"You really are the stupidest kind of brave, aren't you, Voss?"
Dane's voice carried over the crowd like oil over water—slick, reflective, poisonous. He descended the stage steps one deliberate stride at a time, the metal grating clanging faintly beneath his boots. Every spotlight tracked him as though the entire yard bowed to his entrance.
He didn't rush. He didn't need to. The crowd peeled back instinctively, leaving a corridor of cold air and anticipation between them.
Harper stood at the center of it. The wind clawed at her hair, whipping strands into her mouth and eyes, but she didn't move. Her throat throbbed with the force of her pulse; it was a physical thing, hammering against the thin cage of her ribs.
She'd stood like this before. Same defiance, same stillness—different monster. Only now the man she'd once faced down was the one kneeling behind Dane, bound and bloodied under the lights.
Her chest burned with It — the symmetry, the cruelty of it — how the circle had closed and she was right back where she'd started, only everything that mattered was reversed. Then she'd stood for herself. Now she stood for him.
Her eyes flicked past Dane, up toward the stage. Brock was still on his knees, his face turned just enough for her to see him under the lights. Even through the blood and distance, she saw it—the raw panic buried beneath whatever strength he had left. His lips moved, barely, forming her name without sound. Pleading.
Dane stopped in front of her.
The lights framed him from behind, splitting his face in two—one half gold, one half dark. The smile that touched his mouth wasn't amusement so much as appetite.
"Well," he said, his tone an almost affectionate drawl, "if it isn't the martyr herself." His gaze swept her up and down, slow enough to be insulting. "You thought this was poetic, didn't you? Marching in here to die beside your man. How noble." He tilted his head, eyes glinting. "How predictable."
He stepped closer—close enough that she could see the faint red sheen at his cuff, someone else's blood drying there, most likely Brock's. "Tell me, is this loyalty?" he murmured, voice dropping to a low purr meant only for her. "Or are you just trying to make sure someone actually remembers your name when this is over?"
He watched her face the way a man watches an animal in a trap—fascinated, waiting for the twitch, the break. But Harper didn't give him one. She inhaled through her teeth, slow and deliberate, her shoulders rolling back, chin lifting.
He grinned wider at that. "There it is," he said softly. "That fire. No wonder he broke rules for you."
She said nothing. Because Kier would be watching.
He was the only one who knew.
They'd sat together that morning on the narrow cot after the rest had left for breakfast. She'd told him what she planned, what she needed him to do when the time came. He hadn't tried to talk her out of it, hadn't even blinked. Just nodded once, eyes steady on hers, and said, "One signal. That's all I'll need."
Now, three hundred meters back in the dark skeleton of a warehouse, he'd have her framed through his scope. Waiting. Counting her breaths.
She exhaled once, the sound lost to the murmur of the crowd. Her fingers twitched once at her side—the smallest motion, a gesture so subtle it could've been nerves. But it wasn't.
It was the signal.
Dane caught the movement, smiled faintly, misreading it for fear. "Don't worry," he whispered, close enough that she could smell the faint sweetness of bourbon on his breath. "I'll make it quick for both of you."
Harper's eyes found his. Cold. Clear.
"You talk too much," she said. Her voice wasn't loud, but it carried—clean, sharp, enough to cut through the lights and hum.
Dane's smile deepened, the kind of grin that mistook defiance for entertainment. "That right?" he said, tilting his head just slightly, as if humoring a child. "Then maybe you—"
—Harper dropped.
Her knees struck concrete—hard, echo swallowed by the split-second crack of the rifle.
Dane's head snapped back before the sound reached her. One clean shot. The round entered high above his right eye and blew through the back of his skull in a vaporized bloom—red mist and bone flecks atomized in the floodlight. His body seized once, like a puppet whose strings had been cut, then dropped. Dead weight.
He fell toward her. She flinched as the heat hit—blood in a hot arc across her cheek, her shoulder, peppering her throat. The copper sting filled her nose. His body landed beside her with a heavy, final sound, limbs slack, eyes already glassed.
For a heartbeat, nothing moved. The crowd didn't understand what they'd seen yet; their brains were half a second behind their eyes. The only sound was the slow thud of the bass speaker still cycling from the stage.
Harper's head came up. She didn't see it, but above her head, a red laserbeam flickered above the yard.
Roth was moving. Fast. One hand inside his coat, shoulder turning—she saw the silver flash of a grip before the second shot hit. The round took him in the upper arm, spun him sideways. His mouth opened in shock, the gun clattering from his hand as two Syndicate enforcers lunged forward, dragging him off the stage and into cover.
The crowd broke then. Panic rolled through it like a wave—shouts, boots scraping, metal clanging.
A thunderous crash tore through the chaos—the gate at the far end of the pier wrenched open under the weight of the Vultures' Expeditions. Steel screamed against steel, sparks spitting into the dark as the trucks surged through.
Up on the stage, one of the enforcers ripped his weapon free—not searching, not scanning. Aimed.
Straight at Brock.
Harper saw the muzzle rise, the silver flash of the barrel finding him—Brock still kneeling, dazed, unarmed, blood running from his mouth.
There wasn't time to think.
Her body moved before her mind caught up. Muscles fired, the ground vanished beneath her, and she launched—through the roar, through the heat, through the blur of lights and movement.
Dane's body was still warm at her feet when she pushed off it.
She was halfway up the steps when another shot cracked through the chaos. The enforcer's head snapped back, a spray of red mist catching the light before his body crumpled on the boards.
Harper didn't stop.
She hit the top of the steps at full speed, boots slipping on blood-slick wood, and threw herself into Brock. The impact knocked the breath from both of them. His bound hands couldn't catch her; their weight collided and drove sideways, skidding across the stage in a tangle of limbs.
Then the edge was gone.
They dropped.
The stage vanished beneath them—six feet of open air and nothing to catch them. Harper's stomach lurched; gravity hit like a fist. She yanked Brock in tighter, twisting mid-fall, forcing his head under her chin, arms cinched around his shoulders. Her back took the first hit, the jolt blasting the air from her lungs as they struck the packed dirt below.
Momentum didn't stop. The slope seized them, dragged them into the roll. Gravel, ice, and mud tore at them as they went—twenty feet of violent descent, limbs tangling, his weight battering her smaller frame. She clung on anyway, teeth bared, breath breaking in grunts as every rotation slammed her ribs, her spine, her hips. She shoved her forearm under his skull, tried to cage his head with her body, anything to keep it from hitting stone.
Pain became rhythm—thud, slide, spin, impact. The world turned to color and noise, floodlights flashing above, the black water rushing closer below. Her boots scraped uselessly for purchase; the smell of soil and cordite filled her nose.
They hit bottom in a bone-deep crash. The last drop spat them onto the concrete apron by the shore. Her shoulder slammed first, then her hip—then her skull cracked against the ground hard enough to light her vision white. Sound dropped away, replaced by a hollow ringing that swallowed everything.
The world tilted. Cold air knifed across her face; she couldn't tell which way was up. For a moment all she felt was the weight of him—heavy, unmoving—pressing her into the grit. Blood ran hot into her hair, down her temple, mixing with the sting of salt and dirt.
Then a groan. Low, broken. His.
It cut through the haze like a flare.
Her pulse snapped back. Pain screamed through her ribs as she twisted, forcing her arms beneath him. She shoved, clawing at the ground, dragging herself out from under his weight inch by inch. The world spun, black edging her vision, but she kept moving—hands slipping on blood, breath burning.
Above them, the Expeditions had turned the pier into a war zone. Muzzle flashes strobed through the fog—Vultures engaging Syndicate enforcers, the crack of rifles echoing off containers.
"Brock—" Her voice cracked, half-choke, half-plea. She got one knee under her, blinked until his shape steadied beside her, and reached for him again.
He stirred, a rough sound scraping from his throat. His head lolled toward her; his eyes were open but glassed, unfocused. Dirt streaked his face where blood had already dried, the rest still fresh along his jaw. He tried to move, hands still bound behind him, but the effort made him hiss—every muscle shaking from the fall and the weeks that came before it.
"I've got you," she rasped, half to him, half to herself.
Her hands were shaking so hard she could barely grip. The world tilted dangerously; she blinked through the blur, forcing her eyes to focus on the plastic biting into his wrists. The knife slipped twice before she found purchase.
"Hold still," she breathed. The ringing in her ears deepened to a low hum, swallowing everything but the scrape of the blade. She worked by touch more than sight, sawing until the tie gave. The edge nicked her palm; she didn't feel it until warmth slicked between her fingers.
The ties snapped.
Brock's arms dropped free, the motion dragging a hoarse groan from him as circulation rushed back. He caught himself on his elbows, head hanging. She caught his shoulder, steadying him, blood from both of them running together over her hand.
"You're okay," she said again, though her voice was shaking as badly as her hands. "You're okay—come on, we have to move."
She got an arm under him, braced her boots against the slick concrete, and heaved. His breath hitched, body trembling with the effort, but he pushed with her, dragging himself upright inch by inch until he was on his knees. He swayed there, head bowed, one hand sinking into the dirt for balance.
Harper turned at the sound of a loud whistle.
Mason and Knuckles were on the ridge—dark silhouettes against the light, rifles slung. Knuckles caught her eye and flashed a quick hand signal—two fingers, down and forward. Overhead, a blue light flashed towards the ferry docks.
Then they started their descent.
Knuckles went first, half sliding, half running down the slope. The embankment was a churned mess—mud, gravel, broken glass catching the floodlight. He used one hand to steady himself on the ground, the other clutching his rifle close to his chest. Mason followed a beat behind, boots grinding against loose rock, sending a spray of grit down ahead of him.
They hit the bottom hard, both of them moving before the dust even settled.
Knuckles' voice broke, raw and disbelieving. He dropped to one knee beside him, hands finding Brock's shoulders, his jaw, needing to feel that he was real. "I got him," he said hoarsely, almost to himself. Mason moved behind, scanning the pier, rifle raised, breath misting in the cold.
Harper pulled back. Her hands were trembling too badly to hold on anyway. She crawled backward a few feet, boots scraping, and sank to the ground, shoulders heaving. The blood on her hands caught the light like oil.
Knuckles hauled Brock in, one arm across his chest, the other locking behind his head, pulling him close in a bruising grip. For a moment, the chaos above them didn't exist—no gunfire, no shouting, just that broken sound that came out of Knuckles' chest, something between relief and disbelief.
Brock sagged against him, half-conscious, breath rattling. Knuckles' fingers curled at the back of his neck, holding him there as if he might vanish if he let go.
"Jesus Christ, Lawson," he rasped, voice shredding at the edges. "You don't get to fucking die on me. You hear me? Not now."
Brock made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a groan, but it was enough. Knuckles' grip tightened, forehead pressing briefly to Brock's temple before he pulled back to look at him, breath shaking.
"Yeah," Knuckles muttered, rough and thick. "That's it. Stay with me, brother. I got you."
Mason turned, scanning the shoreline, the wind carrying sound off the water. "I can hear the boat," he said, voice low but urgent.
Knuckles' head snapped up. He listened—a faint engine under the wind, growing steadier, closer. He looked toward the lake, the surface black and fractured under the glare of the floodlights. Then movement caught his eye—Harper.
She was lying on her side a few feet away, half-curled as if trying to make herself smaller. Her upper body was twisted so her chest pressed against the cold concrete, one arm folded under her. Her forehead rested on her forearm, face turned toward the ground, blood dark against her hair and skin. Each shallow breath lifted her just slightly before gravity pulled her back down again.
Knuckles felt his stomach drop.
"Mace," he said, voice tight. "Hold him."
Mason moved without question, sliding in behind Brock to keep him upright as Knuckles pushed off the ground and crossed to her. The concrete was slick beneath his boots, coated in grit and a thin sheen of water from the waves slapping against the pier. Light from above fractured across it, white and gold and harsh, cutting around their shadows as he dropped to a crouch beside her.
"Hey," he said, rough but low. "You with me?"
Harper stirred, a small, shaky motion. She rolled onto her back with effort, her breath catching as her shoulder met the concrete. Her forearm came up to shield her eyes from the floodlights, pressing across her brow. Her face was flecked with blood—most of it Dane's, some of it her own—spattered down her throat and into her hair.
She didn't speak—couldn't, really, her head ringing too loud to trust words. Just drew a shaky breath and, with her free hand, gave the smallest thumbs-up. The world was still spinning, but she was breathing. That counted for something.
Knuckles let out a sound that was half laugh, half choke. "Jesus Christ…" He slipped an arm behind her shoulders and pulled her upright, careful but firm. She winced, teeth gritting, but didn't fight him.
For a second, he just looked at her—the wreck of her hair, the tremor in her hands, the stubborn life still in her despite everything. His jaw worked, a flash of emotion tightening through him before it broke loose.
"You stupid, reckless—" his voice broke, came back rougher, "stupid fucking girl."
Before she could answer, he pulled her in, crushing her against his chest. She sagged into him, too spent to lift her hands. Over his shoulder, through the blur of light and exhaustion, Brock's eyes found hers—upright now, barely, Mason braced behind him.
Knuckles pulled back, his palms framing her face, thumbs brushing away blood at her temple. His eyes were wet and furious, breath shaking through his teeth.
"Don't you ever pull a fucking stunt like that again, you hear me?"
Up close, she could see the grime ground into the creases at the corners of his eyes, the raw edge of fear still clinging to him. His voice cracked on the last word, the sound breaking under everything that had nearly gone wrong.
Harper blinked through the sting in her head. Her mouth twitched—half a grimace, half a smile that couldn't quite find its strength. Blood had dried across her cheek in thin, rust-colored lines.
She rasped, voice barely a whisper but steady enough to sting: "You're welcome."
For a second he just stared at her, jaw flexing, disbelief twisting into something like relief. Then he exhaled hard, a sound closer to a laugh than he meant it to be, and pulled her back into his chest again, the tremor still running through his hands. Her fingers caught his jacket—barely, but enough.
The low hum of an engine began to rise over the crash of the water. Knuckles lifted his head, and all three of them turned toward the sound.
Through the glare off the lake, the skiff emerged—dark hull cutting through the rippling reflection of the floodlights, engine throttled low. Gage was at the bow, hand braced on the railing, scanning the shoreline. Calder stood behind him at the tiller, jaw set, eyes locked on the group at the base of the embankment.
The boat eased In, bumping against the concrete with a hollow thud.
Gage was over the side before it had fully stopped. Boots hit the waterline, sending spray across the cement as he jogged up toward them. Mason had Brock under one arm, nearly dragging him; Gage caught the other side without a word, their movements practiced, urgent.
"Got him," Gage grunted, and the two of them hauled Brock toward the boat. Calder reached down, steadying the hull with one hand and offering the other. Brock's legs buckled once as they lifted, his weight going completely dead between them—Mason grunting with the effort—but between them they got him over the edge and in. Brock's head dropped against Gage's shoulder as he hit the deck, consciousness flickering. He'd made it this far on adrenaline and stubbornness; now his body was giving up the fight.
Knuckles turned back to Harper. She'd managed to get one knee under her again, still dazed, blood streaked across her hairline.
"Come on," he said quietly, sliding an arm under her and helping her up. She winced but didn't resist, leaning into him as he guided her to the water's edge. The cold spray hit her face as Calder reached out, catching her wrist and hauling her the last bit into the skiff.
"Everyone in!" Calder barked over the engine as Knuckles climbed in after her, steadying her while the boat rocked. Above them, the pier was still chaos—gunfire stuttering against metal, someone shouting orders that no one could hear. The night was fire and noise and panic, but down here, with the water swallowing the light, it felt a world away.
The throttle opened, and the skiff peeled from the concrete. Behind them, a green laser flashed once across the yard—Kier's signal. The Vultures would be melting into the chaos now, ghosts among the panicking crowd.
The skiff knifed through the black water, its hull hammering against the chop. Spray lashed over the sides, cold enough to bite. Calder hunched forward at the tiller, every line of him focused on speed and silence; Gage crouched beside Brock, one hand braced on the deck, the other keeping Brock's head steady as the boat bounced.
Knuckles stayed low beside Harper. The wind had stripped the warmth from her skin; she was pale under the blood, trembling, teeth chattering from shock and pain. Every muscle in her body was coiled toward one direction—the figure stretched on the deck.
"Stay down," Knuckles said, a hand at her shoulder.
"I need him," she managed, voice slurred.
Knuckles didn't stop her this time. He let her go.
She moved on hands and knees, dragging herself forward across the slick metal deck. Every motion sent pain through her shoulder and the back of her skull, but she didn't stop until she reached him. She collapsed beside him where he lay sprawled across the center of the deck, one arm sliding around his chest, her forehead pressing weakly against his shoulder.
Brock stirred at the touch. His head turned, slow, unfocused eyes finding her through the dim light. For a heartbeat he looked like he wasn't sure she was real—then his fingers twitched, groping blindly until they found her ribs.
The wind tore through them, the engine throbbed, the pier's chaos fading to distant static behind. Her teeth clicked against the fabric of his jacket; his breath came in uneven bursts that misted white between them. Mason looked back once, eyes sweeping over them. His shoulders dropped a fraction — the closest he came to a sigh — and he faced forward again.
Knuckles stayed where he was, one knee braced against the deck to steady himself, eyes on the horizon ahead. The water hissed beneath the hull, carrying them away from the ruin behind them, into the dark.
The lake narrowed as they pushed on, the far shore finally taking shape through the mist—a darker smudge against the night, trees crowding low along the waterline. Calder kept them angled toward it, throttle steady, jaw tight, the spray icing on his sleeves.
"Almost there," he called over the wind—voice rough, half lost to it.
The others didn't answer. They were past words now. The only sounds were the drone of the engine, the slap of waves against the hull, and the low rasp of ragged breathing.
Gage leaned over Brock, two fingers at his throat, checking for a pulse again like he didn't trust the last one. Brock's skin was clammy, pale even in the dark, eyes barely open. His lips moved, soundless, breath shallow.
"Stay with me," Gage muttered. "Come on, man. Few more minutes."
Harper stayed pressed against Brock's side, one hand clenched in the front of his jacket. The cold had turned her lips blue; she couldn't stop shaking. Every jolt of the skiff made her bones feel like glass. Her head still rang from the hit, vision tunneling in and out, but she kept her eyes on him. Watching his chest rise was the only thing anchoring her.
Knuckles shifted closer, pulling his jacket off and draping it over her shoulders. She barely reacted, only turned her face into it, hiding from the wind.
Mason crouched near the stern, rifle still in hand but angled down, scanning the dark horizon behind them. The green flash had already gone up minutes ago; Kier and Onyx would be gone by now, the yard emptying into silence. Still, Mason watched the line of the lake, jaw tight, waiting for any shape that didn't belong.
Calder throttled down slightly, the engine growling low as they entered the narrower channel near the far shore. Trees lined the banks, their shapes black and skeletal against the sky.
"Lights off," he ordered.
Gage reached up, twisting the lamp at the bow until it died. Darkness swallowed them whole.
The only light left was the weak reflection of the moon on the water and the faint red glow of the gauge panel. The boat slowed, the bow nosing toward the shore ahead—an inlet barely visible until they were on top of it.
"We're here," Calder said quietly. "Hold on."
The skiff coasted into the narrow inlet, the engine throttled back to a low hum. The trees closed in on both sides, black silhouettes hemming them in. Ahead, a faint glint caught the light—a dark Expedition parked beneath the overhang of branches, just where they'd left it.
Calder eased the boat alongside the small dock, cutting the motor completely. The sudden silence was jarring after so much noise; only the lapping of water and the hiss of the cooling engine filled the air.
Gage was already on his phone, thumb swiping across the cracked screen. A message flashed back through the darkness—Vera and the others clear.
He let out a breath. "They're out," he said, tucking the phone into his pocket.
"Good," Calder muttered. "Let's move."
Mason and Gage handled Brock first, each taking an arm. Brock stirred as they lifted him, half-conscious, breath rasping between clenched teeth. His boots dragged against the dock boards, water pooling beneath them as they carried him toward the SUV. They laid him across the backseat, his head propped against the far door, legs bent to fit the space.
Knuckles turned to Harper, who had rolled onto her back. "You good to stand?"
She nodded once, too quickly. When he helped her up, the motion tipped her world sideways. She swayed, the color draining from her face.
"Whoa—Harper—"
She didn't answer. Her body folded forward; she dropped to her knees and vomited hard over the edge of the dock. Knuckles was with her instantly, one hand holding her hair back, the other braced between her shoulder blades as she coughed, shaking.
"Easy," he murmured, voice softer now. "Hey, it's okay. Just breathe."
When she finally stilled, trembling and pale, he used his sleeve to wipe her mouth and jaw, careful not to press the bruise already forming along her cheek. Her eyes were glassy, unfocused.
"You with me?"
She gave the faintest nod.
"Good." He steadied her again, got an arm under her, and helped her toward the truck. "You're done for the night, kid."
Calder had the rear doors open, Gage already climbing into the front passenger seat. "We can't risk a hospital," he said, tone clipped. "Syndicate will have every ER under surveillance before sunrise. They don't know our safehouse locations, and I doubt they're looking yet. We go home. Vera's got med training."
Knuckles gave a short nod as he lifted Harper up into the backseat beside Brock, settling her against his side so she could lean on him. "So does Kier," he said, closing the door. "And I'm betting they're already halfway back."
Calder climbed behind the wheel. The headlights stayed off as he eased the Expedition away from the dock, tires crunching over gravel, the lake vanishing behind them.
The night swallowed their tracks.