The rain drummed so hard on the roof of the pickup it was like being inside a steel drum. The wipers screeched across the glass in frantic arcs, and every now and then the truck fishtailed just slightly when it hit a deeper puddle.

Price’s knuckles were white around the steering wheel, cigar stub clenched between his teeth though he hadn’t lit it—Laswell had given him the look the second he reached for his lighter. She sat in the passenger seat like nothing was wrong, one leg crossed over the other, scrolling calmly through intel on her tablet while the storm painted the windows with streaks of water.

The back seat was another story.

Soap had jammed himself in the corner nearest the window, elbow propped against it as he gestured animatedly with his other hand. He was mid-story—something about a goat, a helicopter, and “a wee misunderstanding” in Kazakhstan—and his voice was loud enough to cut through the storm.

Wedged in beside him was a wiry teenager, bouncing his knee so violently the entire bench seat rattled. His grin was feral, and he kept piping up with comments at all the wrong moments, only spurring Soap into louder laughter.

Roach, unfortunately, had been seated directly across from him. He was already pink-cheeked with frustration, muttering sharp, garbled protests under his breath. The final straw came when the kid leaned forward with a sly little smirk and flicked Roach on the nose.

There was a crunch. A sharp inhale. Then blood.

You hissed, grabbing for the pack of tissues in your pocket and pressing one firmly against Roach’s nose. He tipped his head back with a groan, shoulders hunched, one hand clamped around your wrist to keep the tissue steady.

You snapped your head toward the kid, your glare sharp enough to skin him alive.

The boy just shrugged, bouncing his knee faster, lips twitching like he was fighting laughter.

Soap raised his hands in mock innocence, lips twitching with amusement. “Och, dinnae be so dramatic, it’s just a wee nosebleed! Builds resilience!” He clapped the kid on the shoulder, nearly knocking him sideways.

Roach peeled the tissue away long enough to rasp something muffled and furious—half-English, half-static—and you could practically feel the venom in it. He jabbed a blood-smeared finger at Soap in emphasis.

You pressed the tissue harder against his nose with a sigh, rolling your eyes but secretly just as murderous. Both of you, shoulder to shoulder, looked like wolves ready to maul.

In the far corner, Ghost was slumped with his head tipped against the glass, arms crossed over his chest. The mask fogged slightly with each deep, even breath. Entirely comatose. Not even a twitch at the chaos happening inches away.

Gaz wasn’t much better, chin tucked against his chest, hat low over his eyes, dead to the world.

The only response from the front came when Price growled low in his throat and smacked the heel of his hand against the steering wheel. “If one more bloody sound comes out of you lot, I swear to God, I’ll toss you all out in the rain and drive the rest of the way in peace.”

Everyone froze for half a second.

The kid snorted.

Soap burst out laughing again, clapping his knee.

Roach pinched the bridge of his nose so hard it looked like he wanted to rip it clean off.

And the rain just kept hammering down.