Harper's fingers clawed at the forearm crushing her windpipe, nails scraping over sodden fabric and the hard muscle beneath. The pressure carved her breath into broken scraps. His weight straddled her hips, knees locking her thighs to cold, rain-slick asphalt, runoff pooling at the edges of her vision while he rode out each surge of her body and dropped heavier to pin her flat.
He was broad through the chest, rain-dark jacket stretched over the rigid plate of a ballistic vest. A pale scar angled from the corner of his mouth toward his ear, vanishing into rough stubble. Water beaded on his shaved scalp, his breath hot against her cheek, the stink of sweat, wet wool, oilskin and powder pressing close enough to taste.
She shot a hand low for the knife at his belt. His free hand snapped down, clamping her wrist, twisting it inward as he rolled slightly onto that side. Her knuckles skidded across her ribs before he rammed her hand into the corrugated steel of the container and pinned it there with his weight. White fire ran through her fingers, nerves flaring, grip buckling.
Steel flashed at the edge of her vision as his knife hand dragged the blade free from his belt. The forearm across her throat ground down harder while he drew his arm back for a straight plunge.
Harper didn't wait for it to fall.
Her hips drove up, one wild bridge that shoved his weight off-center, heel scraping until it caught the ridged base rail under the container. Using the rail, she heaved again, wrenching them both a fraction sideways. His forearm slid from her throat to the top of her chest. She drove her chin down, pinning his arm against her collarbone, then snapped her head up, crown slamming into the ridge of his nose.
Bone crunched. The impact rang through her skull, teeth clacking, light bursting across her vision. His breath tore out in a ragged snarl, grip spasming.
A raw gasp scraped out of her as air tore back into her chest. She shoved her forearm up inside the crook of his elbow, carving herself a narrow strip of space, and drove both hands against the hard plate of his vest. Her left leg tore free, her right boot still hooked on the base rail, and she used that braced leverage to roll again, forcing his shoulders toward the steel.
The shift dragged his weight off her trapped wrist; she jerked her hand back from the corrugated metal as his knife arm slapped out for balance, the blade scraping along the container wall. In that stutter of weight, she drove her forearm harder up inside the crook of his choking arm, shoving it off her chest, and ripped her right hand down to her holster. Fingers found wet polymer. The pistol came free in a single, ugly wrench.
He felt the shift. Metal slipped from his grip as he lunged, the knife tumbling away to clatter into the runoff while his palm smashed into her wrist, driving it toward the asphalt. His body crashed across her right shoulder in a rush of wet fabric and armor.
She didn't fight the downward drive. She rolled with it, hauling on the boot she still had hooked against the base rail and twisting her hips so his chest came across her instead of straight down. The muzzle scraped, then jammed into the front of his vest.
She pulled the trigger.
The round slammed into the center plate with a dull, brutal thud that drove his weight hard into her. His body jerked, mass crashing down heavier for a second, crushing air from her lungs, rain splashing high around them.
Before he could gather himself she shoved the barrel lower, ramming it into the soft gap under the carrier at his ribs. Her wrist screamed. She squeezed again.
The second shot tore through him and a low, rough groan forced its way past his teeth. Warmth flooded against her side under the rain. For a breath he bore down, heavy and suffocating, jacket plastered to her chest. Then something in him slackened. His grip slid from her arm. Weight rolled away in a slow, boneless spill, body slumping into the shallow ripple beside her, water slapping cold across her ribs.
She stayed on her back long enough to drag air in past the raw scrape across her throat, then turned just enough to bring the pistol around, both hands locked on the grip, front sight fixed on the dark slack of his jacket. Rain needled her face, copper thick on her tongue, vision pulsing at the edges with each throb behind her eyes. The knife's handle glinted a little way off, half-drowned, current teasing it by the hilt.
Harper rolled to her side and pushed up on an elbow. The movement sent the world tilting, a thin hiss rising in her ears. Pain beat dully through her skull, radiating from the spot where her head had met his nose. Warm blood traced from one nostril to her lip. She wiped it with the heel of her hand, smearing red across wet skin, breath sawing through bruised cartilage.
Muscles shook as she drew one knee under her, then the other, dragging herself into a low crouch. The pistol stayed trained on his chest while she nudged the knife with her boot, scraping it deeper into the puddle until it vanished under murky water. The jacket didn't shift. Hands lay open, palms turned to the sky.
Only when she was sure he stayed that way did she shove the pistol back into its holster. Her fingers trembled against the polymer. She reached for her rifle a few feet away, sling slick in her palm, and forced herself upright. The lane between the containers seemed to press closer around her, rain hissing off steel, her pulse racing like the fight had simply burrowed into the dark and kept going without her.
It wasn't.
Gunfire from the spur lane rolled harder now, sustained, layered bursts running the length of the steel like thunder in a canyon. Not the quick exchange that had dropped the SUV drivers. This was heavier. Relentless. And she knew who was in the middle of it.
She edged toward the mouth of the gap, pulse climbing, then glanced back across at the truck she'd just helped take. Through the rain-streaked windshield, Mason sat high in the cab, one hand braced on the wheel, the other flicking at the dash. The far side of the truck stayed blind from here; Cole and Price were somewhere beyond the bumper, covering the rear approach, lost in the rain. No one was looking her way.
Her pulse still hammered from the fight, vision edged hard with adrenaline. Orders said hold here. Both Brock and Nolan were in that spur lane ahead, and the sound said the fight hadn't tipped.
She slid out of the gap with the captured rig at her left shoulder, staying low, boots splashing through shallow water pooled in the uneven ground as she angled toward the mouth of the spur on the right. Containers still towered on either side like wet black walls, the air between them thick with diesel and spent powder. Her rifle rode high, muzzle low, safety off. Each step pulled the firefight closer, bursts stitched with clipped shouts, voices threading through the rain.
A fresh volley tore the air, noise ricocheting until direction blurred. Then the deeper roll to her right set her back on line. She skirted a dropped mag half-submerged in a puddle, brass glittering near a drainage grate. Somewhere ahead a voice barked urgent orders, muffled by angles, close enough to carry.
She kept moving, gunfire pulling her down the spur like a tide she couldn't fight.
The lane widened into a jagged spill of light and noise. Muzzle flashes strobed white in the rain, shadows jerking against the stacked steel. Harper hugged the left-hand wall, a truck-length short of the cab. The second truck loomed off to her right, canted halfway down the spur, engine grumbling, its flank lit in bursts as Syndicate rifles cracked from behind the wheel well and shadowed container doors.
Brock, Nolan, Onyx, and Keir were strung along the truck's nose, engine block and bumper for cover as they traded bursts down the lane. Farther back, Gunner and Vale locked the rear, their rifles stitching light through the rain.
The Maw fighters held their own barricade: crates, barrels, the jutting lip of a container stack near the far mouth. Shapes rose and dropped in quick arcs of fire. Two were lean and quick, wet jackets plastered to their frames, offload crew from the truck caught mid-retreat.
Harper pressed flat to the slick corner, breath rasping in her ears. Fifteen yards ahead, the nearest Maw crouched behind a split crate, back to her, rifle leveled on the truck line. Her rifle came up, sight cutting through rain and shadow. She squeezed a burst. Rounds punched shoulder and side; he jolted, weapon tumbling as he folded forward.
Another head whipped her way. Fire chewed the corner inches from her face, steel spitting sparks past her cheek. The air baked hot against her skin. She dropped hard, boots splashing through the seam of pooled water, and slid two container gaps left, angling back toward the truck under the layered roar of the fight.
Nolan's rifle hammered from up ahead, and she used the noise to mask her move. She hugged the second truck's shadow, slid up the driver's side, and dropped into cover at the front wheel well. Brock crouched there, shoulder pressed to the frame by the bumper, rain streaming off the matte black of his rifle.
He turned just enough to catch her. His eyes flicked over her face, the blood smeared under her nose, the wet sheen along her temple. His jaw set hard, irritation flickering with something heavier, then he leaned back out, sending another burst down the lane. A small tilt of his head ceded the near side to her without a word.
She ducked low on his left, sighted down her lane, and caught a Maw muzzle flash sparking from behind a stack of barrels. Two quick shots dropped it. Brock swapped mags without looking; she filled the gap, her fire running steady until his action slid home. For a stretch they moved in sync: Onyx and Keir at the truck's nose trading fire around the grille, Nolan a little farther out in the lane, Brock and Harper anchoring the driver's-side front.
Onyx shouted from the nose, something short and urgent, and Brock jerked his chin before edging forward along the driver's side toward the cab. Nolan poured fire down the lane to cover the push. Harper shadowed close, palm dragging the slick steel, boots slipping on scattered brass as she followed his line.
She kept her rifle forward and caught motion off their left, not ahead. A dark shape slipped through a container gap, hugging shadow, muzzle already rising. From that angle the shooter had a clean line on Brock's exposed side.
Her lungs locked tight. She swung her sights, but Brock's shoulder and the truck's corner filled half the lane; one bad pull and she'd cut him down. The flanker's barrel dipped for the shot.
"Brock!" The warning tore out of her. He turned just enough and she drove into him, shoving him flat to the panel and taking his place on the edge. The burst tore past where he'd been and raked under the edge of her vest, fabric shredding, heat flaring across her ribs. The impact folded her to a knee, breath crushed out in a single ragged gasp, sound clipping to a high ring in her ears.
Brock snapped off the steel, pivoted, and leveled his rifle in the same motion. Two bursts hammered the flanker back into the container wall; the body dropped, weapon clattering on wet concrete.
Harper's palm pressed to her ribs, came away hot and slick, the rain washing pink trails down her glove.
Brock caught her vest and yanked her back along the panel into the pocket behind the rear wheel well, tucking her tight into the shadow of the tire. His gaze dropped to her hand on the wound, the muscle in his cheek jumped, then he leaned out again, rifle cracking to keep the lane sealed.
They held there under the drum of rain, shots rattling the steel above. Brock's head dipped once, an unspoken signal forward. He stayed close as they moved, rain streaming off the truck's side, the air clinging with burnt powder, diesel, and blood. His free hand brushed her forearm, not comfort, just a hard confirmation she was still on her feet.
A shadow cut through the rain from up-lane, Nolan skidding in low with his rifle up. His eyes snapped to Brock first, a flash of alarm like he expected to find him down for good.
"You hit?" he called over the gunfire.
"Not me," Brock shot back, aim never leaving the gap. "Voss."
Nolan's gaze shifted, catching Harper with one hand pressed to her ribs, chest heaving. He reached out, dragging his palm quick across the edge of her vest, eyes narrowing at the blood slick on her glove. A tight breath pushed between his teeth. "You still moving?"
She gave the smallest nod. His jaw hardened, and he slid into cover at the front side of the rear wheel well, rifle snapping out bursts toward the fighters dug in around the second truck's nose.
Harper forced her hand off the wound, flexing her grip back around the rifle. Her pulse pounded hot in her ears, drowning the rain. The ache in her side burned steady, but adrenaline shoved it back just far enough to keep her upright.
She slid out from the rear wheel well on Brock's left, hugging the panel until her muzzle cleared, then shouldered in beside him. Muzzle flash carved his profile in jagged bursts. She took the left, caught a shadow slipping between container gaps, and dropped it with two rounds. The body vanished behind a slick wall of blue-painted steel.
"Left side's thinning," Nolan called.
"Push," Brock answered, clipped.
Harper's boots skidded in the greasy water as she moved, tight on Brock's flank. The air thickened with burned powder, each breath metallic, rifle reports ricocheting between containers until it felt like the sound lived inside her skull.
They advanced in short bursts, panel by panel along the second truck's driver's side toward the nose, leapfrogging between the truck and the container wall. Nolan's fire cracked steady behind them, stitching cover while she and Brock slid forward. Harper kept her rifle braced, every pivot spiking pain through her ribs, forcing her to grit down and keep moving. The graze burned hotter, spreading under the vest like a brand pressed into flesh, rain cooling the edges without dimming the fire.
Ahead, muzzle flashes flared at the truck's nose, two Maw fighters firing wild from broken cover. Brock's rifle cracked three times; one crumpled into the open, the other ducked hard into the blind spot near the bumper.
"Gunner, right corner!" Brock's shout cut through the chaos. From the passenger side a few panels back, Gunner's fire swept the edge, pinning the survivor.
Harper broke from the truck's side and pressed into the container corner opposite the nose, lungs ragged, vision tunneling down her sights. She held for the instant he leaned too far and fired. The round punched through his shoulder, spinning him out wide. Nolan finished him in three quick bursts, the body slamming flat in the rain.
The gunfire bled out, leaving only the drum of water on steel and the hiss of steam curling from a nearby exhaust. The sudden quiet rang loud in her ears.
Brock held for a moment, rifle leveled, eyes tracking every angle. Only when nothing shifted did he let the barrel dip. His gaze cut briefly to Harper's side, catching the dark smear under her vest, before sliding back to the lane.
Nolan scanned forward, boots splashing as he edged to the spur mouth. "Clear!" he called, voice carrying clean in the wet air.
Brock keyed his comm, voice cutting through the rain. "Vale, take the cab on the second truck. Onyx, Keir, cover his move. Gunner, hold passenger side."
"You got it," Vale came back, close enough his voice cracked through the noise.
Across the flank, Vale broke from cover and hauled up into the cab. The engine's idle shifted, deepened, air brakes sighing as he settled behind the wheel. Gunner posted tight along the passenger side, rifle leveled on the dark corners ahead.
Brock's eyes came back to Harper, lingering for a breath before lifting again. His tone stayed even. "We're rolling out. Vale's on the truck. Move."
She gave a nod and shoved off the container, ribs sparking as she forced herself back into motion. The pain surged hard enough to wobble her step, then dulled again under the adrenaline haze.
Brock slung his rifle and started along the second truck's driver's side toward the spur mouth. Harper kept on his flank, runoff slapping under their boots. Rain sheeted down the container walls, slick and relentless, the air heavy with burned powder and hot diesel.
Nolan and his crew cut across the mouth of the spur toward their SUV, rifles still up though the lane was clear. He slowed as Brock came even; the two men met with a brief nod, a fist bump solid against wet gloves.
"Not bad for an ungodly hour," Nolan said, a grin ghosting through the rain on his face. His eyes flicked to Harper. "Get her patched before she drops."
Brock's jaw flexed, but he let it pass. "We will," he said, the words short enough to feel like a promise and a warning both. He shifted his weight toward the main lane, and they split there—Nolan's crew peeling off toward their SUV while Brock and Harper angled back toward theirs, the rain erasing their footprints as fast as they made them.
They moved out along the main lane, rain slicking the concrete, container walls giving way to open space lit by idling headlights. Engines rumbled low and steady, a blunt contrast to the chaos still echoing in Harper's ears.
Cole and Price were posted near the captured truck, rifles low but ready. Price's gaze hit Harper first, taking in the soaked jacket and the dark spread at her ribs. Cole's brows tightened, his mouth pulling hard at one corner.
"You were supposed to—" Price started.
"She's here now," Brock cut in, voice flat, stride unbroken. "It's done."
Cole and Price exchanged a look but fell in at his shoulders, forming a loose flank as they crossed the last stretch. Mason sat high in the driver's seat of the rig, hands steady on the wheel, the big truck idling with a deep mechanical thrum. Brock stepped up onto the running board and leaned in through the open window.
"Follow us out. Straight back to the compound."
Mason gave a single nod. "Got it."
Brock dropped back down and turned toward the Tahoe idling up the lane, its headlights cutting pale paths through the rain. Cole and Price fell in with him, boots splashing as they closed the last distance.
He pulled the passenger door open, waiting until Harper climbed in before closing it with a firm hand. Behind her, Cole yanked the rear door wide and slid into the back seat, Price taking the far side. A last sweep of the yard—eyes tracking engines, shadows, the dark edges of the port—then Brock rounded for the driver's side.
The Tahoe eased into the lead, tires hissing over wet pavement. Brock kept his eyes forward as they cleared the port, wipers dragging slow arcs through the rain. The engine's low growl filled the cab, broken only by the distant rumble of the rigs behind.
Harper leaned toward the window, one elbow braced on the armrest, her other hand clamped over her ribs. The wet fabric hung heavy, every jolt tugging at the raw heat beneath. Streetlamps slid across her face in broken intervals, catching the fine spray along her lashes.
Her breathing had settled since they pulled away, but each dip in the road drew a small hitch she forced down. She didn't speak. Neither did Brock. The quiet sat dense between them, thick with everything they weren't touching.
In the mirror, Nolan's SUV rode offset at their back. The front truck's grille filled the lane beyond, the other steady in its wake, the WRX and Charger closing the tail. The convoy moved as a single body, engines and exhaust braided into one sound.
Brock's eyes cut her way once—a glance that weighed the blood at her ribs and the mud on her boots—before sliding back to the road. His hands stayed steady on the wheel. His jaw didn't.