Chapter 28 #2
Then, from somewhere in the back of the crowd, a voice rose. Low but strong—the old anthem. The song that had started all of this, the song that so many had already died for, for the right to sing it. It was no longer the old forbidden anthem.
It was the song of the new rebellion.
A second voice joined, then a third. Soon dozens of voices swelled together, filling the street with a sound more dangerous than gunfire. His vision blurred as more voices joined, the music rolling through the street like thunder.
The mother looked up from her son’s body, tears streaking through the blood on her face, and added her broken voice to the chorus.
Jameson felt something break open inside him—a dam he’d built years ago to hold back the pain, the fear, the desperate hope that things could change. He’d become the Ghost, the smuggler, the rebel leader who forced himself to be unbreakable for the cause.
But standing here, surrounded by the people of the Boundary—bloodied but unbowed, grieving but defiant—he couldn’t maintain that distance. These were his people. This was his home.
The last notes of the anthem faded, leaving behind a silence charged with purpose. The crowd’s eyes turned to him, recognition dawning on their faces. They knew who he was. What he was.
Their protector.
A man stepped forward, his face weathered by years in the toxic air of the Boundary. “They’re coming for us all,” he said, his voice carrying in the sudden quiet. “Ain’t they?”
“Yes,” Jameson answered, unable to soften the truth. “The President is planning something. Something big.” He glanced at the burning patrol vehicles, the bodies scattered across the street. “And this—this is just the beginning.”
The man’s jaw tightened. “Then we fight.”
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the crowd. Jameson saw the determination in their faces, the readiness to throw themselves against the Heart’s oppression regardless of the cost. It would be a slaughter. They had pipes and bottles—the Heart had bombs.
“Not like this,” Jameson said, his voice sharper than he intended. “Not without a plan. Not without unity.”
He looked at each face in turn, committing them to memory—the elderly woman with her makeshift spear, the young couple clutching each other’s hands, the children watching from windows above.
These were the people Shadera had sacrificed herself to protect.
These were the lives hanging in the balance.
“Go home,” he told them, softening his tone. “Tend to your wounded. Mourn your dead. But be ready. When the time comes—and it will come soon—I’ll need all of you.”
They hesitated, the fire of rebellion still burning in their eyes.
“Trust me,” Jameson added, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “I won’t let you fight alone.”
Slowly, reluctantly, the crowd began to disperse. Some carried away the injured, others gathered the dead with gentle hands. The mother remained kneeling beside her son, her tears now silent, her grief beyond words.
Jameson knelt beside her, ignoring the blood soaking into his pants. He placed a hand on her cheek, feeling her body shake with silent sobs.
“I’m sorry,” he said, the words woefully inadequate.
She looked up at him, her eyes red-rimmed and shimmering with tears. Something in her gaze had hardened, crystallized into resolve.
“Make them pay,” she whispered.
Jameson nodded once, a solemn vow. Then he rose, gesturing to two men standing nearby. They came quickly.
“Help her take her son home,” he started, placing a hand on each of their shoulders. “And make sure she does not bury her child alone.”
Their answer was a nod.
“Thank you,” Jameson whispered, then turned away just in time to hide the tears that began to cut through the blood on his face.
He would keep that promise to her. He would make them pay.
Every single leader of the Heart.
Shadera woke to a fist against her jaw, red cord tying her to a chair bolted to the ground.
Another fist connected with the other side of her face before she could blink vision back into her eyes.
Somewhere behind her she could hear Greyson screaming.
She thought she heard him screaming for her but before his words registered, a baton found her temple and consciousness was knocked out of her body again.
Jameson’s path to Wolf’s Head was clear now, the Boundary streets emptying as news of the clash spread and people retreated to safety. He didn’t bother cleaning his hands or face of the blood as he approached the Daggermouth headquarters. Instead, he would let it speak for him.
He could hear the familiar sounds of the bar from outside the establishment—glasses clinking, low conversations, the occasional burst of laughter. All of it normal, despite the world burning outside.
He shouldered through the door and conversations died mid-sentence. Heads turned, eyes widening at the sight of him. The silence spread like ripples until the entire room had fallen quiet.
Jameson took another step forward, his boots leaving bloody prints on the cracked floor.
Dozens of eyes locked on him—assassins, informants, rebels, all momentarily united in their assessment of the man before them.
Slowly, bodies began to rise from their chairs, their glasses raised in silent tribute, acknowledging what he had done tonight.
Then, one by one, fists began to beat on tables, a steady drumming that saturated the air.
War had been declared tonight. Not with speeches or proclamations, but with blood on concrete and fire in the streets.
Jaeger stood to greet him, rising from his usual table in the corner like a specter from the shadows. His weathered face betrayed nothing, but his eyes—those cold gray eyes that had seen more violence than Jameson would ever know—gleamed with pride.
“Welcome to the revolution, brother,” Jaeger said, hand stretching toward Jameson. He took it, wrapping is bloody fingers around Jaeger’s.
Jameson said nothing as he shook it. Words felt inadequate, trivial against the weight of what he’d just done, what he was prepared to do.
The bartender set a full bottle of whiskey before him instead of the usual glass.
Jameson uncorked it, took a long pull directly from the neck, and let the burn cleanse the taste of blood from his mouth.
When he finally spoke, his voice was raw, stripped of everything but his anger. “They sent a convoy into the Boundary.”
Jaeger nodded once, sharply. “I know, my men saw you handle it.”
“When do we move?”
“Soon.” Jaeger gestured to the table where several of his men stood looking over the maps and diagrams spread out on its surface. “Sit.”
Jameson ignored the command and instead took another long pull as the door opened at his back. He turned, watching weapons appear across the room as if by magic—guns, knives, garrotes all trained on the newcomer.
Captain Mikel stepped into the bar, his face grim but unsurprised by the reception. His Veyra uniform was spotless, a stark contrast to the blood covering Jameson.
“Stand down,” Jaeger ordered, his voice cutting through the tension. “He’s with us.”
Weapons lowered reluctantly, but remained visible, a reminder that trust was a luxury extended to Mikel that could be snatched back at any moment. Mikel moved to join their table, keeping a careful distance from Jameson as he sat.
Kestrel Farrow entered the bar from the back door, emerging from the shadows as she quietly cut off a phone call, and slid her tablet into a pocket, then smiled at them. “Hello, boys,” she drawled, nodding toward the bartender for a drink. “You ready to fuck up the Heart?”
Jameson’s brow furrowed, looking between her and Mikel. “You already knew he was a part of this?”
“There are a lot of things I know that you don’t, Vine,” she said, casually sitting and pushing her chair back onto its hind legs. “The Cardinal rebellion plays a different role than yours, being so close to the Heart.”
He ignored the slight jab. “Well then, let’s get started. Tell me everything I don’t fucking know.”
Farrow shook her head, a lock of golden hair falling across her sharp features. “We need to wait for the others. We only discuss this once.”
“What others?” Jameson demanded, frustration now bleeding into his voice.
“Him,” Jaeger said, a twisted smile playing at the corners of his mouth as he gestured toward the door.
Jameson turned slowly, the hairs on the back of his neck standing as his eyes connected with Callum Thane, the Broker. His gun was drawn in an instant, barrel pointed at the center of his head. Farrow’s sharp gasp echoed in the space behind him as Lira Serel stepped into view, maskless.
Lira froze in the doorway of Wolf’s Head, her hand hovering over the gun strapped to her thigh.
She knew exactly who each of the eyes focused on her belonged to from the surveillance she’d done over the years for the media, but her sight narrowed to a single point—Captain Mikel in his pristine Veyra uniform, sitting among the rebels like he belonged there.
The bar fell silent. Even the dim neon lights seemed to hold their breath, casting colors across features hardened by years of Boundary survival.
Blood decorated Jameson’s face like war paint, his clothing soaked in darker stains.
She recognized the look in his eyes—the same wild fury she’d seen in her own reflection after she’d put a bullet in Marcus Webb’s head only hours ago.
Callum shifted slightly, positioning his body between her and Jameson’s gun. The gesture was so subtle, so instinctive, that Lira doubted he was even aware of it.
“I advise you point that thing away from me,” Callum said, nodding to the gun trained on his head. His hands remained visible, relaxed at his sides, but Lira knew how quickly those hands could produce a weapon of their own.
No one moved. The tension pulled tighter, an invisible wire about to snap.