Nolan peeled his forearm off Harper's shoulder, rolling his weight back toward his door so he could bring the rifle up again. Glass dust clung to his sleeve, blood striped across his cheek where the windshield had split him, but his voice stayed level. "High drayage—two on the gantry." He braced against the door pillar, muzzle clearing the torn frame, and the rifle barked upward.
A heavier impact punched through the front end; the wheel jolted under her palms, wrenching her wrists, then went slack. The Tahoe lurched down on its front-right corner, frame groaning as the tire blew and the rim bit asphalt. Steam hissed up the cowl, curling over the jagged edge where the windshield had been.
"She's done," Nolan called, already booting his door. "Out my side."
Harper had her belt off by the time the SUV settled on its rim. Nolan's door blew open on his boot and cold air slammed in. "Move," he snapped, already half out.
She shoved herself sideways, rifle dragging against the steering wheel, stock catching on the sling. The center console dug into her thigh as she climbed over it, vest scraping plastic. Nolan's hand caught the back of her vest and hauled, yanking her across the gap and out his door.
They dropped together into the front wheel well, tucking in tight behind the engine block while rounds tore into the passenger side and A-pillar. Fragments rattled down around them, pinging off metal and stone.
Her earpiece hissed—Brock punching through in chopped fragments. "Cover… keep them boxed…" The rest dissolved in a wash of static.
Two seconds of dead air, then another voice tried to cut in—Cole, garbled and thin—before the noise swallowed him too.
"We're getting stepped on," Nolan muttered, eyes tracking up-route even as he ran the rifle over the catwalks.
Harper followed the lane with her gaze, past the crippled lead Tahoe and the staggered trucks. A white panel van sat parked crosswise at the mouth of the street, fat whip antenna swaying from its roof.
"There," she breathed.
Nolan followed her line, gave a curt nod. "Yeah. Jammer van. They're pinning the trucks in and cutting our net. We're just background noise until someone kills that thing."
The SUV bled coolant onto the asphalt, steam curling from under the hood in pale ribbons. Harper stayed tight to the front wheel, cheek gritty with glass, eyes on the gantry. When Nolan gave the word, she rose and cut short bursts over the hood, brass scattering hot across her forearm, then dropped back down into the cover of the engine block. Between volleys, her off hand found the passenger-door pouch within reach—two smokes, one flare—which she clipped fast to her vest. Static hissed in her earpiece, useless.
Nolan held the corner beside her, rifle steady, bursts crisp and measured. Fresh cuts striped his cheek, one thin line of red trailing along his jaw. He wiped it once with his wrist, never shifting the muzzle off the high steel.
Vale kept Cargo Two tucked behind the forklift, engine rumbling. But they couldn't sit boxed forever. The longer they held, the closer the Maw would press—and once those shooters got up on the cabs, the trucks were gone.
Nolan ducked back from a snap of rounds overhead. "They've got this angle pinned," he said, voice flat but edged with pain. "I'll hold the gantry. On your smoke, shift down the passenger side—call moving. If they press low, hug the wheel."
She nodded once, cracked the pouch, palmed the flare but yanked the two smokes. "Rear popping smoke," she sent. "Cover." His reply came as a hard rake across the gantry.
"Set."
Training slotted in—make smoke, change angles, turn the trucks into moving walls. She thumbed the first pin and, staying low, skipped the can toward mid-lane; white hissed out, curling, then billowing, hugging wet asphalt. The second she long-lobbed to the drayage-side curb, a cross-curtain building to chew up sightlines.
"Moving!" she called to Nolan.
Staying low, she edged along the passenger side to the rear bumper, keeping the Tahoe between her and the catwalks, then slid off the tail into the rail-yard gutter and pushed under the smoke.
Halfway down the line she picked a welding rig by the loading dock—bottles on a dolly, a toppled stack of tires against it. Skiv and Dante had once joked about turning a setup like that into a bonfire if a job went sideways; she'd laughed at the time, but she'd listened. She snapped a few rounds into the small acetylene line, kept her fire clear of the bottles, then cracked a flare and rolled it under the tires. The hiss turned into a ripping whoosh as the gas caught, a jet of fire kicking sideways into the stack. Rubber blackened, smoke boiling up thick and fast. Orange light licked through the haze, heat lifting the curtain until it curdled dense and low.
The street narrowed to shifting shadows; behind her, Nolan's rifle cracked and kept the high steel over the yard stitched. She edged one step out of the gutter into a brighter pocket of haze where the backlight would silhouette her to the cabs. Mason caught her first; his hand lifted off the wheel in acknowledgment. Past the forklift's frame, Vale's head turned, finding her through the gray.
She rose just enough to be seen, raised her forearm chest-high, and gave the signals: roll, crawl, hold. Mason's lights flashed once in acknowledgment, then Vale's. They held position, waiting on her next cue. She ducked back down, slid into the gutter, and moved along the rail-yard edge toward the Tahoe, boots riding the shallow groove between broken asphalt and the dock wall. Nolan's rifle kept the catwalks stitched, covering her shadow as she moved.
Static bit through the channel, Brock's voice ragged under the hiss: "Rear, report—Harper—" The rest drowned in white noise. She double-clicked her mic in reply and shoved it from her mind. The call didn't matter. What she could see did.
Nolan shifted his fire with her, angling past her shoulder to keep the open lane suppressed. He didn't pull her back—he let her hold the forward corner. The smoke and confusion weren't for retreat. They were for the trucks.
She ducked behind the A-pillar, grit sticking to the sweat on her cheek, then brought the rifle in tight again. Muzzle just off the hood, eyes working through the thinning haze. Shapes were hardening where it tore. Time was bleeding out; one more push and the Maw would have a lane clean through.
Harper caught it in the gaps: the road ahead bent into another choke, all broken concrete and junked pallets, trouble stacked on top of what they were already taking. No way to punch forward without handing themselves over. The only way out was back. But Mason and Vale hadn't moved—they were sitting disciplined, waiting on her to guide them.
She leaned in, shoulder brushing Nolan, voice low. "They're holding for me. I've got to get to Vale and walk him back. Crossing your muzzle."
Nolan flicked her a glance, gave one tight nod. His fire cut for a breath and came back higher, long, pinning the catwalks while she prepared to break.
She broke from the SUV's shadow and ran the gutter two car lengths, smoke wrapping her in and out of sight, then cut across to the rail-yard side of Cargo Two. She stomped the step and hammered the mirror housing, leaned close to the glass. Vale snapped his head over.
Her hands cut fast through the air: point down the lane—out; palm flat, slow wave—crawl; two fingers to eyes, tap chest, thumb over shoulder—on me. He caught it, hard nod, then the reverse lights flared and the tires bit.
She dropped off the step, slid back into the gutter, and started leading him along her line while Nolan's rifle kept the catwalks pinned. His bursts were lean, tight, a low curse between them, then back on target—never wasting a round, never dragging heat over her.
On her signal, Cargo Two began backing. Cargo One eased a half-length to open a seam, Mason keeping his grille tucked tight behind the wrecked Tahoe so the choke stayed covered. Up front, the disabled SUV stayed canted across the pinch, hood steaming; Brock and Price crouched behind the driver-side fender, rifles up, while Cole worked the rear door, eyes on the rail-yard flank.
Harper cut along the rail-yard side of Cargo Two, knees bent, smoke curling at shin height. A round snapped close, and something hot and blunt tore across the outside of her thigh, more rip than punch. The shock was white and sudden, buckling her stride for half a breath. Heat spread through the tear in her pants, the sting already burning deeper as she forced herself back upright, aware of every step now that her leg wasn't entirely reliable.
Through the passenger glass, Vale's face jerked toward her, eyes wide. His mouth shaped something she couldn't hear over the fight, but his hand lifted off the wheel in a tight grip of concern. Harper slapped the panel twice—keep coming—and pushed on, rifle braced against the steel as the rig crept in reverse.
Behind them, Nolan never broke rhythm. He saw her stagger in the smoke, teeth bared, and shifted his fire higher, keeping the catwalks pinned so nothing pressed while she kept the line moving.
Two Maw fighters broke low through the gaps between rail-yard flatbeds by the dock. Harper planted, sighted, and dropped the first mid-run; the second folded behind a stack of tires as her follow-ups sparked along the rubber and drove him off the angle. From the SUV's wrecked corner, Nolan walked fire across the drayage catwalks, covering the high steel and keeping her lane clear.
Up front, Brock, Price, and Cole shifted off the disabled Tahoe on the rail-yard side, catching what she was doing. Cole tried the mic; it came back static. Through a thin seam in the smoke Brock found her and lifted two fingers—eyes, then forward: with you. She tipped her chin once, two fingers to her vest: good.
They moved—short bursts, quick positions—stripping shooters off the trailers, keeping the rail-yard flank clean so Vale had space to bring the rig back. No shouting, no wasted motion; the line wrapped tighter around the plan.
Smoke thinned at the far mouth of the choke, movement hardening into a rush—fresh Maw fighters spilling from the blind side of the drayage yard, shapes flickering between container rows. They came fast, rifles up, gambling on a push before the trucks could get clear.
Harper set her toe to the box's lower rail and leaned hip and shoulder to the panel, weight on the good leg, grazed thigh angled out so the fabric didn't drag. She worked her front sight into the rush, dropped a runner with a round through the thigh before he reached the forklift mast. Another vaulted the dock rail and sprinted the shadow under the trailers, sling hardware flashing; she walked two rounds into him, knocking him sideways into the grit as return fire sparked off the box beside her.
Seeing her exposed on the angle, Nolan picked her up. His fire climbed and raked the high line, dragging catwalk muzzles off her lane and buying her seconds at the box.
Farther up, Brock, Price, and Cole worked the rail-yard flank—tight bursts, quick shifts—stripping shooters off the trailers so Vale had space to keep backing. The net was still dead, static chewing anything Cole tried to push through. Through a seam in the haze Brock's hand cut forward—with you—and their fire pinned gaps she couldn't cover from where she was.
The push kept coming. Feet slapped wet asphalt between volleys, ricochets singing off the dock face. Harper locked her forearm to the steel, let the truck take the recoil, and hammered tighter groups down the lane. A burst stitched sparks along the panel near her head; she stayed on the angle and rode it out. Somewhere behind the crossfire, Mason's air horn blasted once—signal clear through the haze.
She kept low along Cargo Two's flank as it crept back, the smoke shifting in broken swirls around her. Then the lane ahead erupted—short, brutal bursts raking low from fighters using the trailers as cover, hammering the box inches from her side. Sparks jumped off steel; hot dust peppered her cheek and sleeve; scorched paint went acrid in her nose.
She flattened to the panel, clear of the tire's bite, and slapped the box twice—hold. The truck checked. In the lull she slid to the rear corner, leaned out, and sent tight, deliberate bursts. One Maw fighter, caught crossing open ground between a trailer and the dock rail, went down. Another tried to crawl along the smoldering tires she'd set earlier; her follow-ups shoved him back into shadow.
Up-lane, Nolan kept the catwalks loud, angles pinned off her side. She chopped a tight circle—roll, keep moving—then palmed the box low—crawl, slow. Reverse lights steadied and Vale eased back on her line while she swung her muzzle toward the next push.
Harper welded herself to Cargo Two's flank, shoulder hard to the steel, fire low and controlled while muzzle flickers needled through the haze. Nolan never let the high guns breathe, but the weight pressing her side wouldn't ease.
Mason checked the truck a hair, and in that breath Gunner swung down from Cargo One's passenger step on the rail-yard side. He kept himself small and fast, a blur through the smoke, splashing once in the shallow run-off before he slid against the panel beside her. Of all people—Gunner. No words. Just a quick look to catch her sightline and a flat nod that meant he had his lane.
They worked anyway—clean, efficient. She took the openings; he hunted the shapes trying to use them. A figure lunged from the trailers and she clipped his thigh; another hugged the stack of burning tires and Gunner chewed the rubber to rags until the man rolled off the heat. He didn't crowd her. He stayed low, kept his strings short, matched her tempo without asking.
From the catwalks above the drayage yard, the flashes thinned, pressure on the lane easing by degrees. She slapped the box and flicked her hand back—the kind of signal anyone could read. Vale answered with a slow creep in reverse, brake lights dull through the smoke. Oil and wet metal coated her tongue, soot drifting down; Gunner steady at her shoulder, muzzle tracking. This doesn't change anything, she told herself, and still she let his fire buy her the room to keep the trucks alive.
From her flank on Cargo Two, Harper caught the shift ahead—Brock peeling off the blocker with Price tight on his hip. They cut low across the lane and dropped in at Cargo Two's front corner on the rail-yard side, rifles chopping in short, exact bursts that shaved back anything pressing from the dock wall. Boots splashed through pooled runoff; they slotted in like it was a drill.
Cole broke the other way, skirting the blocker's tail and sliding wide toward the street side. He posted on the gap the trucks had to back through, rifle already laid in. Every few seconds he cracked a single round—measured, deliberate—to keep the lane clean.
From his post at the rear SUV, Nolan read the play and shifted higher, walking his fire down the catwalks—past the old ladder platform and into the far gantry joints—so nobody could rebuild overwatch. Casings clicked and hissed in the wet; the high line stayed quiet.
The pressure changed—less bite from above, the lane in front starting to open. She felt it in the way the smoke moved, gaps widening, light slipping under the murk. The trucks had a window, and everyone knew it.
The lull snapped like a tripwire. A fresh run of muzzle flash flared at the far end of the dock lane—closer now, heavier. Figures broke through the thinning smoke, running low between rail-yard flatbeds and the ribs of old forklifts. Someone up front hurled a bottle; it shattered across the stack Harper had lit earlier, and flame jumped higher, orange clawing into the black haze.
"Push coming!" Cole shouted from his curbside post, rifle cracking in steady rhythm. Brock dropped to a knee at Cargo Two's rail-yard front corner, Price tight on his hip; their rifles punched short, exact strings that shaved back anything pressing off the dock wall.
At Harper's shoulder, Gunner held her angle. They worked in cadence—her burst, his—keeping a muzzle lit every second. The first runner through folded to a knee and skidded; the next vaulted him and nearly made the corner before Brock's cut dropped him cold.
The Maw tried the high steel again—dark shapes flickering between catwalk braces—but Nolan was waiting. He'd held fire for it, then raked right to left across the rail until the flickers vanished. Diesel lugged in reverse as Vale kept easing back on her line.
Then came a man built heavy, plates strapped across his chest, charging the gap and hosing wild from the hip. Rounds hammered into the side of Cargo Two, a harsh metallic snarl that drove Harper's face tight to the panel. If he forced Vale to brake, even for a breath, the trucks would stall—and the rest would pour in.
Gunner leaned into her, shoulder plate brushing hard against her braid, his bulk blotting half her sightline as he rolled to the edge of the box. His rifle barked in a hard, climbing string that walked up the man's center and smashed him off his feet. Brass spun hot across Harper's vest, smoke curling as the body crumpled. Gunner stayed close, steady in the press of his shoulder, holding the angle like he'd braced there for her—like the fight had always lined him up at her shoulder instead of across from it.
For a breath the lane held—fewer flashes above, less bite ahead. The window was open. Not for long.
Vale had both mirrors full—smoke, firelight, movement—but the lane was clear. Harper slapped the panel, palm forward—go—and the truck fed more throttle, backing harder now along the path she'd set.
Brock didn't waste the seconds. He pushed off Cargo Two's front corner with Price on his hip, Cole sliding wide to hose the strip between the dock and the trucks. "Move!" Brock's voice cut through even without comms.
Harper saw Nolan break from the rear SUV, rifle still barking as he hit the gutter. He ran the rail-yard edge, cut around the nose, and came up on Cargo Two's passenger door. She slapped the panel—hold—while Gunner kept her lane hot. Nolan tucked in at the sill, rifle canted down the lane, eyes already on her.
Up ahead, Mason held the wheel on Cargo One while Brock yanked open the passenger door and climbed in. Cole scrambled up past the mirror and jammed onto the bench; Price wedged in last, kit clattering against the dash. Doors slammed half-shut, not clean, and Mason kept the rig rolling in reverse.
Harper held the smolder gap two counts longer until Nolan tapped her arm—up. Gunner yanked the handle and went first, boots on the step, one hand on the grab bar. He spun, fisted her vest at the shoulder and the back of her belt, and hauled; her thigh flared as she scrambled the step, and he dragged her across the sill onto the bench. Vale kept it straight and steady. Nolan came in last, shouldering through the opening; the door bounced, and he caught the handle and yanked it in until the latch clacked home. Four bodies crammed tight, muzzles down, elbows in, as Vale kept the truck creeping back.
Vale didn't wait on neat—both cargo trucks backed in tandem, steady and quick, smoke folding in behind them while the Maw's last wild shots chased empty air.
He kept the wheel tight, moving in step with Mason. The lane opened—smoke thinning, firelight pulsing in the gray. Shots still cracked from the dock, but Nolan leaned forward over his knees, braced on the dash, and worked the passenger window; his bursts raked the gaps and drove shapes off the steel.
The dead rear SUV loomed on their right, canted where Nolan had abandoned it. "Tight," Gunner said, and Vale took it tight—mirror brushing plastic, box corner kissing the Tahoe's nose and nudging it a foot. They slid past. Mason followed in the space Harper and Nolan had carved.
They cleared the pinch and Mason swung his wheel, bringing Cargo One across the lane. Vale matched the arc, the two boxes offset just enough to keep the open side covered. The gap between them became the way out.
Harper stayed hunched between Gunner and Nolan, thighs pressed to steel, the cab's heat soaking her shoulder where it met the door. Every brake check pulsed in her grazed leg, but her hands locked on the rifle, muzzle low, safety off. The air was hot with cordite and engine heat, cut by the cold that knifed in when Vale cracked his window.
The last cross street flashed wide in the mirrors. Vale dropped it into drive and fed throttle. The boxes straightened; the orange and smoke fell away until it was just sky again—wet, empty. Harper didn't loosen her grip on the rifle, but some wired part of her spine finally let go. They were moving. They were clear.