Wolf’sHeadreekedofcheap 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 strippedquickly, 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.
