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.