it when the time comes."
Brock's gaze flicked to the mirror, catching Harper's eyes again. "You're along to watch. Listen to how it plays. You don't step in. You don't try to help. You don't speak unless I tell you to."
Heat pricked at the back of her neck. She nodded and turned her focus to the window, neon sliding past in smeared colors.
"If something goes sideways," he added, "you stay where I put you until I say different. You let me handle it. I don't need you improvising."
Her fingers tightened briefly on the hem of her jacket, then stilled. "Understood."
He turned his attention forward again, as if the matter were closed. The engine's hum filled the space between them, and Harper watched the way the city's light strobed across the dash and their reflections in the glass, all three of them riding through it together.
The SUV turned off the main road and rolled up to Rivers Edge Reclamation, the kind of neutral ground that dressed itself as legitimate—hand-painted hours on fogged glass, a bell wired to a sprung hinge—while catwalk silhouettes and the slow prowl of a yard dog told the truth louder than any paperwork. The chainlink rattled on its sliders as the front gate pulled aside, giving them room to nose through. Weld-light sparked somewhere deeper in the lot, blue-white flashes that made the puddles look like they were holding lightning.
Brock pulled the SUV into a strip of gravel just inside the fence and killed the engine. For a moment the only sound was the tick of cooling metal and the dog's low snarl drifting across the yard. Then he turned in his seat, eyes settling on her.
"You stay on my right," he said. "Half a stride back. If someone aims a question at you, you look at me first. Keep your hands where they can see them."
He tipped his chin toward the building. "Yard boss is Pike. He runs the lanes out of this place. Brasso handles his heavy work. Teal's the one they send running messages and cash. You don't know them, they don't know you, and it stays that way. You watch, you listen, and you let me do the talking."
Harper's fingers brushed the hem of her jacket once more, then stilled on her thigh. She gave a short nod, nothing more.
Nolan opened his door first, scanning the lot before stepping out. Brock followed, jacket zipped, hands empty, sidearm sitting under the fabric despite the posted ruleboard about holsters snapped and magazines seated. Harper slid out last, boots landing in wet gravel. She moved to where he'd told her, close enough for him to block her line if heat came fast, close enough to read his movements.
They crossed the open span of the gate on foot, heading in. The yard stretched in broken geometry—rows of stripped-down chassis, coils of twisted rebar, the wet glare of weld-light flaring blue-white in the distance. Sparks showered briefly, turning the puddles underfoot into shallow bowls of fire. The dog barked once, then slunk back into shadow. Cameras blinked red from the corners of the catwalks, sweeping lazy arcs across the open ground. Harper felt them trace her as she walked, the weight of eyes both electronic and human settling on her shoulders.
Brock kept his stride even, shoulders squared in the posture he wore when business was meant to look clean. She stayed the half-step back he'd ordered. Nolan held the outside edge, silent and solid, eyes working the angles as they crossed to the far side of the yard.
A steel staircase climbed toward a glassed-in office perched above the loading bay. Brock took it without pause, hand loose at his side, jacket zipped. Harper matched his rhythm, every sense locked on his back. At the top, Nolan broke off, posting on the far side of the door where anyone inside could see him. Brock pushed it open without knocking and stepped through. Harper followed, the room tightening around her as the door clicked shut behind them.
The office smelled of cigarette smoke and wet cardboard, the air stale from the heater rattling in the corner. Fluorescent light buzzed overhead, throwing everything in flat glare: a steel desk bolted to the floor, two plastic chairs in front of it, a file cabinet shoved against the back wall.
Three men waited.
The one behind the desk had to be Pike, clipboard in hand that he looked like he didn't really need, eyes quick and restless behind square frames. The broad man leaning against the wall opposite fit Brasso well enough, shoulders filling the narrow space, arms folded like weight was its own language. That left the thinner one near the file cabinet for Teal, sneakers shifting, gaze never settling for more than a heartbeat on anything in the room.
Brock crossed straight to the desk, posture clean, controlled, like he was here to close business and nothing else. Harper stayed where he'd told her—half a stride to his right, not sitting, not speaking—her eyes skimming the geometry of the room. Pike's pen. Brasso's bulk. Teal's jitter. The single door at their backs, Nolan visible through the glass, posted solid against the rail.
The balance of it pressed down on her. A triangle: broker at the desk, muscle at the wall, runner at the back. Brock in the center of it, steady as stone.
He unzipped his jacket just enough for the line of the holster to show under fabric and set a plain envelope on the desk. The paper made a dry, deliberate sound against steel.
Pike tapped his pen against the clipboard, mouth pulling into a smile that wanted to be easy and didn't quite get there. "Lawson. Hell," he said. "When they mentioned Syndicate was dropping by, I figured it'd be some clerk with a tablet, not you. You here to count what goes through my gates, or just to make sure I still know who I'm answering to?"
Brock didn't bother with a smile. He slid the envelope forward across steel, the sound cutting through the room.
"On Thursday, Black Maw runs two trucks through your section," he said. "They come off Eastport and hit the main container road. You keep them on that run—straight down the stretch between the stack rows and into the choke by the spur—in a fifteen-minute window. You keep other rigs out of that lane and the forklifts off its crossings. Their line looks clean. The rest of the traffic looks routine."
The pen stilled. Teal shifted, sneakers squeaking against linoleum. Pike's gaze flicked to Brasso, then back to Brock. Brasso unfolded his arms, eyes drifting toward Harper with slow intent, like the demand had given him license.
Harper stayed where Brock had set her, but the weight of Brasso's stare pressed closer than his bulk against the wall. A flicker of unease crept up her spine. She set her heels a little wider and let her fingers find the seam of her pants, nails biting into the fabric rather than give him the satisfaction of seeing her flinch.
Pike set the clipboard down, pen balanced between his fingers. "Steering their convoy through one lane set instead of another still puts my routing codes on the page," he said. "If they get hit and start asking who sent them that way, I'm the name they land on."
Brock didn't blink. "You don't need to worry about walking out of this spotless. You keep their lane open and your paperwork looking normal. We'll take care of what happens in it."
Pike's frown deepened. He leaned forward, elbows to steel. "And when they pull the routing logs after something hits them on that road?" he asked. "They'll see who slotted those trucks onto that stretch, who had other rigs steered clear. Cameras catch a quiet lane right before everything goes sideways, and my name sits on the work orders. What exactly am I supposed to tell them?"
Across the room, Brasso shifted his weight against the wall, the movement small but loud in the tight space. His eyes slid back to Harper, slower now, skimming over her with a focus that made it obvious he'd stopped tracking the deal and found something else to watch.
Harper snapped her eyes to him and back again, jaw tight, tension crawling higher between her shoulder blades. She rolled her weight into her back foot and locked her gaze on the line of Brock's shoulder instead, tracking the steady lift of his breathing and refusing to follow the path of Brasso's stare.
Brock's attention flicked once, fast, in Brasso's direction—a quick measure—and then returned to Pike, as if the man's muscle wasn't worth more than that glance. "You tell them the schedule needed smoothing," he said. "Weather, maintenance, staffing—pick something that fits. Lane stays clear when I say. On paper, it reads like a tired Thursday."
Pike leaned back, pen ticking against his fingers as he angled his head toward Teal. "A few days isn't much of a buffer," he muttered. "They lose two rigs on that stretch, first thing they do is pull the routing board. My codes send them into that lane, my name sits on the top of the sheet."
Teal shifted, sneakers squeaking against linoleum. "Convoys that size don't roll without someone watching their path," he said, eyes on the desk. "If Maw security decides it wasn't bad luck, they'll follow the paper from the port right back here."
Pike's mouth pressed flat, the pen pausing mid-tap. "Which still puts our names closest to the fire if it blows back."
Their words blurred for Harper—murmurs of lanes, routes, Maw—but the meaning sat plain enough. The deal reeked of risk, and Pike was angling for a way not to be the first one to burn if it went bad.
In the space between their low voices, Brasso peeled himself away from the wall at last. His boots met the floor with a dull thud, shoulders rolling loose as he drifted a step closer. His gaze crawled back to her, running over her like he was stripping layers, deliberate and unhurried, until it hooked and stayed.
Harper kept her body mostly still, but the muscles across her shoulders pulled tight. She eased a breath closer to Brock's side, just enough that his frame filled more of her view, and held her focus there, letting that narrow strip of him soak up her attention instead of giving Brasso's stare anything to catch.
Brock didn't turn, but she caught the change in him—the clench along his jaw, the single tap of his finger against the envelope on the desk. A signal. Small. Controlled. He'd seen it.
Her breath thinned, but she stayed where he'd placed her, his earlier orders running through her head: half a stride back, don't speak, don't breathe wrong.
Brasso's grin edged wider, eyes sliding from her to Brock with something uglier curled at the corners. "Didn't think you mixed business and comfort, Lawson," he murmured. "Guess she's keeping you warm between runs."
Brock's reply came flat, aimed at Pike. "She's here to watch. That's all. If your man's confused about the deal, clear him up before he costs you."
Pike's jaw twitched, pen tapping harder against the clipboard. He didn't answer right away. Teal shifted like he wanted to melt through the floor.
Brasso's laugh scraped out low and mean. "She ain't here to watch," he drawled. "She's here so you've got someone to clean you up after. You gonna tell me she doesn't drop to her knees for you when you're done?"
The words hung like smoke, thickening the air. Teal's sneakers squeaked as he shifted again, gaze skittering toward the window. Pike's pen stilled on the desk.
Brasso's eyes dropped, slow and blatant, lingering on her mouth before crawling back up to her face. His hand shifted lower, palming himself through his pants as his grin curled. "Can picture it already," he went on. "Those pretty lips of yours stretched wide, spit and tears down your chin. Bet you'd choke pretty for me."
The room tightened. Teal flinched like he'd taken the hit himself; Pike sat frozen, pen caught between his fingers.
Brock moved then. His hand shifted from the envelope, fingers flattening against the table. When he spoke, the word came quiet and threaded with steel. "Brasso."
The name landed hard enough that Teal's shoulders jerked. Pike's gaze snapped from Brock to his man, measuring distance, danger. Harper held her ground, jaw clenched, eyes still fixed on the line of Brock's shoulder. Her nails dug into the seam of her pants, the only sign she'd heard any of it.
Brasso's grin didn't fade. His gaze slid from her back to Brock, testing, then returned to her. "Relax," he purred, voice gone mocking. "Just asking if she shares."
His other hand came up, fingers reaching for her hair—certain, careless, like he was already owed the touch, Brock's warning nothing more than noise.
Brock's weight shifted off the desk, shoulders angling to cut between them—but Harper moved first.
Brasso's fingers had just brushed the ends of her hair when her own shot past his wrist, knocking it aside as her other hand dropped to his hip. Her thumb hooked under the holster strap and tore it back. The pistol came free in a single drag, her knuckles slamming into his belt as she ripped it clear and drove it up under his ribs in one continuous motion.
Metal met bone with a dull thud. Her knee crashed into his thigh. Her free hand fisted his collar and wrenched, using his own weight to spin him sideways and slam him into the edge of the desk hard enough to rattle the steel. Papers jumped. Pike's clipboard lurched.
The office bristled. Chair legs scraped. Teal's jacket rode up as his hand jerked for his own weapon, then stalled. Pike froze with the pen clutched tight between his fingers. Through the glass, Nolan was already on his feet at the rail, one hand splayed open against the window where any of the yard cameras could see it, the other hovering an inch off his jacket hem before he forced it still.
Harper's voice came out low, rough. "Open your mouth about me again," she snarled, eyes flat as the muzzle dug deeper into the soft place under his ribs, "and I open you."
Brasso hissed through his teeth, the grin finally slipping as he felt how close the barrel sat. Teal's hand hovered, half-drawn. Pike's pen slid against the page and went still, the weight of the room dragging every other word out of it.
That's when Brock moved—slow, deliberate, anchoring the chaos. His left hand settled over Harper's wrist, not dragging her off, just enough pressure to remind her he was there. His right opened toward Pike, palm out, calm threading into the air.
"Pike," he said, voice steady as concrete. "Eyes on your feed. Port security's watching. They hear a pop up here, they lock this section down, pull every log you've got, and Black Maw's trucks start looking for another route. You take this deal tonight—run them down the lane I gave you, keep it looking routine—and your yard stays open. You flinch, you stall, you lose the freight and the favor."
Brock's gaze cut next to Teal. "Hands out. Now."
Teal froze halfway into his jacket, eyes wide, then eased his palms into the air, fingers trembling.
Brock shifted just enough to catch Brasso in his periphery, voice dropping lower. "Don't move," he ordered. "You breathe wrong, you bleed."
Brasso's jaw worked, the smirk gone, sweat starting at his temple as the muzzle dug harder under his ribs.
Then Brock's attention slid to Harper. His hand pressed firmer over her wrist, grounding, not punishing. "Voss," he said, tone flat but meant for her alone.
The name landed like a hook in the room. Pike's eyes flicked up—fast, startled—before he caught himself, recognition sparking and dying in the same breath. Teal's gaze darted once between them, questions tightening his face that he didn't dare turn into sound.
Brock didn't give it air. His eyes passed over Harper's shoulder toward the glass, catching Nolan's reflection on the rail outside. A small tilt of his chin, a signal: hold steady.
Harper's grip slackened under his hand, breath dragging tight through her chest. Brock stayed with her wrist, steady, until the muzzle eased out from under Brasso's ribs.
"Let it go," he said, low.
She loosened her fingers. He took the pistol from her hand, thumb brushing the safety on sheer habit. In one smooth sequence he dropped the magazine, racked the slide to spit the live round onto the desk, then set the empty gun and the mag side by side on the steel between himself and Pike—close enough for everyone to see, far enough that Brasso would have to reach across Syndicate space to touch it.
Only then did he release her. She stayed rigid, eyes locked onto Brasso's face.
Brasso stayed slumped against the desk, jaw tight, sweat shining at his temple, fury straining under his skin with nothing left to do but sit in it.
Brock didn't spare him a glance. His attention pinned back on Pike, voice cutting through the thick silence.
"Here's how this runs," he murmured. "Thursday night, you route their convoy down that container stretch. Lane stays clear. Timing stays tight. On the board it looks routine. Maw sees a normal evening until it isn't. You do that, your section keeps breathing. You try to hedge, you drag your feet, and you're the yard we stop trusting. And you know what happens to places the Syndicate doesn't trust."
Pike's throat worked. His hand shook as he set the clipboard flat on the desk, pen ticking once against the metal before he forced it still. "You'll get your lane," he said, the words coming out rough. "Clean. On schedule."
Brock watched him for a long second, as if measuring whether that promise would hold. Then he gave a single nod.
"Good. Then everybody walks out tonight."
The weight of it settled in the room—command, final and immovable. Teal dropped his gaze. Brasso clenched his jaw and stayed pressed to the edge of the desk, sweat shining at his temple. Pike's grip tightened on the clipboard like it was the only solid thing in reach.
Brock turned, folding the envelope off the steel and sliding it back into his jacket. He tipped his chin toward the door. "We're done here."
He didn't wait for an answer. Just pivoted and moved, stride steady, the shift of his weight through the floor leaving no room for anyone to mistake who'd just owned the room.
Harper fell in half a step behind, her pulse still a war drum in her chest. Nolan peeled off the wall outside and slotted back into position at their flank, eyes hard, mouth set, silent.
They descended the steel stairs without a word, boots ringing against the metal, the hum of the yard and the flash of weld-light filling the space between them. Cool, damp air rolled up from the open lot, carrying the smell of oil and wet steel.
As they crossed the yard, puddles hissed under their boots. Weld-light flared blue across the stacks, throwing their shadows long.
Harper kept her eyes forward, half a stride behind Brock, but the heat in her chest had curdled into something colder. The echo of the holster snap still rang in her ears, louder now than the rain or the dog's low bark. She'd moved without leave; broken every word he'd laid down before they stepped out of the SUV.
And Brock hadn't said a thing.
That silence was worse than anything he could've thrown at her in the moment.
By the time the black shape of the vehicle came into view, her stomach had knotted hard enough she felt it in her throat.
The SUV loomed in the dark strip of the lot, water dripping from its frame, rain ticking soft against the hood. Brock scanned once over his shoulder—toward the gate, the office glow behind them, the cameras mounted high—then rounded the nose of the vehicle, pulling them into the blind angle between stacked pallets and chainlink where no lens reached.
Harper had just set her hand on the door handle when his fist caught the collar of her jacket. Fabric wrenched tight against her throat as he slammed her back into the steel panel hard enough to rattle the chassis.
"What the fuck was that?" His voice came low and vicious, each word jagged as broken glass. "I gave you orders. You disobeyed. You nearly cost me the deal—and the Syndicate doesn't pay for mistakes."
Her pulse surged, adrenaline still dragging ragged through her chest. "He put his hands on me," she fired back, voice strained. "What was I supposed to do—"
The punch cut her short—shoulder, elbow, wrist in one brutal line. Two knuckles crashed across her mouth and nose, her head snapping back against the SUV with a hollow thud. White flared behind her eyes, copper spilling thick out of her nostrils.
Her knees threatened to give, but his fist still gripped her collar, jerking her upright like he'd never allow her the ground. The metal of the SUV bit cold against her spine, breath tearing shallow through the rush of iron filling her throat.
Across the hood, Nolan stiffened, shoulders knotting tight, jaw flexing once—but he didn't move.
Brock's face stayed close, voice a low snarl. "Are you fucking stupid? You looking to get yourself killed? You pull a gun in my meet, on my time, and you think that would fly?"
Her mouth worked, a sound catching in her throat, but before she could shape it into words he shoved her off the panel. She stumbled sideways, boots skidding on gravel, before his hand cracked against her shoulder and drove her toward the back door.
"In the car." He yanked the door, crowded the space so there was only one direction to go. "Now."