The duvet was too soft to be real, loft piled high over her like warm snowdrifts. Harper floated under it, eyes closed, the world reduced to weight and heat and the small animal sound of sleep moving in and out of someone's lungs.
Light pushed at the curtains—thin fabric gone pale with morning—turning the room a watered gold. Dust hung where it caught, slow-turning galaxies that made the air look gentler than it had any right to be. She lay still and let the shape of the bed hold her, waiting for her mind to remember its name.
The mattress dipped along her hip. A second heat bled into hers. She rolled, slow, sheets whispering across her skin, and found a face on the pillow beside her.
Vera, half-buried, hair spilled loose, mouth softened by sleep. One arm flung over the duvet like she'd thrown it there to guard the quiet and then forgotten the post. The light climbed her cheekbone and made a small shine at her lashes; her breath feathered it, steady as tide.
Harper watched the rise and fall of it, counting without meaning to. Radiator tick somewhere under the floor. Pipes sighed in the walls. Far off, the house turned in its sleep, a stair settling, a door clicking as it cooled. Nothing burned. Nothing screamed. Just morning, and a bed that didn't fight back.
She let her forehead rest against the pillow's cool edge and tasted detergent instead of smoke. The strangeness of comfort scraped at her like a new scar healing—tender, suspicious, almost guilty. She breathed with Vera for a few cycles, stealing the rhythm to calm her hands.
Outside the window, a branch brushed glass. Inside, the duvet rose and fell, shelter made weight. Harper's gaze tracked the fine pulse at Vera's throat, the silver line of a bracelet peeking from under the sheet, proof of another life that had learned how to sleep anyway.
She lay there and let the room be real.
Harper barely remembered yesterday. It came in flashes—sound, light, the taste of salt and metal in her mouth.
Her entire world had fallen out from under her when she saw him on that screen. Brock, on his knees, blood down his face, the hand at the back of his neck holding him like an animal. The image had burned itself behind her eyes, too bright to blink away. She'd been sure—absolutely sure—she was about to watch them kill him.
Then Kier and Hale had dragged her out of the room.
The rest blurred. The hallway, the fight in her chest to get free, the way the walls seemed to close in until she couldn't tell if the ringing in her ears was screaming or silence. Even after Knuckles found her—after he swore up and down that Brock wasn't dead, not yet—some part of her didn't believe him. She couldn't. It felt too much like hope, and hope hurt worse than loss. Maybe he was lying to keep her upright, to keep her breathing. Maybe he wasn't. Either way, it didn't matter. In two days, they said. Two days, and he would be.
Two days.
Knuckles and Calder had talked about rescue like it was possible, like the word itself could lift the weight off their backs. But Harper couldn't hear them. The world had gone distant, muted, as if her mind refused to translate anything that didn't sound like his name.
Vera had been the one to pull her upstairs. Harper hadn't fought then. She'd gone where Vera led, hollow and shaking, her throat wrecked from screaming. The bed had been soft, unfamiliar. She remembered sinking into it, Vera's arms around her, the sound of her own sobs smothered against denim. She'd cried until she couldn't breathe, until her body gave out completely.
Vera stirred before the light reached her face, a small frown cutting through the peace she wore in sleep. Her hand flexed against the blanket, the motion dragging her bracelet higher on her wrist with a faint metallic whisper. She blinked once, then again, lashes catching the gold.
"Morning," she rasped, voice hoarse from too little rest. Her eyes found Harper half-buried beside her, hair tangled across the pillow, pupils slow to focus. "You're awake."
Harper didn't answer right away. She just looked at her, expression hollowed at the edges. The air between them felt fragile, like one wrong word would shatter it.
Vera pushed up onto one elbow, hair tumbling across her collarbone. "You were shaking again," she murmured. "Thought you were gonna crawl out of your skin for a second."
"I'm fine," Harper said, though her voice sounded like it had been dragged over gravel.
Vera studied her face for a long, still moment. "You're not," she said softly. Then, after a pause: "But that's fine too."
The words landed like a hand on her back—steady, unhurried.
Harper exhaled through her nose, eyes burning. "I didn't mean to stay."
"I told you not to go anywhere."
That earned the faintest twitch of a smile, gone almost immediately. Harper dragged a hand down her face, pressing her palms over her eyes until the darkness there felt safe enough to breathe in.
Vera watched her, quiet, the morning light turning her irises amber. "You slept," she said finally. "That's something."
A soft knock broke the quiet before Harper could find words.
Vera didn't move at first, just sighed, eyes still on Harper. "Come in," she called.
The door creaked open a few inches. Mason's shape filled the gap—broad shoulders, flannel hanging open over a faded undershirt, the kind of hesitation that came from walking in on something private and not knowing where to look. His gaze flicked once to Harper, then to Vera, then back again, taking in the mess of the duvet, the pale morning light, the silence that didn't explain anything.
"Sorry," he said, voice low. "Didn't mean to—uh—" He scratched the back of his neck, eyes sliding toward the floor. "Knuckles and Calder want everyone downstairs. Twenty minutes."
Vera sat up fully, the blanket slipping off one shoulder. "We'll be there," she said, tone calm, unbothered.
Mason nodded, lingering a half-second too long, like he wanted to say something else but thought better of it. "Coffee's on," he offered instead, then pulled the door shut with a soft click.
The silence he left behind settled like dust.
Vera looked at Harper, one brow lifting. "Guess that's our cue."
By the time they got downstairs, the kitchen had become a war room.
The table—once just old oak and water rings—was buried under paper and metal. A map of East Halworth sprawled across its surface, corners pinned by ashtrays, mugs, a half-empty bottle of rye. Red marker lines cut through the North Side, looping the rail yards, the industrial blocks, the frozen piers. Circles marked choke points and exits; arrows bled outward like veins. Cigarette smoke curled above it all, tracing its own slow geography in the air.
Calder stood at the head of the table, sleeves rolled, posture taut but controlled. He looked like he'd been up all night—eyes rimmed in gray, jaw rough with stubble—but the focus in him was surgical. Gage leaned over one corner of the map, one hand braced flat on the wood, the other turning a lighter between his fingers as he studied the pier grid.
Knuckles sat sideways in a chair, elbows on his knees, staring at the scrawled notes like he could will them into a plan. Mason was across from him, arms folded, face drawn tight, a mug cooling untouched beside him. Kier and Onyx hovered near the far end, heads bent together over a smaller inset map, low voices trading distances and sightlines.
Rook had taken a seat on the counter, tapping a pencil against his knee, eyes sharp but restless. Hale leaned against the doorframe, hair damp from the sink, a coil of wire in his hand that he was stripping with a pocketknife. Morrow stood behind Calder, expression unreadable, cigarette burning slow between two fingers, the ember catching the edges of his scars in brief orange flashes.
The room hummed low—voices, the scrape of a chair leg, the faint hiss of the coffee pot working overtime. The smell was a mix of nicotine, cold metal, and exhaustion.
Calder didn't look up when Harper and Vera came in. He just dragged a hand across the map, palm flattening over the pier district—old freight docks along the northern waterline, the same coordinates Knuckles had written down last night in a hurried, furious scrawl.
"This is it," he said, voice steady, gravel-dark. "Pier Six."
Everyone fell quiet.
Calder's eyes lifted at last, meeting Harper's. "This is where they plan to kill him."
He planted both palms on the table, the paper crackling under his weight. His voice carried easily through the room—not raised, but cut clean through the low murmur of chairs and shifting boots.
"They're not hiding this," he said. "They want it seen."
He straightened, eyes scanning the ring of faces around the table. "I had men out before dawn. They walked the boards while the fog was still thick. The Syndicate's not improvising—they're building a stage on the side of Pier Six, laid out like a picture. One flank faces the water; the other faces the exit gates. The whole platform's oriented west—so the stage looks out over that open area just before the container yard. Floodlights will backlight whoever's on it, cameras set to catch every angle. It's not just an execution; it's a goddamn sermon meant for the whole city."
Onyx's jaw flexed, his voice rough. "You're saying they're inviting an audience."
"They're demanding one," Calder said. He dragged a finger across the map, tracing the waterfront stretch. "They want the city watching—rivals, civilians, cops who pretend not to see. Every set of eyes they can get. This isn't punishment anymore; it's a declaration."
Calder's gaze moved slowly around the table, weighing each face before he spoke again.
"The Syndicate won't blink if a few Iron Vultures show up to watch," he said. "They'll see us as another crew paying respect, not a threat. I'll plant Rook, Morrow, Hale, and Vera inside the crowd as spectators."
He tapped the section of the map near the western barricades. "They'll go in through the main checkpoint with the others. The Syndicate's checking everyone on entry, so they'll be clean—no steel, no suspicion. But they'll be close enough to move when it matters. Once the tide turns, they help where they can: clearing space, guiding the chaos, getting our people out."
Mason's brow went hard and low as he leaned over the layout, the question already there in the set of his mouth. "So what about us?" he said. "The Syndicate knows our faces. We can't exactly waltz through the front gate like we're here for popcorn."
Knuckles cut in before Calder could answer, voice flat and sure. "We're not going in the front gate." He pressed a blunt finger to a square of empty asphalt on the map. "We'll park here—the ferry lot. It's seven hundred yards west of the pier, big and empty. No one cares about cars there at this hour. You, me, and Harp follow the shoreline low, stay in the shadows until we hit the pier. At the embankment—here"—his finger traced a line up from the water—"we climb. That gets us up onto the edge of the container yard without showing ourselves on the access road."
He flattened his palm and spread his fingers like he was laying the path into the table. "From the yard we ghost through the containers to the marker we prepped—right where the lights can't blind us but the stage is almost in our hands. It keeps us concealed based on where they're stringing the rigs, but puts us near enough to take the stage when the moment comes. Almost front row, and no one has to see us step up until we want them to."
Knuckles glanced toward Onyx and Kier, nodding once. "You two break from us at the lot. There's an old office building—abandoned, eight floors—about two-fifty out from the stage. From the top you get a clean arc, no obstruction."
Calder leaned in, voice low and controlled. "Onyx and Kier are our eyes—they start the whole thing. We'll have the rest of the Vultures staged just down the road in three Expeditions, engines warm and idling, waiting for the signal."
Knuckles' gaze locked on Onyx and Kier, slow and certain. "Your job is simple and ugly: take Roth and Dane. They'll be on the stage, and Brock will no doubt be between them. If you get both, great. If you only get one, that's enough—it breaks the script." He slid a high power laser pointer across the table toward them. "When you get the hit, send a red light down to the Expeditions. That's their cue."
Calder's voice cut through the room as the plan set into motion. "Expect instant chaos the moment someone hears the sniper. On red, the three Expeditions crash the gates—straight through—and come out firing. The objective is pure and narrow: strip Syndicate muscle away from the stage. They hit Syndicate only. No civilians, no rival crews unless they're Syndicate-aligned and shooting at us. Keep the chaos surgical; make it look like the Syndicate's spectacle ate itself."
Knuckles' jaw went hard. He leaned forward, palm flat on the map like he could press the plan into the wood. "The whole point of the snipers and the Expeditions is to yank eyes off the stage," he said, voice low, clipped. "Create a hole. Once the shots ring out, anyone who isn't glued to the cameras will scramble to respond—edge guards, flank teams, meat in the crowd. That's when the stage gets soft."
He gave Onyx and Kier a look that didn't bother with gentleness. "You pick off anyone who tries to move on Brock. If a goon turns toward him, light him up."
Calder added, even and certain, "When the chaos hits and the crowd fractures, that's our window. Knuckles, Mason, Harper—you three push. Get to the stage, get Brock, and drag him down the embankment to the water. That's the sequence. Get him to the shoreline."
Calder nodded, voice tight with the timetable. "Once you've got him moving, Onyx and Kier throw a blue light back toward the ferry lot. That's our cue." He traced his finger where the shoreline curved west. "Gage and I will be in a skiff, tucked near the rocks by the ferry docks. As soon as we see blue, we'll run the boat down along the shoreline and come up just short of the pier." His eyes moved from Knuckles, to Mason, then to Harper. "You get Brock down the embankment, and we'll be there to pull you in. Keep him low, keep him quiet—we don't have room for a chase."
He straightened, tone hardening. "Once we're back on the water, Onyx and Kier need to throw a green light toward the yard. Hale will be watching from there. That's the signal that Brock is out and clear—the order for every Vulture in that yard to fall back and vanish. No cleanup, no delay." His gaze slid up. "Hale, Morrow, Rook, Vera—when green hits, you fold into the panic. Look like civilians running. Don't group up, don't make yourselves targets. Rally point is the old church, three blocks north."
Knuckles let the words sit a beat, then rubbed the heel of his hand along his jaw like he could scrape the plan into being.
"It's risky," he said, voice low enough that the room leaned in. He met each face around the table in turn, slow—counting the debt, the fear, the fury. "Could go sideways in a hundred ways." He glanced at Harper, and for a second the hardness behind his eyes softened. "Might not work. Might be a mess. Might be a graveyard by morning. But what, we fold our hands and wait for them to put a bullet in him on schedule?" His hands opened, palms up, simple as a prayer. "That's not us. We don't sit on our heels while they write his name on a script and read it out loud."
He drove his knuckle Into the map as if to stake the risk to the table. "This is the only shot that gets him away from their cameras. We take it, or we watch him die and live with the fact we let it happen. I don't know about any of you, but I'd rather go down swinging than be remembered for standing still."
The room held its breath. Outside, somewhere on the road, a dog barked. Knuckles' jaw set like a line of defense. "So yeah—risky as hell. But it's the plan. We stick to it, we keep our heads, and we move like we mean it."
Harper had been quiet through the whole thing, a shadow at the edge of the table, eyes on the red ring that meant Brock and nothing else. The room had moved around her—voices, plans, the scrape of chairs—but she'd stayed small and still, as if staying still might make the world right itself again.
Knuckles watched her for a long moment, as if measuring the weight she carried. He pushed himself up from the chair and crossed the few paces between them without ceremony. When he stopped at her shoulder, the room felt suddenly too small for the space he took up.
"You with us?" he asked, voice rough and careful, not the rallying cry he used on a line but the quieter thing that asked permission. "You're good to be out there with us when it goes?"
Harper blinked, the question folding through whatever fog had held her. For a moment she only tasted the smoke of the cabin fire and the metallic echo of the image that wouldn't leave her. Her throat tightened until words were small and hard to catch. "I—I don't know how not to be," she said at last, voice thin but fierce.
Vera moved a half-step closer, hand landing on Harper's forearm with a steadiness that said she wasn't surprised by the answer. "You sure?" she asked, quieter than Knuckles had been, the concern plain in the line of her mouth. "This is going to be ugly. If you need to sit this one—"
Harper cut her off with a shake of her head so small it almost didn't register. "No." The word came tighter now, sharpened by something that looked dangerously like hope. "I want him out of there. If I'm a liability, tell me and I'll go wait in some dark corner. But I'm not staying home."
Knuckles let out a breath that was half a laugh and half a vow. He set his hand on her shoulder for a moment—brief, grounding—then turned back to the map as if their agreement had sealed something. Around the table faces shifted; there was a kind of permission in Harper's answer that loosened the tension, a small thread of momentum knitting through the group.
Calder cleared his throat, voice sliding back into business. "Right. This happens tomorrow night. We rehearse the load once more—where we meet the skiff, the fallback points, any contingencies. If we're nervous, we practice it until we aren't." He looked at each of them in turn. "Any questions?"
No one spoke. The plan hung between them—a jagged, dangerous thing—but Harper felt, for the first time since the fire, a thin, awful hope bloom like spring through cracked concrete.
─•────
Brock didn't lift his head when the lock clicked. The sound had become just another heartbeat in this place—hinge, footsteps, the scrape of soles on concrete. He sat against the wall, wrists bound, the tape cutting deeper each time he shifted. His breath came shallow, ribs sore, stomach a hollow knot that had forgotten what full felt like.
For a moment, he didn't even bother to look up. They'd pull him to his feet, maybe drag him down the hall for another round. Or maybe this was it—the walk to the pier, the cameras, the bullet. He was too tired to care which.
But the steps that entered were different—slower, deliberate, soft in a way that didn't fit the rhythm of guards.
"Christ, Brock," a woman's voice murmured, low but steady. "You look like hell."
He opened his eyes.
Dr. Lorna Graves stood in the doorway, haloed by the fluorescent light behind her. White coat buttoned to the throat, stethoscope looped around her neck like always, hair pinned up in a way that made her look cleaner than anyone should in a place like this.
For a second he thought maybe he was hallucinating. Then she sighed and crossed the room, the click of her shoes too real to be anything his mind could invent. An enforcer stayed in the doorway, watching.
"Didn't expect to see you again," he rasped. His voice cracked on the last word.
She crouched in front of him, the hem of her coat brushing the concrete. For a moment she didn't speak, just looked at him—really looked—and the breath she drew came out slow and uneven.
"Oh, Brock…" The words slipped out before she could stop them, soft as a wound. Her eyes moved over his face, the bruises, the split lip, the half-healed cuts along his jaw. "What did they do to you?"
He tried for a smirk, but it came out wrong. "You already know the answer to that."
Her mouth tightened. "Yeah," she said quietly. "I guess I do."
Up close she smelled the same—soap, antiseptic, something faintly floral beneath it. The familiarity hit harder than any fist had. She reached for his wrist, fingertips brushing the edge of the restraint before she stopped herself.
"I told them you'd need fluids," she murmured, voice slipping into the flat cadence of a doctor reading from a chart. "You're dehydrated, malnourished—"
"Don't waste your supplies," he rasped. "They're just keeping me breathing long enough to put a bullet in me. I'm not worth it."
Graves' eyes didn't flinch; she only opened her bag, her movements clipped and sure. "I know," she said quietly. "But I have orders. They don't want you dying before then." She met his eyes briefly, her voice thinning. "They want you lucid."
She unrolled a small kit, the metallic gleam of sterile tools flashing against the dim light. A capped saline bag, an IO driver, antiseptic wipes—each sound unnervingly neat in this filthy room.
Brock frowned faintly, the motion tugging at a split on his lip. "You're really going to do this?"
She didn't answer, just took his leg in both hands, pushing his tattered pant leg up to expose the pale, bruised skin of his shin. "It's not negotiable," she murmured as she braced his calf with one hand, thumb finding the landmark. "Try to stay still."
He almost laughed. "Not much choice."
She swabbed the area quickly—two inches below the knee, slightly medial—and pulled the cap from the IO needle. For a heartbeat she hesitated, thumb flexing around the grip, eyes flicking up to his face. There was apology written all through her expression.
"I'm sorry," she said, and drove the needle in.
Bone gave with a dull, muted pop. Brock's breath hissed between his teeth; pain shot up his leg like lightning, sharp and deep. His hands twitched uselessly behind him, the restraints biting into his wrists as he fought the reflex to move.
Geaves worked fast, securing the line, connecting the tubing. "I know," she whispered, voice shaking just once. "I know it hurts. I'm sorry."
He blinked through the sting, jaw locked until it passed. The warmth of the saline started crawling up his leg, into his gut—a strange relief that felt too much like humiliation.
"You'll start to feel a little steadier in a few minutes," Graves said, quieter now.
Brock looked at her, the question already shaped on his face. "I guess that means it's soon?"
She dipped her head. "A few hours."
He let his head fall back against the concrete and closed his eyes, letting the saline do the slow work of sewing him back together from the inside.
Then Graves' voice, hesitant: "Is it… is it really true?"
He opened his eyes and found her looking at him, not with the professional glare she wore in clinic, but something raw and tired. "Is what true?"
Her fingers went to the tape, thumb working at the dressing like she wanted there to be something smaller to do than ask. "What they said — that you were… commiserating with the Black Maw. That you killed Vex because he found out."
The name hit him like smoke. He spat a laugh that turned into a dry cough. "No," he said, slow and flat. "Of course not. The Maw—they tortured Harper. They left her for dead. You know that. Why would I ever work with them?" He forced air through his teeth. "Vex… Vex was his own trouble. He saw Harper as a threat. He tried to pin Vale on her, spin it so she looked like the setup. When he moved to try and make me do it—" He stopped, the memory folding him inward like a blade.
Graves watched as the last of the bag ran out, the drip slowing to a thin, steady thread. She unhooked the line, hands steadying as if the motion would hold back whatever she couldn't say. The IO pulled free with a dull give; Brock's face creased, not from the cut but from the tired reflex of pain. She pressed gauze and taped it down, fingers methodical.
"He tried to get me to shoot her in his office," Brock said into the room, voice hollow. "Right there. Tried to make it look like a mercy. I couldn't do it, Lorna. I couldn't."
She didn't answer for a long moment. The fluorescent light hummed above them and the cell smelled of cleaner and old blood. Finally she said, very soft: "I know you couldn't."
His laugh was short and bitter. "You know me. You know what I couldn't do. Doesn't mean I didn't do other things." He turned his face to her, eyes sharp in the bruise-dark. "He deserved it. Vex deserved it."
Lorna's shoulders tightened, as if the admission cost her something private. Her fingers smoothed the gauze once more before she let them fall. "I'm sorry you had to make that choice,"
Brock swallowed. There was a bright, ridiculous clarity in the salinelull—the kind that comes when dehydration eases enough to bring thought back out of the fog. "I'm not sorry," he said. The words were blunt, terrible in their certainty. "If the choice is her living or him living, I'd do it again. I'd do it a hundred times."
She looked at him like she was weighing something heavy and ugly on a scale she'd rather not touch. "I don't know which parts of you to be angry at, Brock," she said slowly. "The man who kills to protect, or the man who lets himself become that thing." Her fingers curled once on the edge of her kit, nails white. "All I can say is—Harper is alive because of some choices you made. That's not nothing."
Brock's mouth twisted, the word dragging out of him like gravel. "Was."
Graves blinked. "What?"
He lifted his head just enough for her to see his eyes, hollow and fever-bright. "She was alive," he said. "Not anymore." His voice was quieter now, and somehow worse for it—threadbare, matter-of-fact, stripped of anything that sounded like hope.
She stared at him, still crouched, knuckles white on the edge of her kit.
"She isn't anymore," he went on, the words tumbling like stones. "Neither are Knuckles, or Mason, or Onyx, or even Kier. You think I don't know what they do to people when they're making a point? You know what they did to Cole and Price." He swallowed hard, the muscles in his jaw working. "Those motherfuckers upstairs made sure Harper suffered before she went. They made sure she died alone, scared—and slowly."
The words gutted her. Graves' composure wavered—just for a second—but it was enough. The clinical mask cracked, leaving the woman underneath, the one who'd once sat at Harper's bedside and coaxed her back from the edge with gentle, furious hands.
Her throat worked around the silence before sound finally found her. "Oh, Brock…" she whispered. Her eyes shone in the sterile light, wet and sharp. "I'm so sorry. God, I'm so damn sorry."
He watched her for a long moment, something tired and faraway flickering behind his eyes. Then he sighed, the sound quiet, heavy with surrender. "Don't," he said, shaking his head just enough to matter. "It's not on you. None of it is."
She tried to speak, but he cut her off with a faint, weary half-smile. "It's done," he said. "Can't change what's already happened."
He drew a breath, slow and rattling, eyes lifting to the ceiling as though there might be sky beyond it. "At least I know," he murmured, "in a few hours, maybe I'll get to see her again. On the other side, wherever the hell that is."
Graves' lip trembled, but she didn't answer. She just sat there, knees pressed to the cold floor, watching the man who'd once been indestructible stare at the blank air above them like it was the only mercy left.
─•────
The rocks shifted under their boots, slick with frost and river spray, every step a muted grind against the frozen shore. Harper moved between Knuckles and Mason, the three of them dark shapes against the steel-gray water. The cold cut straight through the fabric, but none of them felt it anymore. Each wore the same stripped-down gear: bulletproof vests pulled over plain clothes, the kind that would blend into any crowd if they had to run. Their sidearms rode low at the hip beneath half-zipped jackets; long rifles were slung tight across their backs, wrapped in black canvas to kill the shine. Breath misted in front of them, short and shallow, each exhale vanishing into the fog rolling off the lake. Ahead, the pier lights burned faint through the haze—too far to hear, but close enough that the sound of it lived in the air, a hum of engines, a murmur of voices, the city holding its breath.
By now, Onyx and Kier would be settled in the warehouse, rifles trained through busted panes and winter haze. Harper pictured them there, still as cut stone, breath ghosting the glass. The thought steadied her and hollowed her all at once. Every step along the shoreline was a prayer she didn't know how to say aloud. She hoped the Syndicate hadn't swept the pier, hadn't pried up the grates and found the caches Calder's men had buried through the night. Hoped they hadn't looked twice at the skiff tucked under the nets, just another piece of dockyard wreckage waiting for daylight to rot it away. All she could do was keep moving, boots finding the rhythm of Knuckles' pace, the icy wind carving the air between them, and the dull echo of her pulse counting the distance to the pier.
The shoreline gave way to timber and iron. The pier's outer struts loomed above them, slick with ice, the sound of waves slapping through the pilings like a heartbeat under the wood. Knuckles raised a hand and they halted in the shadow of a mooring post, the dull glow of the floodlights spilling weakly through the gaps overhead.
The ladder was rusted but solid. Knuckles went first, testing each rung, the knife already in his hand. Its edge caught a breath of light as he moved. Harper waited at the base, pulse hammering, Mason a step behind her covering the rear.
At the top, a shape paced the deck — a Syndicate enforcer, shoulders broad under a dark coat, the faint gleam of a sidearm at his hip. He turned just enough to let the light strike his face.
Knuckles surged up the last rungs without a sound. One gloved hand caught the guard's belt, the other clamped over his mouth. A quick pull, a twist, steel flashing once. The enforcer went down in silence, body folded neatly against the rail.
Knuckles lowered him to the boards, blade already wiped clean on the man's coat. He glanced back down the ladder. "Clear," he whispered.
Harper climbed after him, boots landing beside the still form, eyes flicking once to the blood blooming dark across the boards — then forward, toward the maze of containers and lights where Brock waited somewhere beyond.
They moved like ghosts between the stacked containers, boots whispering on wet steel, bodies low and shoulders hunched against the wind. Knuckles led, eyes cutting lines through the light, Mason sliding just behind him like a second shadow. Harper kept her rifle tight against her chest, fingers resting on the stock, every sense keyed to motion: flashlight sweep, muffled footfall, the way a coat might catch the air differently when someone turned.
A pair of enforcers rounded the corner ahead, talking too loud for this hour — one with a cigarette, the other thumbed through a roll of cigarettes like a man with nothing else to do. Knuckles froze, the world narrowing to the width of the path. He brought up his knife in a single smooth arc; Mason's hand found a pistol at his hip and slipped it up, silencer already in place. They closed in from both sides.
It was over before the second man could curse. The cigarette hit the boards and went out without a sound; a gloved hand clamped a mouth shut; a soft, practised twist and one of them folded against a crate. Mason's shot — a soft, lethal sigh from the suppressed pistol — swallowed any chance of noise. Harper's breath fogged white in the gap as she watched the second enforcer slump, knees hitting the steel with little more than a sigh.
They moved on without pausing, sliding along the container shadows until the noise of the pier became a distant wash. Ahead, Knuckles picked out the marker they'd agreed on — a rusted shipping label on a blue crate — and signalled. Harper's fingers tightened on the rifle for a single, steadying second, then eased. They folded into position behind the rail, eyes on the stage, the city's breath hot with expectation somewhere out of sight.
The stage was a crude construction—temporary scaffolding slapped together over the pier's main platform, slick with condensation and framed by floodlights that turned the air into white fire. Cables snaked across the boards, coiled like veins, feeding power to the spotlights and the camera rigs stationed in front. Two broadcast drones hovered low, their red sensors blinking through the mist, and a row of tripods lined the barricade, lenses glinting like unblinking eyes.
Roth stood center stage, immaculate even here—dark suit pressed, hands clasped behind his back, a smile that didn't belong in the cold. Dane was beside him, broad and unmoving, coat open just enough to show the shoulder rig under it. Two armed enforcers flanked them, heads on a swivel, rifles hanging ready. The glow of the lights painted their faces hard and sharp, shadows swallowing the rest.
And then she saw him.
Brock was on his knees in front of them.
The sight hit like a blow. His head was bowed, wrists bound behind him, his face a mess of blood and bruise that the light seemed to linger on. He wasn't moving—not much, just the rise and fall of his chest, slow and stubborn. The crowd noise from beyond the barricades was a low, restless murmur, but Harper couldn't hear any of it. The rest of the world fell away.
It was only him—the man she'd climb through hell for, broken and still breathing, framed in the Syndicate's spotlight like a ghost they meant to erase. Her pulse spiked, vision narrowing until there was nothing but that stage, that man, and the space between them that she'd burn down to reach.
She felt the cold through the vest, right down to the bones, and it matched the cold in her gut. This could blow up in a dozen directions — they could all die out here and leave nothing but a smear on the boards. Brock could die with his head down, never knowing she'd come for him, never seeing that she'd tried.
Her hands were shaking as she crouched and set her rifle down. The metal hit the boards with the faintest clink, barely audible under the wind. Knuckles turned immediately, a flash of confusion across his face.
"What the hell are you doing?" he hissed.
She didn't answer. Her fingers moved quick, unclipping the straps at her sides, shrugging out of the vest. The Kevlar hit the ground heavy, folding on itself like it was relieved to be free.
"Harper." His hand shot out, catching her arm. "What the fuck are you doing?"
She turned to him, eyes glassed with tears that caught the light spilling through the gaps in the crates. For a heartbeat, her mouth trembled, then steadied.
"I'm giving them their spectacle," she said as she slid her sidearm out of it's holster and placed it on the ground.
Knuckles stared at her like he hadn't heard right, but the look on her face—raw, fearless, broken in all the right ways—told him she meant every word.
"Harper, don't—" But she was already turning, already straightening, shoulders back despite the fear screaming through her veins.
Knuckles' hand fell away. He could drag her back, could pin her down, but the noise would bring every guard on the pier running. And the look in her eyes—God, the look in her eyes told him she'd fight him if he tried, and they'd both die in the struggle.
"Fuck," he hissed, the word barely sound. His other hand found Mason's arm, squeezing once—an order, a prayer. "Stay ready."
Then Harper stepped out into the light, and there was nothing he could do but watch.
─•────
The floodlights turned everything white. Brock kept his head down, eyes slitted against the glare. The boards beneath him were cold, biting through the knees of his torn pants; his arms throbbed from the plastic ties that pinned them behind his back. The noise of the crowd came as a hum first, low and unfocused, then as a current of words and shuffling—dozens of people packed close to the barricades.
He raised his head slowly, blinking until the shapes bled into view. A few dozen faces, maybe more. They weren't Syndicate men; he could tell by the coats, the ink, the way they stood apart from one another. Rivals. The Black Maw, the Lancers, the kind of crews that circled each other like wolves in peacetime. People who had bled because of him, or because of the orders he'd carried when his loyalties still belonged to the Syndicate.
They were here to see the loop close. To watch the once-feared Lawson boy kneel under their lights.
The stage creaked as he shifted his weight. He could smell salt, diesel, and the faint reek of burning kerosene from the spotlights. Someone in the front row lifted a phone, recording. Brock kept his gaze on the boards. There was nothing in that crowd for him but ghosts.
Boots sounded behind him—measured, deliberate—and then the shadow fell across him. Brock didn't look up until the weight of someone crouching beside him pressed into the boards.
"Quite the turnout," Dane said, voice low, conversational, as if they were back in the compound going over an op. "You always did draw a crowd."
Brock said nothing. His jaw ached from the last time he'd tried.
Dane's gloved hand rested on his shoulder, the pressure too casual to be kind. "You know, Roth wanted this to be quick. Just a shot, lights out. But I told him that wouldn't do you justice." His tone warmed, almost nostalgic. "A man like you deserves to feel the weight of every eye on him when it ends. That's the part you taught me."
Brock's eyes lifted then, just enough to meet the gleam of Dane's smile in the floodlight. "Guess I was a hell of a teacher," he rasped.
Dane's smile widened a fraction. "The best. But you outlived your syllabus."
He patted Brock's cheek once, almost gentle. "Keep your chin up when they roll the cameras. You'll want them to catch your good side."
Then he stood, the boards creaking under his weight, and stepped back toward Roth, leaving the ghost of his handprint burning against Brock's skin.
Brock lifted his head again, the light cutting through his vision until the crowd swam into focus. Faces blurred, some jeering, some only watching — scavengers come to see the Syndicate feed. Then he saw them.
Vera. Hale.
Both standing near the barricades, half-shrouded in the floodlight's spill, their posture careful — too careful. The sight hit like a blow to the gut. For a second his body forgot how to breathe. The last time he'd seen them had been in the quarry, a handshake and a promise of neutral ground. The irony of it burned through him now — the Vultures agreeing to an alliance, to help… and here they were, front row for the execution. Vultures indeed.
Hale's eyes were flat, unreadable in the glare. Vera's caught his for only a second — one heartbeat, no more — and in it he thought he saw something flicker, the faintest fracture in her expression. But she looked away fast, her jaw setting hard as if pretending she hadn't seen him at all.
Brock's throat tightened. He dropped his gaze back to the boards, the knot of nausea curling tighter in his stomach. Whatever chance he thought existed, whatever alliances or debts might've meant something once — it was gone now. All that was left was the stage, the lights, and the sound of the crowd waiting for the end.
Roth's shoes clicked against the boards as he stepped past Brock to the front edge of the stage. The microphones caught the rhythm of his movement and magnified it, the sound swallowing the murmur of the crowd until all that remained was the echo of authority.
"East Halworth," he began, his voice smooth and resonant through the speakers. "You've come to see what happens when loyalty breaks. When a man forgets where his power came from."
The crowd stayed quiet, the kind of silence that thrums with hunger. He paced slowly, hands clasped behind his back. "This city is built on respect. On consequence. And tonight—"
He stopped.
The smallest ripple passed through the audience — not a shout, just motion, sound too low to parse but wrong enough to draw his head up. The murmuring spread, a change in air pressure, and Roth's smile thinned. He scanned the front rows, eyes narrowing against the light.
Then he laughed once, low and satisfied. "Just as I expected," he said, loud enough for the microphones to catch. "The little fox couldn't stay away."
Brock raised his head, heart lurching. The lights blurred at first, white spots swimming in his vision, but as they cleared he saw movement at the front of the crowd — a figure stepping past the first row of barricades, the floodlight catching on her hair, making it look aflame.
Harper.
The world tilted. Brock's vision tunneled, everything narrowing to her face—alive, whole, real. She was supposed to be dead. They'd told him she was dead. Dane had smiled when he described how she'd screamed for him at the end.
But she was here. Walking into the floodlights like she could save him. Like she didn't know this was a trap.
His throat closed around her name. The restraints cut deeper as his body tried to move, tried to reach for her even though twenty feet might as well be a continent. He wanted to scream at her to run, to hide, to get the fuck away from this place before they put their hands on her again.
But the only sound that came out was broken, barely human.
And Harper just stood there, chin lifted, eyes locked on his.
Roth's smile widened. "How convenient," he said into the microphone. "It seems we'll have a double feature tonight after all."
Dane stepped down from the stage.