Snow had fallen through the night, steady and soundless, piling until it swallowed the porch steps and drifted high against the Suburban's tires. By morning the world was a pale blur—sky and ground bleeding into one color, quiet enough that even the scrape of a shovel sounded too loud. Harper's breath came in small clouds as she pushed through another line of packed snow, the muscles in her arms burning almost immediately. She wasn't keeping pace with Onyx, not even close, but the rhythm helped; the movement gave shape to the cold and the ache that never really left her ribs. The air tasted clean, metallic, every inhale sharp against her throat. She paused only when her fingers began to tremble around the handle, gloves slick with frost, and leaned on the shovel, chest rising hard under her jacket. Behind her, the cabin's chimney bled a thin trail of smoke into the white sky, the only proof that something inside was still warm.
Harper stopped, shovel blade biting into the drift as she bent to catch her breath. The cold tore at her lungs; every exhale came out ragged, burning in the back of her throat. She pushed her hood back, letting the air hit her face, snowflakes melting in her hair.
From a few yards away, Onyx leaned on his own shovel, one eyebrow cocked above the scarf pulled up to his nose. "You sure you're not just out here for the aesthetic?" he called. "Pretty picture and all—tragic survivor, pale in the snow."
She shot him a look over her shoulder, breath still coming in short bursts. "Keep talking, I'll bury you in it."
He grinned, teeth flashing against the cold. "You'd have to lift more than two inches at a time for that to work."
"Eat shit."
"See? There's that spirit again."
Harper rolled her eyes and dug the shovel back into the drift, a little harder this time. Snow scattered in uneven sprays, the blade biting deeper than she meant it to. Her shoulders burned, but she kept moving, breath hissing between her teeth, the motion turning from careful to stubborn.
Onyx laughed under his breath—low, knowing—but didn't say anything else. The scrape of steel against packed snow filled the silence between them, steady and harsh, until the cold started to seep through her gloves and her arms felt like they'd been carved from ice.
The cabin door creaked open behind them, spilling a brief wash of warmth across the snow. Brock stepped out, jacket half-zipped, a plume of breath curling from his mouth. His eyes found her first—shovel mid-swing, hair damp against her temples—and his brow tightened like he wasn't sure whether to be impressed or pissed. Then he glanced to Onyx. "Wasn't Kier supposed to be out here helping?"
Onyx straightened, resting his shovel across his shoulder. "Was. Guess our rotation got… adjusted."
Harper didn't look up. "He was tired," she muttered, dragging another heavy scoop aside. "Figured I'd take his shift."
Brock came down the steps, boots crunching through the crusted snow. The sound alone was enough to make her pause; she let the shovel hang loose in her grip, eyes fixed on the half-cleared path. He stopped beside her, close enough that she could feel the warmth rolling off his coat even in the cold.
"You shouldn't be out here," he said, voice low but firm. "You're still getting your strength back."
Harper huffed, fogging the air between them. "That was two weeks ago. I'm fine."
He shook his head once, slow. "You almost drowned, Harper. Fine doesn't come that quick."
She met his eyes then, jaw set, cheeks flushed from the cold. "I'm not going to break."
"That's not the point," he said quietly. "You don't have to prove you're made of steel."
Her grip tightened around the shovel until her knuckles ached. The words hit harder than they should've—not because he was wrong, but because he was right. She'd spent two weeks under blankets, two weeks being watched every time she so much as stood up, and now even this—moving, breathing, pretending to be normal—was another thing she wasn't trusted to do. The sting built behind her eyes before she could stop it. She blinked hard, jaw locking, refusing to let the tears fall.
"I'm not," she said, voice too thin to sound convincing. She turned back to the snow, digging in again, but her hands were trembling.
Onyx's shovel paused mid-swing. He saw it—the flicker she didn't want seen—but said nothing.
Brock's tone softened immediately. "Harper, I didn't—"
"It's fine," she cut him off, tossing the shovel upright into the snow. "You're right. I shouldn't be out here."
She pushed past him before he could answer, boots crunching fast toward the porch, shoulders tight, head down. By the time he reached the steps after her, the door had already slammed shut, the sound rattling through the frame and cutting the quiet clean in half.
Brock stopped at the bottom of the steps, breath fogging in front of him. He stayed there for a moment, hand on his hip, then pinched the bridge of his nose like he could press the frustration back in before it found words.
When he looked up, Onyx was already watching him from a few yards off, shovel balanced across his shoulders, expression caught somewhere between sympathy and amusement.
Onyx gave a low whistle. "Hell of a start to the morning."
"Yeah," Brock muttered, voice rough. "Didn't mean to bite."
"She's trying," Onyx said, shrugging one shoulder. "You know how she gets when she feels useless."
"I know." Brock's gaze lingered on the door, the ghost of her silhouette still burned into his mind. Then he exhaled again, rolled his shoulders, and started down the steps.
Onyx tilted his head, curious. "You really gonna—"
Brock bent, grabbed the shovel Harper left in the snow, and cut him off with a short look. "Figure I owe somebody's shift."
Onyx snorted, then started shoveling again. "Domestic life looks good on you, boss."
"Shut up and dig."
The scrape of steel on ice filled the silence, steady and unspoken.
Inside, the sound was a dull pulse through the walls. Harper stood in the entry, breath unsteady, heat from the fireplace rushing up too fast, making her skin prickle. She fumbled at her coat, fingers clumsy from cold and fatigue. The zipper snagged; she yanked it down harder than necessary. The jacket slid off her shoulders heavier than she expected, nearly pulling her off balance. She caught herself on the wall, breath hitching, and ripped off her gloves next, tossing them aside.
Her boots were worse—laces stiff with ice, fingers refusing to grip right. She bent to untie them, failed once, and let out a sharp exhale that was almost a laugh, almost a sob. When one boot finally came free, she kicked it aside too hard and it clattered against the baseboard. The sound broke the silence in a way that made her flinch.
She dragged her sleeve across her face before anything could fall, angry at herself for even needing to. The tears burned hot under her eyes, but she scrubbed them away, jaw locked tight, chest shaking once before she could steady it.
She turned on her heel and stalked through the living room, trying to swallow the heat in her throat. The floor creaked under her socks, snow melting off her clothes in faint drops that marked every step. Mason, Kier, and Knuckles were spread across the sitting area, cards spread between them and a small fire hissing in the fireplace.
Kier looked up first. "Hey—thought you said you were taking my shoveling shift?"
Harper didn't slow. "Yeah, well, I changed my mind," she muttered, voice rough. "Don't talk to me right now."
The three of them traded glances as she passed. Kier frowned. Mason hesitated with a card half-raised. But Knuckles' eyes tracked her all the way down the hall, his hand lowering the deck without a word. The sound of her door slamming carried through the cabin, sharp and final.
He set his cards aside and stood, jaw tightening. "Something's wrong."
Mason leaned back in his chair. "You think?"
Knuckles gave him a look that killed the joke before it started, then headed for the hallway.
Inside her room, Harper had already thrown herself onto the bed. The slam still rang in her ears, a dull echo that made the small space feel smaller. She yanked the blanket over herself, not for warmth but to hide, breath shuddering as she pressed her face into the pillow. The scent of smoke and detergent clung to the fabric—familiar, safe—but it didn't help.
Her body felt heavy, useless, like every ounce of strength she'd clawed back had been make-believe. She hated it—the weakness, the shaking in her arms, the way even her voice cracked when she tried to stand her ground. It wasn't the cold that stung now but the fact that she'd needed him to pull her out of that river in the first place. That every look, every quiet "take it easy," still reminded her she hadn't saved herself.
She turned onto her side, blinking hard, swallowing the pressure behind her eyes until it burned. She wanted to stop feeling sorry for herself, to be tougher, to get up and pretend none of it mattered. But the truth pressed down like the weight of the blankets—she didn't know if she could anymore.
The door creaked open, quiet but enough to make her tense. She pulled the blanket higher, curling tighter beneath it until the light from the hall dimmed against the fabric.
"Go away," she muttered, voice muffled, brittle.
The floorboards answered instead of whoever had come in—slow steps, steady weight, then the soft give of the mattress as someone sat down beside her. She didn't have to look to know it was Knuckles; he was the only one who moved like that—slow, careful, like he knew exactly how much space he was taking up.
"You want to talk about it?" he asked after a beat. His voice was quiet, edged with concern he didn't bother to hide.
"No," she snapped, sharper than she meant, the word cracking halfway out of her throat. She clamped her jaw shut after it, pulling the blanket tighter like that could undo it.
Knuckles looked down at the lump of blankets beside him—the small, stubborn shape of her curled tight against the cold that wasn't even there. The sight hit something deep in him, something that didn't belong to this room. He saw flashes of her from before—the concrete floor, the way she used to curl the same way then, small and still, like making herself invisible might keep her safe.
He let out a slow breath, rubbing a hand over his face before speaking.
"Look… Harper." His voice was low, careful. "Brock doesn't mean to be controlling. You know that, right?"
No answer. Just the faint rustle of fabric as she pulled the blanket tighter.
"He's just—" Knuckles paused, searching for the right words. "He's worried. The man spent years running crews, calling shots, never letting anyone fall behind. That kind of thing doesn't shut off overnight. He's still learning how to be soft, how to stop being the commander for five minutes and just be a man."
He glanced toward the door, then back down at her. "You scare him, you know. Not because you're weak—because you almost didn't make it, and he doesn't have a plan for that."
Knuckles sat there for a while, elbows on his knees, staring at the still shape beside him. The blanket rose and fell with her breathing, slow but uneven, the edge of it tucked under her chin like armor. He sighed through his nose before speaking again.
"And I'll admit," he said, quieter now, "I don't know much about your life before all this. Only what I've seen since you came here." He rubbed his palms together once. "But I'd wager you're not the kind of woman who lets people take care of her. And that… makes this part hard."
He leaned back slightly, watching the faint light shift across the curtain. "You've had to handle everything on your own for too long. Letting someone help probably feels like losing ground."
Under the blankets, Harper stared at the sheet in front of her, jaw locked so tight it hurt. Every word he said scraped against something she didn't want to look at. He wasn't wrong—that was the worst part.
She stayed like that for a long time, listening to the faint hum of the wind outside and the quiet weight of his breathing beside her. Finally, she pushed the blanket off her head, hair static-stuck and damp against her face. Knuckles turned toward her, and she knew he saw it—the puff around her eyes, the pink rawness at her nose she hadn't managed to wipe away.
Her voice came out rough, smaller than she wanted. "I just hate that he looks at me like I'm gonna break."
She swallowed hard, eyes flicking toward the wall instead of him. "I know he's worried. I know he means well. But every time he says I should rest, or sit down, or stay put… it's like he's confirming it. That I'm fragile now. And I can't stand that."
She dragged a hand across her face again, quieter this time. "I just want to feel normal."
Knuckles nodded slowly, eyes steady on her face. "Yeah," he said. "I get it."
He shifted forward, elbows on his knees, voice low. "Then show him you're still you. He'll catch up eventually. Just… don't shut him out before he gets the chance to catch up."
Harper nodded, throat too tight to speak.
Knuckles sat with her a moment longer, letting the quiet settle. Then he slapped his knees once and stood, joints popping. "Alright. Enough wallowing."
Harper frowned up at him. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me." He jerked his chin toward the door. "You want to feel normal? Stop hiding in here. Come help me with something."
"With what?"
"Does it matter?" He was already at the door. "You can sit here and stew, or you can come be useful. Your call."
She stared at him, jaw working. Then, slowly, she pushed the blanket off and swung her legs over the side of the bed.
"There she is," Knuckles said, mouth twitching into something almost like approval.
─•────
The axe fell in a steady rhythm, each impact jarring up through Brock's wrists and into his shoulders—a dull ache he welcomed. Each swing split the wood clean down the grain, the sound carrying across the yard and bouncing off the tree line. The smell of sap and cold earth hung in the air. His breath came slow, visible in short bursts that faded before they reached the ground. He shifted his stance after every few strikes, boots grinding into the hard-packed snow, shoulders moving under his jacket in measured, deliberate arcs. Frost rimed his collar and the edges of his hair, turning him half-silver in the low light.
He worked like a man who didn't need to think about what his hands were doing—lift, swing, reset, stack. The rhythm steadied him; the repetition was its own kind of quiet. Every crack of wood into two clean halves sent a dull satisfaction through his arms. When the axe handle bit into his gloves, he stopped long enough to roll his shoulders, flex his hands, and breathe the cold back into his lungs.
The pile beside him was neat, higher than his knee now, each log fitted tight and square. Beyond it, the cabin smoked faintly through the chimney, a thin trail against the dull sky. Somewhere inside, laughter flickered—a low sound through the walls—and he paused just long enough to listen before he brought the axe down again.
The door opened behind him with a soft creak, barely more than a shift in the air. Brock straightened, one hand still on the axe handle, and turned his head just enough to catch the movement in his periphery. Harper stepped out, hood pulled up against the cold. The porch boards groaned under her weight as she descended the steps, each one deliberate, careful.
He watched her cross the yard, snow whispering around her boots. She moved slower than usual—not weak, just cautious, like she was testing her own footing with every step. Her breath plumed white in front of her face, quick and shallow. She didn't say anything—just stopped a few feet away, the wind tugging at the edge of her hood, lifting a strand of copper hair across her cheek.
For a moment, neither moved. The axe hung loose in his grip; the air between them felt fragile, thin as the frost on her lashes. Her hands were shoved deep into her pockets, shoulders hunched against more than just the cold. He could see the tension in the line of her jaw, the way her eyes wouldn't quite meet his—red-rimmed, either from wind or something she didn't want him to name.
Slowly, he set the axe head-down in the snow and turned to face her fully. His gloves were damp, fingers stiff from the cold, but he pulled them off anyway and tucked them into his belt. He didn't know what to say, didn't trust his voice not to make it worse. So he just waited, letting her decide.
"You okay?" he asked finally, voice low.
She nodded, but it wasn't an answer. Her gaze flicked up to meet his for half a second, then away again, fixing somewhere over his shoulder. Her throat worked like she was trying to swallow something down. Then, before he could say anything else, she closed the space between them.
The move was small, quiet, almost uncertain—like she wasn't sure she had the right but couldn't stop herself anyway. She just stepped into him, arms still wrapped around herself, and pressed her forehead against his chest. Not a hug. Just contact. Just there.
Brock froze for half a breath. Then his arms came up around her automatically, one hand settling between her shoulder blades, the other curving around her ribs. He felt the tension in her body—every muscle drawn tight, holding itself together—and the way she exhaled against him, slow and shaky, like she'd been holding that breath since the moment she walked out the door.
The cold had leached into his jacket, but beneath it he was still warm from the work. He felt her lean into that warmth, felt the small tremor that ran through her shoulders. His chin came down to rest lightly on the top of her hood, careful not to press too hard.
She didn't cry. Didn't say anything. Just stood there, breathing against him, her fingers creeping up to catch at the edge of his jacket—holding tighter than she probably meant to, like she was afraid he'd step back if she didn't anchor him there.
He didn't say I'm sorry. The words sat in his throat, familiar and useless. She could feel it anyway—in the way his hand moved slow circles between her shoulder blades, in the way he held her without trying to fix anything, just letting her take what she needed.
"I shouldn't've walked off," she murmured finally, voice muffled against the fabric.
He shook his head once, the motion small, chin brushing the top of her hood. "Don't. I shouldn't've pushed."
The wind picked up around them, stirring the snow into faint eddies that hissed across the yard. It caught the loose strands of her hair, sent them dancing against his neck. Neither of them moved. His hand stayed steady at her back, her fingers stayed locked in his jacket, and the world narrowed to just this—the sound of their breathing, the cold biting at their faces, the quiet weight of two people trying to meet each other halfway.
When she finally leaned back, it was slow, reluctant. His hands slid down to her arms, not letting go, just adjusting—thumbs pressing light through the layers of her coat. Her eyes were clearer now, still red at the rims but steadier. She looked up at him, and something passed between them that didn't need words. A truce. An understanding.
"You cold?" he asked, voice rough.
"Yeah," she said quietly. Her breath fogged between them, ghosting across his collar.
He nodded once, then reached up to tuck a stray piece of hair behind her ear—the motion careful, deliberate, fingertips brushing her temple. "Come on." His thumb brushed once over her sleeve, then he shifted—pressing a kiss to her forehead, brief but deliberate, his lips cold against her skin. When he pulled back, his hand found hers, fingers threading through hers even though both their hands were freezing. "Let's get inside."
─•────
A soft knock came at the door—two short, one lighter. Brock's eyes opened to the faint glow from the fireplace leaking through the crack beneath it. Beside him, Harper slept on her stomach, one arm sprawled across his chest, her breath slow and even against his shoulder. He turned his head toward the sound just as the door eased open a few inches and Knuckles' face appeared in the sliver of light.
"It's midnight. You're up," Knuckles whispered.
Brock nodded once, careful not to shift too much. He slid his arm out from under Harper's and felt her murmur something half-formed, a soft protest muffled by the pillow. Her fingers flexed briefly on his ribs before slackening again, sleep dragging her back under. He waited until her breathing steadied, then swung his legs off the bed, the floor cold under his bare feet.
He pulled on his jeans, then the shirt draped over the chair, fabric cool against his skin. He shrugged into his flannel and jacket. When he glanced back, Harper hadn't stirred, only tucked herself deeper into the blankets where the space he'd left was still warm.
Knuckles stepped back from the doorway as Brock crossed the room. "Coast's clear," he murmured.
Brock gave a short nod and followed him out into the hall, door closing behind him with a soft click.
"Go get some rest," he murmured, keeping his voice low enough not to carry.
Knuckles gave a tired nod, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "Wake me if anything feels off."
"Will do."
Knuckles disappeared down the hall, his door shutting quietly a moment later. The cabin settled back into silence—just the faint creak of the walls and the low hiss of the fire still burning.
Brock crossed the living area, the boards cool beneath his socks. The embers in the fireplace had slumped low, their light pulsing faint and orange through the glass. He opened the door, stirred the coals with the poker until they flared, and added two small logs from the stack beside it. The new wood caught slow, throwing a deeper warmth across the room.
He sat for a moment on the edge of the table bench, pulling on his boots, the leather stiff from the cold. Then he reached for his rifle, checked the chamber by touch more than sight, and slung it over his shoulder. The latch on the front door clicked soft as he eased it open, a rush of cold air pushing in around him.
The cold hit him clean, biting at the edges of his face and finding the gaps in his collar. Brock pulled the door shut behind him and stepped off the porch, boots sinking into the crusted snow with a muted crunch. The air was still, the kind of still that made sound travel too far. The treeline stood black and sharp against a pale strip of sky; clouds hung low, heavy with more snow that hadn't yet started to fall.
He made a slow circuit around the cabin first—habit, not paranoia. The vehicles sat half-buried under frost, the Suburban's mirrors glinting faintly in the moonlight. The drifts along the fence line were undisturbed, clean. His breath moved in and out of the dark, rhythmic and quiet.
When he came back to the porch, he sank down on the top step, rifle resting across his knees. The world had narrowed to small sounds—the tick of the cooling metal on the roof, a soft groan from the trees, the faint pop of the fire through the walls behind him.
Minutes blurred. His eyes adjusted to the dark until he could pick out every branch, every edge of shadow that shifted with the wind. He flexed his fingers once, keeping the blood moving. Somewhere far off, a dog barked, one short, lonely sound that didn't echo.
He reached for the thermos Knuckles had left by the door, took a sip of coffee gone lukewarm, and let it sit on his tongue before swallowing. The bitterness was grounding. Another hour, he told himself. Maybe two. Then dawn.
He leaned back against the post, watching his own breath coil and fade into the night, the silence wrapping tight around him like a held breath.
A distant gearshift cut through the dark—the low mechanical cough of a big engine dropping a gear as it crested the last rise on the main road. Brock turned his head, nostrils flaring; a thin slice of light split the treeline, a headlamp whitening the snow for a heartbeat as whatever was coming swung into the laneway. The beam wandered, found the roofline of the Suburban, slid across the porch post and then, as if someone had pinched the sky, went out. Darkness dropped like a hand over the world. Brock's heart ratcheted up, the thermos clinking in his grip. He let the breath in his lungs go slow and measured, listening—driving sound swallowed by the trees now, only the whisper of wind carrying through the cold.
He eased off the step, boots making no sound on the packed snow, and ghosted to the Suburban's shadow. The truck's bulk broke his outline; he crouched where the bumper and the frozen wheel well carved a small island of concealment. Fingers curled around the cold metal of his rifle strap, ready. The laneway stayed empty of light, but the sound was coming—slow, deliberate, the faint grind of tires rolling over frozen gravel. Headlights still dark. The engine low-idled, laboring through the bends in the trees, growing clearer with every second. Brock felt it in his chest before he could see it—the steady pulse of something too controlled to be lost travelers.
Something came from his left — the faint sound of scuffed boots accelerating, a soft curse swallowed by the trees. Before he could bring the rifle up, the world slammed sideways: weight bore into his shoulder, a hard gloved hand smashed into the back of his head, and another pair of hands ripped the rifle from him in a practiced, crushing yank. Pain flared white across his skull; stars hammered behind his eyes. He spun, trying to throw an elbow, but a forearm locked across his throat, cutting off air like a vise. A cloth—oily, sharp with solvent—sealed over his mouth and nose. Instinct screamed; his muscles lashed, found only cold leather and the hard flank of another attacker. A knee drove into his ribs. The world tunneled, pressure and sound narrowing until a blunt crack at the base of his skull turned everything white and heavy. His body went slack.
Gloved fingers found his jaw and kept the rag in place for a moment longer, making sure he stayed under. One of them tilted his head, checked his breath; another flashed a light across his eyes and listened at his throat until a slow, steady sound answered. "Eight… nine… ten"—before easing off a fraction, testing for any flare of resistance. Nothing. Just the dead weight of a big man sliding into the snow.
"Down," the lead murmured.
They didn't drop him. They lowered him the way you lower a full duffel, one hand at the shoulder seam, one at the belt. Knees in the snow. A breath clouded gray in the dark and drifted. The one at Brock's head—square build, scar like a chalk line across his eyebrow—tilted the chin, checked pupil response with a fingertip flashlight he never fully clicked on; just a ghost-glow squeezed through his glove. Good enough. He holstered the light and fished a loop of zip tie from his pocket with a practiced flick.
"Wrists," the lead said.
They rolled Brock with a synchronized push: shoulder, hip, knee. His face turned into the crook of his elbow, breath slow but there. Plastic whisper. The first zip tie bit around his wrists and ratcheted tight, the locking head positioned off to the side where he couldn't grind it against anything to cut it. A second looped through the first for redundancy. Another pair locked his ankles. Cold had already stiffened his jeans; the plastic cut crescents in the fabric.
"Bag him," the lead said, voice a dry thread. Not loud, not urgent. Just inevitable.
A dark hood slid down over Brock's face. The drawstring cinched under his jaw. The scarred man checked his airway again, slipped two fingers under the tie to make sure it wasn't choking. The third man—lithe, almost weightless in the snow—stripped Brock's jacket pockets with a magician's touch: a folded cash wad in an elastic, a short-blade knife, a single extra mag, nothing else. He pocketed the blade, handed the cash to the lead, and dropped the mag into his own vest pouch with a metallic click that seemed to echo longer than it should have.
The engine sound they'd tracked in finally cleared the bend. The Syndicate Suburban rolled into view with its lights still cut, grille blacked out with a spray-mist that ate reflection. It moved like a dark idea, big and certain, tires whispering over frozen gravel in a cadence that felt like a heartbeat underfoot. It stopped behind the shelter of the trees at the mouth of the clearing—close enough to cover, far enough to be a rumor if someone happened to glance through a window.
Two doors opened without interior lights. Two more men slid out—one tall, one with a heavy coat that hung like a curtain to his knees. They left the doors on the latch and padded up the laneway, moving through the shallow ruts of old shovel work where refrozen snow gave them traction instead of noise. The tall one had a canvas satchel slung low. The coat carried a compact pump-action with the barrel shortened legal-enough, the finish taped to kill shine.
The lead pointed with two fingers: You, with me; you, cars. The tall one angled toward the cabin's side; the coat drifted to the vehicles like a shadow kissing deeper shadow.
"Confirm target," the tall one whispered when he reached them, voice barely a breath. The scarred man lifted the hood just enough for a flash of profile—jawline, the scar that hadn't healed right. Recognition flickered.
"Lawson," the tall one said, low, almost to himself. "Didn't think I'd see that face again."
The lead's mouth twisted, not a smile. "Still breathing after all this time." He folded the cash into his pocket, eyes still on Brock's slack form. "Get him in."
They lifted Brock again: The scarred man and the lead at the shoulders, the lithe one at the ankles. The Suburban's rear hatch eased up with a soft piston sigh, the dome light defeated by a strip of black tape over the switch. The cargo area was empty but for a rubber mat and a folded blanket that wasn't for warmth. They laid him on his side, wrists to the hatch, knees bent to limit leverage. The scarred man threaded another zip tie from the cargo D-ring through to Brock's wrist restraints and cinched until the plastic sang with tension. The lithe one added a band around the thighs to hobble any burst attempt at standing if he woke urgent and dumb.
The tall one leaned in and taped Brock's thumbs together—a Syndicate habit, old training that survived turnover, because thumbs were what made a man dangerous even hogtied. He tore the tape with his teeth and smoothed the end with his glove. "Night-night," he said to the hood, a flat nothing of a joke.
Behind them, the coat went to work. He unsnapped the satchel and drew out two red-lidded one-gallon containers and a third larger can with a cracked funnel tied to the handle with cord. The shuttered mouth of the funnel clacked softly against the can; he stilled it with a gloved finger. He moved first to the sedan, unspooled a thin length of vinyl tubing and fed it deep into the filler neck, testing for the anti-siphon mesh. This one had it; he didn't bother. He went old-school: popped the cap on the first red lid, tipped it, and the gasoline came out fat and eager, glugging against winter air, vapor blooming like a bad memory.
He painted from the rocker panels up, working fast but not sloppy. Gasoline pattered and ran, pooled along the door seam, streaked the wheel well where salt had made a lace of rust. He walked it forward, lifted, poured across the hood and windshield like blessing, then cut a diagonal down the driver's side, leaving a line that connected to the snow. He stepped back and judged the way gravity would carry it. Good enough. He moved to the stolen Suburban and fed it heavier: across the hood, in under the wipers where fuel would nestle against rubber; along the seam of the engine bay; a generous ribbon over the tires. He saved half a can to draw a trail from the bumper to the porch steps, a fuse across white.
The tall one swept the cabin's perimeter, one gloved hand cupped to kill his own reflection as he checked each pane. Frosted glass, dark behind the faint orange pulse of the fireplace. No movement. No silhouettes. Just the soft, steady glow of people sleeping through their own ending. He circled back through the snow and stopped beside the lead.
"Quiet," he murmured. "No patrol, no noise. They're down for the night."
The lead's eyes tracked to the porch. He hated wood. Wood sang when it burned; it told the whole forest. But orders were orders, and pedagogy had its place: you teach defectors what it costs to leave. He let the thought pass the way he let winter wind pass his collar—felt and forgotten.
"Give it the kiss," he said.
The coat had already popped a road flare. He did it with his body between the light and the house, glove tugging off the cap with a chalk shriek. The flare caught and went from nothing to a star in half a second, red-white heat chewing air. He held it low, the hiss loud enough to make all of them listen for doors. None opened. He touched the flame to the first trail. Gasoline took like it had been waiting its whole life. Orange slid outward in a living seam, then fanned as vapors found themselves. The sedan opened in a sheet, fire crawling the hood, finding the wiper rubber and tasting it into black smoke.
The second trail went next. The Suburban's front end bloomed like a held-in breath turned loose. Heat punched the night. Paint dimpled and pulled. Headlight housings went milky, then sagged. He laid the flare along the porch edge and walked it like chalk down a school line, kissing every dry board where gasoline had sunk. The first lick of flame climbed the post and grew teeth.
Through the glass, the cabin breathed fire back at them, reflections of the fireplace and the newborn porch-flame jittering in two windows. Behind those panes were people who had once been theirs, had eaten Syndicate food and used Syndicate soap and learned how to tape thumbs because a man with free thumbs could break your nose with joined hands. You could taste the past in your mouth if you let it sit. None of them let it sit.
They moved. The coat pitched the dying flare into the snow where it hissed itself into a black scab. He slung the empty cans back into the satchel and cinched it. The scarred man and the lithe one slid into the middle row. The tall one took passenger. The lead got behind the wheel and let his gloved knuckles rest on the leather for a count of two, listening to the crackle and low animal roar starting to lift out of the porch.
"Exfil west," the tall one said. "Wind's pushing east—smoke'll carry toward the creek."
The lead gave a single nod. He didn't need the update; the men just needed to hear it said. He turned the key. The engine caught with a low, steady growl. No headlights. The Suburban rolled backward, tires whispering until they found hard ground, then angled toward the lane. The brake lights winked once and went dark.
Behind them, the sedan and Suburban burned low and mean—fires that crawled instead of roared, throwing a deep orange across the snow. The porch boards had started to smolder where the flare had kissed them, thin tongues of flame finding the cracks in the wood. Smoke pressed along the eaves, slow and deliberate. In another minute the heat would reach the siding, and the cabin would wake to its own warning.
In the cargo bay, Brock lay on his side, wrists and ankles bound, hood shifting slightly with each slow breath. The hum of the road worked under his body, a dull pulse against the floor. None of the men turned to look.
The lead guided them down the curve beneath the firs where the snow thinned. The tires hit the cattle grate with a muted clang, and then they were gone—onto the county road, the fire shrinking behind the treeline. Two hundred yards out, he flicked the parking lights just long enough to read the next stretch of ice, then killed them again.
"Roth will want confirmation," the tall one said.
"He'll have it," the lead answered.
The cab went quiet. Breath misted faintly in the dark, mingling with the smell of gasoline and smoke still caught in their clothes. The Suburban pushed west, steady and silent. In the rear, Brock Lawson didn't move.