Silas Voss knew it was a trap a split second too late.
His arm shot out—not for a weapon, but for her—a desperate, instinctive reach to pull her close.
He might as well have been moving through wet concrete.
The blonde Commander was simply faster. Silas hadn't even registered the man shadowing her from behind until his large, scarred hand fisted in her copper braid.
Her head snapped back. A choked yelp tore from her throat as she was yanked bodily off the ground, the sound cutting off when the Commander slammed her against his chest—an impact so hard Silas felt it in his own ribs. Her breath burst out in a visible, desperate plume.
Before she could draw another, his grip shifted. The Commander's fingers released her braid only long enough to whip that same arm across her throat, snapping her head back against his shoulder. Black ink flashed in the light—a coil of barbed wire winding his forearm like a garrote, the final loop seeming to bite into the soft skin beneath her jaw.
Her boots skidded against the concrete, heels drumming uselessly in panic as his free arm swept around her waist, trapping her elbows to her sides and hauling her clean off the ground. She twisted hard, body jerking against the hold, but the movement only made the choke tighten. He held her pinned there, her weight locked in his grip, every kick and gasp reduced to a dying tremor.
Only then did Silas truly freeze. His whole body locked in the posture of a failed rescue, his hand still outstretched, horribly empty. He wasn't breathing, wasn't thinking. Just staring at the Commander's rigid jaw, the sliver of copper braid, the wide, unblinking eyes staring back at him from the man's chest.
The sound shattered the paralysis.
A slick, metallic chorus—the simultaneous slide of multiple weapons being drawn—cut through the warehouse's vast, empty air. It echoed off the concrete and steel, a warning from every corner at once.
The four Enforcers hadn't moved during the struggle. They'd been waiting. In the blind panic of seeing his her taken, Silas had forgotten them completely. Now, as they shifted in unison, his stomach dropped: the rest of the trap was still closing.
One stood a step to the side of her captor, gaze fixed and cold. The remaining three had fanned out behind Silas, closing the ring. All wore black tactical gear; the thick lines of Kevlar vests made them look broader, heavier, less human. Their faces were indistinct in the gloom, but four weapons levelled at his chest left no doubt.
The Syndicate wasn't leaving anything to chance.
The silence broke with a choked cry. Her body jolted once in the Commander's grip, a reflex more than a fight, her throat rasping against the inked arm that held her. The barbed-wire coils flexed with the strain, each breath turning shallower until her chest barely moved.
"Harper—" Silas's voice cracked on her name. His hand lifted uselessly, palm open. "Harper, baby, stay still. Don't fight him."
Wide and glassy, her eyes found his, shimmering with panic. She stayed stiff for a heartbeat, then forced herself to slacken, her shoulders dropping as her weight sagged into the hold. The Commander felt it, too; his grip eased by a fraction, enough for her to drag in a thin, shuddering breath.
For a few seconds, nothing moved. The air was thick with the sound of that one uneven inhale. And for those seconds, Silas again forgot about everyone else around him.
Then a voice carried through the warehouse—steady, unhurried, almost conversational.
"Of all the days to bring your daughter to work, Voss," it said. "Today was not a smart one."
Silas's gaze lingered on Harper for one last moment before he turned.
Vex Cruz stood a few paces behind the three Enforcers, framed by the half-light beyond their shoulders. He hadn't shifted since the trap was sprung, hands loose at his sides. The overhead bulb traced the planes of a hard, angular face—grey stubble like steel filings, eyes the dull colour of worn glass. His suit was charcoal and precise, every line deliberate. He looked like a man who'd long ago forgotten what mercy felt like, but remembered exactly how to imitate it.
Silas's arm moved slowly, his palm outward, then dropped toward the duffel at his feet. He nudged it forward with the toe of his boot, the sound of canvas sliding over concrete scraping through the stillness.
"I brought you what you asked for, Vex," he said. His voice was steady but thin, the kind of calm that cost everything to hold. "Keep her out of whatever this is."
Vex's laugh came low and genuine, rolling out of him like he'd just heard an old joke. He stepped forward through the gap between two of his men, their weapons lowering only a fraction to let him pass. His shoes clicked against the floor as he moved past Silas without a glance.
He stopped in front of the Commander holding Harper and tilted his head, studying her. The pale light caught the faint movement of her pulse under the man's arm. She bared her teeth and twisted once, a small but sudden surge, and the Commander's grip cinched in response. The sound she made was barely a squeak, half-swallowed, and it drew the faintest smile from Vex.
His gaze held hers, unreadable. When he finally spoke, his tone was almost mild. "I'm not in the business of killing kids."
He turned on his heel, his eyes locking on Silas.
"But," he added, "making them orphans—that comes with the job."
Barely a second after Vex finished speaking, a gunshot split the warehouse. The blast rolled through the rafters, ricocheting off steel and concrete. Silas jerked, a harsh grunt tearing from his throat as his leg buckled. He dropped to one knee, clutching at his calf where blood was already spreading through the fabric of his pants. The round hadn't been meant to kill—just to remind him who controlled the pace of things.
The echo was still dying when Harper screamed—high, cracking, full of panic. The Commander adjusted his hold, the arm across her throat sliding higher until his hand sealed over her mouth. Her voice cut off at once, smothered against his palm, her body trembling as he drew her tighter against his chest.
Vex moved toward Silas, each step crisp against the concrete, syncing with the dying ring of the shot. He stayed where he was, one knee pressed to the cold floor, his hand clamped over the bleeding muscle of his leg.
Vex stopped just out of reach, looking down at him with a faint crease between his brows. "Voss, you've been a great asset to the Syndicate," he said, almost thoughtful. "Irreplaceable, almost."
The words hung there for an agonizing moment before he went on, tone flattening. "But you've gotten greedy. We had an understanding, Voss. You supplied us, we protected you, everyone stayed in their lane." He tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing. "And yet, last week I got a report of a shipment from your warehouse bound for the Iron Vultures. And I heard rumours of a meeting with the Vipers tomorrow morning."
Silas grit his teeth, breath coming hard through clenched jaws. "I never promised you exclusivity," he ground out. The words came low, almost a snarl, roughened by pain and fury. "You wanted supply, you got it. That was the deal."
Vex's expression barely shifted—a faint frown, then a slow nod. "Then you misunderstood what protection costs in this city."
Behind Silas, the three Enforcers moved in unison. Boots scraped concrete; hands clamped down on his arms and shoulders. He tried to brace, but the pain in his leg flared white-hot as they hauled him upright. His weight sagged between them, blood dripping steadily down his leg and onto his boot.
The tallest of the three Enforcers broke off from the group, stepping forward to take position beside Vex. Together they watched Silas struggle for balance, the tableau precise and wordless—Vex untouched, the others doing the work for him.
Vex adjusted his cuffs, voice level and almost conversational. "I didn't build East Halworth's most dominant operation by sharing, Voss." He took a slow step closer, eyes fixed on Silas. "If you supply the enemy, then you are the enemy. And enemies," he said, letting the word hang a moment, "have no place in this city."
The two Enforcers holding Silas's arms yanked him forward, the sudden, savage motion forcing him to bend over the waist like a hinged mannequin. The fire in his wounded calf flared, making resistance impossible. The Enforcer on his right twisted Silas's arm up behind his back, wrenching it high between his shoulder blades to torque the joint into full, agonizing exposure.
The tall Enforcer stepped in front of him. His hands were empty, but as he moved, a heavy, dull-black collapsible baton extended from his sleeve with a sound like solid metal shearing against metal.
Vex's voice cut through the air—calm, flat, utterly indifferent. "We'll start with the right. That's your primary, isn't it, Voss?"
The Enforcer swung the baton, not wildly, but with short, controlled force. It caught Silas's right shoulder joint with a sickening, wet crack.
Silas's world dissolved. A scream, raw and animal, tore from his throat as the Enforcer's blow dislocated the shoulder clean out of its socket. The joint ripped free with a grinding crunch that echoed through the warehouse's vast space.
The agony was so immense, so absolute, that Silas's legs kicked out uselessly. His vision tunneled into a blinding white heat, and even through the ringing in his ears, he could hear Harper—a high, thin, muffled keening sound escaping the Commander's palm, the unmistakable sound of his daughter breaking.
The Enforcer on Silas's right jerked the useless arm down and outward in a sickening motion, bringing the dislocated limb into the free space to Silas's side. The raw agony of the shoulder being dragged made Silas choke on a fresh scream. The arm was now held straight out, a perfect, vulnerable target.
The baton-wielding Enforcer hit the elbow next. The baton struck with a duller, heavier impact, and Silas' arm jolted. He felt the joint collapse, the crunch of shattered bone grinding as the ulna and radius imploded under the focused weight. Silas' screams didn't subside; they only escalated—a sustained, high-pitched noise that ripped through the warehouse.
Then the Enforcer brought the baton down one final time, snapping the blow across the wrist. The sound was a sharp, final crack, sickeningly loud in the warehouse, and Silas's hand immediately went slack, hanging at an unnatural angle. His fingers twitched once—spasmodic, wrong—then went completely still.
The sheer, continuous volume of Silas's agony was enough. The Commander holding Harper tightened his arm across her waist, pre-emptively crushing her tighter to his chest. He didn't want the girl moving.
But she was already past the fear. In a desperate, primal surge, she strained her head back, arching her neck to bring her mouth free of his smothering palm. She twisted her head and snapped her teeth down hard onto the Commander's hand, digging into flesh with every ounce of strength she had.
The attack was so unexpected and feral that the Commander let out a choked noise of his own as his grip on her instantly slackened.
It was the split-second of grace she needed.
Harper dropped her weight and drove her heel back, kicking his shinbone with the frantic precision of a cornered animal. The Commander swore, a sudden, ragged curse. She scrambled free and was gone—a brief, wild flash of copper braid and desperate movement across the concrete floor.
"Dad!" she screamed, the word ripped from her throat like a wound.
She got three steps before the Commander lunged after her. The Enforcer beside him lunged too, moving to cut her off and colliding with her mid-stride. The two of them hit her like a wall.
Hands closed around her arms, her waist, her hair—yanking her down hard. She hit the floor in a violent tangle of limbs and fury, her knees skidding raw across the concrete. Before she could rise, the Commander's knee slammed into her spine, crushing her flat. His fist caught the collar of her shirt and wrenched upward while his weight kept her pinned. She lashed out, fists scrabbling, but the Commander caught one arm mid-flail and wrenched it behind her back, locking her down with a twist that sent fire up her shoulder.
Her body bowed into an awful curve, spine taut as wire, caught between restraint and recoil. She kicked blindly, throat raw, gasping against the pressure, but his grip only tightened, holding her in that impossible bend.
The Enforcer dropped beside her, a knee slamming down across the backs of her thighs. One hand locked around her ankle, forcing her heel flat with grinding pressure, bone to concrete. She bucked harder, wild and breathless, but between the two of them there was nowhere to go—only pressure, only weight, only the grind of restraint.
The wail that tore out of her then wasn't a word at all—it was grief, fury, terror, all fused into a sound that scraped her throat going out. Her free hand reached forward, scraping across concrete for him, nails splitting on the distance that wouldn't close.
The Commander snarled something low, his knee driving harder into her spine. The Enforcer with the baton half-turned, weapon rising on instinct—then froze when Vex lifted a single hand. The gesture was small but absolute. Even the Commander stilled, breath heaving, her collar still fisted in his grip.
"That's enough," Vex murmured, still focused on Silas's face. The Enforcer retracted the baton with a click, and the two men holding Silas immediately released his arms.
He didn't fall. He collapsed—a dead weight that hit the concrete hard, landing on his stomach with a wounded groan. His right arm was nothing but a mess of torn ligaments and useless bone, twisted beneath his chest.
One of the Enforcers delivered a brutal, efficient kick, slamming his boot into Silas's lower ribs. Silas gasped, the sound a wet choke of air and blood, the ribs caving under the boot.
Vex didn't wait for the agony to subside. "The problem is solved, then," he straightened his jacket, then stepped back.
The tall Enforcer let the baton fall, a dull thud against the concrete, and his hand moved instantly to the reverse-draw sheath sewn high on his Kevlar vest. A thin, gleaming blade appeared in his grasp, drawn in one fluid, terrifying motion.
He stepped forward over Silas's prone form, pivoting mid-stride so they faced the same direction, and dropped his full weight to one knee between the man's shoulder blades. The impact drove a harsh grunt from Silas as the Enforcer braced the other leg upright for balance.
Without pausing, the Enforcer caught a fistful of Silas's hair and wrenched his head up, dragging his face out of the shadow and into the light. His gaze snapped toward her—Harper's back was bowed under the Commander's knee, her face tilted up in the strain. For one suspended second, their eyes locked across the floor: her breath stuttering, his jaw trembling under the pull of the Enforcer's grip. Neither could move, caught in the same helpless angle, both knowing exactly what came next.
Then the Enforcer shifted the knife, sliding the edge forward until the cold steel pressed against the front of Silas's throat.
A strangled cry tore out of Harper before she even realized she'd made a sound. She lurched against the hold, every muscle firing at once—spine arching, heels digging for purchase—but the Commander's knee only ground deeper into her back, the Enforcer's grip on her ankle locking her in place.
The Enforcer hesitated only long enough for the air to still around them. When he moved, the blade swept once across Silas's exposed throat—efficient, practiced, a single, deliberate stroke.
The sound came first: a wet hiss, then the faint, bubbling rasp of air escaping through severed flesh. Arterial blood erupted in a violent pulse, spraying across the concrete in a wide arc before settling into a steady, rhythmic flow.
Silas's back arched hard against the Enforcer's knee—a convulsive reflex, his body fighting what his mind couldn't process. Then the tension shattered. His weight sagged in the man's grip, suddenly boneless, his mouth working once in a silent, desperate attempt at breath that produced only a wet gurgle. His hands slumped onto the concrete, one mangled, the other sliding through the spreading warmth.
The Enforcer let go of his hair, and the dead weight of Silas's head dropped, chin striking the concrete with a muted crack. He rose smoothly, wiping the blade on Silas's shirt. Blood spread in slow, widening streams around him.
Harper didn't seem to breathe at first; then a raw, broken sound escaped her, half sob, half inhale. She twisted against the weight on her back, wild and useless, the Commander's knee unmoving across her spine. Her eyes stayed locked on her father, uncomprehending.
His chest hitched—once, twice—a wet, rattling sound that wasn't quite breathing. The faint, rhythmic pulse of blood from his throat was already weakening, each surge slower than the last. For the briefest moment she thought he was trying to speak, trying to turn his head toward her—then even that small movement went still.
Vex stood motionless between them, the toe of one shoe just touching the spreading pool. When he finally looked at Harper, it wasn't pity—just a faint, clinical interest, as if he were checking the result of a test.
"Consider this mercy," he murmured. "You'll carry his death longer than he ever carried your life."
He gave a small nod to the men restraining her. The Commander's knee lifted from her back; the Enforcer's hand left her ankle. The pressure vanished, but her body stayed flattened to the floor, too shocked to move.
Without a word, the Enforcers stepped back, boots grinding against the blood-slick concrete. The one who'd held the knife sheathed it in a single, practiced motion. Another retrieved the dropped baton, the faint scrape of metal against the floor cutting through the quiet.
Vex paused beside the duffel at Silas's side. He gave a small nod to one of the Enforcers, who stooped to lift it by the straps. The weight of it pulled his arm low, canvas darkening where the blood had reached.
"We're done here," he said quietly, already turning for the door.
The others fell in behind him, their shadows dragging long across the floor as they crossed the spill of light. The warehouse door groaned open, flooding the room with a gust of cold night air and the distant hum of the city.
Harper flinched at the sound but didn't lift her head. The door's slam rolled through the warehouse, then silence reclaimed everything—except the slow creep of blood edging toward her.
For a long time, she didn't move. The air still smelled of metal and oil, her father's blood already cooling against the concrete. The hum from outside faded until there was nothing—only the faint, uneven sound of her own breathing.
Then her fingers twitched. One hand slid forward, smearing through the dark streaks on the floor. She pushed herself up by inches, arms shaking so hard she almost fell. The world seemed to tilt and sway, the edges blurring, but she crawled anyway, dragging herself through the warmth spreading from his body.
When she reached him she froze, afraid to touch. His face was turned toward the floor, half-submerged in the spreading blood. She pressed her palm to his back, searching for something—but the faint rise and fall had already stopped.
A sound broke from her, low and fractured. She leaned over him, blood soaking into her clothes, one hand gripping his shoulder as if she could keep him anchored by will alone. Her other hand found his, the ruined one, fingers trying to fold around it though they couldn't.
"Dad…" It came out small, raw, barely sound at all.
The silence that answered her was absolute.
For a heartbeat she stayed there, palm still on his back, waiting for the impossible. Then, shaking, she eased her fingers from his hand and pushed at his shoulder, turning him onto his side. She sank down beside him, knees sliding through the blood without a pause or thought.
She curled into the curve of his shoulder the way she had when she was small. The smell of iron mixed with his cologne filled her lungs. She pressed her face into his shirt, the fabric already stiffening, and breathed in as if she could pull him back that way—draw the life out of the air and into him again.
Her hand searched for his again until she found it, limp and cooling. She threaded her fingers through his, but they wouldn't close, wouldn't hold her back—the shattered wrist made even this simple touch feel wrong. She held it to her chest anyway, clutching hard enough to leave smears of blood across her skin.
The sob that came then wasn't loud; it was slow, dragging, a sound torn from somewhere deep enough that it barely made it out of her. She stayed like that, curled around him, the world narrowing to the faint warmth seeping from his body and the rhythm of her own shaking breaths.
She didn't move. The silence stretched until it stopped feeling like silence at all—just the low hum of the city leaking through the walls, the occasional groan of the rafters as the air outside cooled.
At some point the light changed. The thin beam spilling through the high window turned from white to gray, then to the faint orange of dawn, dust hanging in it like smoke. Her muscles had long since gone numb, but she still felt the weight of him against her, the heat fading one slow degree at a time.
She couldn't tell if she'd slept or simply fallen out of time. Each time her eyes closed, she saw it again. So, she kept them open, staring at nothing, waiting for morning to mean something.
The warmth of dawn had drained from the room when the sound came; the light through the window now was cold and thin. At first she didn't register it—just another shift in the old corrugated siding. Then the low grind of tires on gravel pushed through the haze, an engine cutting, doors slamming.
Voices.
Harper's whole body went rigid. She buried her face in his shirt, the fabric cold and crusted with dried blood, her fingers knotting in it as if she could hide there. Her breath caught in her throat. The noise at the loading door deepened—boots on the threshold, a rasp of hinges, cold air flooding the room.
They'd come back.
The thought hit like a knife to the gut—cruel, absolute. Harper's lungs seized. She dragged the blood-stiff fabric tighter around her shoulders, curling into it, praying the shadows would swallow her whole. Every noise from the loading door sounded closer now: boots scuffing, metal shifting, a scrape of hinges. Cold air knifed across the floor.
"Voss? You here early? We said nine—" The loud, uncertain voice was followed instantly by realization—a choked gasp, and the loud, metallic clatter of something heavy hitting the concrete.
A second voice, lower and laced with absolute, immediate shock, managed: "What in the goddamn hell... Jesus Christ, is that—"
Harper, against every instinct, twisted her head just enough to see.
The first figure stepped into the light pooling just inside the doorway; movement stirred behind him, vague shapes she couldn't count. His jacket caught the dawn—dark red, a symbol on the shoulder glinting black. It took her a second to focus, to see the serpent coiled there. She blinked once, barely understanding.
They weren't Syndicate. They were Crimson Vipers.