Sunlight crept across Harper's face, warm on one cheek, fierce enough to sting behind her lids. She stirred, curling tighter against the mattress, limbs still tucked in on themselves. For a moment she believed she was in her own room—until the bed registered beneath her. Broader. Flatter. The sheet under her palm smoother, the weave unfamiliar. No blanket pulled over her, just dark sheets she hadn't claimed.
She opened her eyes, blinking hard against the brightness, and frowned. The ceiling gave nothing back. The angles overhead cut at her—too precise, too clean. Her gaze drifted sideways, searching for an anchor, finding none. The quiet here felt different—thick, suspended. Not absence, but pause, as if the room itself were holding its breath.
Then it came—warm breath, brushing faint across her spine. A presence. Quiet. Steady. Her body went rigid. The warmth stayed. Breath. Human. Close.
Her fingers curled tighter in the sheets. She was still here. In his bed. In his room. And he hadn't moved.
She didn't move right away. Just stared at the seam where ceiling met wall, mind crawling toward full awareness in jagged pieces. What the fuck was she doing here? She should have gone back to her own room. Closed the door. Stayed behind it. Yet the sheets beneath her still held warmth, and her body hadn't budged all night. Nights like this had gone scarce. Lately, sleep always seemed to snag on something—blood, choking, the echo of her own voice. This time, reaching back for the hours behind her, all she found was solid dark.
Her fingers pressed tighter against her ribs. Slowly, carefully, she rolled onto her back, every shift measured, as if the whisper of fabric alone could rouse him. Her shirt clung damp to her skin. The mattress carried his imprint, a hollow of weight sunk deep on the other side.
Brock was still asleep, turned toward her. His head rested heavy against the pillow, one arm folded loose at his chest, the other tucked beneath him. In sleep, he looked almost like someone else. The edges had fallen away—jaw slack, brow uncreased, every hard line blurred as though whatever guarded, whatever bit, had been wiped clean. Stubble shadowed along his cheek and chin.
Her gaze slipped lower before she could stop it. Broad shoulders, chest marked in pale lines where old damage had closed, muscle resting easy instead of coiled for impact. The flat plane of his stomach rose and fell with each breath, the line of it cutting down and vanishing beneath the waistband of his sweats. For a second something in her stomach tightened, sharp and unwelcome, and she dragged her focus back to safer ground.
His chest lifted and fell with steady breaths, each exhale a faint warmth that brushed her skin. The space between them felt thinner than she remembered.
She let herself look, just for a second more. The stillness in his face pulled at her—unguarded in a way he never allowed awake. The weight of watching was gone, the constant calculation with it. It felt like sleep had siphoned the violence right out of him, stripped away the man who dragged bleeding bodies off concrete, the voice that once spoke threats low in the dark. What lingered was quieter, unsettling in its ease. She hated how it settled over her now—not a standoff, just rhythm. Worse, she'd slept inside it. Deep. Dreamless. The usual flashes of impact and panic hadn't broken through; her body had finally forgotten to brace for pain.
Harper shifted the rest of the way onto her side, the sheets sliding cool against her skin as she turned to face him. His breath moved steady between them, slow tide in and out. Over the curve of his shoulder the red digits glowed on the nightstand: 4:58. Two minutes, and the alarm would split the hush. Two minutes, and the day would start.
Harper's lashes lowered. She held onto the dark a little longer, breathing in the silence before it shattered. But the weight in her chest wouldn't settle. Her mind ran routes and sightlines, positions in the convoy, the way Vex's eyes would strip her bare when she came back. Every breath felt rationed, like she was already spending what little she had. Seconds slid past until, at 5:00, the clock's thin, synthetic chirp cut through the quiet, high and insistent.
Brock's eyes opened, heavy-lidded, and found hers across the narrow space. For a moment they just stared, breaths crossing, the alarm whining at his back. His gaze flicked once over her—her tucked-in limbs, the grip she still had on the sheets—then he rolled, broad shoulders shifting as he reached behind him and silenced it with a quick slap.
He turned back, eyes on her again. Closer now. Voice low, rough with sleep.
"You ready to show Vex why you're still here?"
Harper didn't answer right away. Her gaze held his, steady, the silence stretching between them. Then she gave a small nod, a promise sealed without words.
** ** **
The war room hummed with stale light and thicker silence. Morning bled pale through the blinds, painting long stripes across the U-shaped table where the crew spread themselves unevenly.
Brock sat at the corner hinge of the U, posture straight despite the hour, a cup of coffee untouched at his elbow. To his right, Harper had folded into the chair small as she could, arms crossed tight, her gaze fixed on the table's scarred surface.
Nolan leaned back two seats over, mug in hand, steam curling up past his face as if he could hide in it. Mason sat opposite him, heavy shoulders hunched, a half-drained cup clutched like it was the only thing keeping him vertical. Vale had his boots propped on a chair beside him, the seat tipped back dangerous, a lazy sprawl that didn't match the bruise-colored shadows under his eyes.
Gunner slouched low on the far side, arms folded, lids half shut like the alarm had dragged him from too little sleep. Cole tapped the edge of the table with a pen, not taking notes, just keeping rhythm against the quiet. Price sat closest to the door, a file open in front of him though his eyes hadn't moved past the same line in minutes.
The smell of coffee hung bitter in the air, but it didn't cut through the drag of exhaustion or the taut thread of nerves. Nobody said much. Chairs creaked, boots scuffed tile, and the room carried the kind of quiet that meant orders were coming whether anyone was ready or not.
The door swung open without warning, and every spine in the room stiffened. Vex stepped in like the air already belonged to him, boots striking tile in a rhythm that cut the low murmur of chairs. His gaze swept the U in a slow arc—Nolan lowering his mug, Vale's boots sliding off the chair, Cole's pen falling still. The sweep landed on Harper and stayed there, a fraction longer than it should have. The silence thickened around her, the scrape of her pulse louder than the clock on the wall. Then Vex moved on, casual as if he hadn't left the weight of his stare pressed hard against her skin.
He didn't bother with preamble. He flicked a hand to the map and began. "Lead SUV—Price driving, Lawson in charge, Cole on radio. Cargo One—Mason driving, Gunner passenger. Cargo Two—Vale driving. Rear SUV—Voss driving, Reyes up front. Keep a car and a half between you unless the road forces you tighter." He tapped the radio schematic pinned beside the map. "One main channel, one backup. If the main gets scrambled, Lawson switches you. Keep it short. Keep it clear."
His knuckle tracked the route across the map. "Industrial road to the secure warehouse. Two fallback points—Rally Alpha here, Rally Bravo here." He circled them in red, then lifted his hand. "Priority is the trucks. They don't stop unless blocked. If someone goes down, SUVs drag them under cover and the trucks keep rolling. If an unknown vehicle tries to slot into the line, rear blocks, lead sets pace, cargo holds spacing."
He tapped the bold block letters—CONVOY ORDER—then flicked to a photo strip pinned beside the map. "Black Maw's been on this route three days. They're looking. Expect a stall, a split, a fast grab."
His hands cut the air through the signals—stop, back up, peel, dismount, close up—each motion precise, unhesitating. Three narrow choke points tapped on the map. Then his eyes lifted, locking on Harper.
"Rear guard with Nolan means nothing gets past you to those trucks."
That was all. His gaze swept the table once more. "Questions?"
"Gear up," Vex said, straightening from the table. "Garages in ten." Chairs scraped back as the team stood and filed toward the locker room.
Harper moved out with the others, the hallway narrowing their stride to a steady, purposeful march. Instinct tugged her toward the back, toward Brock's shoulder and the place she usually fell in when they walked like this. She stayed where she was instead, keeping pace in the middle of the line.
She ended up between Mason and Price, their boots striking in unison on the concrete. The spacing felt deliberate, safer. Stupid, maybe—no one here knew she'd spent the night in Brock's bed, no one was looking at her twice—but her skin still crawled at the thought of drifting closer to him with the whole crew at their backs.
The locker room opened onto a wall of neatly hung gear. Harper went straight to the vests, pulling one down and cinching the straps tight over her base layer the way Brock had shown her, then clipping a utility belt around her hips. Pouches settled into place—tourniquet, spare mags, multi-tool. She crossed to the weapons wall, palmed the AR slotted at shoulder height, added a sheathed knife, slid a sidearm from its rack. The weight gathered piece by piece, dragging across her shoulders and waist until it reshaped her, a harder outline than the one she'd woken with.
Around her, the others moved in the same unspoken rhythm—Velcro ripping, buckles locking, radios popping static as quick check-clicks ran down the line. She seated her earpiece and snugged the mic line under her collar.
One by one, the team drifted out, boots scuffing a retreat down the hall toward the bays. By the time she re-checked the angle of her rifle sling and pulled her belt snug, the room had thinned. Cole slipped through the doorway last, and the hinge settled. She started to follow—then stopped at the sound of her name.
She turned. Brock stood at the far end, already geared, eyes locked on hers. They were alone now, the vents humming softly overhead. He crossed the space in a few unhurried steps.
"You've got this," he murmured, low and certain. "Stick to what we drilled. Keep your head clear. You'll do fine."
She nodded, but the tension in her shoulders stayed tight. His hand came up, settling firm at the back of her head where the braid began, steady pressure grounding her. His palm was warm, the weight of it holding her in place without pinning her, pulling her focus in.
For a moment he stayed like that, his gaze level, his voice close. "You're gonna be okay."
Something in her chest eased, not all the way, just enough to let the air move. Her next nod came smaller, but steadier. She drew a breath, slow and deliberate, before he let his hand fall away.
Then they stepped out together, the door swinging closed behind them.
The hallway was quiet except for the low, constant hum of engines ahead. Their footsteps echoed off concrete, the air cooling as they neared the wide double doors. Pushing through, they stepped into the garage—last to arrive. The two armored Tahoes idled under the overhead lights, exhaust feathering toward the open bay. Doors hung open, Cole's voice cutting through a final comms check.
Up on the mezzanine, Vex leaned on the rail and watched them load, expression unreadable. He said nothing. In the rear SUV, Nolan sat in the passenger seat, one hand resting easy on the dash. His glance slid over them in brief acknowledgment before turning forward again.
Brock slowed at the lead Tahoe and looked down at her. "See you out there," he said, voice pitched low enough to stay between them. She gave a single nod, fingers tightening on her sling. His hand brushed her arm once in passing—a quick, solid contact that left her skin buzzing—then he climbed in, setting his travel mug in the door rack as he went.
Harper shifted her grip on the rifle and headed for the rear SUV, boots carrying her the last stretch to the driver's door. She pulled it open, hauled herself up behind the wheel, and shut out the chill of the garage. The cabin hummed with the low idle, warm air pushing faint from the vents.
She clipped her sling short to keep it clear, ran the belt across her vest, and set her palms on the wheel. The rifle rode tight against her chest, angled down toward the floor, safety on but ready if she needed it.
Nolan's attention slid her way, taking in the way her gear sat and how tightly she held the grip. "You breathing over there?"
"Working on it," she muttered. Her fingers eased off the death grip and reset, knuckles still pale against the leather.
He watched her a moment longer, eyes tracing her face, then settling on the road ahead. "You're ready," he said, voice low. "Doesn't mean you won't be scared. Just means you go anyway."
Her throat pulled tight around a sound that wasn't quite a laugh. "That your official assessment?"
"That's me telling you the truth," he replied. "You've put the work in. You belong in this seat."
The words landed heavier than she expected, settling under her vest where the panic had been crowding. She let out a slow breath, the air shaking once before it smoothed.
The radio crackled with Cole's voice before she could answer. Ahead of them, Brock's Tahoe eased forward over the damp concrete. Harper dropped the shifter and rolled after him, climbing the ramp out of the garage.
They cleared the compound gates, the guard's hand lifting in a brisk signal before the heavy steel slid shut behind them. Price's Tahoe swung first into the empty stretch of road. Harper brought the rear SUV up to the threshold and held, idling in place.
The two cargo trucks rumbled past in sequence—Mason at the wheel of Cargo One with Gunner riding shotgun, Vale alone in Cargo Two, eyes fixed forward, engine humming steady. Their trailers swayed once as they cleared the gate and straightened into the road.
When the last truck's tail slipped past, Harper eased forward and slid the rear SUV into position. The convoy stretched ahead in clean order, a dark line of steel and glass. Tires whispered over wet asphalt, the whole column moving as one as they took the route.
The dash clock glowed 07:05 when Harper glanced down, the digits trembling faint against the vibration through the wheel. Outside, the sky sagged low and heavy, clouds stacked in dull iron; rain pressed close in the air. Engines ahead hummed in unison under the static crackle of radios.
Cole came through first, crisp and steady: "Radio check." Replies followed in order—Brock, Mason, Vale, Nolan —each voice carrying its own cadence. Harper matched names to tones without thinking, slotting them into memory the way she always did, a roster she could lean on if things went bad.
The Industrial district slid by in long, empty blocks—chain-link crowned in rust, shuttered docks, blank windows like blind eyes. The road narrowed and bulged, forcing small swerves around potholes and windblown trash.
Nolan broke the quiet, voice calm, almost conversational. "Your job's the wheel first, eyes second. Mine's the gun. You keep us in line, keep spacing tight, and tell me if something moves where it shouldn't. Doesn't matter if you're sure—better to call it than let it slide."
He tipped his chin toward the cargo trucks ahead of them. "That's your priority. If something comes up behind us, I'll deal with it. You just make sure those trucks keep rolling. Rear guard buys them time—that's the only measure."
They passed a row of parked forklifts and rust-bitten machinery. Nolan nodded toward them. "If we get forced to stop, angle the truck. Give me an engine block, container corner, something solid to fight off. Sheet metal's nothing but a blind—won't stop a round."
He tapped the dash, voice steady. "This nose'll hold better—radiator, frame, block. Keep us squared and running. Dead truck makes us easy meat."
Harper's grip tightened on the wheel. "What if they cut between us and Cargo Two?"
"Then I push them out or burn them off," he said, simple as breath. "You keep the trucks moving. That's the job."
He threw her quick situational checks—two bikes closing in the rearview? Van door sliding open at the curb? Flash off glass on a rooftop? She answered most without hesitation, admitted what she didn't know, steady voice, no flinch. Nolan logged each response in silence, eyes forward on the slick road.
He was mid-question—spotting movement on rooftops—when a white panel van eased into view at a cross street ahead. Harper caught it in her peripheral as it rolled to a stop at the curb, broadside to the convoy. No logos, plain sheet metal. Could be contractors, could be nothing. Weekends drew plenty of both.
"Could be nothing," Nolan said, catching her glance. "Could be a delivery. Or a hide."
She drifted half a lane to give Cargo Two breathing room as they passed the van, eyes locked on the road.
Nolan's voice stayed even. "Doesn't matter which until it matters. If something lingers, you log it."
She checked the mirror again. The van still idled back at the curb, blurred by drizzle as the gap closed between them and Cargo Two.
"The night you and Brock took me," she said finally, voice low, "I saw your SUV. Parked off the curb, right before the yard."
Nolan didn't look over. "Yeah?"
"I never told anyone."
"Why not?"
Her grip tightened on the wheel. "Because I convinced myself I was just worrying too much."
Nolan was quiet for a beat, eyes still on the road ahead. "You weren't," he said at last.
Her jaw locked. "If I'd said something, they might've called it off. Pulled the job. They'd still be alive."
"Maybe," he allowed. "Or Vex would've fed you to us on a different corner, a different night. You didn't put them in front of our guns. He did."
Her throat worked around a dry swallow. "Doesn't change that I saw it and kept my mouth shut."
"That part's on you," Nolan said, steady, not unkind. "You got a read and you buried it. You don't do that now. You see something sit wrong, you say it out loud. I'll decide if it's nothing."
The memory pressed in—the black SUV in the fog, the stillness before the night cracked open. Back then it had been the shape of danger, the thing she ran from. Now it was the shape she carried forward, the thing she was meant to keep alive. Different seat. Different crew. Same gut certainty that the road ahead bled red.
The quiet held for a few blocks before Nolan spoke again. "Quiz is one thing. What matters is how you handle the wheel when it goes loud. I can't put rounds where they need to go if you're weaving all over. Keep it steady, hold spacing, and don't freeze if I tell you to brake or push. Trust me to work the gun—you just keep the truck alive."
They rolled through a set of lights that flashed yellow over wet asphalt, the convoy's reflection shivering in the puddles.
Up ahead, the cross street opened onto a stretch of shuttered shopfronts. A white panel van nosed out from a side lane two blocks ahead—the same one she'd watched idle back at the curb. It paused just long enough for the lead SUV to pass, then eased forward into the main road.
It kept coming, angling for the gap between Cargo Two and their SUV. Harper fed in throttle, closing up on Vale's bumper until there wasn't room to breathe. The van's nose wavered, then straightened, forced to tuck in behind them instead.
Nolan watched it in the side mirror, expression flattening. "That's twice," he said under his breath. "Rear guard to convoy," he added, keying his mic, voice clipped. "White panel van, no markings, same unit as earlier. Trailing rear vehicle, adjusting with our speed."
Static hissed before Cole's reply came through. "Copy, rear guard. Eyes on. Passing to Lawson."
Harper stole another glance at the mirror. The van lingered there, holding a steady half-block back. When she bled a little speed, it did too; when she picked it up, it floated at the edge of engagement, never quite close enough to give them an excuse. Her stomach knotted, fingers tightening on the wheel.
Nolan didn't look her way, eyes on the wet ribbon of road ahead. "Good call," he said, voice low enough to stay in the cab. "You see a pattern like that, you say it out loud every time. Let command decide if it's noise."
Two blocks later the van slid into the turn lane and slipped down a side street without so much as a signal. Nolan watched until the roofline vanished behind a stack of rust-bitten containers, then keyed his mic again. "Rear to net—white panel van broke off eastbound, no markings. Last seen by the yard entrance." Cole's acknowledgment clicked once in her ear and fell silent.
The column rolled on. Ahead, the road pinched between a drayage yard on one side and a rail yard on the other, both wide open to the street. Inside the drayage yard, container stacks rose in uneven rows, gaps deep enough to swallow a vehicle; catwalks and laddered gantries cut the air above them. Across the way, parked flatbeds and idle railcars sat in the lee of a low loading dock, plenty of dark spaces to disappear into.
A knot coiled low in Harper's chest. This wasn't just a bottleneck; it was exposure, flanked on both sides with nowhere to put her back to. She tightened her grip on the wheel, eyes working every open gate and shadowed gap—and the high lines above—as they rolled through. Beside her, Nolan shifted his rifle, angling it out the window, ready in case the dark corners stirred.
She flicked a look at Nolan. "Do you think—"
The rest tore off as a pressure-hard blast punched the air ahead. A shape under the lead SUV erupted, black smoke and shrapnel flowering around it; the shockwave slammed into their doors and set the glass buzzing. Rain turned grimy in the backdraft, flecking the windshield with soot.
Brock was in that truck.
Her chest seized. Fingers locked on the wheel, breath jamming hard behind her teeth. The world shrank to that burning shape in the road—metal twisting, glass scattering, fire licking up through the frame while every part of her went cold.
"Fuck," Nolan snapped, rifle already up. His voice cut through, hard and certain. "Back it off—hold here."
She forced her foot off the gas, braking short of the choke. Cargo One's brake lights flared; Gunner's rifle was shouldered into the passenger window. Vale slid Cargo Two in behind Mason, spacing clean, the column holding.
"Half a lane right," Nolan called. She obeyed on instinct, edging over, giving him a sightline past the rig. Wheels canted, brake pressed, engine loaded and ready, her pulse hammering against the belt across her chest.
Up front, Price muscled the blown Tahoe another car length, steam hissing, then angled it across the narrowest part of the lane—a deliberate block. Seconds later Cole cut through the static: "Lead disabled, crew good. Vehicle is down and blocking. All eyes out—watch flanks and high."
Relief punched through her chest at Cole's voice—Brock was alive. She let herself have one quick breath, then shoved it down and scanned the lane through the windshield, fingers twitching against her seatbelt buckle. Instinct said to free it, to be ready to run, but the SUV was still their lifeline. She forced her hand back to the wheel. Beside her, Nolan settled his rifle across his lap, muzzle low, eyes already hunting angles.
Gunfire cracked from the catwalks strung high over the drayage yard, muzzle flashes stuttering between container stacks. At the same time, fast shapes broke from the rail yard side, using parked flatbeds and the low lip of the loading dock to close distance. High fire raked them from one flank while the other pressed in head-on.
"Contact high drayage, contact low rail," Cole cut in, calm and clipped.
Cargo One halted in the open. Mason threw the cab at an angle, giving Gunner the engine block to work behind. Gunner kicked the passenger door wide, braced on the hinge, and drove bursts at the catwalks, but the shooters kept moving through gantries, hard to pin down.
Vale snapped Cargo Two to a stop, nose nudged toward the drayage yard, part of the cab buried behind a parked forklift. The engine still rumbled, ready to punch if a gap opened.
In the rear SUV, Harper hugged the wheel, kept the brake firm, wheels canted, engine hot. Beside her, Nolan was already up on his rifle, muzzle tracking high across the yard. "Hold her steady," he said low, eyes never leaving the catwalks.
The world in front of her blew white—glass crazing, metal buckling—then dropped into smoke. Steel-core rounds scythed down from the right, chewing through the hood and windshield; each hit drove a concussion through the cab that rattled her teeth and crushed the air out of her lungs. The laminate spiderwebbed, bulged, and then let go—bursting in a violent shudder that hurled dust, splinters, and acrid grit across her face and into her mouth.
Something slammed into her shoulder—Nolan's forearm, hard and unyielding—as he drove her down toward the wheel, forcing her head below the line of the dash. She folded under the pressure, chin hitting her vest, hands locked on the wheel while glass pattered across her back and the seat. When she lifted her eyes, her vision was blown open to a storm of muzzle flashes strobing through the ragged hole where the windshield had been.