Текст книги "Daggermouth"

Автор книги: H. M. Wolfe

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 33 страниц)

Chapter elevenSomething Is Wrong

Jameson slipped out the back door of the clinic, the smell of sickness and blood clinging to his clothes like death’s perfume. The sun hung low over the Boundary, casting long shadows across cracked concrete and rusted metal as storm clouds began to fill the evening sky.

For days, he’d thrown himself into helping the wounded, distributing the medicine smuggled in on Veyra patrol vehicles—anything to keep his mind from dwelling on Shadera’s silence. But the hollowness in his chest only grew with each passing hour.

She should’ve been back by now.

In another life, Jameson thought he might have been a doctor, if circumstances had provided the means for him to follow that dream. But it hadn’t. He was born to the Boundary, and ‘Boundary rats’ were not worthy of an education. So, instead, he read as much as he could, learned everything old textbooks would teach him, and shadowed the clinic’s physicians.

He pulled his hood over his head to barricade himself against the chill wind that swept through the narrow alley, carrying the stench of industrial waste and sickness. The children inside the clinic were getting worse. Though, two that he’d thought would’ve died by now seemed to be making small improvements—but the victory felt hollow without Shade’s mocking voice asking if he’d gone soft.

The first prickle of unease crawled up his spine when he reached the end of the alley. A faint mechanical hum, barely audible over the thrum of the crowds beginning to spill onto the streets for the nightly debauchery. He glanced up, casual, as if checking the weather, and squinted his eyes into the last bit of sun.

A Veyra drone hovered at the intersection, its black carapace gleaming in the dying light. Jameson kept walking, maintaining his pace. Drones weren’t uncommon in the Boundary—they monitored the main thoroughfares, occasionally swept problem areas after riots—but they rarely made it this deep into the maze of forgotten streets and collapsed infrastructure without being shot down.

He turned left at the next corner, quickening his stride. The hum followed. Another glance over his shoulder confirmed it—the drone had adjusted its course, maintaining the same distance behind him.

This wasn’t a routine patrol.

Jameson’s hand slid to the knife strapped against his ribs, then to the gun tucked into the back of his jeans, the familiar weight a cold comfort. Ahead, the alley split into three paths—one leading toward the market square, another deeper into the abandoned factory district, the third winding up toward the higher terraces. He’d navigated these streets since childhood, knew every crack in the concrete, every hidden passage.

He chose the middle path, breaking into a jog as he disappeared into shadow. Ten seconds later, he ducked through a hole in the wall of a collapsed building, counting silently as his boots crunched over broken glass and rubble. The passage narrowed, forcing him to turn sideways as he squeezed through a gap that most would miss.

On the other side, he paused, listening. Silence. Then, the mechanical whir grew louder just as light splintered across the sky, reflecting off the warehouse’s metal, followed by a thunderclap that shook the walls. The drone appeared at the far end of the narrow entrance, its red eye pulsing as it scanned the darkness.

“Fuck,” he whispered, ducking behind a fallen support beam.

His heart pounded in his chest as he tried to make sense of what was happening. The drone shouldn’t have been able to track him through the building. How was it possible? Standard Veyra patrol drones only had basic heat sensors, not the advanced tracking systems needed to follow someone through solid walls.

This was not a patrol drone. It was tactical.

His blood chilled.

The drone hovered at the entrance for three seconds, then it navigated the narrow gap. Its frame folding in on itself as it squeezed through the passage.

Jameson didn’t wait to see more. He sprinted through the remains of the building, tightening the straps on his pack as he vaulted over debris and slid under hanging wires. His mind raced through possibilities—a case of mistaken identity, random harassment, or something connected to Shadera’s silence. None of the options eased the knot forming in his gut.

He emerged into another alleyway as rain began pelting his skin, this one ending in a tall chain-link fence topped with razor wire. Without slowing, Jameson leapt, fingers finding purchase in the rusted metal links. He climbed effortlessly, muscle memory guiding his hands and feet. At the top, he swung his body over the razor wire with inches to spare, dropping fifteen feet to the other side. The impact jarred his knees, but he rolled with it, coming up in a crouch.

The drone appeared above the fence, hovering for a moment before sailing over, unimpeded by the barrier that could slice human flesh to ribbons.

“Persistent little fucker,” Jameson muttered, eyes already searching for his next route.

Water streamed down his face, dripping from his chin and hair. He slicked it back with one hand, his focus on his next steps. The buildings here rose higher, connected by a web of makeshift bridges and collapsed fire escapes.

He grabbed the lowest rung of a ladder hanging from a gutted apartment complex, pulling himself up hand over hand until he reached a narrow metal walkway fifteen stories above the ground.

This was not the evening Jameson had planned for himself. No, he’d planned to go home, have a drink, a cigarette, take a load off and wait for Shade’s call.

Relaxing, normal, uneventful.

But no, of course he couldn’t have one fucking day of peace in this godforsaken, piece-of-shit, run-down fucking city.

His boots clanged against the rain slicked grating as he ran, the sound echoing through the concrete canyon of abandoned buildings. The walkway ended abruptly—collapsed decades ago in a ring bombing—creating a ten-foot gap to the next building. Jameson didn’t hesitate. He launched himself across the void, arms outstretched, fingers catching the edge of the opposite platform. His body slammed against the side of the building, knocking the air from his lungs.

He hauled himself up, muscles burning, just as the drone appeared around the corner. It hovered, almost curiously, watching him with that unblinking red eye.

Jameson scrambled to his feet, chest heaving.

This was wrong. All wrong.

He’d evaded Veyra surveillance a hundred times before, but never had they been this persistent, this focused. Something had changed.

He ducked through a broken apartment window into what had once been someone’s home. Faded wallpaper peeled from the walls, furniture reduced to skeletal frames by decades of scavengers. He crossed to the door, stepping into a pitch-black hallway that reeked of mold and urine.

The red glow of the drone’s eye appeared at the window behind him, casting bloody shadows across the floor. Jameson pressed himself against the wall, holding his breath as the drone hovered outside, scanning.

A new sound joined the drone—the distinctive whine of a second drone approaching from the opposite direction. Jameson’s stomach sank.

One drone might be coincidence. Two was deliberate.

The second drone appeared at the far end of the hallway, its sensor eye sweeping back and forth.

They were boxing him in.

Panic fluttered in Jameson’s chest, a sensation he only felt these days when Shade accepted a contract. He forced it down, focusing on his breathing. Panic meant death in the Boundary.

His mind raced with thoughts of Shadera. Three days of silence since she’d walked out of her warehouse. Three days since she’d gone to kill Greyson Serel. If she’d succeeded, the Heart would be in chaos, not wasting resources tracking him through the Boundary. If she’d failed . . .

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 metal panel. 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 they never saw 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’s Head rose from the 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.

Jaeger raised his free hand, a minimal gesture that instantly relaxed the room. The scattered Daggermouths returned to their liquor and conversation without another glance at Jameson.

The bartender appeared at Jameson’s side, with a bottle of amber liquid and two glasses. Jaeger grunted his approval as the bartender set them on the table and retreated.

Still silent, Jaeger finally pocketed his coin and unscrewed the bottle, pouring two fingers of whiskey into each glass. He pushed one toward Jameson and nodded his silent command.

Jameson didn’t sit, but he took the glass, recognizing the ritual. In the Boundary, in the Wolf’s Head, information had a price. Sometimes that price was sharing poison before secrets were spilled. He threw back the whiskey in one smooth motion, feeling it burn down his throat. Across from him, Jaeger did the same.

Only then did Jaeger speak, his voice low and graveled with age and authority. “She failed.”

Two words.

Two simple and devastating words.

Jameson’s hand tightened around the empty glass, his knuckles whitening.

“Three days ago,” Jaeger continued, setting his glass down and tracing the rim with his middle finger. “She managed to find the Executioner and put a bullet in him, but not a fatal one. We thought she was dead after that. The Heart doesn’t typically leave Daggermouths breathing.”

The room seemed to tilt beneath Jameson’s feet. Shadera didn’t fail. Not her. Not ever. And especially not with Greyson Serel, the target she’d been obsessing over for years.

“This morning,” Jaeger started again, refilling both glasses, “one of our informants in the Veyra sent word. Shade was taken to the prison beneath Haven Tower.”

Jameson sat then, his legs suddenly unable to support his weight. The chair creaked beneath him as he leaned forward, true panic beginning to radiate outward from his gut.

“And?”

Jaeger’s eyes finally met his, something like respect flickering in their depths as the corners of his lips crooked slightly up. “She started a fucking revolution from inside her cell.”

He took the second shot of whiskey, then rolled the glass in a circle around the bottom edge. “The informant said she was being removed from her cell when the prisoners found out what she had done. They started singing.”

“Singing?” Jameson’s brows furrowed.

“The old anthem. The one that’s been outlawed since the rise of New Found Haven. They sang it for her. That act marked Kael as their symbol, their fucking martyr.” Jaeger’s voice remained level, but something akin to dark amusement crept into his tone at the idea of Shadera being anyone’s savior. “The Veyra open fired. Killed most of them. But the damage was done. Word is spreading through the city, trickling down from the Heart into the Cardinal and Boundary already.”

Jameson’s mind raced, piecing together the information, the implication of it all. The drones tracking him. The prison massacre. Shadera captive.

Shadera captive.

His throat felt like it was swelling at the thought, his heart convulsing. His hands that were always steady, that never trembled, began to shake. He clenched his fists, swallowing back the panic, and forced himself to focus.

“We received confirmation an hour ago that she’s still alive, for now. But past that, we don’t know what they intend to do with her,” Jaeger finished, pouring a third shot for each of them.

“Execution,” Jameson said immediately, the word tasting of bile. “They will hold an execution only for her, to send a message.”

Jaeger shook his head slowly. “I don’t think so. If they wanted her dead, she’d be dead already. Maximus isn’t known for his patience with Daggermouths, especially ones who target his family. No, he wants something from her. Or is planning to use her somehow.”

Jameson knocked back the third shot without waiting for Jaeger, his thoughts spiraling, each one more terrible than the last. Torture. Interrogation. Public humiliation before death.

“They’re tracking me,” he said, gesturing to the broken drones. “High-level surveillance, military grade. Not standard Veyra protocol.”

Jaeger’s expression hardened. “When was the last time you saw her?”

“The night she left for the Heart.” Jameson’s jaw tightened as the memory of her walking away flashed behind his eyes. “I went to her warehouse before she left."

“Did she tell you anything? About the approach, the exit strategy?”

“No,” Jameson answered quietly, the sound of the word defeated.

Jaeger studied him, his eyes knowing just where to look, how to see what emotion was raging inside of Jameson without saying a word. Those eyes missed nothing.

“She cares about you, more than she should. More than she will ever admit. That makes you valuable to them, if they know about your connection.”

Jameson tilted his head. “You think they’re using me to control her?”

“I think Maximus Serel didn’t survive this long by leaving tools unused,” Jaeger replied. “If he knows about you, he’ll use you. One way or another.”

Jameson hadn’t even considered his own life in this scenario, at the possibility that it was now in danger. He thought of the clinic, how the drones had found him there. How many others had they been watching? How many of Shadera’s connections had they already uncovered? Was it just him?

“Kael just became the face of the revolution to the rings because of what those prisoners did,” Jaeger said, his voice cutting through Jameson’s thoughts. His gaze turned to the mercenaries around the room, many of whom were listening intently now. The crowd had already doubled since Jameson entered Wolf’s Head, and they were all watching him.

“Their deaths weren’t wasted. The Heart wanted to silence them, but they just made the message louder. The Cardinal is buzzing with it. Even parts of the Heart’s service class have heard whispers.” Something passed over Jaeger’s eyes—a calculation, a decision being made. “We’ve been planning for years, building networks, preparing for the opportunity to strike. This might be it. The spark we need to light the fire properly.”

Jameson’s blood ran cold. “You want to use her as a symbol, while she’s their prisoner?”

“She’s already a symbol,” Jaeger snapped. “Whether she wants to be or not. The question is how we use that to help her—and help the cause.”

“Fuck the cause,” Jameson hissed, low enough that only Jaeger could hear. “Get her out.”

Jaeger’s eyes narrowed on Jameson. “You think I don’t want that? She’s one of my best. My most loyal. But rushing in blind gets her killed faster than waiting for the right moment.”

“While you wait for the ‘right moment,’ they’re doing God knows what to her in that tower,” Jameson said, his voice dangerously close to cracking. “We all know what the President does to his prisoners.”

“She’s stronger than you think,” Jaeger countered. “Trained for this exact scenario. She knows what to do, how to survive, how to feed them just enough to keep herself alive without giving away anything important.”

“And if they break her? If they turn her against us?”

Jaeger hesitated for only a moment, then answered. “Then I’ll put her down myself.”

The words hung between them, cold and final. Around them, the bar had fallen into an unnatural silence, every Daggermouth watching the exchange with calculating eyes. Jameson was acutely aware of how outnumbered he was, how many blades and bullets could find him before he reached the door.

But fear had burned away, replaced by a clarity he hadn’t felt in years. Shadera was alive. Captured, but alive. That was all that mattered.

The bartender approached again, refilling their glasses without being asked. This time, he lingered a moment longer than necessary, his eyes flickering between Jameson and the broken drones before speaking. “Word from the Cardinal. The Veyra are doubling patrols along the main routes between rings. Something big is happening.”

Jaeger nodded once in acknowledgment, then turned back to Jameson. “We have people inside the Heart. Not many, but enough to get information. As soon as we know more about Shade’s situation, we’ll plan accordingly.”

Jameson took the fourth shot of whiskey, the alcohol doing nothing to dull the edge of his growing anger. Jaeger was playing a longer game—he always was—but Shadera didn’t have the luxury of time. Not if Maximus had his hands on her.

“How long?” Jameson asked. “How long before your informants get anything useful?”

“Days. Maybe a week,” Jaeger admitted. “The Heart is locked down tighter than usual. Something else is happening that we don’t fully understand yet.”

A week was too long. Far too long.

Jameson stood, gathering the broken drone parts and shoving them back into his bag. “Keep me informed. Anything you hear, I want to know immediately.”

Jaeger watched him, expression sliding back to unreadable. “Where are you going?”

“To find someone who might know more than your informants,” Jameson replied, already turning toward the door. “I have my own contacts.”

“Be careful,” Jaeger said, the warning clear in his tone. “The drones were just the beginning. If they’re watching you, they’ll be ready for your next move.”

Jameson paused, looking back at the Wolf of the Boundary. “Then I’ll make sure it’s not what they expect.”

He strode to the exit, feeling the eyes of every Daggermouth tracking his movement. His mind was already five steps ahead, creating contingency plans, mapping routes into the Heart, cataloging the weapons he would need.

Jameson was halfway to the door when something inside him snapped. The accumulated pressure of days without sleep, the fear that’d been his constant companion since Shadera walked out of her warehouse, the casual way Jaeger spoke of waiting while she suffered—it all crystallized into a single, blinding point of rage.

He pivoted on his heel, strode back to the table, and slammed his fist down so hard the whiskey glasses jumped. One rolled across the table then shattered against the floor.

The sound echoed through the silent bar like a gunshot.

“You should’ve never given her this contract,” he shouted, his voice ricocheting off the walls. The words tore from his throat, exposing nerves he usually kept buried. “You knew how personal it was for her. You knew it would throw her off her game instead of taking the easy, calculated kill.”

Jaeger’s eyes darkened, the only indication he gave that Jameson had crossed a line. No one spoke to the Wolf this way, not in his own territory, not surrounded by his killers. The coin that had reappeared in his hand went still, caught between two fingers like a promise of violence.

“Mind yourself, Jay,” Jaeger said quietly, the sound more dangerous than a raised voice. “Remember where you are.”

Jameson leaned closer, past caring about the consequences. “Where I am, is in a room full of people who sent her to die because none of you understood what killing Greyson Serel actually meant to her.”

Around them, the Daggermouths moved in unity. The woman with the scarred face slid from her stool, a gun materializing in her hand as if conjured from air. The two men by the window turned fully toward the confrontation, shoulders squared and hands hovering over holstered weapons. Behind the bar, the bartender reached beneath the counter, pulling out a shotgun, and slowly rested it over his shoulder.

“She was never just taking out another Heart elite,” Jameson continued, ignoring the tension as his voice dropped without losing an ounce of intensity. “Greyson represents everything she lost. The man executes rebels in the same plaza where her parents were murdered by his father. You made it personal the moment you gave her that contract.”

A muscle in Jaeger’s jaw twitched. “She’s a professional, she knew the risks.”

“She’s a woman with a fucking vendetta,” Jameson countered. “One you encouraged and exploited. You may not have wanted to see it because she is your best, but knew she’d get sloppy with him. You knew she’d want to see his face, to make him understand why she was killing him. That’s why she got caught, the only way she would’ve ever been caught—because she made it personal.”

A man stepped forward, one hand twisting a silencer into his gun.

“That’s enough,” he growled.

“Stand down, Reeve,” Jaeger ordered without looking away from Jameson.

Jameson didn’t wait for Jaeger to respond to him. The dam had broken, and words poured out of him like blood from a severed artery.

“You know what she told me that night? She said she was doing this for her. Not because he was another name on a contract, not because you asked her to, but for her. That’s not a professional speaking—that’s someone blinded by emotion.”

Jameson’s hands splayed on the table, fingers pressing into the wood hard enough to leave marks. “And you let her go like that. Knowing. Fucking. Better.”

Jaeger’s expression didn’t change, but something shifted in his eyes—a flicker of what might have been remorse. Or guilt. It vanished as quickly as it appeared.

“You love her," Jaeger said, the words landing and cutting into Jameson.

“Don’t try to make this about me,” Jameson snarled. “This is about your failure to protect one of your own. This is about you sitting here, plotting how to use her capture to spark your rebellion, while she’s being tortured in Haven Tower.”

An mercenary near the bar—a woman with tattoos mapping half her bady—spoke up, her voice carrying in the tense silence. “Since when does a smuggler tell the Daggermouths how to handle their business? Who the fuck do you think you are?”

Several others murmured agreement, hands tightening on weapons. The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees as killsights aligned on Jameson from multiple angles.

“He’s the Ghost Shade’s been fucking,” someone else said from the shadows. “Thinking with your cock clouds judgment a bit.”

A low ripple of laughter spread through the room, dark and mocking. Jameson’s shoulders tensed, but he kept his eyes locked on Jaeger.

“I know her,” he said, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “I know how she thinks, how she plans, what drives her. I know she sleeps with a knife under her pillow and wakes up screaming five nights out of seven because she still sees her parents being executed. I know she drinks to numb the pain but never enough to dull her reflexes. I know she carries the names of every person she’s ever killed tattooed on her body so she never forgets the weight of what she does.”

The mockery in the room faded as he spoke, replaced by a different kind of tension—the recognition of loss, of the pain this city caused.

“And I know,” Jameson continued, “that she would tear this city apart brick by brick to save any one of you if you were in her position. So tell me, Jaeger, what the fuck are you doing to save her?”

Jaeger’s face remained impassive, but the coin began to move between his fingers again, dancing from knuckle to knuckle in hypnotic patterns. When he finally spoke, his voice was measured.

“Like I said, Kael is trained for this situation. She’s strong, smart, and she knows how to handle herself even in the Heart’s interrogation rooms. I trust her to make the right calls until we can extract her safely.”

“And if those ‘right calls’ include giving you up to save herself?” Jameson challenged. “If Maximus offers her freedom in exchange for the location of you, for the names of your guild, your operational tactics?”

“She would die first,” Jaeger stated with absolute certainty.

“That’s what I'm afraid of,” Jameson replied, his voice finally cracking. “That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.”

For the first time, something like genuine emotion crossed Jaeger’s weathered face—a glimmer of his own fear for Shadera’s safety that vanished almost immediately behind his customary mask of control. He set the coin down on the table softly.

“I have people working on it,” he said. “My best. I understand where you’re coming from, but like I’ve told you again and again, we need proper intelligence, a solid plan. We don’t even know for certain where in the Heart she is. I won’t sacrifice more of my people on a suicide mission because you cannot be patient.”