Текст книги "Daggermouth"
Автор книги: H. M. Wolfe
сообщить о нарушении
Текущая страница: 20 (всего у книги 33 страниц)
For one wild, insane second, he allowed himself to imagine taking her away from all this. Not just her—his mother too, Lira, Callum. Finding some way beyond the Heart’s reach, beyond New Found Haven itself.
The fantasy dissolved as quickly as it formed. There was no running from the Heart, from his father. There was no escape. No path that didn’t end in blood. The only way forward was compliance or resistance, and Greyson was done complying.
“We should go out,” he said suddenly as he stood, needing to offer something, anything.
Shadera turned to him, confusion breaking through her numbed expression. “What?”
“Out. Into the Heart. To the Entertainment District. You should see more than this apartment. Have something before—”
“Before I become your property,” she said dryly.
“Before we lose all our freedom,” he corrected softly. “We can go to Callum’s clubs. They’re safe from my father’s surveillance. You could drink yourself unconscious and I can check on Lira.”
Shadera studied him, suspicion warring with the curiosity in her expression. “Why would you offer that?”
Because I need to see you alive before they kill your spirit. Because I want to witness you uncaged while it’s still possible. Because I hate what I’m a part of, what I’m doing to you.
“Because,” he started instead, “the last time you were drunk here, you nearly burned the place down. I’d like to keep our home intact.”
Our home.
He hadn’t meant to say that. It was his home, not theirs.
A smile flickered across her lips, there and gone so quickly he couldn’t be sure he’d seen it at all. She considered the bottle in her hand, then set it aside.
“Fine,” she said, unfolding her legs from beneath her. “But I need to change first.”
She started to rise, wavering slightly as the alcohol hit her system. Greyson moved without thinking, his hand reaching out to steady her. His fingers closed around hers, the contact sending an unexpected jolt through his nervous system.
They froze like that, hand in hand, neither pulling away. Her skin was warm, calloused—marked with the scars of a life lived in violence. So different from the soft, pampered hands of Heart women. So real.
His thumb moved across her knuckles, tracing the edges of the numbers tattooed there. The contact shouldn’t have felt intimate. It was nothing, a moment of balance, of steadying. But his hand refused to release hers, and still, she did not pull away.
Between one heartbeat and the next his fingers were moving, tracing upward, following the lines of her tattoos, the ridges of her scars. Each mark a story, each scar a survival. His touch was light, giving her the opportunity to pull away—to push him away.
She didn’t.
His fingers reached her shoulder, paused on the ridge of an old wound—a bullet, maybe, or a knife. Then continued their path upward to the curve of her neck where her pulse hammered beneath his fingertips. Fast, but strong. Like her.
Greyson’s fingers flexed around her neck and Shadera’s eyes fluttered shut. Something dark and hungry unfurled in his chest at the sight, at the realization that she might share his preferences for rougher handling. For the edge of pain with pleasure.
His thumb pressed slightly against the hollow beneath her jaw, testing, and her breath caught audibly. Not in fear—he knew fear intimately, could taste it on the air when present—but in something else. Something that mirrored his own suppressed hunger. He hardened against his will as her pulse responded to his touch despite everything between them.
“We should go.” He forced the words out, his voice rough with restraint.
For a moment, he thought she might lean into his touch, might acknowledge whatever current was flowing between them. Instead, her eyes snapped open as she jerked away.
She cleared her throat, eyes not meeting his.
“I’ll change.” The words were clipped and cold as she pushed past him, striding back inside and shutting the glass door behind her with more force than necessary.
Greyson’s feet remained rooted in place, his body humming with unwanted desire, with self-disgust, with confusion. He reached for the abandoned vodka bottle and took a long pull, letting the alcohol burn down his throat, hoping it might cauterize whatever wound had just been opened between them.
Chapter twenty-threeFour 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.
Shadera paused, shirt half on as she glanced at the door before looking back at the worn photo paper. She finished pulling it into place before bending to retrieve it.
She had more time to study it now than she’d had when she found it. The two men standing side by side, arms thrown carelessly around each other’s shoulders. Greyson, though younger—perhaps early twenties, his unmasked face smiling in a way she’d never seen. The expression transformed him, erasing the hardness she’d come to associate with his features, replacing it with something that no longer existed in him. The thought made her chest constrict, that that light had been beat out of him.
The second man had to be Brooker.
The resemblance was unmistakable—the same sharp jawline, the same dark hair. But where Greyson’s posture always held tension, this man seemed relaxed, confident in a way that suggested he had never questioned his place in the world even with his mask off. They stood in what looked like a garden, the Heart’s platinum skyline visible behind them.
Shadera turned the photo over. No inscription, no date. Just an image of their unmasked faces frozen in time. A single picture that in the wrong hands, could get Greyson killed.
She turned it back, studying Brooker’s face more carefully. A strange sensation crawled up her spine as she looked at him—a sense of déjà vu she couldn’t place. Something about the angle of his smile, the way he held himself . . .
She’d never seen an elite in the Boundary. No member of the Serel family would ever venture into the outer ring, especially not unmasked. But somehow, she knew this face.
A sharp knock at her door yanked her from her spiraling thoughts. She jerked in surprise, nearly dropping the photograph.
“Shadera?” Greyson’s voice filtered through the door. “Are you ready?”
“I’ll be right out,” she called back, her voice steadier than she felt. Quickly, she folded the photograph and slipped it into her back pocket, patting it once to ensure it was secure. Her fingers slid over her mask, tracing the design before pulling it from its stand and placing it over her face. The weight settled against her skin, a barrier between her and a world she didn’t belong to. Between her and Greyson.
She would need that barrier tonight.
The patrol vehicle smelt cleaner than anything in the rings. Jameson climbed in last, settling onto the hard bench across from Jaeger, the unfamiliar weight of the uniform constraining his movements. Eight of them packed tight in the transport’s rear compartment, breathing the same recycled air, hearts pounding in unison. No one spoke. The stakes were too high for small talk, the risks too great to waste breath on anything but necessity.
The engine hummed to life, the subtle vibration traveling up through the metal floor into Jameson’s bones. For a moment, claustrophobia threatened to overwhelm him—the enclosed space, the identical faceplates surrounding him, the knowledge that they were heading straight into the heart of enemy territory with only the thinnest of disguises protecting them.
The partition slid open, revealing their driver’s unmasked profile. Jameson’s gun was raised and pointed toward him in one single breath, without hesitation.
“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” Jameson snarled as Jaeger pushed him back.
“Put your gun down, Ghost,” Jaeger commanded, but Jameson didn’t listen. His finger tightened on the trigger.
“This is your officer on the inside? Him?” Jameson breathed, his voice shallowing to a pitch he used to steady himself before taking a shot.
“Put. Your fucking. Gun. Down.” Jaeger ordered again. This time his hand wrapped around the barrel, yanking it toward the floor.
“Control your dog,” Captain Mikel hissed from the front seat.
A low growl left Jameson’s throat. He was Maximus Serel’s right hand. The man that kept all the Veyra in line. The man that stood beside Greyson Serel on the execution platform.
Jameson’s eyes snapped to Jaeger, rage erupting in his gut. This was a setup, this had to be a setup. “You are trusting this piece of shit with our lives? With Shade’s life?”
“I told you,” Jaeger barked, the palm of his hand connecting with Jameson’s shoulder as he shoved him back into place against the wall. “Everyone has a price.”
Jameson’s chest rose and fell frantically, his eyes darting back and forth between Mikel and Jaeger, weighing his options. The silence pulled for a long minute before Mikel spoke again.
“Credentials,” he said, his eyes still studying Jameson’s form as he passed Jaeger a small stack of metallic cards. “They’re genuine but time sensitive. They will only be good for four hours, after that any checkpoint they are scanned at will alert a security lockdown.”
Jaeger took the stack and distributed them to the team. Jameson accepted his, running a thumb over the cool surface. The card pulsed once with blue light, recognizing his gloved touch, then displayed his temporary identity: Officer Tanis Vrell, Patrol Unit 8, Cardinal sector, Authorization Level 3.
“How’d you manage genuine credentials?” Scout asked, examining her own card with skepticism.
“Courtesy of the uniforms you are wearing now,” Mikel answered. “Officers die on patrol. Sometimes their deaths aren’t reported immediately.”
Jameson bit back a scoff. “No loyalty to your own men? I wonder what that means for us.”
Mikel turned to fully look at him then, his full unmasked face on display. “My loyalties are no concern of yours. I have skin in this rebellion, and I plan to save it.”
“Where’s the target?” Jaeger intervened before Jameson could snap back.
Mikel turned forward, his eyes flicking to the rearview mirror, meeting Jaeger’s reflective faceplate before pulling his helmet back over his head. “She was last seen entering Club Thane in the Entertainment District, approximately eighty minutes ago, with him.”
With him.
Two words that twisted into Jameson’s gut like a serrated blade. He didn’t need clarification on who he was speaking of. The Executioner. The man who had taken Shadera, who was parading her through the Heart like a trophy.
His hand clenched around the credential so tightly the metal edge bit into his palm through the glove. The pain was grounding, a sharp counterpoint to the rage threatening to cloud his judgment. This wasn’t about Serel. It was about Shadera. Getting her out. Getting her home.
“Club security?” Jaeger prompted.
“Standard for Heart elite establishments on the outside,” Mikel replied as he guided the vehicle through the dimly lit maintenance roads that wound through Cardinal’s industrial sector. “Six guards at the main entrance, two at each emergency exit. Inside, though, I can’t help you. Thane uses his own private security and surveillance inside all his clubs and it changes by the hour.”
“Convenient,” Breach muttered.
“The Broker doesn’t take kindly to Veyra inside his establishments,” Mikel added. “So you better be discreet and you better be ready. If he gets his hands on you, you’re going to wish it had been Maximus Instead.”
Jameson stored the information away. He didn’t trust the Captain, but he was as dead as the rest of them if they were caught, and that brought him a semblance of comfort. He forced himself to focus instead on the view through the windshield as they approached the first checkpoint. The thick wall separating Cardinal from the Heart loomed ahead, illuminated by harsh spotlights that eliminated all shadows. Guard towers punctuated its length at regular intervals, each topped with mounted weapons that could reduce their vehicle to ash in seconds.
The checkpoint itself was a fortress within a fortress—triple gates, scanning stations, and at least twenty Veyra officers visible on patrol. Concrete barriers forced all approaching vehicles into a single file, creating choke points where they could be easily targeted if necessary.
Jameson’s mouth went dry. He’d never been this close to the Heart above ground before—he’d been in their tunnels, in their sewers and maintenance shafts, but never imagined he would approach it head on, much less attempt to pass through in the open.
“First check incoming,” Mikel announced, his posture shifting subtly, shoulders squaring as he settled deeper into his role. “No one speaks unless spoken to. Let me handle this.”
The vehicle slowed as they reached the first barrier. A guard approached, hand resting casually on his sidearm. Mikel lowered his window, offering a crisp salute.
“Captain Mikel, Patrol Unit 8, returning from Cardinal sector sweep.”
The guard’s posture straightened at the sound of his name. “Sir.” He inclined his head, mirroring Mikel’s salute. “Credentials please, sir,” he said, gesturing toward the scanning pad mounted on the pole beside the vehicle.
Mikel pressed his card against the pad. It glowed green, accepting his identity without hesitation. The guard glanced at the scan results on the tablet in his hand, then peered into the back of the vehicle, eyes taking in the rest of them.
“Full complement tonight?” he asked, a note of curiosity in his voice.
“President’s orders,” Mikel replied smoothly. “Increased presence in Cardinal following the agricultural incident.”
The guard shook his head, his voice hardening. “About time. Stringing up a few more of those thieves might help the rest remember their place.”
Jameson’s jaw clenched behind his faceplate, but he kept still, kept silent.
The guard waved them through the first barrier, and Mikel eased the vehicle forward toward the main scanning station. Here was the real test—a full vehicle scan that would check not just credentials, but weight, weapons, and any unauthorized technology.
“Remain still,” Mikel murmured as they pulled into position. “The scan is calibrated for Veyra equipment. Anything else will trigger alarms.”
The scanning arch activated as they passed beneath it, bathing the vehicle in pale blue light. Jameson held his breath, hyperaware of every unauthorized item on his person—the concealed knife in his boot, the gun in the small of his back, not standard issue, the communication device embedded in his ear, modified by Boundary techs.
Seconds stretched into eternities as the scan completed its cycle. Then, mercifully, the light changed from blue to green, and the barrier ahead lifted.
“Proceed to final checkpoint,” came a mechanized voice from a speaker mounted on the arch.
Mikel drove forward, his movements unhurried despite the tension radiating from him. The final checkpoint was staffed by higher-ranking officers, those with the authority to override automated systems if they suspected something amiss.
As they approached, a commander stepped forward, hand raised for them to stop. Mikel complied immediately, lowering his window again as the commander approached.
“Credentials,” he said, voice clipped and cold.
Once again, Captain Mikel presented his card. This time, the commander took it, examining it personally before scanning it with a handheld device. He circled to the back of the vehicle.
“All officers, present credentials,” he ordered.
Jameson’s heart hammered against his rib cage as he reached forward with the others, offering his card through the small window that opened in the rear door. The commander collected them all, scanning each one slowly. His helmet tilted slightly as he reached Jameson’s, a gesture that felt like confusion or suspicion.
Jameson’s hand dropped to his sidearm, fingers curling around the grip beneath his seat. If they were discovered now, they’d have seconds to react before reinforcements swarmed them.
The commander spoke into his comms, voice too low to hear. Jaeger’s posture stiffened—the only sign of his readiness to act if necessary. The rest of the team remained perfectly still, waiting for the signal to strike.
Finally, the commander returned to Mikel’s window, handing back the stack of credentials. “Apologies for the delay, Captain. Security protocols have been enhanced due to increased unrest in the rings.”
“Understood,” Mikel replied. “Anything specific I should be made aware of?”
The commander glanced around before leaning closer. “Rumors of an extraction attempt.”
Jameson’s blood turned to ice in his veins.
“For that Boundary whore the President has locked up?” Mikel asked, his tone staying neutral as he pressed for information.
“No.” The commander shook his head. “I’m surprised they haven’t tried to get her yet, though. Unlikely they’d even make it this far, of course. The animals have never managed to breach even the outer perimeter.” His voice lowered. “The rumors are about someone they’ve been calling Python over comms. No one knows who in the Heart that is, but they sound important to the rings.”
Jaeger tensed across from Jameson at the name and the relief he felt was drowned out by suspicion.
Mikel nodded, keeping his composure, matching the commander’s contemptuous tone perfectly. “Ungrateful scum. If they worked half as hard at being useful as they do at causing trouble, maybe they’d have earned better conditions.”
The commander laughed, a sharp, ugly sound. “True enough. Well, carry on, Captain. The Heart endures.”
“The Heart endures,” Mikel echoed, the traditional response falling from his lips without hesitation.
The barrier lifted, and Mikel drove forward, the vehicle passing through the final gate into the Heart itself. No one spoke until they were well clear of the checkpoint, the tension in the compartment so thick Jameson could barely breathe through it.
“That was close,” Mikel finally said, his voice tight. “You need to make this as fast as possible. They are on alert.”
“Who is Python?” Jameson asked, forcing his voice to stay steady.
So many secrets. So much information split between rings, between people. So many different agendas colliding.
“Someone I thought had left the rebellion long ago,” Jaeger answered, and Jameson almost heard sadness in his voice.
“Are you part of these plans for extracting this person?” Jameson pushed, his tone growing agitated.
Jaeger turned to face him, flipping up his faceplate to look at him. “No. And I will not be questioned by you. You’re here out of courtesy to your relationship with Kael, don’t forget that. I don’t question how you lead the rebels, and I won’t allow you to question how I lead my guild.”
Jaeger didn’t give Jameson a second to answer before he flipped his faceplate back down and turned toward Sniper, asking something Jameson couldn’t quite hear. He bit his tongue, turning his eyes back to the windshield.
The Heart unfolded before them, its opulence obscene after the industrial grimness of Cardinal. Buildings of gleaming platinum and glass reached toward the night sky, their surfaces alive with shifting holographic displays. Streets paved with actual stone rather than crumbling concrete. Trees—real trees—lining the boulevards, their branches strung with lights that sparkled like captured stars.
It was beautiful. It was hateful. It was built on the broken backs of the rings.
“I have a two-hour walking patrol,” Mikel said as they approached the Entertainment District. “I’ll park the vehicle in the designated area. You need to be back here when I return, or you’ll be on your own getting out.”
“Understood,” Jaeger replied.
The vehicle slowed as they entered a quieter side street, coming to a stop in a small lot reserved for patrol vehicles. The engine died, leaving them in silence broken only by the distant throb of music from the clubs several blocks away.
“Club Thane is three blocks east,” Mikel said, turning in his seat to face them. “The main entrance will be heavily guarded, but there’s a service entrance on the west side used by staff. They won’t think twice about a uniformed Veyra entering the premises.”
Jameson nodded, committing the instructions to memory.
“When you have her,” Mikel continued, his eyes finding Jameson despite the reflective faceplate hiding his features, “bring her straight back here the same way you came. They’ll be watching for her and all Veyra will be alerted immediately when they realize she’s gone. Getting her into the uniform will buy us time, but only a small amount.”
