The elevator doors parted with a sigh that carried in the empty hour, and Harper stepped out a half-pace behind Brock into the stillness of the operations floor. At four in the morning the corridor lay hushed, fluorescent bars casting sterile light across polished linoleum, the low hum of the fixtures the only sound.
Brock had ditched his jacket for the plain black uniform layers the Syndicate favored: dark thermal shirt stretched over his frame, cargo pants snug under a heavy belt, boots laced tight, every line ready to disappear beneath a vest once the armory kitted him out. Harper wore the same charcoal fatigues, seams rough against her skin, her older boots scuffed from drills but settled to her stride. A single braid trailed between her shoulder blades, tight and neat, practical in the same way the uniform was, built to erase softness and reduce her to function as they moved through the burnt coffee-scented hall toward briefing.
Brock led the way toward a set of double doors cracked just enough for sound to spill through: paper rustling, soles shifting on tile. They gave under Brock's shove, and they stepped into a room that felt like the inside of a gun barrel rather than any office. Long tables were shoved together into a crooked U, their surfaces scarred with knife gouges and cigarette burns, ringed by heavy chairs already half-claimed by early risers. A wall of monitors glared from the far end, stacked three high, each one bleeding grainy footage from traffic cams, warehouse feeds, live drone eyes jittering over East Halworth rooftops. Maps papered the rest of the walls, taped edges curling, grease-penciled lines looping across districts, clusters of colored pins marking debts, shipments, threats. The projector on the center table hummed as it warmed, casting a low mechanical flicker across the faces gathered there.
Brock called it the war room, and the name fit. The place carried none of the polish of a corporate board space; it existed for tactics and control, the kind of room where names ended up circled in red and lives shrank down to numbers on a page.
Conversations clipped off when they stepped in—not to silence, just to that watchful lull that follows something unexpected.
Brock's hand brushed her elbow, light contact nudging her toward the row of chairs along the side wall. She let him steer her that far, then paused long enough to skim the room, counting familiar faces and unknown ones along the crooked U of tables. Mason and Vale held a stretch of chairs against the wall with one empty seat left open between them. She took it, dragged the chair in close, and turned it just enough that she could watch both the doors and the table. As she settled, Mason's glance cut to her, quick and assessing; Vale tipped his head in a faint, almost companionable acknowledgment, the smallest recognition, before facing forward again. A ripple went down the room, low murmurs running under the scrape of chair legs.
Onyx and Keir kept to the right, overhead light hitting them hard and carving their features into planes of bone and shadow. Neither moved, but their stillness carried a patience that tugged at her, deep-water quiet hiding a pull strong enough to take a body under. Seeing them felt like brushing a live wire she already knew would burn, Keir pulling the trigger on Wedge, Onyx standing over Lena when her eyes stayed open after. Now both sat here, calm as stone, about to run a job in the same room as her.
Farther down, near the bank of monitors, Gunner leaned against the table, arms folded, gaze already pinned to her. The look dragged the fight from earlier in the week to the front of her mind, his hand where it had no right to be, the crack of her head driving into his face, before she forced it back down.
Anchored between men she recognized and others she didn't, Harper felt the shape of the room close around her as she braced for what came next.
Brock went on to stand beside Nolan at the head, and the room's voices dulled again, pulled toward him.
"Alright," Brock said, voice carrying without effort. "Convoy's two trucks, military-grade weapons, moving south from Eastport. Heavy escort: two SUVs up front, one behind, foot security riding the rails. We keep this lean for speed. Too many bodies clogs the road; too few, we get overrun. We're hitting them before they're anywhere near the city."
He tapped the map. "Choke point's here. Port road halfway down the container stacks. We hit the lead truck at the pinch, take out the front escort before they block the lane. Tail truck gets stopped and the rails cut before foot security can bring guns up. Overwatch locks down both ends, burns the first shooters that break cover. Once both rigs are ours, drivers roll them out. Fast in, fast out."
"Team One: me, Voss, Price, Cole—lead truck. Team Two: Nolan, Onyx, Keir, Gunner—tail truck. Overwatch: Jensen, Briggs, one end each. Drivers: Mason, Vale; they take over once we've cleared them."
No one argued, but the weight of certain glances said plenty. Brock let them pass and angled toward Nolan.
Nolan took the pointer, zooming the overhead feed tight on the port road. "Their timing's been clean from Eastport to here. Straight through, no detours. That holds unless we put pressure on them. This spur off the main road"—he tapped the narrow lane—"is our risk. If Truck Two makes it that far, it's gone. Team Two owns that choke. Overwatch calls movement the second it starts. If they push back harder than expected, fall to secondary cover here and here." He marked two more points with quick jabs. "Don't get pinned in the open. We're here to take the rigs, not trade bodies."
Nolan capped the pointer and set it down. The room settled into the low hum of shifting chairs, pens tapping against the table.
Brock's gaze moved over the table, taking each face in turn. "Anyone have questions before we move?"
For a moment the room held steady. Then a voice cut across it from midway down the table, careful on the surface, strain under it. "With all respect, I'd like to know why Voss is here."
The quiet that followed pressed in. Harper felt attention swing and land on her, a slow turn of eyes along her skin. Every part of her wanted to fold in, to make herself smaller in the chair, but she kept her spine against the backrest and her hands flat on her thighs.
Brock didn't look away from the group. He opened his mouth, but Nolan spoke first. "You got a problem with her being here, Jensen?"
Jensen's jaw flexed. His hand rested near the pointer, fingers tight against the plastic. "I think it's risky putting a prisoner in this room and on that road," he said. "She's a Viper. You tore her crew apart last time out. You're sure she's not going to try and return the favor halfway through?"
The words found the raw place he was aiming for. Heat crawled up Harper's throat. She leaned forward before she could talk herself out of it, elbows on the table, eyes locking on his. "I'm not a Viper anymore," she said, voice low and rough. "You buried that patch with the rest of my crew. I'm what's left. If I wanted to pay you back, it wouldn't be by tanking a job I'm stuck on with the lot of you. That's just dying loud for nothing."
The air around the table seemed to draw in. Brock's eyes slid to her, a warning that didn't need sound. She held his look for half a second, then eased back in her chair.
When he spoke, his tone stayed level. "Voss isn't a prisoner anymore." The word sat strange in Harper's chest, loosening something and tightening it at the same time; off the books, maybe, but still in his hands. "She's in training to run with my crew, and she's under my command. I decide who sits at this table and who rides on my jobs. You treat her like anyone else I put in that seat." His attention settled on Jensen for a long second, then moved across the rest of the table. "If anyone can't work with that, say it now. I'll pull you off this job and see if Roth and Dane have space for you instead."
No one answered at first; the quiet shifted, the earlier edge of challenge thinning into something tighter that still held. Brock fielded a few quick questions about timing on the yard lights, comm handoff at the pinch, where the block trucks would stage, then cut the feed.
"You've got ten minutes," he said. "Locker room for final checks on the floor."
Chairs scraped back as men pushed to their feet, the room breaking apart into movement. Two of the unfamiliar faces traded a glance; one tipped his head toward the other, mouth moving with a low comment that pulled a thin smirk from the second. Both let their gaze slide across her, quick but not quick enough to hide it, the kind of look that marked her as the piece that didn't fit.
Harper kept her eyes on the far wall, jaw tight. Out of place didn't begin to cover it. She wasn't Syndicate, and sitting in their war room with her name on a team list wasn't going to change that.
Brock's gaze cut over to the two men, flat and cold, and the smirk vanished.
The hum of voices swelled as the briefing broke up, the room loosening now that the plan was set. Brock's hand touched Harper's shoulder, steady and directional, and she rose with him, falling into his pace as they headed for the door.
Gunner let her reach the threshold before speaking, his voice pitched low, just enough to carry across the nearest tables. "Try not to fall behind."
Harper didn't turn, but her head angled slightly, eyes on the open doorway. The words came out before she considered softening them. "Try not to slow me down."
A small ripple moved through the room, a mix of quiet laughter and held breath, men turning just enough to catch the edges of it. Harper felt the attention touch the back of her neck, the prickle of it under her collar.
Brock stopped in the doorway. His hand dropped from her shoulder as he half-turned, gaze locking on Gunner. "Save it for the road," he said, voice mild on the surface, nothing mild under it. "You've got a convoy to worry about. If you're more focused on mouthing off in my war room, I can find someone else to take your slot."
The sound around the table thinned. Gunner's jaw worked for a second, something hot in his eyes, but he only gave a tight nod.
Brock let the moment hang long enough to settle, then turned into the corridor. Men were already drifting that way, boots heavy on polished floor, voices dropping to a workmanlike murmur as talk slid back to ammo, weather, who was driving what. The door swung shut behind them, muting the room to a dull hum. The hall beyond felt cooler, emptied of eyes.
As they moved in a loose column down the hall, Harper kept her focus on Brock's shoulder in the crowd and the sway of the keycard at his hip, using it as something fixed while the last of the briefing noise faded behind them.
At the elevator, Brock stepped aside just enough to let the first few men in. She followed on his heel, pressed in among dark uniforms. The overhead light painted their reflections across brushed steel, faces broken and doubled in the metal. Numbers ticked past in slow sequence, a muted glow above the door while a low vibration climbed up through the floor into her boots.
The locker room was wide but crowded, rows of dented steel under a wash of fluorescent light that bleached everything to bone. The smell hit as soon as the door swung open, gun oil and sweat ground into fabric, the sting of solvent that never quite killed either.
Conversations stayed short, clipped down to function. Mags snapped into place, bolts drew back, boots braced on benches as laces went tight. Someone laughed low at the far end, a quick, rough sound; someone else cut it off with a reply that shut him down.
Brock walked the aisle with her at his shoulder. Heads turned as they passed, glances sliding off her and back again, never lingering but never hiding either. He stopped at an open bench, tugged a locker door wide, and began stacking gear in front of her one piece at a time—vest, belt, holster, sidearm, mags, a compact radio with a coiled lead.
"Vest first," he said. "Bottom edge just above your navel, straps snug."
The vest carried its weight different from the ones she knew. Viper rigs had ridden higher on her ribs, lighter across her chest; this one dragged lower, denser, a solid pane across her torso. She threaded the straps through on habit, fingers finding buckles and webbing by feel, but the unfamiliar hardware on one side caught and twisted.
Brock had already started fitting his own gear, rifle easy on his shoulder, yet when she fought the strap he reached over without pause.
"Through here." He caught the end, drew it back through the loop in a slow, steady pull, then braced his hand flat against the plate and gave the side a testing tug. "Tight enough you can breathe and still run. If it shifts, it's wrong." He nudged the shoulder webbing a notch higher, fingers quick and sure at the hardware, then gave the vest a short tap with his knuckles and moved on.
"Belt next." He passed it to her, heavy with attached pouches. "Set it on the hip bones, not your waist. You want the weight low."
She cinched the belt where he indicated. It dragged across the line of her hips, unfamiliar weight settling in. He adjusted the angle once, turning her a fraction with a hand at her side until it sat the way he wanted.
He handed her the sidearm after that. "Holster rides high." She clipped it in, the pistol's weight settling against her thigh. The knife came next, hilt cold in her palm before she slid it into the sheath on her belt. Then the mags, one after another, his hand placing them where he wanted them kept. She pressed each into its pouch, the rasp of nylon loud in the compressed space. The balance across her hips felt foreign, too heavy for how bare her hands were.
Across the row, Nolan was stripping his rifle down and checking every piece before snapping it back together, methodical as a machine. Onyx and Keir worked in near-silence at the far wall, optics traded without a word, their quiet precision laying a hard line through the rest of the locker room noise. Gunner's voice carried from two lockers down, casual and cutting, and she didn't need to make out the words to know they weren't worth hearing.
It hit her that they'd stood in this room just like this on the night Yard Forty-Two went under, getting ready while she and the rest of the Vipers still believed they had time..
"Ten minutes," Brock said, not raised, but the room adjusted around it. Buckles yanked tight, bolts slammed forward, talk dropped to task.
He lifted the radio, clipped it to the front of her vest near her left shoulder, and looped the cable once through the webbing to keep it tight. He held out the earpiece. "Left side," he said.
Harper took it, settled it against her ear, and let him guide the wire, his fingers tucking it flat along the line of her neck before he fed it beneath her collar. He checked the connector at the radio with a quick press of his thumb and seemed satisfied.
He passed her the rifle last. The motion of taking it settled into her hands the way it had on the range; she brought the sling over her head and let the rifle fall into place across the front of the vest. The extra bulk threw her aim off on the first try, the stock catching high, and she shifted it down, adjusting until the weight sat closer to where it belonged.
Brock stepped in, slipped a finger under the strap at her shoulder, and drew it longer by a few inches. The rifle dropped that last little bit and lay clean across her front. He gave the setup one more look, then nodded and pulled on his gloves.
When she bent to grab her gloves, her reflection caught in the steel of the locker door. The fluorescent light washed her out, turning her skin pale and flat. Her braid had fallen over her shoulder, vest cinched tight to her frame, pistol grip jutting from her hip, rifle stock resting against her shoulder. The woman in the metal looked like she belonged to the room—another Syndicate body geared to roll.
For a moment she didn't recognize herself at all. Her own features floated behind the armor like they belonged to someone else, someone who hadn't run weapon drops for the Vipers, hadn't watched her home burn. It was a stranger standing there in their colors, and the stranger wore her face.
A slow burn worked its way up the back of her neck. She tore her eyes away, shoved the thought down where it couldn't get purchase, and dragged the gloves on, working each finger into place until the leather sat tight against her palms.
The air thickened with the smell of oil and leather as the room settled into its final rhythm. Brock slung his rifle with one smooth motion. "Let's move."
They filed out into the service corridor, boots hitting tile in a steady run of sound. Harper fell in beside him, the weight of steel and Kevlar closing around her chest. The vest felt tighter out here than it had in front of the locker, every breath nudging against the plates. The hall stretched long and narrow ahead of them, fluorescent bars blurring at the edges of her vision. Her heart kicked up, breath edging fast, hands flexing once inside the gloves as if they were trying to find grip on something that wasn't there.
Brock didn't break stride, but his head turned just enough to take her in. His gaze dropped to the rise of her shoulders, the set of her jaw, then came back up.
"Breathe, Voss," he said quietly, pitched for her alone. "In through your nose. Slow it down."
She dragged a breath in, held it against the press of the vest, then let it out. Another followed, not smooth, but closer. The tight coil in her gut eased half a turn. The corridor sharpened into lines again—doorways, junctions, the scuffed strip of baseboard running along the wall.
"That's it," he said, eyes forward again. "Stay on my shoulder. When I move, you move. The rest is my problem."
She gave a small nod, not trusting her voice, and locked her focus on where his shoulder moved ahead of her as the corridor opened toward the garage.
The first thing that hit was the smell: exhaust, motor oil, concrete still damp from the night. Then sound came in, layer by layer—patient idles, the low shift of weight on suspension, the hollow ring of boots on cement. The fluorescents overhead barely reached the far wall, leaving rows of vehicles in alternating bands of glare and shadow.
Most of the spaces held the Syndicate's usual fleet, black Suburbans lined like soldiers, their glass pale in the light, plates stripped clean. But at the center, set apart like they'd been staged, waited the four for today's job.
Two charcoal Tahoes squatted heavy, broader across the shoulders than the Suburbans, blunt matte grilles built to shove through anything in their path. Opposite them, a dark-blue WRX crouched nose-out, its wide tires and flared arches itching forward like it could spring. Beside it, a black Charger idled with a low, rolling growl that carried under the concrete.
Harper clocked the pairing without needing it explained, muscle for the hit, speed for the eyes. The sight pulled at her chest, something cold and certain in the way each machine radiated purpose, and for a moment she felt more like another piece of hardware slotted into place than a person walking under her own power.
Brock angled toward the nearer Tahoe, hand lifting just enough to signal her in behind him. Around them the rest of the teams converged, boots echoing, rifles slung tight, voices clipped down to function as they cut through the churn of engines. The air thickened with fuel and oil and sweat, everything winding toward the point of release.
The sound changed first; conversations thinned, boots shifted aside without anyone needing to be told. Over it came a different cadence, hard soles on concrete, measured and clean, each tap carrying across the bay in a way rubber treads never did.
Vex stepped in out of the glare in a dark suit, jacket open over a pale shirt, phone loose in one hand. The cut was the same clean, expensive line she remembered from the office, wrong against the concrete and exhaust. His gaze moved over the garage like he was counting inventory. When it reached her, it stopped.
Harper's stomach tightened under the vest, ribs drawing in like old bruises waking back up. Warmth crept under her collar. The idle grumble of engines slid to the edges of her hearing and she was on his office carpet again, his hand locked in her hair and his shoe driving into her side, a pistol leveled over her face while he took his time deciding whether to use it.
His eyes walked down her, head to toe, pausing on the rifle across her shoulder, the vest cinched tight against her ribs. He didn't look surprised. It was more like a man checking the odometer on a car he'd left in a ditch, curious how far it had been pushed since.
"Little ahead of schedule, aren't we?" His voice carried light, the thin humor in it edged enough to scrape. He didn't bother looking at Brock. The words might have been for him, but his eyes stayed fixed on her.
Harper kept her face still, jaw locked, but her pulse kicked hard against the plates. The last time she'd seen him, he'd beaten her until she couldn't stand and brought a gun up on her while she lay on that rug, calm as if he were checking a box. The distance between that memory and this moment felt paper-thin. Her fingers tightened on the rifle strap without meaning to, leather biting into her palm.
Brock closed the last few steps to the Tahoe and shifted as he did, angling his body so he stood that much more between them. He popped the passenger door and held it open, his shoulder a narrow wall at her side.
"She's ready," he said, flat as a report, still not giving Vex his eyes.
Vex's mouth curved, amusement shading the line of it. "Looks that way," he said. There was something almost pleased in the way he said it, like her standing there in their armor was a joke he understood better than anyone else. He stepped back just enough to clear their path, but the weight of his stare stayed on her.
Brock didn't move off. He kept one hand on the door frame while Harper climbed up into the seat, his body blocking as much of Vex's line as the truck allowed. When she settled, he pushed the door in until it latched, the solid thunk cutting the stare off.
Only then did he round the hood, boots echoing off the concrete, and swing into the driver's seat. The vibration of the idling engine was already humming through her feet. Her rifle stayed slung across her chest, stock pressed awkward against the seat as she shifted, pistol resting against her thigh. Brock set his own rifle muzzle-up between the console and his knee, one hand loose on the wheel, the other settling on the shifter as the Tahoe waited for the call to move.
Behind them, Cole, Price, and Mason filled the back row, the dull clatter of gear shifting into place—magazines checked, safeties thumbed, rifles angled muzzle-down between boots. Doors slammed in staggered sequence, each hollow thump sealing the cab around them.
The Tahoe felt crowded, heat from bodies and gear rolling into the recycled air. Harper settled back against the seat, eyes front, working her breath into something that passed for steady. Vex's stare lingered like pressure at the base of her neck, his voice still slick in her ears. She flexed her fingers once, then again, leather creasing under her grip as she forced the echo of him back down where it could do less damage.
The first time she'd ridden in one of their trucks she'd been cuffed in the back jammed between Mason and Vale, counting turns by the sway of the chassis. Now she sat up front in their vest with their rifle across her chest, the cab around her full of Syndicate enforcers who were supposed to be on her side. The shift felt like stepping from one kind of cage into another.
Outside, engines growled alive across the garage, steady and low, a chorus of caged weight waiting to be loosed.
Brock's eyes slid her way, a quick, assessing pass that took in the set of her shoulders, the line of her jaw. He gave the barest nod—not a question, not sympathy, just a flat you're good. The coil in her gut eased by a fraction. She returned the nod, small and sharp, and tightened the strap of her rifle across her chest.
His hand moved to the gear lever and pulled them into motion.
Ahead, the WRX's lights flared in the dim garage, its engine's high note cutting across the low idle of the others. It rolled out first, tires humming over the concrete ramp. Brock followed, the Tahoe's bulk settling into motion with a smooth pull. In the mirrors, Nolan's SUV dropped in behind them, its armored shape cutting a dark line through the exit wash. The Charger slid in last, low and predatory, holding the tail as the convoy threaded out of the bay and into the early-morning dark.
The garage fell away behind them, swallowed by the curve of the ramp. Harper kept her gaze on the strip of road ahead, the city still a shadowed shape in the distance, and let the weight of steel and Syndicate colors settle over her like something she'd chosen, even if it felt a lot like being driven toward the edge of a cliff.