Three slow taps.
Winter froze.
His rifle came up without thought, leveled at the front door like it had personally insulted him. Behind him, Ima ducked low behind the overturned chair near the kitchenette, her hand already moving to the pistol tucked against her back. Miles slipped to the side of the doorway, crouching low, breath held.
Another pause. Silence. Then again: tap. Tap. Tap.
"Who the hell knocks?" Miles whispered.
Winter's jaw tightened. It could be Adrian's people. Or worse, a setup meant to lure them out. But it could also be a warning. A chance.
He stepped forward carefully, back flat to the wall, hand raised to Ima to hold position. His other hand twisted the lock silently, then cracked the door open by a fraction.
A face appeared—a young one. Pale, sweating, barely twenty. Wide eyes behind cracked goggles.
"Who the hell are you?" He growled.
