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 metalpanel. 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.
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 theyneversaw 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’sHeadrosefromthe 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.
