The range sat at the far end of the training floor, sealed off from the rest of the compound. Concrete walls boxed it in tight, windowless, the only light thrown down from strips of fluorescents that hummed overhead. The air carried a permanent tang of gunpowder, metallic and sour, soaked deep into the concrete until it clung to the back of the throat. Scored lanes stretched forward in rigid lines, paint blistered where bullets had chewed through targets again and again. Brass shells littered the corners despite the sweep of brooms, small reminders that the floor never stayed clean for long.
Brock stood planted at the edge of the lane, weight balanced like the concrete itself was an anchor. Black cargos tucked into scuffed boots, a plain black t-shirt drawn tight across his frame, his holstered pistol riding easy against his hip. His arms rested loose at his sides, steady, the stance of a man who didn't need to posture or prepare. The range light caught along the line of his jaw, shadowing the rest, and for a moment he looked less like a trainer than a sentinel—set there to judge whether what stood beside him had any chance of surviving what was coming.
Harper stood a half-step forward, close enough that the partition wall brushed her arm when she shifted. Black cargos hung straight over her boots, the seams still stiff, and a black tank top clung close across her chest, the Syndicate's emblem stamped stark at the center. The hem had ridden slightly out of place, baring a strip of midriff where the curve of a viper's scales curled up her side before vanishing under fabric again. The light skimmed the faint red line at her throat when she turned, a mark thin enough to catch the eye, but healed. She held herself steady near Brock, posture plain, neither loose nor wound tight, waiting.
It had been weeks since the night Brock dragged her bleeding out of the cell and into his quarters. Recovery came slow—bruises fading to yellow, cuts knitting over, her appetite creeping back meal by meal until Graves finally pronounced herself satisfied. The nightmares hadn't let go. They came almost every night, jagged and relentless. At first she let them break loose, waking with a cry, and Brock would come through the door. He crouched beside her, voice steady, grounding her until her breathing steadied again. But the longer it went on, the more she noticed the change—the clipped tone, the edge creeping into his patience. The night he told her she could come get him if it happened again, she knew better than to believe it. The cracked door looked less like mercy than a test, and she never once crossed it. Instead, she bit down on the screams until her throat burned, forcing herself silent even as panic tore her raw. In time, the door stayed locked at night again, the offer gone, and she lay in the dark with her nightmares pressed close, no sound escaping but the grind of her own teeth.
Now she stood in the lane beside him, the line of targets stretching downrange in rigid symmetry. The partitions pressed close at either side, boxing her in with Brock's solid frame, his presence heavy even when silent. Her hands hung at her sides, fingers loose but waiting, every part of her focused forward as if the lane itself were holding its breath. The past pressed at the edges of her mind, but here, in this narrow strip of concrete and brass, all that mattered was what came next.
Brock moved first. He stepped forward and drew a matte-black pistol from the holster on his hip—standard Syndicate issue, built for precision, made to last. He checked the chamber, then drove the magazine home with a solid metallic click before setting the weapon down on the table between them.
"This isn't about speed," he said, voice even and grounded, the kind of tone that left no room for doubt. "Center mass. Five rounds. No tricks. No improvising. Aim, and fire."
He reached for the earmuffs, set them beside the pistol, then let his hand rest there a moment longer. His gaze found hers, steady, giving her no way around it. "Do you understand?"
Her fingers moved toward the grip, slow, but his hand dropped over the weapon before she could reach it. Not violent. Not even hard. Just final.
"I said—do you understand?"
The air between them tightened. She froze, then lifted her chin and met his stare head-on. A beat passed, heavy, before she gave a short nod. "I understand."
Only then did he ease his hand away, letting the pistol sit open for her to claim.
The pistol felt wrong in her grip. Or maybe too right. It had been weeks—maybe months, time bleeding together in captivity—since she'd been allowed near one. Since steel had rested in her hand with the power to decide who lived, who didn't. The weight was familiar, the balance settling into her palm like it belonged there, but here—under Syndicate lights, in Brock's lane—it pressed heavier than memory.
He stepped back, giving her space. She didn't falter. She checked the safety, slid the earmuffs on, and squared herself toward the target. Thirty feet out, the human silhouette stood black against paper. Torso. Head. The outline clear in the light, waiting.
Her stance came back without thought—weight even, arms steady, sightline fixed. Behind her, just at the edge of her vision, Brock waited, silent, his presence as solid as the concrete walls.
She pulled the trigger.
The crack tore through the range, loud even under the muffs. Recoil drove up her arms—contained, but off, her frame not locking down the way it should. The round hit low, wide of center. A clean miss.
She didn't look back at him. Just let out a slow breath, reset her grip, shifted her stance until the weight settled even again. The movements came automatic, drilled long ago, her body adjusting before her mind could catch up.
The second shot landed closer—upper shoulder, enough to stagger but not enough to end it. The kind of wound that bought you a second in an alley, not a clean drop.
Brock shifted behind her. "That your idea of center mass?" His tone carried neither sarcasm nor anger—just a precise observation.
She didn't answer. A muscle in her jaw feathered tight, but her eyes stayed forward. She exhaled hard through her nose, body recalibrating—quiet, automatic.
This wasn't fear. This was pressure. Pressure she knew how to hold.
Her shoulders rolled back, a deliberate reset. She adjusted her grip, let her breath settle, and locked her stance into place as though bracing her whole frame against the concrete. The pistol steadied, sightline aligning clean.
The third shot punched true.
Then the last two came fast, both driving into center mass. A tight cluster through sternum, lung, spine. She stayed steady, arms extended, chest rising slow as her pulse settled.
A ghost of a smile touched her mouth as she turned.
Brock didn't smile. Not exactly. But something shifted at the corner of his mouth—quiet, almost there. "Better," he said.
She handed him the weapon, grip reversed. No word passed between them. Brock took it, thumbed the slide back just enough to check the chamber, then brought it up with fluid ease. He stepped to the line, raised the pistol, and squeezed off five shots in fast succession.
Each round punched dead center. The grouping was tight, surgical, the kind that came from thousands of hours rather than instinct.
Harper's gaze locked on the holes clustering over one another, her own rounds just below. The shape of it. The spacing. Exact. Controlled. And memory pulled hard—back to the yard, that first night, when he'd raised a gun to her skull and fired. Inches wide. A miss that hadn't been a miss at all. A warning. A show of control.
Same aim now. Same man.
Brock holstered the pistol without a word and crossed to the far wall. The rack waited there, rifles lined in rigid symmetry, their matte barrels dull under the fluorescents. He reached for one with the ease of muscle memory, like it was just another tool meant for his hand.
Harper's chest tightened. Those rifles were etched into her memory by consequence alone. They were the ones that cut the yard apart—rounds shrieking past her skull, sparks spraying from steel, fire lancing her shoulder sideways. The ones Knuckles braced steady before the crack slammed her flat, ribs folding, lungs seizing. And they'd ripped through the den too, tearing her world down in bursts of muzzle flash and screams that ended too fast.
Her throat worked against the phantom burn, eyes fixed on the weapon like it still smoked from the last time she heard it roar. Something clenched hard beneath her ribs.
Brock turned back, rifle cradled loose in his hands, the weight nothing to him. One hand settled at the grip, the other braced near the mag well, steady as though the weapon were an extension of him. His eyes found hers.
"You handle a sidearm," he said, voice level. "I've seen that. But a pistol's just a fallback—close range, last resort. Here, this is what you'll be expected to carry. What you'll be expected to use."
The words landed heavier than the rifle itself. Pistol work was alley survival, frantic scrambles in smoke and grit. This was different. This was built for holding lines, for clearing rooms, for cutting people down before they ever got close.
Brock didn't bring it straight to her. He let the rifle rest easy in his grip as he crossed back, giving her time to see it for what it was. Like the weapon itself carried more than steel and polymer—it carried the shift in rules. This wasn't just about learning mechanics. The Syndicate didn't want her competent. They wanted her changed.
She stepped forward to meet him, boots scuffing low against concrete. Her eyes stayed locked on the rifle as he finally extended it out. She took it with both hands, careful, as though the wrong grip might betray her. The weight dropped into her arms at once—denser than she expected, heavier than anything she'd carried with the Vipers. The balance was strange, the frame long and solid against her chest. She fumbled briefly with the sling, unsure whether it was meant to hang or brace, but kept her gaze on the weapon, not him.
The stock was cool against her palms, the polymer clean, the matte surface unscarred. No rust. No wear. Maintained to last. It felt like more than a weapon—it felt like something built to hold the ground itself.
Brock watched her quietly, head tilted—not judging, just measuring.
"You ever even held an AR platform?"
She didn't meet his eyes. Just gave a short shake of her head. "No."
"You're not firing it until I'm satisfied you can handle it." No threat in his tone. Just fact. His rules, his domain.
Brock didn't step back right away. He stayed close, presence solid at her shoulder, eyes tracking every twitch of her grip. "Finger stays indexed," he said, tone clipped. "Off the trigger until you're on target. You know that rule—keep it here."
His hand slid against hers, nudging her support forward along the rail. The brush of skin pulled a jolt from her muscles, but he didn't linger—just shifted her grip where it belonged. "You don't choke this like a pistol. The forward hand controls your recoil. Reach out, get leverage. Lock it."
He adjusted her fingers until the weight steadied. Then his palm came to her shoulder, tapping the shallow pocket above her collarbone before pressing the stock firm into place. "Tight. No gaps. If you let it float, it owns you."
He moved behind her, one hand resting flat between her shoulders, the other nudging at her hip to widen her stance. "Feet apart. Lead forward. Knees soft." The light push at her back angled her weight onto the balls of her feet. "The rifle drives into you, you drive back. That's how you stand through it."
Her body stiffened under each adjustment, instinct flaring with every touch, but he handled her like he would any other weapon in his hands—direct, precise, without hesitation. She forced herself to take it, to let him set her frame.
"Sight rides higher than the bore," Brock said, voice low at her ear. "At close range, your shot lands lower than your aim. Compensate."
When he finally stepped back, his eyes stayed on her, measuring. The pause stretched before he spoke again, even.
"Now—show me you're holding it right."
Harper stepped back into the lane, the rifle held steady in her arms. She set her feet the way he'd shown her—left forward, weight balanced, knees soft, barrel lifted. The motion came smoother this time, almost second nature.
Brock closed the distance, his eyes on her frame. He gave the sling a sharp tug where it cut across her shoulder, cinching it until the rifle hugged closer to her body. "Strap stays snug," he said. "Too loose and it drags you off. Too tight and you can't move. This keeps it yours."
He stepped past her to the table, pulled a fresh magazine from the rack, and let her watch. "Seat it clean," he said, sliding it into the mag well until it locked. "Then rack the charging handle. Every time, same way. No half-measures." The handle snapped forward with a metallic crack. "If it doesn't sound like that, you're wrong."
Brock popped the magazine loose and held it out. "Your turn."
Harper took it, the steel cool in her grip. She guided it up to the mag well, hesitated a breath, then drove it home. The click landed clean. She racked the charging handle, the motion stiff but steady, and it snapped back into place with the sound he'd drilled into her a moment before.
Brock gave her stance another once-over, eyes running down her frame. His hand rose, tapping the selector with one finger. "Safe. Semi. Burst." The switch clicked once, his fingertip resting flat. "You'll learn all of them. But for now, it stays here. Semi only. One round, one target. You don't touch burst until I tell you."
She gave a short nod, fingers tightening around the grip. "Semi. One shot." The words came out quiet, but steady enough to count.
Brock's eyes stayed fixed on her. "All right. Show me."
Harper lifted the rifle, stock snugged where he'd set it, cheek pressed into the comb until the sights cut the target into view. Thirty feet downrange, the paper silhouette waited, torso dark and still. She drew a breath, held it shallow, and pulled the trigger.
The rifle kicked back—not wild, but enough. The butt slipped out of the shoulder pocket, her elbow jolted wide, and the muzzle climbed harder than she expected. Brass spat sideways, clattering near her boot as the round tore high and left, skimming wide of the silhouette's shoulder.
Her mouth pressed thin. She reset, finger indexed until she realigned her sights. Another breath. She shifted her stance, sinking her weight down like Brock had drilled into her, knees soft, shoulders loose. The muzzle dipped back into line. She fired again.
This time the shot drove low, clipping the outer edge of the silhouette's ribs. A hit, but sloppy—more a graze than a kill. She bit down against the sting of frustration.
Behind her, Brock didn't move. Didn't speak. Just watched.
She muttered under her breath and slid her support hand further out along the rail, locking her elbow in tight to anchor the rifle. Her shoulders rolled back, deliberate, the way she used to reset before a pistol drill. Breath eased low into her chest.
The third shot cracked out, steadier. The round punched clean into the torso.
She fired again—slow, deliberate. Another mark inside the outline, just off center.
Her last shot followed, arms tightening, sightline narrowing until the trigger broke and the round slammed into the paper's chest. One true, two close, two wide. Not useless. Not enough.
Behind her, Brock finally stepped forward. He didn't reach for the rifle itself, just stopped at her side, eyes scanning the scattering of holes punched into the paper. "Your sling slipped under recoil," he said, voice even. "Pulled your shoulder out of pocket. That's why the stock floated."
He reached In, fingers quick on the strap, loosening the bind so it dropped cleaner across her chest. Then his palm came to her shoulder, pressing the stock back into the shallow pocket above her collarbone. "Tight," he said. "You keep it here. If it wanders, you pull it back. Don't let the rifle decide where it sits."
His hand slid to her wrist, nudging her support grip higher on the rail until her elbow locked tighter. "Forward pressure. Always. The recoil's going up and back—your job's to drive it down and in."
She nodded once, jaw tight. Hands re-centered. This time, when she lifted the rifle again, it felt different. Still unfamiliar—but anchored now. Set in her bones instead of just her arms.
He stepped back.
Harper fired. The first shot landed high in the chest—solid enough. She steadied, squeezed again. The second drove through the outline's left lung. The third clipped just under the sternum, cleaner than before.
Her stance didn't fold this time. The stock stayed pressed firm where Brock had driven it, her shoulder absorbing the kick instead of giving ground. The muzzle still climbed, but it didn't break away from her. The rifle was loud, weighty, but not dragging her out of control.
Smoke curled from the barrel, drifting pale through the lane, the faint acrid sting mixing with the permanent reek of gunpowder already soaked into the walls. Harper lowered the rifle halfway, her chest rising and falling hard, each breath working to force steadiness back into her frame.
Brock's boots sounded close behind her. He didn't reach for the weapon. He didn't touch her. Just stopped at her side, eyes cutting over the grouping on the target before flicking back to her.
"Clear it," he said.
Her throat tightened at the command, but her hands moved without argument. She flicked the safety up with her thumb, metal clicking into place. The magazine slid free, clattering when it hit the concrete. Her fingers racked the charging handle back, stiff at first, then snapping forward with a metallic crack. The live round spat free, hit the floor, and spun out beside the magazine.
She hesitated a fraction, pulse racing as she forced herself through the last motions. Then she turned the rifle in her hands, presenting it empty, chamber open, grip steady as she extended it toward him.
Only then did Brock take it from her, his hand closing over the weapon without a word.
Brock checked the rifle, always precise, then thumbed the selector down to rest on semi. His eyes stayed on her target as he spoke.
"Single fire teaches control. One round, one decision. You start to wire that in. But burst?" His thumb hovered near the switch, just a flick shy of the next setting. "Burst strips it all away. Three rounds before you even take a breath. If your body isn't locked down, you climb, you drift, you waste your mag—and in a fight, that waste gets you killed."
He glanced at her, the weight of it heavy as the rifle in his hands.
"You're steadying now because you've got time between shots. Burst takes that away. You don't get to think. You don't get to reset. Every weakness shows up in an instant."
His voice leveled out, flat as concrete.
"You want burst?" His eyes didn't leave hers. "Earn it."
They didn't stop after that. Brock reset the target; she reloaded. Round after round, she drilled under his watchful eye—single fire only. Stance corrections came fewer and farther between. The bruising in her shoulder would come later, but for now, she focused on breathing, timing, recoil. By the time he called it, her arms ached and her shirt clung damp to her spine, but the rifle felt almost natural in her grip. Almost.
The acrid scent of burnt powder followed them out of the range, stitched into her clothes, her skin, her lungs. No words passed between them as they moved down the corridor—shoulders sore, collarbone welted raw from the sling, the ghost of his hand still burned against her side where he'd adjusted her aim. But she didn't lag. The quiet wasn't cold. It was aftermath. Weight without edge.
The corridor climbed In tight concrete stairs, the air cooler as they rose out of the range. Brock's hand closed around her arm as they moved—steady, not crushing, but enough to remind her who was in control. His stride set the pace, boots hitting each step with the same even weight, and she matched it, her shoulder brushing the wall when the stairwell narrowed.
At the top, the sound shifted—distant voices, the rattle of trays, the low murmur that bled from the cafeteria ahead. The smell followed too: grease, coffee, the faint metallic bite of canned vegetables cooked down until they barely held shape.
Brock didn't break stride. But just before the door, he released her arm. The absence felt sudden, her sleeve still warm where his grip had been. He reached ahead instead, pushing the door open into the light and noise of the mess.
The cafeteria opened around her in a rush of noise—trays clattering, voices cutting over one another, the scrape of benches dragging against concrete. Heat pressed out from the food line at the far wall, grease and scorched coffee riding heavy in the air.
Brock cut through the space without pause, his pace steady, shoulders carrying enough weight that the crowd shifted on its own. Harper stayed close, her steps tucked into the line of his, gaze fixed on the path ahead.
Glances followed anyway. Not the silence and hard stares that had gutted her the first time, but quick looks, flickers that lingered too long before sliding off. Curiosity, calculation. Her skin prickled beneath them all the same. Weeks locked in silence with only Brock had narrowed her world down to stone walls and the sound of his voice. Now, with the press of bodies and the sprawl of the hall, every muscle in her chest drew tight.
At the counter, Brock caught two trays from the stack, the metal edges clanging together, and slid one toward her before stepping into line. Steam curled up from the battered pans, carrying the smell of roasted meat and salt. He moved without hesitation, scooping a generous portion of beef stew thick with carrots and potatoes, a slab of cornbread dropped beside it, and a mug of coffee poured black and strong. His plate filled quick—substantial, heavy, the way a man his size ate by default.
Harper followed in quieter measure. Her tray edged down the line, her hand choosing smaller portions—a ladle of rice dotted with vegetables, a piece of chicken pulled lean off the bone, a slice of apple from a dented tray tucked to one side. At the drink urns she passed on the coffee, instead filling her tin cup from the water cooler, the faint chill a cleaner promise against the burn of the other pots.
She kept her eyes down, not lingering on the men ahead or behind, letting her movements mirror his pace without ever matching the weight of his choices.
She trailed him out of the line, tray balanced carefully in both hands, the weight of food suddenly secondary to the pull of the room. Instinct edged her eyes up in a brief sweep—fast, cursory. The three who had held her down in the cell weren't here. Relief caught, sharp and fleeting, before it gave way to the greater press of stares that lingered anyway.
Brock didn't pause. His stride cut through the rows, steady as a blade parting water, and Harper felt her stomach knot as she caught where he was headed. Knuckles sat planted at the center of a table, broad shoulders filling the space, a mug loose in his hand. Two men bracketed him, their voices falling away when Brock's shadow crossed their table. The noise of the cafeteria dulled in Harper's ears, everything tightening as her steps carried her closer.
Knuckles spotted them first. He leaned back just enough to mark their arrival, a grin spreading wide across his face. "About time. We just rolled back in—quick delivery out east. Mason handled the wheel; Vale kept the crates from walking." His chin jerked toward the men beside him.
The names landed heavy. Mason—broad, restless, fork scraping idle against his plate—she remembered him from the night everything collapsed, the grip that had hauled her into that dark SUV when her world was already bleeding out. Vale sat opposite, quieter, straighter, his tray half-cleared with neat, precise bites. He hadn't spoken that night, hadn't even met her eyes, but she still remembered the way instinct had pulled her toward him in the dark, the softer face among harder ones when everything else was gone.
Brock set his tray down with deliberate weight and motioned her into the bench beside him. The scrape of steel legs against concrete sounded loud as Harper slid into place, her tray rattling faintly when it touched down. The seat felt too hard beneath her, her back too stiff against the room.
Mason's glance flicked up, quick and dismissive, before falling back to his food. Vale's lingered longer, steady. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—brief, unshowy, gone as soon as it came. Not warmth, but not cruelty either. Something in her chest unclenched, just for a moment, and she let a slow breath slip from her lungs.
Knuckles' grin didn't fade, but his eyes shifted. They found her throat. The thin red line that rode beneath her jaw, healed now but plain to anyone who knew how it got there. His grin stayed wide, but something colder flickered behind it before he tipped his mug back and drank.
"Hell, Brock," he said, setting the mug down with a hollow thud. "Didn't think you'd drag her out here. Figured you'd keep her locked up with books and bruises." The grin edged wider, his voice carrying its usual bite. "Guess she's still breathing after all."
Mason chuckled low. Vale's glance cut sideways. Harper kept her eyes pinned to her tray, her shoulders curling in tight again, the faint ease Vale had given her gone in an instant.
Brock noticed. His knee pressed into hers under the table, a small jolt—steady, not harsh. A reminder. Then his gaze slid back to Knuckles.
"Breathing, yeah," he said, voice flat. "And holding steel. She put rounds through center mass this morning. Sidearm. Rifle. First run, and she's already on target."
It wasn't a boast. Just stone-cold fact.
Mason's fork stilled mid-motion, Vale's eyes flicked back to her again, longer this time. Knuckles arched a brow, grin still broad but tempered now with something more measuring.
"She'll keep training," Brock went on, unblinking. "She'll keep standing. That's the point."
Knuckles leaned back, one arm slung across the bench. His grin shifted toward casual, almost like the conversation was no more than weather. "So what's it been now? Month in? That leaves her two."
The words fell heavy, simple arithmetic spoken like a sentence.
Harper's fork scraped against her plate, loud in her ears. She hadn't looked up once, not even now. She shoveled rice into her mouth, chewing fast as if the noise could drown him out. Her hand clenched the fork until the metal dug into her palm.
Brock's voice cut across the table. "That's enough."
It wasn't raised. Didn't need to be. His tone was iron over concrete, final. Knuckles' grin tilted crooked, but he let it go, leaning back to sip again without pushing further. Mason dropped his eyes to his tray. Vale's flicked once more toward Harper, then away.
Brock broke off a piece of bread, unhurried, the matter closed as far as he was concerned.
The silence that followed wasn't soft. It pressed down, filling the space Knuckles had left. Harper kept her eyes low, nudging a strip of chicken around her plate, appetite knotted tight in her chest.
Vale shifted, elbow propped against the table. His voice came low, easy. "Place is loud as hell, huh? Takes a while to tune it out."
Harper's gaze lifted, careful. The words weren't a jab, not barbed—just offered plain, a thin thread of normalcy in a room that had none. She met his eyes for a breath, long enough for the flicker of it to hold, before dropping back down. Her shoulders eased, just slightly.
Brock saw. He didn't cut in. His eyes went to Vale, then back to her, marking the exchange. He let it stand, but the note of it settled into him, filed away in silence.
Knuckles tipped his mug again, the grin sliding smaller as his eyes cut back to Brock. "Word is, we've got something lined up. Convoy run. Black Maw."
Mason's fork tapped a steady rhythm against his tray. "Heard it's weapons. Heavy load."
Vale stayed quiet, though his gaze flicked once across the table, measuring.
Harper froze mid-bite. She didn't lift her head, didn't shift her gaze from the plate, but the name sliced clean through her. Black Maw. Everyone knew the stories—smugglers turned butchers, carving up turf with fire and steel. If the Syndicate was moving on them, it wouldn't be small.
Knuckles leaned in, shoulders crowding the table. "Ambush'll be clean if timing holds. Vex wants it tight—hit hard, take everything, leave nothing." His grin ticked wide again. "You'll be there, I'm guessing."
The words were pitched to Brock, but Harper felt them in her bones.
Brock didn't twitch. He tore another strip of bread, chewed, swallowed, then answered flat. "I'll be there."
Knuckles smirked into his mug. "Then it'll be worth watching."
Her fork hovered over the plate, forgotten. Two months. A convoy. Black Maw. The names pressed into her chest until she felt her ribs straining with them. Nobody had said she was part of it—nobody had to. Every drill, every order, every time Brock put a weapon in her hands had been pushing her somewhere. Whether this was it or not, she couldn't tell. And that was worse. Not knowing when they'd decide to use her. Not knowing if the Black Maw's reputation would be the fire she was thrown into.
The cafeteria's noise surged back, laughter cracking, trays clattering, boots grinding against the floor, but it all sounded distant under the pounding in her ears. The math ticked loud inside her head. Two months left. Two months to learn fast enough to be useful. Two months before someone decided her time was up.