Harper froze at the back of the van. The world collapsed into ringing silence, her brain refusing to catch up. Smoke hissed low across the gravel, acrid and thick, swallowing the lane in gray.
Then hands—iron-hard—wrenched her sideways.
Sykes. He dragged her toward the front, boots skidding through grit and blood. The van shrieked beside them as rounds tore into the panels in brutal rhythm. Each impact was a hammer, shuddering the frame, peeling curls of metal that sliced the air.
Sound crashed back at once—gunfire shredding the yard, the van rattling like it might come apart under the storm. Bullets ripped through steel, ricocheting wild into the stacks.
Her shoulder slammed against the wheel well as Sykes shoved her down behind the tire. The rubber thrummed with every impact, gravel stinging her boots. Her pistol nearly slipped from her blood-slick hand.
A scream cut off sharp In the haze. Then a body jolted sideways into the dirt—Marco, arms flung wide, his pistol skidding away into shadow.
Her stomach lurched, bile clawing her throat, but there was no pause. Voices barked through the gray—Syndicate, cold and clipped—threading closer with every command. Boots thundered across gravel. The van shook under disciplined fire.
Her lungs burned, throat raw with diesel and copper. She blinked hard, grit scraping her eyes, forcing focus.
Sykes crouched tight beside her, slamming a fresh mag home, jaw clenched. His mouth moved—her name, maybe—but the ringing still drowned it.
She blinked again. The world fractured, then cleared.
"Harper!"
The sound ripped through the fog, raw and real this time.
"It's the Syndicate!" Sykes roared. "We're fucking ambushed!"
The word hit harder than the bullets.
That SUV. That fucking SUV.
She'd clocked it. Lights off, wrong angle, glass too dark. She told herself plates meant safe. That being the only one who noticed meant paranoia.
But she hadn't been paranoid.
Rico was gone. His blood clung to her lashes, streaked her cheek, metallic on her tongue every time she gasped for air. It dried sticky on her knuckles where she'd tried to grip him, smeared across the seams of her vest where he'd fallen too close. Proof of her silence. Proof of her mistake.
She had seen it. She hadn't spoken.
Now the yard was a killing ground. And the Syndicate was here.
Her pistol slid in her grip, greased with blood that wasn't hers. She locked her jaw and held tighter. No time for doubt. No room for hesitation. The cost was already written across her skin.
Sykes moved first.
He rose into a crouch, shoulder brushing hers, muzzle barking blind fire into the stacks. Each burst shredded smoke into staccato flashes, brass tumbling hot onto gravel. He ducked to reload, breath tearing from his chest, blood streaking his temple. His eyes cut to Harper—quick, steady—then he was up again, driving the Syndicate back a step if nothing else.
Harper planted a hand on his shoulder, pushing up with him. Her limbs felt heavy, her breath ragged, but the pistol came up. She caught flicker—movement behind a crate, a silhouette breaking left—and fired.
One shot. Pause. Another. Her shoulder jarred with recoil, teeth clacking from the shock. A figure dropped. Another vanished back into shadow. She didn't know if she'd hit, didn't care. She kept firing.
Sykes slammed another mag home, his arm brushing hers as they cut their fire into a ragged cross. Not clean, not fluid, but together. His rhythm steadied hers. Her angles cleared his blind spots. Improvised, but it worked—for now.
Rounds hammered the van, peeling steel back in sparks, windshield bursting outward in a rain of glass that mixed with smoke. The frame groaned like it was splitting apart, every impact showering them with debris.
Harper reloaded on instinct—slam, rack, fire. Again and again until she couldn't tell if the ringing in her head was the gun or her pulse. Shells scattered at her boots, rolling under her knees.
The Syndicate pressed tighter. Their bursts were controlled, herding fire—pinning them, pushing them in. Wolves closing a circle.
Sykes rose again, jaw set, muzzle flaring steady into the gray.
And then his head snapped sideways. A crack cut the air a half-beat later.
He staggered, pistol slipping loose, legs fumbling before gravel took him hard. His body twitched once, then stilled.
The pistol clattered against Harper's boot.
She stared, unblinking, flecks of blood hot across her cheek and lips. Not the drowning spray that had taken Rico—just enough to sting. To mark.
For a breath she froze, lungs locked, pulse shrieking in her ears.
Then instinct dragged her flat to the dirt, curling tighter against the wheel well, breath sawing ragged.
Gunfire chewed the van's flank in relentless rhythm, each strike rattling the frame until seams split and metal curled back like torn paper. Heat bled through the panels, stinging her cheek when she pressed too close.
She clamped her arms over her head as the windshield blew forward in a roar, shards spitting through smoke and bouncing hot against her neck. The front tire bulged, then burst with a muffled clap, rubber hissing out in a long, wheezing death.
The van was cover, but It was unraveling fast. Every volley chewed it closer to collapse, folding steel in around her like a coffin lid.
No warning shots. No scare tactic. This wasn't a warning. It was an execution.
Her forehead pressed to hot metal slick with powder and sweat. Hands trembling, blood-slick, she clenched her pistol until her knuckles burned. Move. You have to move.
Smoke scoured her lungs, copper sharp on her tongue. She swallowed it and counted heartbeats—one, two, three—prayers rasped silent against her teeth.
The fire faltered—only a breath, but enough.
She pushed off the gravel and broke cover.
Harper tore free of the van's shadow, boots slipping on gravel slick with oil and blood. Her pistol stayed welded to her hand, the other flung wide to balance as she sprinted low across open ground.
Gunfire chased her instantly.
Bullets shrieked past her skull, carving the air so close she felt their heat. Sparks tore off the container stack ahead, steel splitting, shards spitting like shrapnel.
Then fire ripped through her shoulder.
The round grazed deep across flesh, hot and savage, snapping her sideways mid-sprint. Pain lit her arm in white fire, nerves screaming down to her fingertips. Her cry cracked raw as her legs buckled, boots skidding in gravel. She dropped to a knee, pistol nearly slipping once in her grip slick with sweat and blood.
She forced herself forward anyway—half-stumble, half-sprint—blood already running down her sleeve, soaking warm into her shirt. She hurled herself into the shadows at the base of the containers, body slamming steel, ribs folding with the impact. The grunt that tore from her chest was more animal than breath.
She didn't check the wound. Didn't dare.
Gunfire still raked the lane, snapping at the ground she'd just crossed. They'd seen her break. They were still hunting.
Her chest fluttered, smoke and copper burning her lungs raw. She risked a glance around the container's edge—just a sliver.
And saw them.
Sykes sprawled facedown in gravel, half his skull gone. Rico crumpled nearby, one arm pinned awkward, mouth slack like he'd died mid-sentence. Their blood ran together, black in the halogen light, soaking into dirt like oil from a gutted machine.
Harper snapped back into cover, spine pressed to steel, lungs dragging smoke that scraped all the way down.
Her jaw locked until her teeth creaked. Her hands shook so hard she almost dropped the pistol—fingers numb, grit biting into her palms from the fall. Blood slicked her skin, some hers, most not.
She slapped the mag release, nearly fumbled the reload, then jammed it home. The click landed hollow, final.
Cold steel pressed through sweat-soaked fabric at her back. Her head tipped against it, dragging air in jagged pulls. The wound seared—heat pulsing outward, wet slide of blood tracking down her side. Shock had numbed her first. Now it was nothing but fire.
Her ribs ached. Her stomach heaved. Her pulse battered too fast to count.
She was going to die here. She felt it in the dark pressing closer, in the way every sound crawled straight for her.
Her fingers tightened anyway. Not for victory. Not for glory. Just because it was the only thing left.
Keep firing. Keep breathing. One more second. One more shot.
That was all she had.
─•────
Brock lowered his rifle, barrel still hot, smoke curling off the muzzle in faint threads that bled into the haze choking the yard. He'd taken the shot—clean, controlled—and watched her stumble into the stacks.
"Got her," he muttered, eyes narrowing. After a beat, quieter: "Don't know if it stuck."
Knuckles snorted, spat into the gravel, and clapped him once on the shoulder before hauling himself up the jagged pile of containers beside them. "Always gotta make me check your work," he threw down, grin wide, sweat streaking dirt across his jaw.
He climbed higher, boots thudding off dented corners, fingers catching rusted lips of steel, until he crouched low at the top. From up there the smoke thinned just enough to cut a line through the steel maze. He leaned forward—
A pistol cracked.
The round ripped past his ear, close enough to scorch skin, and punched into the container behind him with a metallic shriek. Sparks spat across his back, showering his shoulders. Knuckles flinched hard, teeth bared, then barked a laugh anyway, voice bouncing raw between the walls.
"She's still breathing!"
Brock's jaw flexed, teeth grinding once. For a half-second, his chest tightened—saw Knuckles crumpled, skull open on steel—but he buried it, forced his focus narrow. His face smoothed blank, clinical, colder than relief.
"Stay low," he snapped, voice flat as iron. "Hold position. Cover me."
Knuckles spat into the haze again, still grinning despite the sting on his cheek. "Don't get yourself clipped."
Brock's gaze cut past him, catching Gunner crouched two rows down, half-shrouded in smoke, rifle resting easy but ready. "Swing wide, to the east" Brock ordered, voice pitched low but carrying. "If she breaks your way, you cut her off."
Gunner gave a curt nod and melted into the maze, boots crunching once before the fog swallowed him whole.
Brock waited, counting heartbeats until the yard settled again—his men sliding into place, silent and exact, moving like extensions of his own will. Only then did he step out from cover, deliberate, every stride measured. The smoke curled against his shoulders, wrapping him in the hush before the strike.
─•────
Harper leaned out, shoulder blazing where the bullet had carved flesh. Pain radiated down her arm in ragged pulses, every heartbeat pumping fire through the wound. Her pistol trembled in both hands, arms locked stiff as she sighted high across the container stack—where she'd last seen the blond Syndicate bastard climb out of view. Smoke licked through the gaps in thin ribbons, warping the edges of steel, and she searched the ridges for movement.
Nothing.
Her gaze dropped lower.
And froze.
Not blond. Black hair. Ground level. Much closer.
He stood just beyond the mangled front end of the van, broad-shouldered, rifle held low but steady as stone. Composed. Centered. His eyes cut through the thinning haze and locked onto hers, unblinking. It wasn't the look of a man who'd spotted her—it was the look of someone who had been waiting, counting each second until now.
The stare hit her throat like pressure, cold and merciless. Deliberate. It told her he didn't need to rush, didn't need to shout or spray fire. In his head the fight was already over, the distance already gone.
Her shoulder screamed as If the wound had torn open fresh, arms buckling under her own grip. Breath tore out of her chest as she jerked back into cover, spine smacking the corrugated wall hard enough to rattle her teeth. The pistol shivered in her hands. Her knees wanted to fold. She locked them straight by force.
Whoever he was—he wasn't like the others. He didn't bring chaos. He was the chaos, condensed and waiting to break.
The rest of the yard roared in muffled fragments—bursts of fire, clipped shouts—but here, in her corner, the noise cut out. Silence pressed in heavy, as if the stacks themselves had leaned closer to listen. Every breath dragged smoke and copper through her throat until she gagged on it. Her own pulse hammered so loud it might as well have been boots closing in.
She strained to hear him. To place him.
But the silence stretched—merciless, choking—until she felt it gnawing at her bones.
She risked another glance—quick, desperate—and nearly recoiled back blind.
He was moving now. Not fast. Not careful. Just walking through the haze with his rifle raised, sight fixed. His silhouette cut clean against the smoke, every stride deliberate, a man for whom distance meant nothing.
Panic detonated in her chest. She fired without aiming—two wild shots, jerking with recoil. One sparked off the van's ruined fender, a useless ricochet. The other vanished into gray.
He didn't even twitch.
Then his rifle answered—once.
The round tore into the container a breath from her head, shrieking through steel. Shards burst outward; one jagged edge kissed her cheek, slicing a thin, searing line that bled instantly. The blast rocked her sideways, her wounded shoulder slamming the wall so hard pain ripped all the way down her arm. She spat blood, teeth aching from the jolt.
No time. No space to breathe.
She bolted—boots tearing across gravel, legs clumsy under her, lungs clawing for air. She hurled herself deeper into the maze, ribs burning, shoulder slick, blood streaking hot down her arm. No plan. No direction. Just away—from him, from that impossible precision, from the inevitability she'd seen in his eyes.
─•────
Brock barely shifted as her wild shots tore past—one snapped the air close enough to tug his jacket, the other struck the disabled van. He didn't flinch. Didn't even blink.
He lifted his rifle and squeezed once. Clean. Exact.
The round punched into the crate a breath from her skull. Steel screamed, shards spraying bright. She dropped back hard, vanishing from sight.
Brock's hand flicked up—a two-fingered signal toward the stack where Knuckles crouched above. Hold. Watch the lanes.
Then he moved.
Boots pounding gravel, rifle hugged tight, each stride long and controlled. The smoke had thinned here, curling low, revealing jagged glimpses of the maze beyond.
He swung around the edge of her cover—caught a flash of red glint ahead. She was already running, weaving deeper into the row. Blood streaked her face, her shoulder dragged low, breath tearing ragged from her chest. Fast—but uneven. Predictable.
Brock raised the rifle, cheek pressed firm to the stock. His shot cracked, recoil biting into his shoulder, the echo rattling through the steel canyon. Sparks spat from the wall an inch behind her spine as she veered at the last instant.
He didn't pause. Fired again—measured, precise—but she skidded hard into smoke, and the round chewed another burst of shrapnel out of steel.
She vanished behind the next stack. A flicker of hair, then nothing.
Brock advanced, rifle shouldered, eyes cutting through smoke as he rounded the corner—
Empty.
The lane stretched hollow. Containers loomed high, doors half-open, hinges whispering in the wind. Smoke dragged across the ground like it meant to hide her. No copper glint. No motion. Just silence pressing back.
His comm cracked. Knuckles, voice tight: "No visual. Smoke's too thick."
Brock's jaw flexed. He keyed his mic, voice low, iron-flat. "Drop down. Sweep west. I'll drive her south."
A pause, then Knuckles again, steady despite the rasp of breath: "Copy. Let's close it."
Brock lowered the mic. His pulse hadn't shifted. This wasn't adrenaline. This was inevitability. She was here—trapped in steel and shadow. Every second only narrowed her choices.
He stepped forward, rifle steady, each stride deliberate. The smoke curled against him, heavy as breath, the yard itself folding in.
─•────
Harper bolted blind through the maze, boots skidding on gravel slick with oil. Her lungs burned, every drag pulling rust and smoke deep into her chest. She cut left, then right, shoulder smashing steel, bouncing off corners like a hunted animal with no rhythm but desperation.
A round cracked off the container above, metal screaming as shards rained down. One jagged piece sliced her brow. Hot blood spilled into her eye, half-blinding her. She swiped at it, smearing red across her cheek, but it only blurred her vision worse.
Her wounded shoulder throbbed like fire, every step jolting pain down her ribs. She stumbled over a low pallet stack, boots clanging against rusted slats, then dropped hard into the next lane, knees flaring. No pause. No thought. Just run.
The smoke thinned ahead, exposing open ground. Too much space. No cover.
Her chest seized. Panic clawed high. She spun—searching—until she found it: a seam between two leaning stacks. Barely a gap. Barely enough.
She jammed herself in shoulder-first, steel biting into her arms, ribs crushed between cold walls until she couldn't breathe. The space stank of oil and salt rot, damp and sour. Claustrophobic. Squeezing.
She forced herself deeper, scraping skin raw, until she was swallowed by the narrow dark. Then she turned—slow, clumsy, panicked. Elbows and knees screamed as she twisted until her back pressed to steel, knees folding under her. There was no room to shift. No escape if she'd guessed wrong.
Blood dripped hot from her brow into her eye, streaking down her cheek, soaking into her collar. She let it burn, didn't dare wipe it.
Her pistol came up, both hands trembling, arms locked stiff despite the shake. The muzzle aimed at the sliver of light she'd crawled through.
She couldn't see him. Couldn't hear him.
But he was there.
Moving. Listening.
And if his shadow crossed that seam—if he found her—she had one shot. One chance.
─•────
Brock moved slower now. Deliberate. Each step pressed into gravel without a sound, weight rolled heel to toe until even the earth seemed reluctant to mark his passing. The rush of the first shots had bled away, leaving something colder in its place. Not adrenaline. Not urgency. Just patience. The edge of the kill drawn out.
He cut through the rows like water finding cracks, slipping between stacks that leaned together at ugly angles, containers looming five-high on either side. Smoke dragged low across the ground, thick enough to blur the distance, thin enough to keep him guessing with every turn. The yard pressed tight, steel walls narrowing, the air heavy with salt and spent powder.
Then he saw it.
A smear of red along the jagged lip of a container corner, bright against rust. Another droplet clung to the grit below, trembling in the thin light before soaking into dirt. Further on, a darker streak dragged along steel where a shoulder had brushed too close.
Her shoulder.
The marks were quick. Staggered. Desperate. She was moving fast—but she wasn't careful.
Brock's mouth curled, faint and humorless. She was bleeding. Good.
He shifted his rifle higher, the weight steady and natural in his hands, and advanced deeper into the maze. The smoke thinned for a moment, showing the lane ahead before swallowing it again. He tracked each sign she left—blood smeared across steel, a scuff in the gravel, the faint echo of something brushed out of place.
She was close. He could feel it in the silence.
Not panic. Not chase. Just inevitability drawing tight around them both.
─•────
Harper stayed wedged in the crawl of steel, knees jammed to her chest, ribs grinding against the walls until every breath felt stolen. The container edges pressed cold into her spine, rust biting through fabric, cutting her skin raw when she tried to shift. She couldn't. There was no room. No space to run. Just the suffocating press of steel boxing her in.
Her pistol wavered In her hands, slick with sweat and blood, the barrel twitching with every tremor in her arms. Every shiver felt like it screamed in the silence. And the silence was unbearable. Not relief. Not peace. The silence that comes after screams have already died, when the air itself holds its breath.
She dragged her wrist across her face, smearing blood down her cheek, warm and wet, sliding into her collar. It only blurred her vision more, red haze dripping into her lashes.
Her lungs dragged smoke and rust, shallow, choking pulls that set her chest heaving too fast, too loud. Panic clawed up her throat like bile. She swallowed hard, clamped her teeth until her jaw ached, shoulders quivering with the effort of holding it in.
They were gone. Rico. Sykes. Marco. Left in the dirt. She'd seen their bodies. She couldn't unsee them.
Now it was only her.
No voices. No boots. No shots. Just her pulse slamming frantic against her ribs and the faint hiss of her own breath scraping in and out. And out there—the black-haired bastard. Calm. Patient. He wasn't rushing. He didn't need to. He was closing in because he knew she had nowhere left to go.
The Viper den flickered in her mind, distant and wrong. The others laughing over cards. Bitching about rations. Throwing bets. Dante's grin, crooked and smug. His voice, low, teasing. Tomorrow night. Dinner. Just us.
There wasn't going to be a tomorrow. Not for her.
Her hands shook harder. She locked them tighter around the pistol, clenching until her knuckles screamed white. She kept it raised at the narrow slice of light where she'd crawled through, sightline steady despite the tremor in her chest.
A sound clawed free from her throat—a tiny, ragged whimper, raw and unbidden. It slipped out before she could stop it.
Her teeth sank into her lip, cutting it off. She breathed once, hard. Steeled herself.
Eyes locked on that opening. Finger taut on the trigger.
If he came—she'd be ready.
─•────
Brock's boots whispered over gravel, his weight balanced, every step measured. The rifle hung forgotten at his side; he didn't need it now. The blood trail had thinned but not vanished—smears on steel, droplets sunk into dust. Enough to know. Enough to follow.
She hadn't gotten far. Couldn't have. She was boxed in somewhere, wedged tight. Final.
He slowed at the narrow gap between two stacks, the shadows pressed thick. The trail led straight in, vanishing into the seam. He tilted his head, pale eyes scanning the dark slit, patient, unblinking.
His hand went to the knife at his belt. Black-handled. Reliable. He turned it once in his grip, then flattened the blade against the container wall. His palm lingered there, feeling the cold press of steel, listening. The space was too tight for her to run. Too quiet for her to breathe without him hearing.
Brock crouched, lowering himself until the rusted edge of the container cut against his cheek. Light bled across the scars at his throat, pale lines from old burns catching faint against the dark. He leaned in, close enough that his breath fogged against the steel.
"You boxed yourself in, Viper," he said, voice quiet, almost conversational. "Nowhere to go."
The knife's edge rasped as he drew it slow down the wall. The sound wasn't loud, but it carried—grinding, grating, drilling through the hollow space. A sound meant to crawl under skin. To remind her he was right there.
He waited, listening for the smallest shift—the catch of breath, the scrape of boot leather, the twitch that betrayed prey in hiding.
Inside the gap, Harper jolted. The scrape of his knife down steel shrieked through her hiding place, a sound that clawed down her spine and knotted in her teeth. His voice was worse—calm, certain, like he'd already written the ending. But that grinding scream of metal turned her gut. It wasn't just noise. It was a clock starting to tick.
Then he leaned into view. Broad frame. Pale eyes. The glint of steel in his hand. That was all it took.
She fired.
The pistol thundered in the narrow crawl, deafening, the flash blinding her night vision for a heartbeat. The blast ricocheted inside the steel throat she was wedged in, so loud it felt like her skull would split.
The round caught him high In the shoulder, punching cloth and flesh, spraying dark across the steel. He jerked back, rifle sagging, face tightening but not breaking.
It was enough.
Harper threw herself forward, forcing her body out of the chokehold of containers. Elbows scraped raw, her wounded shoulder screamed fire, ribs ground against rust. Her vest snagged hard on a jagged edge, wrenching her sideways until the strap tore free.
Then she spilled into open air.
Boots skidded, lungs locking, blood in her mouth and smoke in her chest. She hit gravel hard, half-crawled, half-stumbled, and then her legs caught and drove her forward.
No plan. No cover. Only speed. Only survival.
She didn't look back. Couldn't. The only thing she could feel was him behind her, close enough to breathe the same air.
So she ran.
Like death was reaching for her throat—
Because it fucking was.