Chapter 11 Something Is Wrong
Chapter eleven
Something Is Wrong
Jameson slipped out the back door of the clinic, the smell of sickness and blood clinging to his clothes like death’s perfume. The sun hung low over the Boundary, casting long shadows across cracked concrete and rusted metal as storm clouds began to fill the evening sky.
For days, he’d thrown himself into helping the wounded, distributing the medicine smuggled in on Veyra patrol vehicles—anything to keep his mind from dwelling on Shadera’s silence. But the hollowness in his chest only grew with each passing hour.
She should’ve been back by now.
In another life, Jameson thought he might have been a doctor, if circumstances had provided the means for him to follow that dream.
But it hadn’t. He was born to the Boundary, and ‘Boundary rats’ were not worthy of an education.
So, instead, he read as much as he could, learned everything old textbooks would teach him, and shadowed the clinic’s physicians.
He pulled his hood over his head to barricade himself against the chill wind that swept through the narrow alley, carrying the stench of industrial waste and sickness.
The children inside the clinic were getting worse.
Though, two that he’d thought would’ve died by now seemed to be making small improvements—but the victory felt hollow without Shade’s mocking voice asking if he’d gone soft.
The first prickle of unease crawled up his spine when he reached the end of the alley.
A faint mechanical hum, barely audible over the thrum of the crowds beginning to spill onto the streets for the nightly debauchery.
He glanced up, casual, as if checking the weather, and squinted his eyes into the last bit of sun.
A Veyra drone hovered at the intersection, its black carapace gleaming in the dying light.
Jameson kept walking, maintaining his pace.
Drones weren’t uncommon in the Boundary—they monitored the main thoroughfares, occasionally swept problem areas after riots—but they rarely made it this deep into the maze of forgotten streets and collapsed infrastructure without being shot down.
He turned left at the next corner, quickening his stride. The hum followed. Another glance over his shoulder confirmed it—the drone had adjusted its course, maintaining the same distance behind him.
This wasn’t a routine patrol.
Jameson’s hand slid to the knife strapped against his ribs, then to the gun tucked into the back of his jeans, the familiar weight a cold comfort.
Ahead, the alley split into three paths—one leading toward the market square, another deeper into the abandoned factory district, the third winding up toward the higher terraces.
He’d navigated these streets since childhood, knew every crack in the concrete, every hidden passage.
He chose the middle path, breaking into a jog as he disappeared into shadow.
Ten seconds later, he ducked through a hole in the wall of a collapsed building, counting silently as his boots crunched over broken glass and rubble.
The passage narrowed, forcing him to turn sideways as he squeezed through a gap that most would miss.
On the other side, he paused, listening.
Silence. Then, the mechanical whir grew louder just as light splintered across the sky, reflecting off the warehouse’s metal, followed by a thunderclap that shook the walls.
The drone appeared at the far end of the narrow entrance, its red eye pulsing as it scanned the darkness.
“Fuck,” he whispered, ducking behind a fallen support beam.
His heart pounded in his chest as he tried to make sense of what was happening.
The drone shouldn’t have been able to track him through the building.
How was it possible? Standard Veyra patrol drones only had basic heat sensors, not the advanced tracking systems needed to follow someone through solid walls.
This was not a patrol drone. It was tactical.
His blood chilled.
The drone hovered at the entrance for three seconds, then it navigated the narrow gap. Its frame folding in on itself as it squeezed through the passage.
Jameson didn’t wait to see more. He sprinted through the remains of the building, tightening the straps on his pack as he vaulted over debris and slid under hanging wires.
His mind raced through possibilities—a case of mistaken identity, random harassment, or something connected to Shadera’s silence.
None of the options eased the knot forming in his gut.
He emerged into another alleyway as rain began pelting his skin, this one ending in a tall chain-link fence topped with razor wire.
Without slowing, Jameson leapt, fingers finding purchase in the rusted metal links.
He climbed effortlessly, muscle memory guiding his hands and feet.
At the top, he swung his body over the razor wire with inches to spare, dropping fifteen feet to the other side.
The impact jarred his knees, but he rolled with it, coming up in a crouch.
The drone appeared above the fence, hovering for a moment before sailing over, unimpeded by the barrier that could slice human flesh to ribbons.
“Persistent little fucker,” Jameson muttered, eyes already searching for his next route.
Water streamed down his face, dripping from his chin and hair. He slicked it back with one hand, his focus on his next steps. The buildings here rose higher, connected by a web of makeshift bridges and collapsed fire escapes.
He grabbed the lowest rung of a ladder hanging from a gutted apartment complex, pulling himself up hand over hand until he reached a narrow metal walkway fifteen stories above the ground.
This was not the evening Jameson had planned for himself. No, he’d planned to go home, have a drink, a cigarette, take a load off and wait for Shade’s call.
Relaxing, normal, uneventful.
But no, of course he couldn’t have one fucking day of peace in this godforsaken, piece-of-shit, run-down fucking city.
His boots clanged against the rain slicked grating as he ran, the sound echoing through the concrete canyon of abandoned buildings.
The walkway ended abruptly—collapsed decades ago in a ring bombing—creating a ten-foot gap to the next building.
Jameson didn’t hesitate. He launched himself across the void, arms outstretched, fingers catching the edge of the opposite platform.
His body slammed against the side of the building, knocking the air from his lungs.
He hauled himself up, muscles burning, just as the drone appeared around the corner. It hovered, almost curiously, watching him with that unblinking red eye.
Jameson scrambled to his feet, chest heaving.
This was wrong. All wrong.
He’d evaded Veyra surveillance a hundred times before, but never had they been this persistent, this focused. Something had changed.
He ducked through a broken apartment window into what had once been someone’s home. Faded wallpaper peeled from the walls, furniture reduced to skeletal frames by decades of scavengers. He crossed to the door, stepping into a pitch-black hallway that reeked of mold and urine.
The red glow of the drone’s eye appeared at the window behind him, casting bloody shadows across the floor. Jameson pressed himself against the wall, holding his breath as the drone hovered outside, scanning.
A new sound joined the drone—the distinctive whine of a second drone approaching from the opposite direction. Jameson’s stomach sank.
One drone might be coincidence. Two was deliberate.
The second drone appeared at the far end of the hallway, its sensor eye sweeping back and forth.
They were boxing him in.
Panic fluttered in Jameson’s chest, a sensation he only felt these days when Shade accepted a contract. He forced it down, focusing on his breathing. Panic meant death in the Boundary.
His mind raced with thoughts of Shadera. Three days of silence since she’d walked out of her warehouse. Three days since she’d gone to kill Greyson Serel. If she’d succeeded, the Heart would be in chaos, not wasting resources tracking him through the Boundary. If she’d failed . . .
His throat burned at the thought, his stomach twisting. Shade never failed. Not on a contract, not on a kill. But if she had—if they’d caught her—what would they do to her? What would they do to those connected to her?
The drone in the hallway inched closer, the red beam sliding over broken doors and collapsed ceiling tiles. The one outside the window remained stationary, as if waiting.
Jameson eyed the ceiling, spotting a maintenance hatch half hidden by shadows. He leapt, fingers catching the edge of the rusted metal panel. It groaned under his weight but held as he pulled himself into the narrow crawl space above.
The space was tight, choking with decades of dust and the skeletal remains of small animals. He crawled forward on elbows and knees, ignoring the pain as sharp edges tore at his clothes and skin. The drone’s buzz faded, then grew louder again as they adjusted their search pattern.
He reached the end of the crawl space, where a larger duct opened into what had once been the building’s ventilation system.
It sloped upward, leading toward the roof.
Jameson pushed his pack onto his chest then wedged his back against one wall, feet against the other, palms firmly planted against the metal at either side of him, and began to climb, inching his way up the shaft.
Sweat stung his eyes despite the cold seeping through his drenched clothes, his muscles screaming for relief. He kept climbing, driven by a certainty that grew with each passing second.
Something is wrong.
The duct ended in another hatch. Jameson pushed it open, emerging onto the building’s roof.
The icy rain hit him immediately, followed by the wind, carrying the distant sounds of the Boundary at night—muffled shouts, frequent gunshots, the perpetual rumble of machinery from the Cardinal ring’s waste processing plants.