Morning light slanted thin across the dead factory lot, cool before the sun climbed high enough to bleach it. Asphalt lay sun-faded and cracked, seams filled with wiry weeds that had split the surface like stitches gone slack. The chain-link along the perimeter rattled when the breeze pressed through. Loading bays yawned dark along the brick face, teeth missing from a broken jaw. Somewhere beyond the smokestacks, a semi hit its engine brake on a downhill grade—low, hammering cough that rolled through the hollow district and then thinned to nothing. The air carried dust, oil ghosts, and the damp memory of last night's rain.
The Tahoe sat square in the middle of the lot where chalk lines had been scuffed into place. Armored, broad-shouldered, built to shrug off trouble. Matte charcoal wrap dulled with scratches, push bar braced across the grille, roof strobes dark. Ballistic glass carried a faint green edge, thickness obvious at every frame. Steel wheels set wide on fat run-flats, fenders dusted white from earlier passes.
The idle rumbled low enough to thrum through the pavement, steady as a held breath. Out here in the emptiness, the truck looked less parked than waiting—patient, like it knew work was coming.
Brock paced the chalk arcs he'd dragged across the pavement, plain gray tee damp between the shoulder blades, baseball cap pulled low, boots leaving white scuffs where they pressed the dust. He set his travel mug on the Tahoe's hood, not drinking from it yet, just marking territory while he checked the angle of the next turn. He fit the space the same way the truck did—broad, steady, patient with the geometry.
Harper leaned against the driver's door, jacket unzipped, sleeves shoved high so the tape on her wrist caught the morning light. Cargo pants cut to move, sneakers worn down at the edges. Her hair had slipped out of its messy bun again, strands tugged free by the breeze. She wasn't armed for war, not today; just standing loose, weight shifting heel to toe as her eyes tracked every line Brock marked like she meant to carry the whole layout in her head.
Nolan had parked himself in the bay-door shade, black hoodie despite the sun, cargo shorts, old sneakers that looked like they'd survived three summers too many. The clipboard balanced on his forearm, a stopwatch looped on a lanyard that swung slow with every shift of his weight. Beside him on the concrete ledge sat his breakfast, a half-eaten egg sandwich sagging in its wax paper, grease bleeding through. It had been sitting there untouched since they started chalking lines, his attention fixed on posture and tempo instead of food. When Harper caught him staring, she lifted her brows at the sandwich in silent question. He smirked but didn't answer, just clicked the stopwatch once like a punctuation mark.
Brock circled back from the far chalk arc, wiping dust onto his jeans, and came up alongside the truck. He stopped close enough that Harper could feel the heat rolling off him, his shadow folding across the driver's door. The travel mug thunked back into his hand, one mouthful gone before he set it on the hood again.
"Wheel's yours," he told her, voice low, eyes flicking once to her wrist, then to her neck where Skiv's choke had left its map in yellow, the color bruises settle into after a week. His gaze lingered on her stance, set easier now, weight planted instead of braced, like he was gauging the distance between this morning and the night she'd fallen apart in his bed.
Nolan pushed off the ledge at last, grease-stained wax paper left crumpled where it fell, clipboard tucked under his arm. The stopwatch swung once before he caught it in his palm. "You even know how to drive, Firefly?" he called, grin lazy, voice carrying over the Tahoe's idle.
Harper cocked her head, rolled her eyes just enough to make it clear she wasn't taking the bait, and let a smirk tug at her mouth. "I know which pedal makes it go. That enough for you?"
Nolan snorted, fell in beside the truck, and let the stopwatch click once, more taunt than time. "Long as you don't run me over, we'll call it a success."
Harper shot him a look as he passed close, mouth quirking. "No promises."
Brock came up beside her door, hand braced on the Tahoe's hood. "This isn't a car," he told her. "It's heavy steel, armored through and through. High center of gravity, and it doesn't forgive mistakes. You keep it steady by watching weight, mirrors, distance. Today we work spacing, brake control, lean through turns. Get those right and the rest follows."
He tipped his chin toward the open door. "I'll be riding shotgun. Nolan times and watches angles."
Nolan lifted his clipboard in a loose salute, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Don't worry, kid. If you flip it, I'll make sure they spell your name right on the report."
Harper swatted at the board as he passed close. The jolt up her wrist where the tape sat made her fingers buzz, but the way his stopwatch jumped was worth it. "Try not to trip over your own sandwich wrapper before then."
Nolan barked a laugh, tucking the clipboard back against his chest. "Spicy this morning."
Brock let it slide and tapped the door with two knuckles, eyes steady on her. "Inside. We start slow."
Harper gave Nolan one last side-eye, then pulled the door handle. The Tahoe's weight came through even in the hinges, the door swinging wide with a groan. She climbed up, sneakers brushing the running board, and dropped into the driver's seat. The cabin swallowed her in black vinyl and thick glass, the low idle thrumming up through the floor into her ribs. She slid the seat forward, adjusted the mirrors until the chalk lines cut neatly across them, then wrapped both hands on the wheel, tape on her wrist glaring pale against the dark leather.
Brock came around the hood without a word, boots brushing dust, and opened the passenger door. He dropped into the seat beside her, broad frame fitting tight against the cabin bulk, mug tucked into the cup holder. His hand found the dash, flat and steady, as if he were grounding the truck itself.
Nolan planted himself a few paces off the nose, stopwatch dangling, grin never leaving.
Brock leaned back, one arm braced against the door. "What's the biggest thing you've driven?"
Harper kept her eyes on the windshield. "Cargo van." The words carried a faint memory of her crouched by the tire of the SportVan while Syndicate fire tore it apart; she pushed it down. "Nothing like this."
Brock caught the flicker at the edge of her profile, something that tightened and was gone before he could name it. His gaze went back to the chalk.
"All right." His attention tracked the lines ahead. "Take that van and stack armor and weight high up the frame. That's what you're holding. Everything you do—brake, throttle, turn—shows up a half second late. Learn the delay and stay in front of it."
Harper set her hands on the wheel and nudged it forward. The engine's growl filled the cabin, steady and patient.
"Good. Now watch your mirrors. Blind spots on this rig can hide a whole car. Keep cycling them—left, right, rear—until it turns into rhythm."
She flicked her gaze across the glass. The side mirror threw her a view of Nolan pacing outside, stopwatch swinging loose.
"Spacing," Brock said, tapping the dash with two fingers. "Give yourself lanes to work with. You're not threading alleys anymore—you're carrying weight. Hold room like it belongs to you."
She let out a short breath. "So bossy."
He didn't look at her, eyes still on the chalk lines ahead. "Bossy keeps the wheels under you."
Harper's mouth twitched, but she kept her gaze on the lines he'd laid down.
Brock kept his arm along the door, voice level. "Ease her forward. Don't rush. Feel how the weight carries before you add speed."
Harper nudged the Tahoe out of idle. The truck rolled heavy, the hood rising a fraction as though reluctant to move. The vibration came up through the floorboards into her ribs, low and steady, a kind of pull she'd never felt behind a wheel.
"Brake," Brock told her.
She pressed down smooth. The Tahoe took its time, pushing forward first, nose dipping late, the bulk demanding space. Her grip cinched tight on the wheel until the tape across her wrist bit skin.
"That's the delay," he said. "Start earlier, stay smooth. If you fight it, you'll just pile weight forward and lose the line."
Harper exhaled through her teeth and eased the throttle again. The truck gathered itself, slower this time, and she let her body lean with the feel of it.
"Turn coming," Brock said, tapping two fingers on the dash. "Wide arc. Let the body roll, don't choke the wheel."
She fed the wheel in. The Tahoe leaned hard on the outer tires, suspension groaning, mirrors cutting the chalk line in a slow sway. Instinct told her to lock her arms; she eased her hands instead, let the weight settle where it wanted. The truck rocked once, then straightened clean on the far line.
Brock nodded once. "Better."
They worked the basics until she stopped needing his cues. Accelerate, brake, plan for the lag. Ease the turn, guide the lean back. Each lap smoothed out, and the Tahoe stopped feeling like something she had to wrestle and started to feel like a weight she could predict. Only then did Brock glance at the wider stretch of lot, the unmarked space where the real maneuvers waited.
Brock pointed down the stretch of empty lot. "Next drill—evasion. You're running thirty, then you change lanes. Stay off the brake. You don't hesitate. Commit and carry it through clean."
Harper flexed her grip on the wheel, tape biting at her wrist. "And if I don't?"
"You hit what's in front of you." His tone flattened it into simple math.
She pushed the throttle down, the Tahoe answering slow, then heavy, pressing her back into the seat as it built speed. The chalk faded under the hood in a blur.
"Now," Brock said.
She snapped the wheel right. The Tahoe leaned, suspension groaning as the weight caught up late. The window frame pressed against her shoulder, ribs tightening with the roll, but she steadied her hands and let the truck settle. By the time she straightened out, the lane change was clean.
"Better than I thought," Brock said, braced easy against the door. "Again. This time smoother. Let the weight move first, then guide it."
She ran the lane change until the sway stopped surprising her. The lag turned into something she could plan for instead of brace against. Brock's voice pared down to single words—"now," "again," "smooth"—until there was nothing left to add.
Brock finally tapped the dash. "Next drill." His eyes cut to the far stretch of asphalt where the chalk lines ended and open space waited. "Reverse to forward. Clean pivot. You stall or hesitate, you're dead in the lane."
Harper's fingers tightened on the wheel. "That's the spin move?"
Brock shook his head. "Not spin. Pivot. Straight back until I call it, then crank, shift, and roll forward clean. If you rush the hands, you'll stall. If you're late, you'll tip the balance and kiss your own bumper."
She slid it into reverse, the heavy body rolling back across the lot. Pavement lines slid past in the mirrors, engine rumbling deeper under the strain.
"Now," Brock said.
She snapped the wheel and jammed the shifter. The Tahoe bucked, weight slamming forward, tires barking against asphalt. The frame rocked like it wanted to go over before it caught itself and settled nose-first toward the open lane.
Brock braced a palm flat on the dash, steady as stone. "Messy. But you made it. Again."
They worked the pivot again. The first time she rushed the shift and the Tahoe lurched, tires squealing before she wrestled it back under control. The second, she hesitated, the nose hanging crooked in the lane while Brock's hand stayed flat against the dash, silent but steady. By the third, she'd stopped holding her breath—still messy, still too much muscle, but the truck came around faster, the recovery cleaner.
"Reset," Brock said each time, voice even, patience unshaken.
She circled back, sweat damp at her hairline, shoulders tight against the ache in her wrist. On the fourth pass she found the timing—reverse clean, wheel hard, shift decisive, throttle steady—and the Tahoe snapped nose-forward without a hitch, rocking once before settling straight in the lane.
For an instant she caught it: Brock's mouth pulled just enough to show the ghost of a smile, quick and faint, gone before she could be sure it was ever there.
"Again," he said, voice flat. But his eyes stayed on her a moment longer than they had before.
They stayed in the rhythm until the heat coming through the windshield made Harper's shirt cling to her back and the wheel felt like part of her hands. Brock kept her running pivots and lane changes, mixing them without warning—his voice pared down to single commands: "Brake." "Now." "Reset." The Tahoe groaned and rocked through each maneuver, dust rising behind the tires in soft plumes that drifted across the empty lot. She could feel the pattern starting to live under her skin, the weight no longer a fight but a force she could work with.
When they finally rolled back toward the chalk start line, Nolan pushed off the bay wall and wandered over, clipboard tucked under his arm. He rapped the hood once with the flat of his hand, then swung open the rear door.
"Congratulations," he drawled, sliding into the back seat. "First lesson and nobody's intestines are decorating the dash. That's progress."
Harper kept her hands on the wheel, a smirk ghosting her lips. "Give me a minute. I can still fix that."
Nolan huffed out a laugh, shoulder bumping the seat in front of him. "Love the attitude."
Brock glanced her way. "We're not decorating anything today. Take us back. Real streets this time."
The Tahoe rolled out of the lot and onto the street, bulk shifting under her as the lanes opened. Morning traffic crowded the avenue, delivery vans stacked in the right lane, sedans nosing too far into crosswalks, a city bus coughing black smoke at the light. The moment she merged, space opened around her. Cars drifted wide, mirrors tilting as drivers glanced back and then slid aside. Nobody wanted to sit boxed next to dark steel with windows thick enough to hide everything inside.
Harper kept both hands tight on the wheel, eyes moving mirror to mirror. She felt it—the way the Tahoe changed the rhythm of the street. It had stopped being just a truck; out here it read like a presence, something that carried weight beyond its size.
From the back seat Nolan let out a low chuckle. "See that? Doesn't matter who's driving—out here, this thing clears its own lane. Folks smell the armor and they don't ask questions."
Brock stayed quiet beside her, one arm braced against the door, gaze checking the mirrors same as hers.
At the next light, Harper eased the Tahoe to a stop. The cars in the next lane hung back a length, nobody pulling even with her window. The idle thrummed through her ribs while the cross-traffic rolled. For the first time she felt it fully: the Tahoe as cover, warning, authority, all wrapped into one shape on the road.
Traffic thinned the farther they went, the truck's presence still opening lanes, until the skyline gave way to the edge of Syndicate ground. Concrete walls climbed high, razor wire coiled along the top, cameras swiveling in their housings. The gates waited ahead, thick steel drawn across the road, guard post set just inside.
The Tahoe eased into the checkpoint, rumble echoing off the walls. A man in black fatigues stepped out of the post, rifle slung, ball cap pulled low over a weathered face. His nametag patch read DOYLE.
He gave the Tahoe a once-over, then leaned toward the driver's side, eyebrow lifting when he saw Harper behind the wheel. "Didn't expect you up front."
Harper threw him a small smile. "Me neither."
Doyle nodded, his hand coming up in a smooth wave-through. The gate clanked and rolled back on its track, letting the vehicle nose into Syndicate ground.
Brock pointed toward the surface lot that spread beside the main building, rows of black steel already lined up in formation. "Put it in there."
Harper eased the truck between two Suburbans, the mirrors tight, engine dropping to a low idle before she cut it and dropped the keys into the console. The silence after the shutdown felt thick.
Nolan swung the rear door open, stretching like he'd been on a road trip instead of a training loop. He slapped the roof once and grinned. "That'll do. I've got work with Cole and Price—intel's piling up. Try not to wreck anything while I'm gone." He headed toward the far wing of the building, clipboard tucked under his arm.
Brock waited until the rear door thudded shut and Nolan's footsteps faded. "Hungry?"
"I'm starving," Harper said, already reaching for the handle. She shouldered the door open, one foot hitting the pavement—until his voice stopped her.
"Not here."
She froze, half-turned, frowning back at him. He tipped his chin toward the wheel, the suggestion clear in his eyes.
"Drive."
For a moment she just blinked at him, then slid back into the seat with a rush of energy, pulling the door closed again. The Tahoe's key fob was still tucked in the console; Brock scooped it up and set it into her palm before circling around to the passenger side. Training, then. Just a different route.
The truck rolled back toward the checkpoint, Doyle already waiting with the gate drawn wide. He gave Brock a nod and flicked another glance at Harper behind the wheel, but didn't ask. Steel slid closed behind them as they left the compound's walls.
Brock leaned an arm on the window frame, guiding her with small gestures. "Left. Keep straight. Slow at the next corner." His voice never lifted, but every cue set her threading the truck through the streets like he'd laid the route in his head an hour ago.
The city thickened around them, delivery trucks double-parked, storefronts with steel shutters halfway raised, pedestrians giving them wide berth. Harper kept her eyes moving over the mirrors, grip steady on the wheel as Brock's directions carried them deeper until the traffic thinned again.
"Here," he said finally. She pulled the Tahoe against the curb of a narrow side street, brick walls crowding both sides, the noise from the avenue dulled to a murmur. She dropped it into park, engine ticking as heat bled off.
Brock pushed his door open first, the quiet order of the drive hanging in the air between them as they stepped out.
Harper thumbed the lock, the Tahoe chirping once as she pocketed the fob. For a moment she stood still on the curb, air different here—car horns two blocks over, a snatch of music from an open doorway, the press of a city that hadn't seen her in months. It felt strange, too ordinary, like she'd slipped through a seam in her own story.
She caught up quick, shoes slapping against the sidewalk until she was even with him, jacket brushing his plain gray tee when the walkway narrowed. After months locked behind Syndicate walls the street felt loud in a way she hadn't remembered—voices overlapping outside shopfronts, a siren wailing faintly somewhere out of sight, the scent of fry oil riding the air. Her pulse ticked quick under it all, the strangeness settling in her chest like static.
"So what are we doing?" she asked.
"Figured you wanted a break from what Mess calls lunch." His eyes stayed on the street ahead, voice flat but not unkind.
She tilted her head at him, mouth tugging sideways. "So what's this, then? A date?"
That earned her a sidelong look, steady, enough to hold her for a moment. "Not that." His tone set it down without weight, final but not rough.
She grinned anyway, letting the silence stretch, and kicked a pebble off the curb as they walked.