Chapter 23
Chapter twenty-three
Four Hours
Wolf’s Head reeked of cheap liquor, the stench clinging to Jameson’s clothes the moment he stepped inside. The bar’s neon lighting cast dancing colors across the worn tables where Daggermouths drowned their miseries one glass at a time.
He scanned the room, eyes adjusting to the cigarette smoke filling the air until they settled on the table in the far corner where Jaeger sat surrounded by six of his best—the only people in New Found Haven crazy enough to attempt this mission.
Jameson’s hand drifted to the gun at the small of his back out of habit, the weight grounding him as he crossed the room.
Jaeger didn’t look up as he approached, his hands flipping that same damn coin through his fingers. The old man was staring at a map laid in front of him, his other hand running over marked checkpoints with meticulous attention.
“You’re late,” Jaeger said, still not looking up.
“Cardinal checkpoints are doubled,” Jameson replied, sliding into the empty chair. “Had to take the sewers through three sectors.”
Now Jaeger’s eyes lifted, gray and sharp. “If you can’t navigate a few patrols, maybe you’re not the right man for this.”
“I am the only man for this,” Jameson shot back as the bartender appeared at his shoulder, placing a whiskey in front of him.
Jaeger nodded, his lips quirking up in a smile as he gestured to a large duffel bag beside him. “Then let’s get started.”
The team around the table watched with the unnerving stillness that marked all Daggermouths.
Jaeger had chosen well—each face bore the hard lines of survival, the blank expressions of those who had killed too often to count.
They had names but Jameson never learned them.
He had worked with each of them before and knew them only by their positions: Sniper, Breach, Trace, Scout, Comms, Medic.
Specializations, not people. It made the inevitable losses easier.
Jaeger unzipped the duffel bag and reached inside, the table creaking with the motion. When his hand emerged, it was holding a neatly folded uniform of unmistakable design—the black and blue of Veyra patrol officers.
“Put these on,” he said, placing it on the table before reaching for seven more. The fabric slid across the worn wood with a whisper that sounded like execution.
Jameson stared at the uniform, his stomach hollowing. “Where the fuck did you get these?”
“You know better than to ask questions like that,” Jaeger replied, continuing to lay out the uniforms in front of each team member. “Let’s just say some Veyra decided they didn’t need them anymore.”
Scout, a woman with half a skull tattooed on the right side of her face, reached for the uniform in front of her. “These won’t get us past the checkpoints. They scan credentials.”
“Which brings us to how we’re getting in,” Jaeger said, nodding to Comms, who produced a small tablet from inside his jacket.
A holographic display flickered to life above the tabletop, showing a map of the sector divisions between Cardinal and the Heart. Red dots pulsed at each checkpoint, like wounds in the city’s skin.
“Checkpoint 37.” Jaeger tapped one of the dots. “Our Veyra officer on the inside took tonight’s patrol shift.”
Jameson’s eyes narrowed. “And you really think you can trust this Veyra officer?”
“Everyone has their price,” Jaeger shrugged.
“He’ll get a Veyra patrol vehicle through the checkpoint,” Comms continued, his voice flat. “We’ll be inside, dressed as officers returning from a patrol in Cardinal.”
“And if they check the patrol schedule?” Breach asked, his massive hands dwarfing the uniform he now held.
“It’s handled,” Jaeger clipped as he reached into the bag one last time.
He pulled out a ninth uniform, smaller than the others, and placed it on the table with a gentleness that didn’t match his usual movements.
“This is for her,” he said, looking directly at Jameson. “Once we have her, she’ll need to change immediately. A civilian, even a Heart civilian, traveling with Veyra officers will trigger alarms.”
Jameson’s fingers brushed over the fabric, the material stiff and heavier than it looked. The thought of wearing this uniform, this symbol of everything they fought against, made his chest tighten. But her rescue, her survival, was worth any compromise.
Medic, a woman, the only one of them with no visible scarring, spoke for the first time. “What’s the plan if something goes wrong?”
“We try to get out with our lives,” Jaeger replied, his face impassive. “Change,” he ordered as he stood. “Back rooms. Two minutes.”
The team rose in unison, gathering their uniforms and moving toward the private rooms at the back of the bar.
Jameson followed, the weight of the folded clothing in his hands getting heavier with each step.
He’d planned this mission since the moment she’d been taken, plotted it a hundred different ways in his head, but now that it was happening, fear crept up his spine.
The back room was cramped and smelled of mold, the single bulb casting sickly yellow light over peeling wallpaper.
Jameson stripped quickly, his movements mechanical as he exchanged the familiar comfort of his tactical gear for the Veyra uniform.
The black fabric slid against his skin like it was trying to suffocate him.
The armor plates integrated into the chest and back felt foreign, too rigid compared to the flexible protection he was used to. Each piece clicked into place—greaves, vambraces, collar. It was like assembling a new identity, becoming the enemy piece by piece.
As he fastened the final clasp, Jameson caught his reflection in a cracked mirror on the wall.
The sight stopped him cold. The uniform transformed him, stripped away his identity, leaving only the blank canvas of Heart authority.
He barely recognized himself beneath the rigid lines and sharp angles of Veyra design.
Was this what was happening to Shadera in the Heart? This slow erosion of self, this rewriting of identity until nothing remained of who she’d been?
The door opened behind him, and Jaeger entered, already fully dressed in his officer’s uniform. The transformation was even more complete on him—despite his age, he carried the Veyra uniform with a disturbing naturalness, as if he’d been born to it.
“Worried?” Jaeger asked, noticing Jameson’s fixed stare at his own reflection.
“Terrified,” Jameson admitted, turning away from the mirror. “Not of dying. Of failing her.”
Jaeger crossed the small room, adjusting Jameson’s collar with practiced fingers.
“I taught Shade everything she knows. That girl is like a daughter to me.” His eyes, usually cold and calculating, held something Jameson had rarely seen—genuine emotion.
“But you, Ghost, you’re the one she’ll fight to come back to. Don’t make me regret letting you come.”
The words carried both threat and blessing, the closest thing to approval Jaeger had ever offered.
“I won’t leave without her,” Jameson promised.
“I know,” Jaeger replied. “That’s what worries me.”
He handed Jameson the final piece of the disguise—a Veyra officer’s helmet with its distinctive reflective faceplate. Unlike the decorative masks of the elite, these were functional, designed to conceal identity while providing tactical information through heads-up displays.
“Remember,” Jaeger said as Jameson took the helmet, “in and out. No heroics, no revenge against the Executioner, no matter how much you want it. Get her and get out.”
Jameson nodded, his heart pounding against his rib cage with such force he thought the armor might crack. He slipped the helmet over his head, the HUD system flickering to life with data streams he didn’t understand and didn’t need to. The final transformation was complete.
Shadera stood in front of the mirror, fingers tracing the spot on her neck where Greyson had touched her. The phantom pressure of his thumb against her pulse lingered like he had branded her. She’d let him touch her. Worse, she’d responded to it.
Fury bubbled up her throat—at him, at herself, at this entire situation that was slowly breaking down everything she stood for.
“Fucking Heart,” she muttered, turning away from the mirror and pressing the palms of her hands to her eyes.
She’d killed men for less than what Greyson Serel represented, for smaller sins than those he’d committed with his own hands.
Yet when he touched her, she hadn’t thought of the blood on his hands or her hatred.
She’d thought of nothing at all, the world narrowing to the single point where his skin met hers.
Shadera pulled her hands from her eyes, glaring as her vision swam at the edges. “Get it together,” she hissed as she grabbed the edge of her dresser to steady herself. “He’s the Executioner. He’s the fucking enemy.”
But enemies weren’t supposed to take bullets for their sisters or defy their fathers. They weren’t supposed to reveal vulnerabilities or share their pain. They weren’t supposed to have backs mapped with scars from the same system they enforced.
This club, this night out—it was a distraction, nothing more. A chance to gather intelligence, to see more of the Heart’s layout, to plan her escape when the opportunity arrived.
When, not if. She had to believe that.
Shadera pulled open drawers until she found something suitable. The selection was limited—mostly clothes Lira had sent over and Greyson’s shirts. Greyson’s shirts.
Jesus fuck, concentrate.
She shook her head as she settled on a pair of black pants and a dark green top with an open back. The fabric felt too fine against her fingertips, but at least the colors would help blend her into shadows if necessary.
She stripped quickly, tossing her shirt aside and reaching for the new one. As she tugged it out of the drawer and over her head, something fluttered to the floor, landing face down by her feet. A photograph.
The photograph.