The training maze was a patchwork of plywood walls and narrow hallways, built to mimic the cramped turns of real buildings without the risk of live fire. Every surface was scuffed from boots and streaked with the bright smears of old paint rounds. Under the fluorescent hum, the air carried sawdust and the chalky grit they used to blunt the splintered edges.
Nolan stood at the control panel near the entrance, floor plan rolled in one hand, coffee steaming in the other. He tapped the map with a finger, the thud echoing faintly off the plywood, and gave each of them a steady look. "Onyx up front, Harper second, Brock on rear security. There's a blind corner halfway through, don't break formation when you hit it. That's where I'll be watching."
Harper must've let something show, because Nolan's eyes narrowed and he stepped over to the crate beside her. Onyx stood only a few feet away, and it was the nearest she'd been to him since the Viper Den massacre. The memory itched under her skin, raw enough that she couldn't look straight at him.
Nolan spread the paper map flat on the crate, the inked lines marking every turn and choke point. Rifles were already slung and magazines seated, safety still on until the run began. Muffs hung loose around their necks, the last check before stepping onto the tape line. "Onyx takes point," he said, tapping the lead position. "You cover second—anything past his shoulder, opposite side of the room, high angles. Brock holds the rear, keeps your backs clear, closes the hole if either of you get hung up."
Brock stood a step back from the group, shoulders against the wall, arms folded. He stayed silent through the briefing, but she felt the weight of his focus all the same.
Onyx rolled his shoulders and stepped to the tape line, rifle angled firm across his chest. He glanced back once, and his gaze caught hers, steady and unreadable. Harper held it, jaw tight, until he turned away again. She slotted in behind him, keeping the two-step gap they'd drilled until it felt carved into her spine. Brock closed in at her back, the brush of his sleeve grazing her arm before he anchored himself in place. At the panel, Nolan flicked two toggles, and a low buzzer broke the silence before spiking into a single clipped chirp.
"Go."
Onyx pushed into the first hallway at a deliberate pace, rifle raised, his steps so measured the plywood barely gave a groan. Harper kept close, her barrel sweeping the opposite wall, eyes cutting across every doorway and corner he couldn't cover. A dull glint caught her eye—a lens tucked into a shadowed frame. Just a camera, not a threat. She forced her gaze forward. Behind her, Brock's boots fell in low and steady, a constant counterpoint that told her the rear was guarded.
The first turn came fast. Onyx leaned into it, shoulder nearly grazing the wall, and Harper mirrored him on her side, sights dragging across the open angle in a practiced arc. A paper silhouette snapped into view at the far end, riding its track fast enough it would vanish if she hesitated. She squeezed the trigger. The crack of the training round slammed against the plywood corridor, and she caught the starburst of red dye marking its chest just before the pulley yanked it back into cover.
They kept moving, steps ghosting over the taped lane markers in lockstep. Harper felt the maze folding tighter with every turn—corridors that pinched down, dead ends that flared out sudden, blind corners waiting with nothing behind them but the next breath.
Overhead, Nolan's voice bled from the speaker, threaded with dry amusement. "Keep sharp. The moment you think it's tame, it'll take a piece out of you."
A narrow choke point pinched them in so close her shoulder brushed Onyx's back and both of them scraped the plywood. The air was warmer here, close and stale, the sawdust bite sharper as boot soles scraped grit along the floor. Onyx's pace stayed measured, slow on purpose, the kind of tempo that tightened her pulse because it meant he was expecting something. She kept her sights sliding over the edges of his frame, clearing the thin slices of doorway and wall he couldn't cover.
A target snapped from a recessed alcove—half a man's silhouette, black paint bleeding down from its head. Harper fired on reflex. The converted rifle kicked against her shoulder, the training round cracking it sideways on its track. Her sights chased the retreating silhouette for two steps before she tore them off and went with him. She barely registered the mark before Onyx was rounding the next bend, and she slid with him, muzzle rising high as his dragged low.
The corridor widened just enough for three across, but Brock stayed close enough that his shadow folded over hers as they shifted together. The next corner loomed ahead, the right-hand wall jutting farther than the left, cutting off any glimpse of what might be waiting beyond. Harper's throat went dry. She remembered Nolan tapping that exact spot on the map, his voice telling her not to break formation.
At the mouth of the turn, Onyx dropped into a crouch, rifle angled toward the sliver of open space on his side. Instinct pulled her down with him, boots braced for balance, muzzle trained on the opposite gap. The plywood pressed so close that every adjustment scraped the stock against her vest.
A burst of static rattled from the overhead speaker, then Nolan's voice: "Hold your lanes."
The floor under her boots trembled with the faint vibrations of something shifting just out of sight. Her grip cinched tighter. Every nerve screamed to lean out and catch a glimpse, but Onyx's steady aim held her locked where she was.
The first target whipped out low on her side, squat silhouette rushing into her field of view. She fired twice—training rounds cracking, paint splattering wet across its chest before the pulley dragged it back. Almost in the same instant, another form lunged high from Onyx's lane on the opposite side. His rifle cracked once, and the mark snapped away with red blooming across its head before it had even cleared the corner.
They held their positions for a breath longer, then Onyx lifted two fingers and slipped forward. Harper moved with him, her body following the signal without hesitation. Behind her, Brock's boots shifted once before falling back into cadence with hers.
The maze pinched down again, pressing them nearly shoulder to shoulder before opening into a short, straight run toward the final turn. Harper's breathing had leveled, each step matching Onyx's, her sights gliding across the lane in drilled rhythm. They were nearly through when a low metallic click carried from her left—a sound out of place against the steady churn of the drill. Her muzzle twitched toward it before she dragged it back to her slice.
Her pulse still hammered at her ribs when Brock leaned close, his voice slipping through the ring in her ear. "Don't hesitate when it's in your lane," he murmured. His voice carried no rebuke and no edge, just weight, and it carried more than the shot. The absence of criticism left her more off-balance than if he'd torn her apart. Her grip tightened once on the rifle, a small adjustment she buried in the motion of moving on.
Onyx swung the last corner without slowing, and Harper followed, muzzle sweeping the empty stretch to the exit. No targets waited this time, only the hollow clatter of boots on plywood until daylight spilled across the floor from the open bay door ahead.
They broke formation at the threshold, Brock peeling off to clear his rifle while Onyx dragged a forearm across his face and shoved his rifle down to low ready. Nolan waited by the crate, coffee cup still in hand, a crooked tilt to his mouth.
His gaze cut to Harper as he tapped the side of the map. "Not bad for a first run. But you're drifting into other people's lanes. Trust the guy next to you, or you'll both be slow when it matters. And stop riding a target after it's down — shoot, clear, move. That habit'll get you lit up in a real fight." He dropped the map back onto the crate and jerked his chin toward the hall. "You don't carry that habit into a real op. Clean it up."
Harper gave a short nod. "I will." She slung the rifle and stepped past him, the thump of Brock's boots falling in behind her. She didn't look back at the maze, but the corners still pressed against her mind, every turn reminding her of how different this had been from the street. The Maw had been chaos, blood and instinct. This was structure, lanes, timing drilled into her bones — and the thought she couldn't shake was that next time, the Syndicate would expect her to run it the same way when the doors were real.
Brock's hand brushed her shoulder as they cleared the doorway, brief enough anyone watching might have missed it. "Run it through in your head again. Every corner," he said, already moving ahead.
She nodded and matched his pace, already replaying the run in her head from the first turn, and knew it wasn't plywood she'd be facing again — it was the job, the Syndicate's line, and whether she could carry her weight inside it.
** ** **
The track's red surface still clung to the day's heat, grit grinding under their soles with every stride. The air tasted faintly of rubber and cut grass, sun high enough now that it baked down through the chain-link and shimmered off the lanes. Breath came steady, measured, Brock keeping the rhythm he'd set. Nolan matched without strain, the silence between them as familiar as the run itself, broken only by the scuff of their shoes and the faint rattle of the fence when wind pressed through.
They rounded the far bend, sun glaring off steel mesh, shadows stretching across the lanes in warped angles. Brock's gaze stayed fixed ahead, lids narrowed against the glare, but his mind was already moving elsewhere.
Brock broke the silence first, voice carrying without strain. "I've got her next job lined up."
Nolan's head tilted just enough to catch him in the corner of his eye. "What kind?" His hands stayed loose, motion unbroken, each stride chewing up the lane.
"Cole and Price traced the Maw. Office space, not a front. They're using it to stash data off-site. Vex wants every file we can pull—maps, logs, comm trails. The more he's got, the tighter we can choke their HQ when the time comes." Brock's eyes stayed pinned ahead, lids narrowing against the glare bouncing off the chain-link.
Nolan spat into the infield as they hit the bend, then lengthened his pace to fall back beside Brock. "And this office has it sitting pretty on a shelf?"
"Room's locked down, tighter than most. Maglock, secured panel. Too tight to kick." Brock dragged sweat from his temple with the back of his wrist, kept running. "But it's not built for someone small enough to come down from the ceiling."
For the first time, Nolan looked over. His breath came heavier now, shirt sticking at the shoulders. "Running her through ducts, huh?"
"She gets in, pops the door, we take what we need. USB, fast out. She's not playing soldier on this, just opening the way."
Nolan ran a hand over his jaw, letting the lane carry him a few more meters. "You're staking her on the inside."
"I'm putting her on something simple," Brock said. "No guns blazing, no mess. Just get the door open. It may be a reprieve from the chaos that last job was."
Nolan's exhale came rough with the effort as they hit the curve. "Simple doesn't mean you let your guard down."
Brock's rhythm didn't falter. "She won't. Neither will I. But this isn't bullets in the street. It's a lock, a room, and us on the other side."
Nolan's mouth pulled in something close to agreement, air rasping through his nose as they chewed up the next stretch of track. "A reprieve's not a bad idea." His tone carried a weight Brock clocked without knowing where to file yet.
Another dozen strides passed before he spoke again. "Did she tell you what happened in there? On the Maw run. Why her face was bloodied?"
Brock shook his head. "No. Graves cleared her. I figured she bounced it off a container."
Nolan shook his head, jaw set tight. "Wasn't that. When we were writing the report, she put it down different. She broke from her post initially because fire was coming in from the stacks, by the first truck. She moved to cover it. That's when one of theirs rushed her. Sounds like she got jumped."
Brock's pace stuttered half a step, his eyes cutting to Nolan. "She what?"
"Yeah." Nolan's tone stayed even with his stride. "Sounds like it was melee before she put him down."
Brock's jaw worked, but his movement stayed steady. "Glad I've drilled combat into her the way I have, then." His next breath came measured, words riding it. He didn't like that he was hearing it from Nolan and not from her.
Nolan rolled his shoulders back, shirt darkened down the spine. "I watched you two on the mats the other day. She's quicker now. Lot quicker than the last time I went up against her." He dragged his forearm across his brow, then fell back into rhythm.
"She picks things up fast." Brock's eyes stayed fixed forward, focus narrowed on the far end of the track.
Nolan slanted him a look, soles grinding grit on the straightaway. "Yeah?"
"Much quicker than I did at her age." Brock's stride lengthened, as if to outrun the admission, shoulders rigid under the glare.
That pulled Nolan's brows together. He let a dozen meters pass, the sound of their footfalls steady in the silence, before he asked, low, "And that is?"
Brock let the quiet ride for half a lap before he said it. "How old do you think she is? You were there when Silas died, so you'd have seen her. How old do you think she was then?"
Nolan gave a rough breath through his nose, dragging the back of his hand across his mouth. "Brock, I barely remember what I had for breakfast. I don't remember what she looked like years ago. Why are you being cagey?"
Brock's pace stayed even. "She's eighteen, Nolan."
Nolan's footfalls stuttered, then stopped outright, grit scraping under his soles. Brock slowed when he realized he was running alone.
"Eighteen?" Nolan's voice cracked too loud, heads turning at the far end of the track. He dropped it fast, voice rougher but lower. "She's fucking eighteen? Harper? She's that fucking young?"
Brock's jaw flexed. "I wish I was lying."
Nolan dragged both hands down his face, pacing a few steps in a tight circle before he looked back at Brock. "Fuck. I knew she looked young but eigh—Jesus Christ, Brock. You're telling me we tortured an eighteen-year-old? Slaughtered everyone she ever knew? And now we've got her here, running jobs like she's one of us?"
Brock's eyes narrowed, shoulders taut as he caught his breath. "We all started young."
"She's a teenager, Brock. She should be worrying about what classes to take, not dropping through ceilings or fighting grown men in a shipping yard."
"She's been doing it since she was in single digits," Brock said flatly. "It's all she knows."
Nolan groaned, deep in his chest, scrubbing a hand over the back of his neck. "Christ almighty…"
Brock's gaze cut to him. "You know what makes it worse?"
Nolan barked a bitter laugh, short and without humor. "I don't want to know. But I know you'll tell me."
"She's barely eighteen. Remember the night we caught her? Dragged her in? She told me last night—her birthday was two days before that raid."
Nolan's face twisted, the words hitting deeper than he'd admit. "You're telling me the day you and me were planning that fucking hit, she was across the city celebrating with those people? Turning eighteen with them like they all had time?"
"Yep." Brock's voice was even, flat as the track under their feet. "And now every single person who was there is dead."
Nolan blew out a breath, fell back into rhythm. "Eighteen," he muttered again, as if testing the number. "I've seen men in their twenties who still trip over their own rifles. She's already past them. Give her time, and she's gonna be a goddamn problem for anyone in her way."
Brock's eyes stayed forward, tone flat. "She will."
Nolan shook his head, a flick of sweat breaking from his hairline. "She's only going to get meaner with time." He was quiet for a few strides, the sun running sweat down his temple. Then, blunt: "You think she'll pass? Actually make Syndicate?"
Brock's jaw flexed. "I don't know." He drew in a lungful of air, let it bleed out slow. "She's good. She's fucking good. But I don't know how you separate that from the fact we killed her father and everyone she's ever given a damn about."
Nolan's eyes narrowed, movement steady.
Brock glanced over. "When we hit the Viper den — you remember me telling you about the guy she tried to shield?"
"Vaguely."
"Name was Dante," Brock said. "Probably her boyfriend."
Nolan blew out a low breath, gaze shifting back to the far curve of the track. "So?"
"She knew standing in front of him wasn't gonna change a damn thing," Brock said. "And she did it anyway. That kind of loyalty doesn't come around often. You can use it, if you know how."
Nolan's mouth pulled tight, his eyes cutting sideways. "Use it, sure. But even if she's Syndicate on paper, there'll be plenty who still see a Viper. That target doesn't vanish just because Vex stamps her in. And Vex—" he shook his head, shoulders rolling loose with the run—"he's not gonna give her slack. He wanted her dead once. He'd be just as happy if she washed out."
Brock's gaze hardened, tone flat. "She won't carry a target if I'm standing next to her. And she won't wash out."
Nolan's brows lifted, a ghost of a smirk tugging. "Sounds a lot like you're betting on her."
"I'm betting on what I see," Brock shot back.
"Careful, brother," Nolan said, low but edged. "That's how men go soft."
"I'm not soft." Brock's reply came quick, edged, carrying like a warning.
Nolan held his gaze for a beat before turning forward again. Their cadence drummed grit into the track, silence stretching long enough that the sound of their breathing filled the space between them. Then Nolan cut him a sidelong look.
"You're betting on her, fine. But tell me—has that changed how you treat her? Or is she still locked up like Rapunzel anytime she's not on the mats or in the mess hall?"
Brock's jaw flexed. "Mostly."
Nolan let out a rough breath, half a scoff. "If you want her to integrate, you can't keep her boxed in like some captive. Doesn't mean give her keys to the whole place, but Christ—let her sit on a couch, flip a channel, read a book. If she's going to stay, she needs to live more than a locked room and your orders."
Brock didn't answer, but his gaze stayed forward, jaw tight, the grind in his silence obvious even without words.
At the far bend, Nolan tipped his chin toward the benches by the fence where water bottles waited in the sun beside a folded map. "Come on. We'll run through your little Mission Impossible job before we hit the mats."
Brock fell in beside him, movement shifting from the rhythm of the run to the clipped pace of men with work to plan.