WebNovels

Chapter 52 - 52. Cold Current

The cabin was awake by the time Mason stirred. He blinked up at the low ceiling of the bunk room, disoriented for half a breath. Two narrow stacks of beds against opposite walls, the air still warm from the stove and faintly bitter with coffee. Footsteps and low voices filtered through the half-closed door—Kier's voice steady and quiet, followed by the scrape of a chair. The kind of domestic noise Mason hadn't heard in weeks.

Across from him, Onyx's bunk was empty, blankets thrown aside, his sling draped over the rail like something discarded for good.

Mason pushed the blanket off and swung his feet to the floor, the boards cool beneath his socks. His ribs protested the movement—a deep, bruised ache that made him breathe shallow. Every muscle had that low, echoing soreness that meant he'd finally stopped running. He sat for a moment, steadying himself while the cabin's rhythm worked around him—the scrape of a spatula, the low grind of a coffee press, muted voices under the hum of the stove.

He pulled on his jacket and stepped into the main room. Harper stood at the stove, hair tied back, one hand braced on the counter as she flipped something in the pan. Brock leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, talking quietly with Knuckles over a notepad; Onyx sat at the table rolling his shoulder out of its splint, testing the joint with small, deliberate movements. Kier was at the sink, rinsing mugs without looking up.

It wasn't silence exactly—more a low, tired rhythm of motion. They'd all been awake too long, each of them holding the grief in their own way. When Harper glanced over and caught sight of Mason, the line of her mouth softened a fraction.

"Morning," she said, voice quiet but warm beneath the fatigue. She nodded toward the stove. "Sit. You're eating."

Mason hesitated, then nodded once. The scene felt fragile, like if anyone spoke too loud it might break apart. He crossed to the table, the floor creaking beneath his steps, and sat opposite Onyx, the table solid beneath his palms, trying to steady himself against the unfamiliar feeling of being somewhere people wanted him—even when he looked like hell.

Harper slid a plate toward him—eggs, toast, bacon still crackling at the edges. The smell hit him harder than he expected. Real food, made by someone who cared whether he ate it or not.

Knuckles was the first to speak from the far side of the room. "You look like hell," he said, but the words came out gentle, almost a joke.

Mason huffed something close to a laugh. "Feel worse."

Kier turned from the sink, drying his hands on a rag. "You're lucky Harper cooks for strays," he said, eyes softening as they met Mason's. "If it was me, you'd be stuck with cold cans and bad manners."

Across the table, Onyx shifted, rubbing absently at his shoulder where the sling had been. His eyes met Mason's, and something unspoken passed between them—relief, maybe, or the acknowledgment of how close it had been. "Good to see you, man," he said quietly. "We didn't think—" He stopped himself, shook his head. "Glad you made it."

"Yeah," Mason said. "Me neither."

For a while, that was enough. The scrape of forks, the hum of the stove. Every face in the room looked older than he remembered.

Then Brock stepped forward from where he'd been by the door. He didn't say anything—just rested a hand on Mason's shoulder, a brief squeeze that said everything.

Mason's throat tightened. He nodded once, unable to speak, and Brock squeezed his shoulder one more time before moving away. The warmth of it lingered long after.

Harper worked through the last of the eggs, scraping the pan and setting the spatula aside. One by one the others took seats—Kier dropping into the chair beside Onyx, Knuckles sliding into his usual spot with a mug still steaming in his hand. The table filled the small room, their movements automatic, unspoken ritual after too many mornings like this.

Harper set the final plate down and crossed to her chair. She sat with a quiet exhale, rolling her neck like she'd been carrying weight all morning. Brock waited until she'd settled before taking the seat beside her. For a breath the only sound was the faint clink of cooling metal and the wind brushing against the siding.

Brock leaned closer, brushed a faint kiss against the side of her neck—barely a touch, but enough that Mason saw her shoulders ease for the first time since he'd woken. She reached back and rested her fingers against his wrist, small, wordless acknowledgment, then let go.

They ate in silence after that. The scrape of forks, the faint hiss of the fire, the kind of quiet that wasn't awkward but necessary. Mason chewed slowly, aware of how every motion felt heavier here, like the air carried all the names that weren't at the table.

The silence stretched, comfortable now, the kind you didn't need to fill. Mason set his fork down and glanced at Onyx across the table, taking in the way he moved his shoulder—careful, testing. "How's it healing?" he asked. "Heard about the Tahoe chase."

Onyx gave a faint grin, more tired than amused. "Still sore, but I'm breathing. Could've been a hell of a lot worse." He rolled the joint carefully, testing it. "Brock's driving saved my ass. If he hadn't hit that PIT when he did…" He shook his head once. "Would've been a body bag instead of a sling."

Brock lifted his coffee mug in quiet acknowledgment. "Right place, right time," he said.

Knuckles snorted into his mug. "It was a team effort. You didn't see Kier and Harper do their Olympic sprint into that field before the damn car even stopped. Thought they were trying out for track."

Kier laughed, shaking his head. "Harper had tunnel vision like you wouldn't believe. I had to shoot over her head to drop an enforcer—she wasn't stopping for anything."

Across the table, Harper's mouth curved faintly, the kind of tired almost-smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Guess it worked." Her voice was soft, but there was an edge underneath—the memory of how close they'd come to losing him.

The room went quiet again, the kind of silence that came after you remembered how close it had been.

Mason looked around the table—at Onyx testing his shoulder, at Knuckles nursing his coffee, at Kier's quiet watchfulness, at Harper and Brock side by side. They all looked exhausted. They all looked like they'd been through hell.

But they were here. And so was he. He picked up his fork and kept eating.

He didn't mean to break the quiet, but the thought wouldn't leave him. Mason set his fork down, thumb tracing the edge of the plate. "I heard you guys were hitting Syndicate patrols," he said finally.

Forks paused. Harper glanced up first, then Brock.

Mason went on, steadier now that he'd started. "Every time a report came in, Roth or Dane would spin it. Say it was the Maw, or some rogue cells out east. But I knew better. Cole and Price were feeding you intel, weren't they?"

Knuckles leaned back in his chair, the ghost of a grin tugging at his mouth. "Yeah," he said. "We managed to take out a few patrols that were dumb enough to leave the city. Made 'em bleed a little."

Mason looked from one face to another. "You still planning on hitting patrols?"

Brock shook his head. "We haven't planned anything. Not since Onyx got plucked out of a parking lot and Cole and Price ended up…" He trailed off, jaw tight. "It's been on the back burner. Especially now that there's no intel to work off."

The quiet settled again, heavy but not hostile. Mason picked up his fork, took another bite, chewed like he needed the motion to think. The others waited, watching the edge of something forming behind his eyes.

He swallowed, set the fork down. "I've got intel," he said.

The words landed like a small detonation. Heads lifted. Brock straightened in his chair. Harper's hand stilled on her coffee mug.

Mason drew a slow breath. "Right before everything fell apart with Cole and Price, I heard word about a supply pickup. Small run, but enough to restock what you've got here—ammo, a few rifles, maybe explosives. Nothing huge, but organized."

Brock leaned forward, forearms on the table. "Go on."

"It's in the city," Mason said, "but out toward the edges. Routine pickup, same crew every time. That's why they keep it small—no reason to draw attention."

Kier's brow furrowed. "When?" he asked. "And where?"

"Sunday," Mason said. "Three days from now. North docks."

Across the table, Harper's head snapped up. "Where on the north docks?"

Mason hesitated, then met her eyes. "Yard Forty-Three."

The room seemed to contract. Brock's gaze flicked to Harper just as the color drained from her face.

Mason nodded once, quiet, understanding exactly what that meant. "I know," he said. "It's the yard right over from where we pulled you out. My guess? They picked it because of that. They probably think you'd never go near it again."

No one spoke. The wind pressed against the siding, the only sound in the room.

For a moment, Harper couldn't think at all.

The name hit like a fist to the sternum—Yard Forty-Three—and the world around her narrowed to a pinpoint. The warmth of the cabin bled away. The faces at the table blurred. All she could feel was the phantom press of chain-link against her cheek, the bite of zip ties on her wrists, the taste of copper thick on her tongue.

Yard Forty-Three.

Right next to Forty-Two. Where it happened.

She wasn't there anymore—she was back. Rico's head snapping sideways in a spray of red. Sykes collapsing beside her, half his skull gone. The desperate, animal scramble toward a fence that had been chained shut, her last hope ripped away in an instant.

And then him.

Brock's hand locked in her hair, wrenching her head back until her spine bowed, dragging her through that corridor while men leered and spat filth. The cold steel door. The hydraulic hiss. The stinking darkness of that cell, where she'd curled on concrete and bled into the drain, certain she wouldn't see morning.

She remembered waking to his hand on her pulse—both of them surprised she'd survived the night.

Her throat tightened. Her fingers had gone numb around the coffee mug.

"Harper?"

Brock's voice cut through the fog, low and careful. She blinked, vision snapping back into focus. Everyone was staring at her—Kier with his brow furrowed, Onyx's jaw tight, Knuckles watching her like she might shatter. Mason's gaze was steady, apologetic, like he knew exactly what that name had just done to her.

And Brock. He was leaning forward slightly, shoulders tense, eyes locked on hers. Not commanding. Not pushing. Just… present. Waiting.

"We don't have to do this hit," he said quietly.

The words landed soft, but they carried weight. An out. Permission to walk away.

Harper shook her head once. Sharp. Instinctive.

Then again, harder, like she was shaking off the ghosts clinging to her skin.

"No."

Her voice came out rough, scraped raw, but steady. She looked around the table—at the faces of the people who had become something she'd never thought she'd have again. Family. The people who'd fought beside her, bled with her, pulled her back from the edge more times than she could count.

How far they'd all come from that night. From blood and smoke and zip ties. From enemies to… this.

Her gaze settled back on Brock. His jaw was tight, his eyes searching hers, looking for cracks. She didn't give him any.

"No," she said again, firmer now. "We go."

She paused, letting the words settle, feeling the weight of them in her chest.

"For Vale. And Price and Cole, we go."

Her hands flattened on the table, palms pressing into the wood like she was anchoring herself.

"And we make them bleed."

─•────

The night air bit through the seams of Harper's jacket as they moved single file down the service road. Frost glittered on the asphalt, catching the weak light from a distant floodlamp. Brock led, shadow and motion, his silhouette cutting through the thin mist that rolled off the river somewhere beyond the shipping yards, unseen but close enough that the air carried its chill.

Brock lifted a hand—halt—and they froze, boots whispering against gravel. He scanned the stretch of road ahead, eyes catching the faint glint of metal in the distance—an abandoned streetlight, nothing more. Still, he waited a few seconds, listening. When nothing moved, he motioned them off the shoulder, leading toward the fence line.

A tall chain-link fence ran along their left, dull in the light, the mesh vibrating faintly when the wind came off the water. To their right stretched an empty parking lot, pale concrete crusted with frost, a space where trucks once queued before the port shut down for the night. A few faded yellow lines still marked the bus stalls—city drivers sometimes parked here during shift changes, the engines idling in rows when the routes turned over. Tonight, it was dead quiet, only the echo of the river and their footsteps moving through it.

They hugged the fence line, weapons slung tight, the metallic scent of the river growing stronger with every step. The hum of distant machinery came and went on the wind—cranes creaking, freight doors slamming, the low groan of ships shifting against their moorings.

Harper's breath fogged in thin bursts. The cold made her shoulder ache where the old wound still lit up whenever the temperature dropped. Harper kept her gaze locked on Brock's back as they moved up the fence line, matching his steps, her breath shallow in the cold. She didn't look left. She didn't have to. She knew what sat beyond that chain-link — Yard Forty-Two — and the ghosts that still lived there.

In her peripheral vision, a shape broke the uniform dark: the small service gate halfway down the line, still chained shut. The links were dull with rust, but the loop looked the same. She wondered if it was the same chain from that night. If the dirt just past the fence still held traces of her blood — and Brock's — ground into the frozen soil where they'd both nearly killed each other.

Her chest constricted, breath snagging before she could force it steady.

Brock glanced back. His eyes found hers and held—just long enough for her to see he knew exactly where they were. What this place was. The look wasn't apology. Wasn't comfort. Just acknowledgment, stark and unflinching, before he turned away.

Knuckles looked back too—slower, his gaze settling on the gate a heartbeat longer than necessary. When his eyes cut to hers, something unreadable flickered there — not guilt, not pity, something carved from the same cold ground they were walking.

She forced her boots forward. The men who'd hunted her through Yard Forty-Two moved ahead of her now, weapons ready, breath misting in the cold. Behind her: the fence where she'd nearly died by their hands. Ahead: Yard Forty-Three — where the Syndicate would learn what they'd created when they failed to finish her.

They reached the far end of Yard Forty-Two, where the fence turned a corner and met the next stretch of chain-link. Beyond it, Yard Forty-Three opened toward the river—rows of containers stacked two, sometimes three high, their flanks throwing long, cold shadows across the gravel. The sound of water striking the breakwall carried faintly through the dark.

Brock crouched, scanning the fence. A few yards up, the links sagged where the wire had been cut and folded back. The gap was narrow, maybe two feet across, just enough for one person at a time. He checked the ground once, then motioned them forward.

They slipped through one by one, shoulders brushing metal, breath clouding. Inside, the air felt heavier, closer. The smell of oil and river silt clung to everything.

Brock led them along the first row of containers and stopped in the shadow between two stacks, raising a fist for silence. The others froze—five figures pressed into the dark, the city lights flickering dimly off the corrugated steel around them.

Brock led them along the first row of containers and stopped in the shadow between two stacks, raising a fist for silence. Five figures pressed into the dark, the city lights flickering dimly off corrugated steel. He flattened his palm against the metal, the sound a soft drum. "Listen up." His voice came low, sharp—meant for ears, not the air. "Whistles only. One short—move. Two short—fall back. Three—abort and extract."

He sketched the yard in the air with a quick jab of his finger—center, gate, breakwall. "Knuckles, Kier and I are the strike team." He glanced at his watch, the movement small and practiced. "Intel says a small Syndicate team's holding center right now, waiting on a truck. Truck comes through the east gate in seven minutes. Once they start unloading, we go—neutralize everyone, then strip the shipment. Priority: rifles and mags. Light stuff first—what fits in a pack. Break crates; don't try to drag boxes out."

"Onyx," Brock said, "you take the east gate and the exit road. Watch the truck — don't let it back out when we hit. If a vehicle tries to clear, shoot tires or the driver. Keep an eye on the main road for Syndicate patrols coming in. If anything moves toward the yard without you seeing it first, blow the whistle and pull us out."

He looked at Mason and Harper. "You two—breakwall perimeter, between the yard and the river. Opposite ends. Mason, you take the east end by the exit road and cover the gate line with Onyx. Watch for anyone trying to bolt down the road or slip the fence into the river. Harper, you're on the west end — cover the parking lot and the alley we came in on. Eyes on the alleymouth and the lot. If anyone tries to come up the lot or climb the wall, stop them. No crossing into the yard unless we call it with one short whistle." He let the rule hang. "Do not engage unless they move into the yard or you have a clear shot."

He paused, letting the assignments settle, then clipped the signals. "One short whistle—abort and extract now. Two short whistles—regroup at center; overwatch come in and clear. Extraction is the alley to the north corner—run to the lot, to the sedan a block out. Priority is rifles and mags. Questions?"

No one spoke. Brock gave a single hard nod and pushed off the container; the plan moved with them—precise, quiet, irreversible. He caught Harper's eye and tipped his chin once. She answered with the barest nod, then ghosted away toward the river wall, her footfalls swallowed by gravel and cold.

Brock slid left with Knuckles and Kier, keeping to the seam where container shadows overlapped. Frost hissed under their boots. Above them the yard lights hummed, leaving blind pockets between stacks where the dark pooled. He raised a hand and they paused at each gap—Kier covering long, Knuckles close and low—before slipping through to the next row. The smell of oil and river silt thickened; somewhere beyond the far wall, water slapped the stone in a slow, patient rhythm.

They reached the center stack: three containers long, two high, a metal canyon with a narrow lane running east–west. Brock crouched behind a rust-bloomed corner and peeked the lane. Two Syndicate sentries loitered near a pallet jack—shoulders hunched, breath fogging, rifles slung lazy. Further in, a third man smoked, the ember bright when he drew. No truck yet. Good. He tapped two fingers—positions—and they split without a word.

Kier flowed to a low squat behind a coil of strapping wire, rifle angled down the lane for the first two men. Knuckles peeled right and melted behind a stack of shrink-wrapped crates, sight line clean on the smoker. Brock took the middle, half-kneel, the corner of the container cold against his cheek as he settled the rifle in.

He checked his watch: six minutes.

They settled into the cold and the quiet. Brock's finger rested outside the trigger guard, the metal biting through his glove until his knuckle ached. The old knife wound in his ribs pulled with each breath—Harper's parting gift from Yard Forty-Two, healed months ago but never quite forgotten. The scar tissue tugged wrong when he shifted his weight, a reminder written in his own flesh. He ignored it, like he ignored the frost gathering on his sleeves, the burn in his thighs from holding the crouch.

The yard creaked and breathed around them—the soft groan of metal cooling, the distant slap of water against the breakwall, a crane's chain rattling somewhere upriver. Across the lane, one of the Syndicate men laughed at something, the sound carrying easy and careless through the cold. His buddy said something back, muffled, and they both grinned like they had all night.

They had no idea.

Brock's jaw set. His eyes swept the lanes. The sentries shifted their weight, bored, rifles hanging loose. The smoker took another drag, ember flaring. Knuckles adjusted his sightline by inches; Kier didn't move at all, breath controlled, invisible.

At five minutes, the wind changed, carrying diesel and exhaust. Brock's pulse ticked once in his throat. A minute later, the sound followed—the low, tired growl of an engine working through gears. Headlights swept along the eastern fence, ghosting through the slats, then rounded toward the gate.

The growl deepened into a labored churn as the truck nosed through the east gate. Headlights swept the yard, bleaching frost to silver and throwing long, fractured shadows between the containers. Brock sank lower, letting the stacked metal eat the light. Diesel fumes crawled through the cold, sour and heavy, coating his tongue. The truck lumbered forward in low gear, tires crunching gravel, suspension hissing. Its cab light flicked on briefly—two men inside, silhouettes jerking in conversation—then died.

The engine idled down, a steady throat-rumble that made the air tremble against the container wall. Brock's pulse synced to it, slow and deliberate. He raised two fingers toward Knuckles, a silent mark that the target was in play, then steadied his rifle and waited for the unloading to start.

The sentries pushed off the pallet jack, shoulders straightening, rifles coming off their slings. The smoker flicked his cigarette and moved toward the truck bed, boots crunching frost. One of the cab doors opened—hydraulics hissing—and a man stepped down, broad-shouldered, barking something Brock couldn't hear. The second followed, pulling gloves on, breath fogging thick.

Brock watched them like a metronome—breath, heartbeat, diesel—everything timed to the yard's small mechanical rhythms. The smoker drifted to the tail of the truck and leaned against it, exposing his chest to the dark. One sentry scratched at his neck, head tilted, throat bare for half a second. The driver bent to check a tire, distracted.

Brock felt the moment in his teeth—not the first shift or the lazy turn, but the instant a man leaned with intent, when movement became commitment and the window opened clean.

He lifted his hand—two fingers, then down.

The world dropped from patient to ruthless.

Brock's crosshairs found the smoker first. Center mass. The man leaned back against the truck, still laughing at something his buddy said, ember bright between his fingers. Brock exhaled slow, let his heartbeat settle between the sights, and squeezed.

The round punched through sternum and spine, dropping him before the cigarette hit the ground. The ember winked out in the frost. His body folded, legs giving, back sliding down the truck bed until he crumpled in a heap.

Kier's rifle cracked twice in quick succession—sharp, mechanical. The first sentry spun halfway, rifle jerking up, then his chest burst red and he went down hard across the pallet jack. The second tried to bolt, boots skidding on ice, but Kier's third shot caught him in the shoulder and spun him into a container. He hit the metal and dropped, gasping, rifle clattering away.

The driver by the tire straightened fast—too fast—hand clawing for the pistol at his belt. Knuckles' rifle barked once. The round took him through the side, folding him over the wheel well. He slid down, leaving a dark smear on the fender, and didn't move again.

But the second man from the cab got his rifle up.

He came around the truck's nose, eyes wide, and opened fire blind—panicked, spraying rounds into the dark. Muzzle flash strobed the containers in jagged bursts. A round sparked off the steel edge two feet from Kier's head, the whine cutting sharp through the chaos. Another punched through a shrink-wrapped crate behind Knuckles, spilling packing foam into the air.

Kier didn't flinch. He pivoted, sightline clean, and his rifle cracked once. The man's head snapped back, rifle going silent mid-burst. He staggered, knees buckling, then collapsed face-first into the gravel.

The yard went still. Six men down in under ten seconds.

Then the passenger door flew open and the last man scrambled inside, slamming it shut. The engine roared to life, revving high and desperate. Gears ground. The truck lurched forward, tires spinning on frost before they caught and the vehicle swung toward the gate.

Knuckles rose from cover, already moving, rifle tracking. He fired low—controlled bursts that walked across the front wheel well. The first tire exploded with a shriek, rubber shredding in strips. The truck lurched hard right, frame groaning, but the driver fought the wheel and kept it moving. Knuckles adjusted, fired again—rounds stitching the rim until sparks burst from the bare metal scraping gravel.

The truck dragged itself forward, wounded but still alive, headlight swinging wild across the yard. The engine screamed, transmission howling as the driver forced it into a higher gear. It wasn't fast. But it was moving.

Brock broke from cover, Kier and Knuckles falling in tight behind him. Frost crunched under their boots as they crossed the center lane, past the bodies leaking steam into the cold.

One man sprawled over the pallet jack, blood pooling black beneath him, spreading wide until the frost couldn't hold it anymore. Another lay crumpled against the container, eyes open and glassy, staring at nothing, his breath still fogging faintly before it stopped. The smoker's cigarette had rolled into the gravel beside his hand, the paper dark with blood. The smell hit thick—cordite and copper, diesel and death, the iron tang of it mixing with the river's cold bite.

Brock's boots splashed through something dark. He didn't look down.

The truck clawed for the exit, dragging its ruined wheel in a grinding wail, frame shuddering with every rotation. Sparks flew from the bare rim, bright against the dark. The headlight beam swung erratic across the gate, across the fence line, then caught movement.

Onyx.

He rose from the shadows near the gate like he'd been carved from the dark itself, rifle already shouldered. The driver saw him—half a second of recognition, eyes going wide behind the cracked windshield. His hands jerked the wheel hard left like he could somehow dodge what was coming.

He couldn't.

Onyx's rifle barked—full auto, controlled, methodical. The burst walked across the cab, left to right, punching holes through sheet metal and flesh. The windshield exploded inward in a spray of glass and blood, the driver's head snapping back against the seat. His hands went slack on the wheel. The truck shuddered once more, lurching sideways into the fence with a low metallic groan, then the engine coughed and died.

Silence dropped over the yard like a shroud.

Just the hiss of the ruined radiator. The tick of cooling metal. Water slapping stone beyond the breakwall.

Brock stood in the wreck's exhaust haze, chest heaving slow, rifle still shouldered. His ribs burned where the old wound pulled. Frost glittered on his sleeves. Blood steamed in the cold, dark pools spreading slow between the gravel.

The yard was theirs.

He didn't lower the rifle yet. His eyes swept the lanes one more time—checking corners, shadows, the spaces between containers where a man could hide. Nothing moved. No breath fogged. No boots scraped.

Just bodies. Just silence.

Knuckles moved to the truck, checked the cab with two quick glances, then nodded once. Clear. Kier swept the perimeter, rifle tracking, before circling back.

Brock finally lowered his weapon. The adrenaline still buzzed under his skin, his pulse hammering in his throat, but his hands stayed steady. He rolled his shoulder—slow, deliberate—and felt the scar tissue pull. He'd survive. They all would.

He looked at the truck, at the bodies, at the shipment waiting in the bed.

"Strip it," he said, voice low and flat. "Five minutes. Then we're gone."

Harper was crouched low on the breakwall, the cold stone biting through her jeans. The gunfire had stopped. The silence that followed it pressed in heavier than the shots ever had, a vacuum where echoes should've been. She stared toward the yard, but the stacked containers blocked everything—their steel faces dull under the floodlights, masking whatever hell had just burned itself out inside. Nothing moved. No sound carried except the slow pulse of the river against the wall below.

She shifted, checking the alley that ran behind her position. Empty. The frost there hadn't even been disturbed; no tracks, no flicker of motion between the dumpsters and the brick.

She looked down the line of the breakwall. A few hundred feet away, Mason stood with his back to her, broad and still, watching the exit road where the truck had gone. The faint orange of his cigarette tip flared, then vanished in the wind. He hadn't moved since the first volley broke.

Harper exhaled slow, trying to unclench the muscles in her jaw. Her ears still rang faintly—memory of gunfire carried in bone. Somewhere past the containers, she thought she heard the scrape of boots on gravel, then the metallic slam of a truck door. But distance and steel made liars of sounds out here. She adjusted her grip on the rifle and kept her eyes on the yard mouth, waiting for any sign of movement—friend or enemy—to break the dark.

After a few seconds, unease started to crawl under her skin. The quiet wasn't clean—it was the kind that followed something bad. No whistle. No signal from Brock to call it done. The rule had been clear; one short meant abort, two meant regroup. Neither had come.

She wet her lips, eyes flicking toward Mason again. He hadn't moved—still that same statue at the wall, cigarette gone, rifle steady, shoulders tight enough that she could see the strain even at a distance.

Her pulse climbed anyway. Maybe the truck hadn't stopped. Maybe something went wrong inside the yard. Maybe—

"Fancy seeing you here," a voice cut from behind her, close enough that the words brushed the back of her neck.

Harper spun, rifle snapping up before thought could catch it. The barrel met a familiar shape in the dark—tall, broad, movement frozen mid-step.

Gunner.

He'd stopped cold, one hand lifted, his own weapon angled down toward the concrete, not at her. Breath steamed between them, visible in the cold, and for half a heartbeat neither moved. The air between their muzzles felt tight as wire.

Gunner's mouth twitched into something that might've been a smile, might've been nerves. "Easy, Harper," he said quietly, voice low enough not to carry. "I'm on your side, remember?"

Harper didn't lower the rifle. Her breath came slow, measured, eyes hard on him through the sights. The wind licked the edge of her coat, whispering over the barrel. "Last I heard," she said, voice low and flat, "you and Jensen were eating up every lie Roth and Dane fed you."

Gunner's jaw flexed. He didn't answer right away. The night seemed to lean closer, the river slapping the wall below like it was listening. When he finally spoke, his voice came quieter, rougher. "I did believe what they were saying. At first." He shifted his weight, and Harper's finger tightened on the trigger guard. He caught it, froze. "Easy. I'm just—" He exhaled through his nose, slow. "I'm tired, Harper. That's all."

And he looked it. Now that her eyes adjusted, she could see the shadows carved under his eyes, the tension riding his shoulders, the way his grip on his rifle wasn't quite steady. Like a man who hadn't slept in days. Like a man carrying something heavy.

"They tortured Cole and Price to death, Gunner." Her voice sharpened, cracking through the quiet. "Did you know that?"

He blinked, just once. Something flickered behind his eyes—shock, guilt, or the effort of holding a lie steady. His throat worked. His knuckles went white on the grip of his gun, though it still hung down, barrel grazing his thigh.

"Harper," he started, soft, but she stepped forward half a pace, rifle never wavering.

"Did. You. Know?"

The silence stretched. Water slapped stone. Somewhere in the yard, metal groaned.

Then Gunner eased the rifle down—slow, deliberate—and set it on the concrete with a hollow clack that rang too loud in the quiet. His hands rose halfway, palms open, fingers spread. Vulnerable. Unarmed.

He took a step toward her, boots whispering over frost.

"I knew," he said quietly, and the admission landed like a stone. "Cole and Price were feeding you. Feeding all of you. Intel, routes, shipments—whatever they could scrape out without Roth catching on." He paused, breath clouding thick between them. "They got caught. I tried—" His voice cracked, just barely. "I tried to warn Cole. He wouldn't listen. Said you guys needed the intel more than he needed to stay safe."

Harper's chest tightened. Gunner's eyes found hers, and for a moment she saw something raw there. Grief, maybe. Regret. "I couldn't stop it, Harper. Roth had them in the basement before I even knew. By the time I found out—" He stopped. Swallowed. "It was already over."

Harper's grip wavered. Just slightly. The sight dipped half an inch before she caught it, forced it back up. But Gunner saw. She knew he saw.

"And Jensen?" she asked, voice tight.

"Jensen believed what they told him." Gunner's tone went flat, edged with something bitter. "He still does. He'd put a bullet in you without blinking if it was him here right now." His gaze flicked past her shoulder, down the breakwall. His eyes found Mason, still standing a few hundred feet away, back to them, watching the exit road like a man who didn't dare look away.

A thin, humorless smile tugged at Gunner's mouth. "And it looks like you guys found him."

Harper kept the rifle steady, every muscle in her arms wired tight. But something in her chest had loosened. Just a fraction. Just enough to let doubt creep in.

Gunner took another step, slow, careful. His hands stayed open, empty. "I couldn't get out before tonight. Roth and Dane have been watching all of us since the night Vex died. But when I heard about this shipment—heard they were sending a small crew—I volunteered. I volunteered because I had a feeling you would show."

Harper's breath fogged between them. Her arms ached from holding the rifle. The cold bit through her gloves, numbing her fingers. She wanted to believe him. God, she wanted to. But trust was a luxury she couldn't afford, not after everything.

"Whose side are you on?" she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Gunner's throat worked once. His eyes didn't flinch from hers. "Yours, Harper." He said it simple. Steady. Like a vow. "I'm done with the Syndicate. I'm done with Roth and Dane. I just—" He took another step, close enough now that she could see the exhaustion etched into every line of his face. "I just want out. Same as you."

For a heartbeat, Harper felt something shift inside her. The sight lowered—just an inch, just enough that she wasn't aiming at his chest anymore but at his shoulder. Her finger eased off the trigger guard. She drew a breath to speak—

And caught it.

Gunner's eyes had changed. It was subtle—a flicker, a shift—but she'd spent too long reading men in combat not to see it. The exhaustion was still there. The grief. But underneath, something else. Something cold and calculated. His weight had shifted forward onto the balls of his feet. His hands, open and harmless a second ago, had drifted lower, closer to his sides.

Her pulse spiked. "Gunner—"

He lunged.

Fast enough that the air cracked around him, fast enough that her rifle was still rising when he closed the distance. Harper twisted sideways, squeezed the trigger. The shot split the night, sparks leaping from the concrete wall behind him. The muzzle flash carved him in light—eyes wide, teeth bared, a predator mid-strike.

He hit her like a battering ram. Shoulder to ribs, all weight and momentum. The impact drove the air from her lungs in a violent gasp. Her boots left the ground. The world flipped—sky, concrete, river—spinning as she went down hard.

Her palms tore open on the concrete, skin shredding, blood slicking instant and hot. The rifle clattered away, skidding across stone, steel ringing out. She rolled, dragged half a breath through the fire in her chest, tried to shove herself up—

Gunner's boot slammed into her ribs.

The kick folded her, pain detonating through her side. She heard something crack—felt it more than heard it—and the scream lodged in her throat came out as a choked gasp. Her vision whited out for half a second. When it cleared, he was already on her.

His hand fisted in her jacket, yanked her half-upright, and slammed her back down. Her skull cracked against concrete. Light burst behind her eyes, bright and sharp, the world tilting sideways. Blood filled her mouth, hot and metallic.

"Should've shot me when you had the chance," Gunner snarled, voice low and vicious, breath coming hard.

Harper's hand shot out—clumsy, desperate—and found his face. Her fingers clawed, nails raking across his cheek, his eye. He snarled, jerked back, and she used the space to drive her knee up into his gut. It landed solid, enough to wrench a grunt from him, enough to loosen his grip.

She twisted, tried to roll out from under him, boots scraping for purchase. Her ribs screamed with every movement. She got one arm free, threw a wild elbow that glanced off his jaw. Not enough. Not nearly enough.

Gunner grabbed her wrist, wrenched it back, and pinned it to the concrete. His weight crushed down on her, knee driving into her stomach until she couldn't breathe, couldn't move. His other hand locked around her throat.

"Mason—" she tried to scream, but it came out strangled, barely a whisper. The pressure on her windpipe increased. Black spots danced at the edges of her vision. Her free hand clawed at his arm, his face, anything, but her strength was bleeding out with her air.

Gunner leaned close, his face inches from hers, and she saw it now—no exhaustion, no grief. Just cold, focused intent. "Roth sends his regards," he murmured.

Her vision tunneled. The river roared below, distant and hungry. Her lungs burned. Her body thrashed, weaker now, the fight draining with every second his hand stayed locked on her throat.

Then his grip shifted. Not releasing—repositioning. He hauled her upright, dragging her toward the edge, her boots scraping useless across the concrete. The breakwall loomed, and beyond it—nothing. Just open air and black water.

Panic spiked white-hot through the oxygen-starved haze. Harper bucked, twisted, drove her heel down on his instep. He grunted but didn't stop. The edge was right there. Three feet. Two.

She threw herself sideways, trying to drop her weight, make herself dead weight he couldn't lift. It bought her half a second. His grip faltered, readjusted. She sucked in a single ragged breath and drove her forehead into his nose.

The crack was wet and vicious. Blood sprayed hot across her face. Gunner's head snapped back, a roar tearing from his throat. His hands loosened—just for a heartbeat.

Harper ripped free, staggered back, ribs shrieking. Her vision swam. She didn't have her rifle. Didn't have her knife. Didn't have anything but raw survival instinct and the concrete under her boots.

Gunner straightened, blood streaming from his nose, eyes wild and furious. He spat red and came at her again.

No words this time. No pretense. Just violence.

He grabbed for her jacket. She twisted, but he was faster, stronger, and her body was failing. His hand caught her collar, the other her belt, and he lifted—muscles straining, boots grinding concrete—and drove her backward.

Harper's hands shot out, clawing for anything. Her fingers found his vest, his arm, locked on instinct. But momentum was a freight train and she was already falling.

The edge vanished beneath her.

For an instant she saw the river below—black, open, waiting—and then gravity tore her loose.

Her grip on Gunner's arm became a vice. Skin and fabric and muscle locked under her fingers. She wasn't letting go. If she was going over, so was he.

The sudden drag wrenched his balance. His eyes flared wide, shock and fury flashing as his weight followed hers.

"Harper—" he barked, but there was no time, no air, no chance to stop it.

They went over together, bodies tangled, spinning once in the open air before the river rose to meet them.

The impact was a sledgehammer—water shattering around them, cold like knives driven into every nerve. The current swallowed sound, swallowed light, swallowed everything, leaving only the crush of ice and darkness and the two of them sinking into it, still locked together, still fighting, dragging each other down into the black.

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