Chapter 11 Something Is Wrong #2
He stayed low, crouching behind a massive ventilation unit as he caught his breath.
His hand moved to the small of his back, fingers closing around the grip of his gun.
He’d modified it himself—silencer integrated into the barrel, grip customized to his hand, ammunition that would tear through drone armor like paper.
The first drone appeared over the edge of the roof, hovering silently. A moment later, the second joined it. They moved in perfect synchronization, sweeping the roof in a search pattern.
Jameson watched them through narrowed eyes, tracking their movement, calculating the distance between them. They hadn’t spotted him yet, hidden as he was in the shadow of the ventilation unit. He had one chance to do this right.
He waited until both drones hovered in the same line of sight, their attention focused on the opposite side of the roof. Then he moved, stepping out from his cover, gun raised.
His finger squeezed the trigger. The bullet sliced through air, silently cutting through the distance as the drones turned toward him.
They never had a chance against Jameson Vine’s bullet.
You see, Jameson was an expert marksman, both long and short range. He never missed his target and they never saw him coming. Most in the rings knew him as Ghost, and he’d earned that title.
The shot tore through the drones almost simultaneously, both dropping like stones to the roof in a shower of broken components and shattered metal. He moved toward them quickly, shoving his gun back into place as he crouched down to inspect the ruined machines.
Up close the drones were larger than he’d expected—nearly two feet across, the shell made of some matte black material that absorbed light.
Definitely not standard issue. These were military grade, reserved for high priority targets and Heart security.
He turned the first drone over, finding a small insignia etched into its underside: the Serel family crest.
Jameson gathered the carcasses then straightened, scanning the surrounding rooftops for any other surveillance, eyes lingering longer in the shadows. Finding nothing, he strode toward the rooftop’s ledge and lowered himself onto the drainage pipe to begin the descent toward solid ground.
If anyone knew what’d happened to Shadera, it would be one man. And Jameson intended to get answers, one way or another.
Wolf’s Head rose from the Boundary like a tumor. Jameson hated this place. Nothing good happened inside its walls. This was Daggermouth territory, where Jaeger reigned and contracts were handed out like communion wafers.
The door groaned as Jameson pushed it open, the neon lights momentarily blinding him as he searched the concrete space for his target.
He counted seventeen mercenaries as he entered—six at the bar, another eight scattered at tables throughout the room, three more playing cards in the corner.
Each one registered his presence with subtle shifts in posture.
Hands moving closer to weapons, eyes tracking his movement, conversations dying mid-sentence.
They recognized him as an outsider, not one of their own despite his years moving between the Boundary’s underworld players and Jaeger’s failed efforts to recruit him.
They knew better than to lay a finger on him. He was protected by Shade, and that meant he was protected by the Wolf himself.
Jaeger sat at his usual table in the back, partially hidden in shadow. The king of the Boundary looked precisely as he always did—weathered but unbent, his eyes catching the light like polished bullets. A silver coin danced between his fingers, flipping from knuckle to knuckle in an endless rhythm.
Jameson strode directly to him, ignoring the Daggermouths who watched his purposeful approach. Without a word, he dumped the broken remains of the drones onto the table with a crash that silenced the room entirely.
Jaeger didn’t flinch. His eyes flicked from the mangled technology to Jameson’s face, then back to the drones. The coin continued its dance across his fingers.
“Something’s wrong,” Jameson stated, his voice sharp and tinged with accusation. “I’ve never been followed this close. Where the hell is Shade, Jaeger?”
Jaeger’s expression remained placid, revealing nothing. His gaze fixed on the Serel insignia visible on one of the drone fragments, studying it.
If Jaeger was worried, he didn’t let Jameson see it.
The silence between them sharpened. Across the room, a woman with scars crisscrossing her face slowly set down her glass, her other hand sliding beneath the table to rest on what Jameson knew would be a gun.
Two men by the window shifted their weight, moving to angles better suited for clear shots if needed.
Jaeger raised his free hand, a minimal gesture that instantly relaxed the room. The scattered Daggermouths returned to their liquor and conversation without another glance at Jameson.
The bartender appeared at Jameson’s side, with a bottle of amber liquid and two glasses. Jaeger grunted his approval as the bartender set them on the table and retreated.
Still silent, Jaeger finally pocketed his coin and unscrewed the bottle, pouring two fingers of whiskey into each glass. He pushed one toward Jameson and nodded his silent command.
Jameson didn’t sit, but he took the glass, recognizing the ritual.
In the Boundary, in the Wolf’s Head, information had a price.
Sometimes that price was sharing poison before secrets were spilled.
He threw back the whiskey in one smooth motion, feeling it burn down his throat. Across from him, Jaeger did the same.
Only then did Jaeger speak, his voice low and graveled with age and authority. “She failed.”
Two words.
Two simple and devastating words.
Jameson’s hand tightened around the empty glass, his knuckles whitening.
“Three days ago,” Jaeger continued, setting his glass down and tracing the rim with his middle finger. “She managed to find the Executioner and put a bullet in him, but not a fatal one. We thought she was dead after that. The Heart doesn’t typically leave Daggermouths breathing.”
The room seemed to tilt beneath Jameson’s feet. Shadera didn’t fail. Not her. Not ever. And especially not with Greyson Serel, the target she’d been obsessing over for years.
“This morning,” Jaeger started again, refilling both glasses, “one of our informants in the Veyra sent word. Shade was taken to the prison beneath Haven Tower.”
Jameson sat then, his legs suddenly unable to support his weight. The chair creaked beneath him as he leaned forward, true panic beginning to radiate outward from his gut.
“And?”
Jaeger’s eyes finally met his, something like respect flickering in their depths as the corners of his lips crooked slightly up. “She started a fucking revolution from inside her cell.”
He took the second shot of whiskey, then rolled the glass in a circle around the bottom edge. “The informant said she was being removed from her cell when the prisoners found out what she had done. They started singing.”
“Singing?” Jameson’s brows furrowed.
“The old anthem. The one that’s been outlawed since the rise of New Found Haven.
They sang it for her. That act marked Kael as their symbol, their fucking martyr.
” Jaeger’s voice remained level, but something akin to dark amusement crept into his tone at the idea of Shadera being anyone’s savior.
“The Veyra open fired. Killed most of them. But the damage was done. Word is spreading through the city, trickling down from the Heart into the Cardinal and Boundary already.”
Jameson’s mind raced, piecing together the information, the implication of it all. The drones tracking him. The prison massacre. Shadera captive.
Shadera captive.
His throat felt like it was swelling at the thought, his heart convulsing. His hands that were always steady, that never trembled, began to shake. He clenched his fists, swallowing back the panic, and forced himself to focus.
“We received confirmation an hour ago that she’s still alive, for now. But past that, we don’t know what they intend to do with her,” Jaeger finished, pouring a third shot for each of them.
“Execution,” Jameson said immediately, the word tasting of bile. “They will hold an execution only for her, to send a message.”
Jaeger shook his head slowly. “I don’t think so. If they wanted her dead, she’d be dead already. Maximus isn’t known for his patience with Daggermouths, especially ones who target his family. No, he wants something from her. Or is planning to use her somehow.”
Jameson knocked back the third shot without waiting for Jaeger, his thoughts spiraling, each one more terrible than the last. Torture. Interrogation. Public humiliation before death.
“They’re tracking me,” he said, gesturing to the broken drones. “High-level surveillance, military grade. Not standard Veyra protocol.”
Jaeger’s expression hardened. “When was the last time you saw her?”
“The night she left for the Heart.” Jameson’s jaw tightened as the memory of her walking away flashed behind his eyes. “I went to her warehouse before she left."
“Did she tell you anything? About the approach, the exit strategy?”
“No,” Jameson answered quietly, the sound of the word defeated.
Jaeger studied him, his eyes knowing just where to look, how to see what emotion was raging inside of Jameson without saying a word. Those eyes missed nothing.
“She cares about you, more than she should. More than she will ever admit. That makes you valuable to them, if they know about your connection.”
Jameson tilted his head. “You think they’re using me to control her?”
“I think Maximus Serel didn’t survive this long by leaving tools unused,” Jaeger replied. “If he knows about you, he’ll use you. One way or another.”