Harper rode the back bench with her shoulders wedged between Onyx and Kier, the Suburban parked at their usual pull-out with the engine ticking low; the guardrail wore a crust of road salt, the billboard above them hummed, and gray plow-berms hemmed the shoulder.
Three days since they'd dragged Onyx out of the flipped Tahoe and he wore the proof—a butterfly strip at his temple, bruises gone sour-green at the edges, a sling biting his collar, that concussion haze that made him squint at the dome light; antiseptic and winter clung to him, and he kept his breathing shallow, guarding the joint. Kier's knee jittered against hers, his thumb worrying a dented lighter until the lid snapped shut.
Up front, Knuckles watched the mirror and the curve in one glance while Brock kept his hands loose on the wheel, letting the heater hum. They'd laid low, swapped gauze and habits, but the hour had come round again—their hour with Price and Cole—and the little black phone in the console tray felt like a live thing, waiting for a thumb.
When Knuckles finally reached for it, the overhead light caught the thin white scar along his thumb as he lifted the phone. The cracked casing gleamed dull in the dash glow. "Let's see what kind of chaos we caused," he said, mouth tipping into a smirk that didn't touch his eyes. Brock gave a small nod, the others silent as Knuckles thumbed in the number. The dial tone filled the cabin, steady and hollow, before the first ring began to climb the air.
Brock's head turned toward Knuckles when the phone rang the fourth time. Price always picked up at three. The sound cut through the heater's hum, hollow and rhythmic, every tone stretching thinner than the last. Knuckles didn't move, thumb hovering near the end key like he might kill the call and redial—reset the pattern, make the world normal again.
Then a click.
Not Price's voice. Silence first—long enough that Knuckles almost spoke—then one that rolled out smooth and amused, wrong in every note. In the background, something creaked. A chair, maybe. Or a door.
"Well," the man said, drawling the word like it tasted good. "You boys have been busy."
Brock went still. Kier's knee froze against Harper's. Even Knuckles' breath seemed to pause.
Harper frowned, glancing between them—she didn't know the voice, but the way their eyes hardened told her they did.
Knuckles' face shuttered, all trace of that earlier smirk gone. "Roth," he muttered, the word dragging like gravel. Harper's gut turned to ice.
On the other end came a low chuckle—familiar, unhurried, venom wrapped in velvet. "Knuckles, my friend. Just as predictable as I remember."
Knuckles' jaw flexed; he started to speak, but Roth talked right through him. "Surely you didn't think your little game of telephone could go on forever, did you?"
Another laugh, softer this time, almost intimate. "I always wondered which of you would crack first."
Brock gritted his teeth, voice rough. "What did you do?"
"Oh, hello, Brock," Roth said brightly, the warmth synthetic, slippery. "I hope you're well. I hope your little bitch is keeping you and the rest of the boys warm these cold nights."
The words hung there—ugly, deliberate—and Harper could feel the temperature in the Suburban drop even as Brock's knuckles whitened on the wheel.
Roth's tone stayed light, conversational, like he was recounting a fond memory. "Brock, you trained your men well. I'm impressed—neither Cole nor Price gave up a thing while we… talked." A soft exhale, almost wistful. "Price lasted three hours. Cole broke on the second, but only to beg—not to tell. You'd have been proud of them." The pause that followed was almost tender. "Eventually, though, everyone runs out of ways to scream."
Harper's stomach hollowed out. Color drained from her face; Kier's jaw locked, Onyx's hand twitched against his sling but didn't move.
"It's unfortunate," Roth went on, sigh thick with satisfaction. "Someone as clever as Cole never thought to clear his call logs. Every few days—same number. Tuesdays and Fridays, like clockwork. 1500 hours. Cole was always punctual, wasn't he?"
The cabin felt smaller, tighter, the only sound the faint hiss of the heater and the thin, metallic pulse of the line still open between them.
Knuckles finally found his voice, the words rough, scraped raw.
"You son of a bitch—Cole and Price were—"
"Good men," Roth cut in smoothly, bright with false sympathy. "I know. Tragic, really. It's unfortunate they got tangled up in your little rebellion." A beat. Then the smile came back into his tone. "But not to worry. They didn't suffer—much. I made sure of that."
Brock didn't move. His jaw clenched until the muscle ticked beneath his cheek, eyes fixed on the windshield like he could burn through it.
From the back seat came a small sound—Harper's breath catching, a whimper she couldn't swallow. Kier's hand found her knee, a silent press, the only thing in the car that wasn't frozen.
Onyx's hand cut the air. "Hang up, Knuckles," he said.
On the line, Roth made a small, pleased noise. "Don't you want to know about Mason?"
Every head in the Suburban snapped toward the speaker at once. Roth laughed, low and rich. "Sneaky bastard slipped out the gates the minute he realized Cole and Price had been found out. Ran like a rat and left his friends to the cats."
Knuckles made a sound—half cough, half growl—his hand clenching at his ribs.
"Don't go looking for him," Roth said, voice trimming colder. "My men are all over the city. When we find him—and we will—I'll make sure he knows you heard this call. That you knew he was running. That you did nothing." A pause, deliberate. "Survivor's guilt is such an interesting thing to watch, don't you think?"
Silence filled the Suburban, thick as winter air. Then Roth's voice drifted back, softer now, almost kind.
"Keep the phone, boys. Call me in a few days and we'll talk about what I can squeeze out of Mason. I have a feeling he'll crack a little easier."
He exhaled, a quiet sigh that somehow sounded satisfied. "Give my regards to Harper, won't you? I do hope she's adjusting well to her new… circumstances."
Then, almost as an afterthought: "You take care now."
The line went dead.
Knuckles stared at the dark screen, thumb hovering uselessly over glass. The heater hummed on, indifferent. Brock's breath rasped once through his nose, a sound halfway to a growl.
Nobody spoke.
Harper folded forward, elbows on her knees, hand pressed hard over her mouth. The sound that came out of her wasn't a sob, just air escaping something cracked.
Knuckles' eyes stayed on the phone. "Price and Cole," he said at last, voice stripped to a whisper. He set the handset down like it was something fragile, or cursed. "They didn't deserve that."
The silence that followed carried its own pulse—thick, uneven, alive.
Onyx shifted, breath catching in his ribs. "We need to find Mason," he said quietly. "Before they do."
Knuckles shook his head. "Syndicate'll be prowling the roads by now—"
"They'll be looking for this car," Harper cut in, louder than she meant. Her head stayed down, hair shadowing her face, voice tight from the effort of keeping it steady. "So don't use this car."
Brock turned toward her, brow furrowed. "What?"
She raised her head, eyes wet, the heel of her hand dragging quickly across her cheek. "They'll expect the Suburban. Cameras, checkpoints—everybody's got a feed. We can't take it anywhere near the city." Her breath hitched once, but she pushed through it. "We take another one."
The silence that followed was heavy, but it wasn't grief anymore—it was decision taking shape.
Kier slapped her knee once, the sound small but solid. "I like the way you fucking think."
─•────
Harper stepped off the Suburban's shadow and crossed the pump apron, salt crunching under her boots, breath fogging in a flat ribbon. The car she'd picked was a plain, dented gray Camry tucked at pump three, dealer plate frame half-bent, a grocery bag soft in the passenger seat—cereal box visible through the plastic, kid's juice boxes. Exactly the sort of anonymous thing that melts into traffic. The man at the pump was mid-thirties, coat collar up, phone in one hand, the other rubbing the back of his neck like he'd been on hold too long.
Through her periphery, she clocked the team: Kier and Onyx still at the Suburban—Kier bent over the raised hood, Onyx watching the pumps through the windshield. Brock moved a lane over, matching her pace so the Camry sat between them, a casual parallel line. Knuckles lingered by the ice chest near the store, hands in his pockets, posture lazy but eyes alive.
Harper flattened her expression to something ordinary—lost commuter, polite smile already forming—and slipped into the driver's blind spot, letting a hint of sweetness bloom just enough to look real: chin tilted, eyes bright beneath the hood, that half-smile she knew men trusted.
"Hey, sorry—can I bother you a sec?" she asked, pitching her voice light, a touch of breathless. "Is the east on-ramp open again, or am I stuck looping back through town?"
The man looked up from his phone, startled, then smiled automatically. "Uh—yeah, it should be open. They cleared the salt trucks earlier, I think." His posture shifted toward her, one hand still resting on the pump handle.
Harper mirrored his movement, taking half a step closer, letting a laugh catch in her throat. "God, thank you. I've been lost in detours all day. I thought I was never getting out of here."
He laughed too, easy, shoulders relaxing, back turning just enough. Over his shoulder, Brock slipped through the narrow space between pumps, moving silent and low—using the man's car as cover, hand brushing the door handle as he came around the rear quarter.
Harper kept talking, keeping the man's eyes on her, voice warm and harmless. "You're a lifesaver. I owe you a coffee if I ever find the right road."
He smiled, body angling closer, hand sliding off the pump handle. Behind him, Brock drifted into the gap, calm and casual, fingers closing over the nozzle. He unhooked it from the car, set it back on the pump cradle with a soft metallic click.
The man startled and began to turn. Brock was already there—closer than the man realized, squared to him, shoulders filling the space between them. He didn't raise his voice. Didn't touch him. Just held his eyes and said, "Walk."
The word landed flat and absolute.
The man blinked, confusion cutting through his easy grin, then his eyes tracked from Brock to Harper—and back to Brock. His breath caught. "Wait—wait, I—" His hand jerked toward his pocket, instinct, then froze when Harper's jacket shifted to show the matte edge of her pistol.
"I'm sorry," she said quietly.
The man's face went slack, then pale. Harper felt something twist behind her ribs—not guilt, exactly, but the ghost of it. She'd smiled at him. Made him feel safe. And now his hands were rising, slow and careful, like she might shoot him if he moved wrong.
She wouldn't. But he didn't know that.
Brock slid into the driver's seat, engine catching with a low rumble—the keys still in the ignition. Knuckles moved fast from the ice chest, slipping into the passenger seat before the car door even shut.
Harper started backing away, slow and steady, her eyes never leaving the man's face. The Suburban rolled up behind her, tires whispering over salt. She pivoted, slipped into the rear door before it stopped moving. Her hands were steady. Her breathing even.
Behind them, the man stood frozen at pump three, phone still in his hand, mouth open like he was trying to understand what had just happened.
Harper didn't look back. The convoy pulled out together, two cars melting into the flow of highway traffic.
Kier kept the Suburban tight on the sedan's tail, snow hissing beneath the tires as they cleared the lights. The gas station canopy shrank in the mirrors—just another smear of yellow in the gray afternoon. Onyx sat forward in the passenger seat, watching the sedan ahead thread toward the service road, one hand braced on the dash.
From the driver's side, Kier exhaled, a sharp sound that wasn't quite a laugh. "Good work back there."
Harper managed a smile that didn't last long. The adrenaline had burned off fast, leaving only the ache underneath. She slumped back against the seat, head tipping to the rest, the vibration of the road humming through her skull. The smell of fuel clung to her coat.
Outside, the wind howled past the windows; inside, no one spoke. She closed her eyes, and for a moment the quiet was filled with the faces of the dead—Price, Cole—and the space where Mason should've been.
They drove for several minutes in silence, the highway unwinding in a gray blur until the pumps and canopy were far behind. When Brock finally signaled, both vehicles eased onto the shoulder, engines ticking in the cold.
Brock climbed out of the sedan and crossed through the wind gust, stopping at the Suburban's passenger window. "Go back to the cabin," he said through the glass, voice low but final. "Knuckles and I will go into the city and try to find Mason."
Harper met his eyes, jaw set. "I'm coming."
"No." The word landed hard, immediate.
She shoved the door open before he could say more, boots crunching on salt as she stepped past the mirror. Brock caught her arm. "Harper—"
She turned to him, face tight, voice steady. "I'm going with you."
They stared at each other, breath fogging between them, road noise humming under the silence. Then Brock sighed, the fight leaving his shoulders. He let her arm go, and she stalked to the sedan.
Harper tugged open the rear door of the sedan and slid inside, the seat still warm from when Knuckles had been in it. He twisted in the front seat as she buckled herself in, one brow raised. "You know you're the only one who can tell him no, right?"
Harper tilted her head, expression innocent. "Tell who no?"
"Brock." Knuckles gestured vaguely toward the Suburban in front of them. "Anyone else would be scraping themselves off the pavement by now. But you? You push back and he just—" He waved a hand, searching for the word. "—allows it."
Harper leaned back against the seat, letting the warmth from where someone had been sitting earlier seep through her jeans. A tired smile curved at her mouth. "Only because he likes the apology that comes after."
Knuckles blinked once. Twice. Realization sank in slow and inevitable, and his face went through three distinct stages of regret. "Oh, Jesus Christ—"
"Usually not the name he—"
"No." Knuckles twisted forward and dropped his forehead against the dashboard with a dull thunk, one hand raised in surrender. "Please, for the love of God, do not finish that sentence."
Harper's smile widened, voice light and entirely too pleased with herself. "Wouldn't drea—"
The driver's door opened. Brock slid into the seat behind the wheel, filling the space with his presence, shoulders brushing the doorframe as he settled in. He glanced between them—Knuckles still half-collapsed against the dashboard, Harper wearing a cat-that-got-the-cream expression in the back seat—and his brow furrowed.
"What?" Brock asked, voice flat with suspicion.
"Nothing," Knuckles said immediately, sitting up too fast, suddenly very interested in adjusting his seatbelt.
Harper just smiled, sweet and serene. "Knuckles was just saying how reasonable you are."
Brock's eyes narrowed. He looked at Knuckles.
Knuckles looked at the windshield. "Yep. Super reasonable. Let's go."
Brock's gaze lingered a moment longer, clearly unconvinced, then he shifted the car into drive. "Uh-huh."
Ahead of them, the Suburban swung wide, headlights carving across the snowbank before it made a U-turn and vanished back the way they'd come. Brock eased the sedan onto the road, tires whispering over salt, and took the opposite lane. They drove for miles without speaking, the highway flattening out into gray fields and wind-shredded fences. The city's glow sat faint on the horizon.
"We need to figure out where to start once we hit East Halworth," Brock said finally, eyes on the mirror. "If Mason's alive, he's running blind."
"Running smart," Knuckles corrected. "He knows the patrol routes. He'll stay dark, maybe rail yards or tunnels."
Harper leaned forward between the seats, phone already half out of her pocket before Knuckles caught the movement.
"Don't," he said quietly. "If his number's flagged, we'll light him up on every Syndicate feed in the city."
Her fingers stilled. She stared at the black screen, then slid it back into her coat. "He's good at hiding," she murmured, though it sounded more like she was convincing herself.
"Let's hope so," Brock said. "They'll have patrols sweeping every district by now. But this car—" he glanced at the dull gray dash, "—won't raise an eyebrow if we keep our heads down."
The hum of the tires filled the rest of the conversation. Outside, the highway signs started to change—numbers giving way to street names, the orange haze of East Halworth bleeding slowly into the sky.
They threaded into the city where the highway spat them out into a smear of sodium light and late-shift glow. East Halworth unfolded in anonymous blocks: laundromats with buzzing signs, shuttered storefronts, delivery trucks backing into loading docks with pneumatic hisses. Brock kept to the lesser arteries—service alleys, rail-side feeders, old freight cutaways—routes the Syndicate rarely wasted patrols on. Knuckles rode shotgun, eyes sweeping curbs and doorways, the dark seams between buildings where a man could vanish if he knew how.
They worked the west rail spur first, then the storm-tunnel mouth under the overpass, then a row of rental lockers where drifters sometimes slept. Each stop carried the same thin promise: a half-crushed coffee cup still warm, fresh tire tracks in the slush, the smell of cigarette smoke still clinging to brick. Always almost. Never him.
Harper climbed out at the lockers, boots crunching on frozen gravel, and tugged at a bent padlock while Brock idled ten feet back. The door rattled open on emptiness—just a stained sleeping bag and a pile of newspapers dated three weeks old. She pulled the door shut and shook her head.
Once, a black Suburban nosed from a side street two blocks ahead, grille gleaming wet under the streetlamps. Brock slowed instinctively, letting a delivery van slide between them, the sedan's anonymous paint blending with the late-evening traffic. Knuckles went still, one hand drifting toward his jacket. The patrol's headlights skimmed their windows—cold, impersonal—and kept going.
No one spoke. Relief hit like a held breath released—cold, unsatisfying, already fading.
They looped south toward the freight district, following muscle memory more than logic. Brock knew these streets—had run them years ago when the Syndicate's grip was tighter and the margins thinner. The radio stayed off; only the heater fan and the rattle of gravel under tires filled the car. Harper watched every corner, every hunched shape that could be Mason: the man smoking outside the pawn shop, the figure ducking into an alley, the shadow lingering too long beneath the overpass. But East Halworth swallowed its own, and none of them turned into the face she was looking for.
By the time the sky dimmed from orange to steel, they'd traced half the grid—rail yards, loading depots, underpasses, the burned-out shell of an old textile mill. Each location bled into the next, the search turning circular, hope thinning with every empty doorway.
"Nothing," Knuckles muttered, voice flat.
Brock's hands tightened on the wheel, knuckles going white. He didn't answer immediately—just stared through the windshield at the street stretching ahead, identical to the last five they'd driven. Then, finally: "We keep at it."
Knuckles glanced at him. "Brock—"
"He's out here somewhere." The words came harder than they should have, edged with something that wasn't quite anger. "We keep looking."
Knuckles held his gaze for a beat, then nodded and turned back to the window.
Harper said nothing. She just leaned her temple against the cold glass and watched the city slide past—block after block of shuttered lives and dim windows, every one of them a place Mason wasn't.
The sedan rolled on, headlights low, three ghosts combing streets that refused to give anything back.
They crossed to the far end of East Halworth, leaving the empty freight district behind. The road narrowed, skyline thinning into cranes and switching lights. The second rail yard sprawled along the riverbank—rusted cars, diesel haze, the air trembling with the slow metallic heartbeat of idling engines. A string of hoppers sat live on the outer track, exhaust venting in pale plumes.
Brock cut the headlights and let the sedan roll to a stop beside a row of tankers, the hum of a running locomotive carrying through the cold. "If he's trying to skip town," Brock said, watching the rails pulse red beneath the signal lamps, "this is how you do it. No checkpoints. Just climb on and disappear."
Brock killed the engine and listened to the rhythm of the yard—the clang of couplers, the hiss of air lines, the far-off radio static from the switching tower. The noise covered everything but the nerves in his own breath.
"We go on foot," he said finally. "Keep your heads moving. A Syndicate patrol could sweep this yard same as us."
Knuckles nodded once, already checking the slide on his pistol. Harper zipped her coat, eyes on the line of cars where the light fractured through gaps. The air reeked of diesel and iron; steam curled off the locomotive's belly and drifted across the tracks like fog.
They moved together into the yard, boots crunching cinder, breath short in the cold. The clatter of metal and hiss of steam folded around them as freight cars stretched in rows—hulking shapes streaked with grime and years of spray paint. Harper kept a hand on the cold rail as they crossed between lines, eyes tracing every gap for movement.
Knuckles drifted a few paces ahead, scanning under the wheels of parked cars, the crunch of his boots lost in the low roar of the idling engine downrange. Brock stayed centered, head turning slow and methodical, every sense tuned for the sound of another voice, another step.
They reached the midline where the air grew warmer from the locomotive's exhaust, fog curling thick around the couplers. Harper started to shake her head—ready to call it—when something moved. A shadow slipped between two freight cars at the far edge of the yard, fast and low, a human shape vanishing into the seam between them.
Brock raised two fingers—halt—and they froze among the rails. "There," he breathed. "Between the boxcars." The sound of the engine masked most things, but not the scrape of a boot sole, light and hurried, coming from where the shadow had gone.
He jerked his chin left. "Flank him."
Knuckles peeled off toward the next line of cars, shoulders tight, keeping to the narrow walkway. Harper stayed low, slipping behind Brock, her pulse heavy in her throat. Steam hissed from a valve overhead, ghosting across their faces.
They crept closer, closing the gap in a slow, silent pincer. Harper caught a flicker again—someone crouched between the hoppers, gloved hands braced on the coupler bar, chest heaving. Too small to be Syndicate muscle. Too wild in the movement.
Brock's voice carried just enough to reach. "Who's there?"
The figure stiffened, head snapping up. No answer—only the metallic clang of a boot slipping on the rail. Then a voice, hoarse and ragged: "Don't—just don't—"
Harper's breath hitched. She knew that voice—or what was left of it. But she didn't move yet. She kept her hands where he could see them, the way you'd approach a wounded animal. She swallowed hard, the name catching behind her teeth before it came out.
"Mason?"
The figure's head snapped toward her, eyes wide beneath the brim of a torn hood. For a breath he looked ready to bolt, muscles wired tight; then recognition hit, washing through his face like thaw. The tension bled out of his shoulders all at once.
"Harper?" The word broke coming out, disbelief and relief tangled together.
She stepped out from behind the freight car, slow and steady, hands still open at her sides. Steam drifted between them, dissolving in the air. Up close, he looked smaller—coat torn at the shoulder, dirt ground into every seam, a bruise fading along his jaw. His hands shook even though he'd stuffed them in his pockets. When he breathed, it rattled.
"Yeah," she said softly. "It's me."
He blinked hard, the fight leaving his frame. "I thought—" He broke off, shaking his head, one hand coming up like he didn't quite believe she was there.
Brock held position two paces behind her, hands visible; across the next track, Knuckles' silhouette slid along the neighboring line, covering the far side in case Mason bolted.
A wash of light tore through the steam—headlights cutting across the yard from the access road. The four of them froze. A vehicle engine revved, heavy and close, tires crunching over cinders.
"Patrol," Brock hissed. "Scatter!"
They broke in different directions—Brock toward the far line of cars, Knuckles vanishing between tankers. Harper lurched forward, grabbed Mason's sleeve on instinct and pulled him into the narrow space between two hoppers. Metal and grease pressed close on both sides, the air thick with the scent of diesel and iron.
The lights swept past, blinding white slicing through the fogged rails. Mason tensed against her, breath quick and shallow. Harper pressed a hand to his chest, feeling the tremor under her palm.
"It's just a pass," she whispered. "Don't move."
The beam lingered—then shifted away, rolling down the next lane. The sound of the engine faded back toward the gates, replaced by the mechanical thrum of the yard.
Mason's breathing didn't ease. His eyes stayed fixed on the gap where light had been. "They've been everywhere," he said, voice raw. "I thought I'd lost them. I thought—" He stopped himself, swallowed hard.
Harper kept her hand where it was, steady, grounding. "You did. You're okay now."
He looked at her then—really looked—and some of the wildness drained from his face. "You shouldn't have come," he murmured.
Harper shook her head once, firm. "Of course we did." Her whisper carried a bite of heat. "You think we'd just leave you here?"
That finally broke through—his shoulders sagged, the fight bleeding out of him. For the first time she saw something like relief in his face, fragile and raw.
The light from the distant patrol faded completely, leaving only the low hum of the locomotive and the two of them pressed close between the freight cars. The air trembled with the slow chuff of the engine, every sound sharpened by stillness. Neither of them moved.
Then Brock's voice cut through the yard, low and clipped. "Move."
Harper's hand found Mason's sleeve again, fingers tightening just enough to keep him with her. "Come on," she whispered.
They slipped out from the gap, crouched low, moving between the cars in quick, practiced bursts. The fog of exhaust swallowed them as they crossed the lines—Brock's shape materializing ahead, Knuckles signaling from the outer track. Mason stumbled once, and Harper steadied him without breaking stride, her grip firm and unrelenting.
They reached the sedan's shadow, the yard lights glinting off the windshield. Brock paused with one hand on the door, eyes on Mason. For a heartbeat the noise of the yard fell away—the diesel hum, the clang of couplers, the hiss of steam.
Then he closed the distance and pulled Mason in, hard, one arm locking around the back of his neck. "Jesus Christ," he muttered, voice rough. "You're alive."
Mason didn't move at first, just stood rigid, breath shaking. Then he exhaled and gripped the back of Brock's coat, hanging on like it was the first solid thing he'd had in days.
"I'm so fucking sorry," Brock said quietly against his shoulder. "We thought you were gone."
Mason shook his head, words catching in his throat. "Almost was."
Knuckles appeared at Mason's shoulder, breathing hard from the sprint, and clapped a hand on his back—once, firm, the kind of contact that said everything words couldn't. "Good to see you, brother." Mason's throat worked. He nodded, couldn't speak.
Brock pulled back, his hands still on Mason's shoulders, eyes flicking over the bruises and grime. Whatever he saw there made his jaw tighten, but he didn't ask. He just nodded once and said, "Let's get you home."