Harper sat in the front passenger seat with the vest snug across her ribs, rifle standing between her knees. Streetlights slid over the glass in pale bands, turning the wet road ahead into a tunnel of color and concrete. Behind her, gear settled and buckles tapped against hard plastic as the others shifted into place.
The hum of the engine and the low crunch of tires on wet asphalt covered most of the silence until Cole hooked an elbow over Harper's headrest and leaned into the space between the front seats. The weight of his arm sat just behind her neck, close enough to make the muscles along her shoulders tighten before she forced them loose again. "Hate this hour. Brain's still somewhere between sleep and coffee," he muttered.
Price didn't lift his gaze from the rifle across his lap as he eased the action back and forth. "Then you should've had more coffee."
"Didn't have time," Cole answered, a half-smile twitching. "Someone was hogging the pot."
Mason let out a low sound, gaze on the rearview mirror. "You're still talking. Means you'll live." He tipped in a little, voice angled at Brock. "Once we take the rigs, you want them split at the bypass or straight back to the yard?"
"Straight back," Brock replied.
Mason nodded and sat back. In the mirror, his eyes shifted from the road behind them to Harper's reflection. She let him look for a moment, expression even, then turned her attention to the road again.
The Tahoe eased into a steady, purposeful quiet, the kind men carried when they knew a fight was coming. Outside, the city slid past in slow, measured frames: storefronts shuttered for the night, streetlamps pooling light onto wet pavement. Ahead, the twin red eyes of the WRX marked the lane, each signal flash quick and precise before it sank back to a dull glow. Headlights from the SUV behind them flared now and then in the mirror, catching the edges of the rain as it started to fall.
The first drops tapped at the windshield, chased clean by the wipers. A low rumble rolled somewhere above the skyline, distant and riding the clouds in toward the city. Harper kept her gaze on the glass, watching thin streams form and vanish under the blades. The rhythm pulled at her, but her thoughts stayed clear and fast. If anything, the sound pressed the air in around her.
"You good?" Brock kept his voice low, meant for her alone. He didn't look over for long, just a brief check that carried the question with it. She gave a small nod, not trusting her voice. The simple acknowledgment settled in her chest, something solid to brace against. He let it go.
She let the backseat chatter blur, eyes on the streaks of rain as if they could drag her somewhere else. The job waited up ahead: steel, gunfire, that narrow choke point between container stacks. Her mind kept sliding back to the roof instead—the cartons between them, the sprawl of light and neon below, the city pressing against the dark. The way he'd told her she was supposed to be here, that she'd make it through, find her place, have purpose.
The memory pressed at her now, steady as the engine beneath her. She shifted in the seat, pulse tight under the vest, and wondered if she believed him, or if she just needed to.
Brock's hands stayed loose on the wheel, eyes forward, his presence a solid line at her side.
Headlights from the SUV behind swung briefly across the mirrors as Brock kept the Tahoe in line with the WRX ahead. Its taillights flared once before dipping left, engine note barking as it vanished down a side street—the same spur Nolan had tapped on the map. She tracked the glow until it was gone, the sound trailing after like a fuse burning down. The Charger followed a moment later, red brake lights flashing as it swung wide into its lane. Nolan's Tahoe peeled away next, bulk gliding toward the opposite choke before the rain swallowed it from view.
Brock didn't move to follow any of them. He held his line, hands steady on the wheel, the wet hiss of the tires growing louder as the rest of the engines fell away. Streetlights thinned, darkness closing in until the looming walls of containers began to rise ahead. Without a word, he reached forward and killed the headlights. The cab dropped into shadow, only the faint glow of the dash casting light across his hands on the wheel. Rain ticked harder against the glass, Harper's pulse climbing with the slow push of the engine. They were close.
Brock's hand left the wheel long enough to tap the radio key. "Jensen, status."
Static hissed through before a voice cracked back, low and clipped. "Convoy's on pattern: two trucks, two SUVs up front, one tail. Rail riders on both rigs, speed steady."
The words sat heavy in the cab. Harper felt them land in her chest, confirmation that this wasn't just in her head anymore. The steel and gunfire she'd been picturing had shape now, headlights already cutting through the rain behind them.
"Two minutes," Brock said, voice even but edged with command. "Jensen, call it as soon as the lead SUV hits the pinch. Cole, Price, out before the choke. Left and right, burn the drivers before they cut us off. Voss, on me for the cab. I'll take the rail, you clear the door. Once the cab's ours, Mason moves in and drives. Keep it clean. Keep it fast."
His eyes stayed on the narrowing stretch of asphalt ahead, but his tone filled the space around them. "Clear?"
"Clear," Cole answered first.
Price and Mason both nodded, rifles angled down between their knees.
Harper's throat worked around the word before she forced it out. "Clear." It sat strange in her mouth, like something she'd borrowed, but once she gave it, she couldn't pull it back.
Rain thickened against the windshield, drumming a steady rhythm. The silence that followed didn't feel empty; it pressed in from all sides, filling every breath, every inch behind her ribs.
Then Jensen's voice snapped back over comms, harder now. "Convoy in sight. Two SUVs, two trucks, one tail. Coming fast."
Brock's grip tightened on the wheel, his knuckles pale in the dashlight. "Copy." He pushed the Tahoe forward, the engine's climb folding into the pounding rain as the distance to the choke point fell away.
The cab kept its silence, taut and coiled, every sound shaved down to the thrum of tires on wet asphalt. Harper lifted the rifle a little higher between her knees, palm finding the magazine and giving it a firm tap. She ran her thumb along the selector, feeling the detent settle under the pad of her glove, then shifted her hand to the pistol at her hip, checking the snap on the holster by touch alone. Everything sat where it should.
"Lead SUV's at the pinch," Jensen reported.
Brock shifted his grip, voice flat as steel. "Copy." The Tahoe surged, carrying them into the dark.
The narrowing lane funneled the rain into sheets, streetlight glare stuttering across the slick walls of stacked steel. Ahead, the convoy's lights bled through the gloom, pinpricks swelling into the hard glare of twin SUV grilles as they closed the distance. Harper's stomach knotted. In less than half a minute, backing out wouldn't be an option; nothing would pull her clear of what came next. Once Brock threw them across that lane, the line would be drawn, and the rest of her life, however long it ran, would ride on the next few minutes.
"Cole, Price, ready." Brock's voice cut through, steady and hard.
"Ready," came the answer, one after the other, voices too calm for what was about to hit. The simple word drove the reality deeper into her chest.
"Set."
The Tahoe braked hard, weight pitching forward before Brock snapped the wheel. Tires shrieked against wet tarmac as the back end swung wide in a controlled slide, the steel bulk sealing the lane in one decisive motion. The impact jolted her sideways, shoulder slamming the door, pulse climbing into her throat.
The SUVs ahead reacted at once, brake lights flaring, tires throwing fans of spray. Cole and Price were already moving, doors banging wide as they hit the pavement at a dead run. Cole fired first, muzzle flash burning white against the dark as the lead SUV's driver's-side window spiderwebbed and blew. The vehicle lurched, nose dragging toward the container wall. Price's fire stitched across the hood of the second SUV, glass shattering, sparks leaping from the engine block. The driver jerked hard, losing the fight with the skid before the vehicle slammed sideways into steel with a crunch that rattled in Harper's chest.
Cole and Price kept advancing, hunched low, muzzles sweeping for any return fire.
Brock's hand hit his door handle. "Voss, out!"
Harper shoved her own door wide, rain slashing in cold across her face as she dropped to the slick pavement. Sound rushed at her all at once: rifle fire cracking down the lane, engines straining, water running in fast currents under her boots. She cut around the Tahoe's nose to reach Brock's side, pulse climbing as the rig loomed up ahead, cab windows black and blank.
Movement stirred along the narrow metal rail that ran along the top of the cab, where one of the riders clung for balance, and Brock's rifle came up in the same breath, three short bursts tearing through the guard. The shape on the rail folded and pitched over the side, his rifle bouncing off the cab before it skidded across the pavement.
"Door!" he snapped.
She sprinted for the passenger side of the cab, rain breaking over her shoulders. The handle held firm under her glove, locked. Her pulse jumped. She planted one boot on the step rail, braced hard, and drove the rifle butt upward. Glass blew out above her head in a spray of shards that rattled down her arm, the crack swallowed by engines and rain.
Her boot slid on the wet metal, hip catching the door, balance jarring for a second.
Brock was there almost at once, one hand braced on the frame above, the other clamping her hip. His grip didn't have anything soft in it, just raw efficiency. The heave of his arm lifted her the last inches she couldn't reach alone, forcing her up into the broken frame, close enough to see inside.
The driver's face whipped toward her, eyes wide, hand already dropping. She didn't wait to see what he meant to grab. Training closed in around her, the memory of Brock's voice from the range riding up from somewhere under the noise: center mass, don't hesitate. Her arms drove the barrel forward through the broken glass. Two shots went off inside the cab, a flat concussion that left her ears ringing, the world smeared at the edges. The man's head snapped back, body collapsing sideways over the wheel.
She thrust her arm through the broken frame, glove brushing jagged glass as her fingers found the inner latch and yanked it up. The lock popped. She tore the door wide and hauled herself into the passenger seat, keeping clear of the man slumped over the wheel. Diesel exhaust, hot oil, burned powder, and the copper tang of blood hit her lungs in one rush. She twisted, bracing one hand on the center console as she checked the rest of the space: passenger footwell clear, sleeper dark, nothing else moving.
"Clear!"
"Out!" Brock called from below, close enough she felt it more than heard it through the ringing in her skull.
She turned, boots finding the wet step as she swung back out. He caught the front of her vest and the edge of her belt when she dropped, taking the jolt of her weight and directing it into a solid plant of her feet instead of a stumble. His hands were gone as soon as she had her footing. The runoff surged around her ankles, rifle slick against her chest, heart still pounding from the shots she'd fired. She shifted a half-step back up, one boot on the rig's lower step and one on the pavement, shoulder set against the open passenger door.
Cole and Price were already closing in from the disabled SUVs, rifles high, steps kicking water into low arcs as they angled for the cab. Their eyes cut over steel and shadow, scanning for threats even as they moved.
Brock turned toward the Tahoe, thumb already on his comms. "Mason—"
A low diesel churn cut through the rain from behind the rig, deep enough to turn her head. Headlights slashed across the wet lane, swelling as the second truck began to edge out from behind the first, angling toward the spur lane. The massive shape loomed, tires throwing water wide as it tried to nose past.
Nolan's voice cracked through comms, clipped and urgent. "They're trying to bail!"
"Fuck." The word came out low, almost under Brock's breath. His gaze cut past the cab, toward the glow of the second truck edging out from behind the first. For a second he held there, shoulders tight, like he could pin both lanes in place just by staring them down. Then his focus snapped back to Cole and Price.
"With her. Hold this rig."
The words landed hard in Harper's chest; for a moment she wanted him to stay where he was, solid and close, but his attention was already gone. He turned away, boots splashing through water as he cut for the sound of gunfire, rifle rising in the same motion.
Cole reached the cab, giving her a quick sideways look that skimmed over her vest and rifle before sliding off again. "Door's yours. Don't lose it." His tone made it sound like he was talking about a piece of kit, not a person.
Price never took his eyes off the stacked shadows downrange. "You see movement, you put it down. That's it."
She gave a short nod, glove tightening on the passenger-side doorframe. The steel loomed above her, slick with rain, cold and unyielding under her grip. Without Brock beside her the vehicle felt impossibly huge, an iron wall separating her from the fight spilling farther down the lane. Water hissed off its roof and ran in quick streams down the panels, every drop loud in the hollow quiet pressing in around their stretch of road.
Cole and Price peeled away, slipping past the rig's nose and disappearing toward the rear, rifles sweeping the walls in slow arcs. A fresh spike of nerves crawled up her spine as their shapes vanished into the blur of rain, leaving her braced alone at the cab with only the thrum of the idling engine for company.
Bootsteps pounded through the water ahead of the cab, cutting across from the line of vehicles. Harper's rifle came off the doorframe on reflex, sights tracking the figure weaving past the crumpled SUVs toward the truck. Dark plates, broad shoulders, a man running straight at the rig. Her finger tightened, breath locking in her chest, ready to squeeze.
"Just me." The voice carried through the rain, familiar and rough. Mason.
She forced the muzzle down a fraction, air scraping cold in her throat. Mason veered for the far side of the cab, boots hitting the driver's-side step in quick succession. He yanked on the handle; the door gave under his hand, the lock clearly tied to the one she'd popped. He hauled it open and leaned in, catching the dead driver by the collar. One hard pull dragged the body off the wheel and out of the seat. The body hit the pavement with a heavy thud that jarred up through the boot she still had on the ground.
Mason slid in behind the wheel, running a fast sweep over the dash and mirrors, hands finding the controls like this wasn't the first time he'd stolen someone else's truck. For the span of a breath the lane narrowed to the rumble of the idling engine and the steady rush of rain on steel.
The crack of a shot tore across the lane, followed by a metallic shriek as the door inches from her head took the hit. Paint curled back from the fresh hole, rain hissing against the hot edge. Harper flinched hard, pulse surging, ears still ringing from her own rifle fire. For a half-second all she could register was the shock, the simple fact of how close it had come, how easily that round could've punched through her skull instead of steel.
From the driver's seat Mason swore under his breath and dropped lower against the wheel, shoulder turning in toward the door as he scanned the mirrors and the stacked walls beyond the glass. His gaze flicked once toward the open passenger side where she held the frame. "Where did that shot come from?"
Her eyes tore to the shadows, sweeping the lines of containers until she caught it: a flicker of movement in a narrow cut between stacks that lined up with the gap between their rig and the truck Brock had gone for. The muzzle flash was already gone, but the image sat burned behind her sight. "There!" she called, rifle coming up on the gap.
Mason's gaze followed her line, then cut back to her. His voice came low, steady but urgent. "Go. Find them. I've got this side."
She broke from the door, boots driving through the runoff toward that narrowing slice between the two trucks. For a moment her stride stuttered; every step felt like stepping off the line they'd drawn with the plan and into something sideways. The pressure in her chest shoved her forward anyway. If a shooter had made it this far without taking fire, either they'd slipped past every gun in the lane or they'd been waiting in these stacks the whole time.
The lane's noise fell away as she slipped between the containers. Steel rose close on both sides, rain slicking the walls and channelling her into a tunnel of shadow and water.
She eased her pace, breath loud in her own head, rifle tracking each tight angle. Only the hiss and patter of rain… until something brushed underneath it. A faint scuff, a shift of weight. Enough.
She started to pivot—
Something slammed into the side of her knees, a solid weight driving straight through her legs and taking the ground out from under her. Her shoulder smashed the container, pain sparking up her arm as the rifle tore from her grip and rattled off into the dark. Steel and water spun around her as she hit the ground, breath driven from her chest, his body dropping over her before she could drag air back in. The stink of wet clothes, gun oil, and sweat closed in with the crush of his forearm across her throat—