Daggermouth (The Heart, #1) — Chapter no 28

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Welcome to the Revolution

Jameson slipped through the narrow space between two derelict buildings, the shadows wrapping around him as they always did. A weight settled in his chest as he moved—not quite dread, not quite anticipation, but something darker that had been growing since he’d learned about the Vow.

The Boundary smelled of desperation tonight—the usual stench of waste and industrial runoff tainted with fear, with rage. He could feel it in the air, pressing against his skin, seeping through the cracks in the walls around him.

His fingers tightened around the gun holstered beneath his jacket, itching for release. Twenty-four hours. Twenty-four hours since he’d stood in that blue-lit room, watching Shadera choose sacrifice over escape. He had been angry at her for that, but now, after pacing and planning and destroying things in the privacy of his hideout, that anger had shifted into respect.

Something moved in the corner of his vision—a flash of reflected light from the end of the alley. Jameson froze, pressing himself against the wall as the mechanical hum of a vehicle grew louder. Veyra patrol. This far in the Boundary.

This late.

This wasn’t scheduled.

He ducked behind a rusted dumpster, the sharp edge of corroded metal biting into his palm as he crouched low. The vehicle turned the corner, headlights cutting through the perpetual smog. Its silver hull gleamed obscenely against the backdrop of crumbling infrastructure and makeshift dwellings.

Three more vehicles followed, forming a small convoy that crawled through the narrow street. Jameson’s pulse quickened. Four vehicles meant at least thirty- two officers, possibly more. This wasn’t a routine patrol. This was a statement.

The lead vehicle’s loudspeaker crackled to life, its artificial voice echoing between the buildings. “Residents of the Boundary. By order of President Serel,

a curfew is now in effect. Return to your dwellings immediately. Lethal force will be administered if you do not comply.”

The statement played again as the vehicles crawled forward, the sound blaring into the night.

Jameson watched as doors cracked open along the street. Not people fleeing inside as ordered, but emerging. First one, then three, then a dozen Boundary residents slipping out of buildings, faces hard with something beyond anger.

They carried makeshift weapons—metal pipes ripped from walls, broken bottles, chunks of concrete. One man clutched a rusted machete that caught the patrol’s searchlight, sending a brief flash across the gathering crowd.

The vehicles slowed.

“Disperse immediately,” the synthetic voice commanded. “This is your only warning.”

The crowd didn’t listen. It grew, swelling from the shadows of doorways and alleys until nearly fifty people stood in the street. Their silence was more unnerving than shouting would have been—a concentrated, deliberate quiet that spoke of a decision already made.

Jameson recognized the signs. The Boundary was done being afraid.

The first bottle arced through the air, smashing against the lead vehicle’s windshield. The sound was like a starting gun. The crowd surged forward as one body, colliding with the Veyra convoy in a wave of fury. Metal pipes rang against armored hulls. Fists pounded on windows. Bodies pressed against doors, preventing them from opening.

The loudspeaker squawked again. “Disperse now or we will open fire! This is your—”

A concrete block crashed through the lead vehicle’s side window, cutting off the warning. Glass shattered, raining down on the street as the crowd roared in approval. Hands reached through the broken window, grabbing at the officers inside. The vehicle rocked as more bodies pressed against it, tipping it precariously onto two wheels before it crashed back down.

The door of the second vehicle burst open, and Veyra officers spilled out, weapons raised. Their black uniforms and reflective helmets made them look like insects among the drab colors of the Boundary. One fired a warning shot into

the air. The crack of gunfire seemed to momentarily freeze the scene—the officers in their defensive stance, the crowd paused in their attack.

Then someone from the back of the crowd hurled another bottle. It struck an officer’s helmet, exploding in a shower of glass and liquid. The officer staggered, then steadied his weapon and fired directly into the crowd.

A woman fell, clutching her chest as blood bloomed across her shirt like an

obscene flower.

The crowd’s roar became a howl.

Jameson moved. He sprinted out from behind the dumpster as the street erupted into chaos, his gun already raised. Veyra officers poured from the vehicles now, forming a defensive circle as they fired into the crowd. Bodies fell, but for every person who dropped, three more seemed to emerge from the shadows, throwing themselves at the officers with suicidal determination.

The nearest officer was separated from his unit, backing away as three men advanced on him with raised weapons. His rifle swung between them, panic evident in his jerky movements. His back hit the wall of a building as his helmet turned frantically, searching for escape. There was none. He raised his rifle and fired at the closest rebel.

Jameson was on him before the man’s body hit the ground. He moved like water through the chaos, slipping into the space between the officer and his remaining attackers. The officer’s head swiveled toward him, the reflective visor hiding the moment of recognition, the instant of fear as Jameson’s gun pressed against the gap between helmet and body armor.

Jameson pulled the trigger.

The sound was swallowed by the riot. Blood and brain matter spattered against the wall behind them as the officer crumpled. Jameson was already moving, targeting his next victim with the efficiency that had earned him his reputation.

A second officer broke from the main group, backing away from the crowd with his weapon raised. He fired twice, dropping a teenage boy who’d been charging him with a length of pipe. The boy fell, writhing, screaming. The officer kept firing, bullet after bullet punching into the fallen child until he stopped moving.

It was not protection. It was murder.

He would fucking die for that.

Rage rose in Jameson’s chest, a tide of burning acid that threatened to detonate. He circled behind the officer, closing the distance in three long strides.

His arm snaked around the Veyra’s neck, twisting sharply, putting his full weight into the motion. The pop of vertebrae separating was the only thing Jameson heard as the cracking of bone vibrated through his forearm.

He let the body fall, already scanning for his next target. The street had dissolved into pure violence now, Boundary residents overwhelming the officers through sheer numbers despite the automatic weapons cutting through their ranks. Blood darkened the cracked concrete, turning puddles of chemical runoff into crimson pools that reflected the flashing lights of the patrol vehicles.

A third officer stumbled into Jameson’s path, helmet gone, face exposed and terrified. Their eyes met for a fraction of a second—just long enough for the officer to register Jameson’s cold intent, just long enough for Jameson to see the

plea forming on his lips.

He didn’t hesitate.

The knife slid from his sleeve into his palm, an extension of his arm as he lashed out in a single, fluid motion. The blade opened the officer’s throat from ear to ear, a perfect crimson smile blossoming beneath his chin. Blood sprayed across Jameson’s face, hot and metallic. The Veyra dropped to his knees, hands clutching futilely at his ruined throat, eyes still locked on Jameson’s as the light behind them dimmed and extinguished.

When Jameson finally looked up, when he tore his eyes away—he saw the carnage. Saw the Veyra bodies scattered among rebels. Saw as the patrol vehicles were set ablaze with Molotov cocktails.

Jameson stood in the center of it, chest heaving, blood dripping from his face, his hands, soaking into his clothes. The knife in his grip gleamed red and wet in the firelight.

Around him, the Boundary went silent as a mother pushed through the crowd. The bodies parted for her as she made her way toward Jameson, toward

the body on the ground beside him.

Toward her son.

The mother’s scream was the most horrific thing he had ever heard. Her anguish echoed into the burning night as she dropped to her knees in the blood- soaked mud and pulled her dead child into her arms.

Jameson’s heart twisted in his chest, a physical pain that radiated outward until his entire body ached with it. The sound cracked a deep vein into the foundation of his being, rage filling the void as he looked toward the Heart.

This was Maximus Serel’s doing. The President who sat in his tower, who ordered these patrols, who treated the Boundary like an infestation to be controlled rather than people to be governed.

The mother’s keening cut through the night air, raw and primal. It was a cry Jameson had heard too many times in his life—the sound of loss that couldn’t be measured, couldn’t be avenged, couldn’t be healed. Her tears mingled with her son’s blood as she rocked him back and forth, her fingers tracing his face as if trying to memorize it before death stole even that away.

The crowd stood silent, heads bowed, a momentary reverence for grief in the midst of violence. Some removed their hats, pressing them toward their chests as they knelt with the mother. One by one, the Boundary knelt, rage simmering just below the surface, waiting for the next spark to ignite it.

Then, from somewhere in the back of the crowd, a voice rose. Low but strong—the old anthem. The song that had started all of this, the song that so many had already died for the right to sing. It was no longer the old forbidden

anthem.

It was the song of the new rebellion.

A second voice joined, then a third. Soon dozens of voices swelled together, filling the street with a sound more dangerous than gunfire. His vision blurred as more voices joined, the music rolling through the street like thunder.

The mother looked up from her son’s body, tears streaking through the blood on her face, and added her broken voice to the chorus.

Jameson felt something break open inside him—a dam he’d built years ago to hold back the pain, the fear, the desperate hope that things could change. He’d become the Ghost, the smuggler, the rebel leader who forced himself to be unbreakable for the cause.

But standing here, surrounded by the people of the Boundary—bloodied but unbowed, grieving but defiant—he couldn’t maintain that distance. These were his people. This was his home.

The last notes of the anthem faded, leaving behind a silence charged with purpose. The crowd’s eyes turned to him, recognition dawning on their faces.

They knew who he was. What he was.

Their protector.

A man stepped forward, his face weathered by years in the toxic air of the Boundary. “They’re coming for us all,” he said, his voice carrying in the sudden quiet, “ain’t they?”

“Yes.” Jameson answered, unable to soften the truth. “The President is planning something. Something big.” He glanced at the burning patrol vehicles, the bodies scattered across the street. “And this—this is just the beginning.”

The man’s jaw tightened. “Then we fight.”

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the crowd. Jameson saw the determination in their faces, the readiness to throw themselves against the Heart’s oppression regardless of the cost. It’d be a slaughter. They had pipes and bottles—the Heart had bombs.

“Not like this,” Jameson said, his voice sharper than he intended. “Not without a plan. Not without unity.”

He looked at each face in turn, committing them to memory—the elderly woman with her makeshift spear, the young couple clutching each other’s hands, the children watching from windows above. These were the people Shadera had sacrificed herself to protect. These were the lives hanging in the balance.

“Go home,” he told them, softening his tone. “Tend to your wounded.

Mourn your dead. But be ready. When the time comes—and it will come soon —I’ll need all of you.”

They hesitated, the fire of rebellion still burning in their eyes.

“Trust me,” Jameson added, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “I won’t let you fight alone.”

Slowly, reluctantly, the crowd began to disperse. Some carried away the injured, others gathered the dead with gentle hands. The mother remained

kneeling beside her son, her tears now silent, her grief beyond words.

Jameson knelt beside her, ignoring the blood soaking into his pants. He placed a hand on her cheek, feeling her body shake with silent sobs.

“I’m sorry,” he said, the words woefully inadequate.

She looked up at him, her eyes red-rimmed and shimmering with tears.

Something in her gaze had hardened, crystallized into resolve.

“Make them pay,” she whispered.

Jameson nodded once, a solemn vow. Then he rose, gesturing to two men standing nearby. They came quickly.

“Help her take her son home,” he started, placing a hand on each of their shoulders. “And make sure she does not bury her child alone.”

Their answer was a nod.

“Thank you,” Jameson whispered, then turned away just in time to hide the tears that began to cut through the blood on his face.

He would keep that promise to her. He would make them pay.

Every single leader of the Heart.

Shadera woke to a fist against her jaw, red cord tying her to a chair bolted to the ground. Another fist connected with the other side of her face before she could blink vision back into her eyes. Somewhere behind her she could hear Greyson screaming. She thought she heard him screaming for her, but before his words registered, a baton found her temple and consciousness was knocked out of her body again.

Jameson’s path to Wolf’s Head was clear now, the Boundary streets emptying as news of the clash spread and people retreated to safety. He didn’t bother cleaning his hands or face of the blood as he approached the Daggermouth headquarters. Instead, he would let it speak for him.

He could hear the familiar sounds of the bar from outside the establishment —glasses clinking, low conversations, the occasional burst of laughter. All of it normal, despite the world burning outside.

He shouldered through the door and conversations died mid-sentence. Heads turned, eyes widening at the sight of him. The silence spread like ripples until the entire room had fallen quiet.

Jameson took another step forward, his boots leaving bloody prints on the cracked floor. Dozens of eyes locked on him—assassins, informants, rebels, all momentarily united in their assessment of the man before them. Slowly, bodies began to rise from their chairs, their glasses raised in silent tribute, acknowledging what he had done tonight.

Then, one by one, fists began to beat on tables, a steady drumming that saturated the air.

War had been declared tonight. Not with speeches or proclamations, but with blood on concrete and fire in the streets.

Jaeger stood to greet him, rising from his usual table in the corner like a specter from the shadows. His weathered face betrayed nothing, but his eyes— those cold gray eyes that had seen more violence than Jameson would ever know —gleamed with pride.

“Welcome to the revolution, brother,” Jaeger said, hand stretching toward Jameson. He took it, wrapping his bloody fingers around Jaeger’s.

Jameson said nothing as he shook it. Words felt inadequate, trivial against the weight of what he’d just done, what he was prepared to do. The bartender set a full bottle of whiskey before him instead of the usual glass. Jameson uncorked it, took a long pull directly from the neck, and let the burn cleanse the taste of blood from his mouth.

When he finally spoke, his voice was raw, stripped of everything but his anger.

“They sent a convoy into the Boundary.”

Jaeger nodded once, sharply. “I know, my men saw you handle it.”

“When do we move?”

“Soon.” Jaeger gestured to the table where several of his men stood looking over the maps and diagrams spread out on its surface. “Sit.”

Jameson ignored the command, instead took another long pull as the door opened at his back. He turned, watching weapons appear across the room as if by magic—guns, knives, garrotes, all trained on the newcomer.

Captain Mikel stepped into the bar, his face grim but unsurprised by the reception. His Veyra uniform was spotless, a stark contrast to the blood covering Jameson.

“Stand down,” Jaeger ordered, his voice cutting through the tension. “He’s with us.”

Weapons lowered reluctantly, but remained visible, a reminder that trust was a luxury extended to Mikel that could be snatched back at any moment. Mikel moved to join their table, keeping a careful distance from Jameson as he sat.

Kestrel Farrow entered the bar from the back door, emerging from the shadows as she quietly cut off a call and slid her tablet into a pocket then smiled at them. “Hello, boys,” she drawled, nodding toward the bartender for a drink.

“You ready to fuck up the Heart?”

Jameson’s brow furrowed, looking between her and Mikel. “You already knew he was a part of this?”

“There are a lot of things I know that you don’t Vine,” she said, casually sitting and pushing her chair back onto its hind legs. “The Cardinal rebellion plays a different role than yours, being so close to the Heart.”

He ignored the slight jab. “Well then, let’s get started. Tell me everything I don’t fucking know.”

Farrow shook her head, a lock of hair falling across her sharp features. “We need to wait for the others. We only discuss this once.”

“What others?” Jameson demanded, frustration now bleeding into his voice.

“Him,” Jaeger said, a twisted smile playing at the corners of his mouth as he gestured toward the door.

Jameson turned slowly, the hairs on the back of his neck standing as his eyes connected with Callum Thane, the Broker. His gun was drawn in an instant, barrel pointed at the center of his head. Farrow’s sharp gasp echoed in the space behind him as Lira Serel stepped into view, maskless.

Lira froze in the doorway of Wolf’s Head, her hand hovering over the gun strapped to her thigh. She knew exactly who each of the eyes focused on her belonged to from the surveillance she had done over the years for the media, but

her sight narrowed to a single point—Captain Mikel in his pristine Veyra uniform, sitting among the rebels like he belonged there.

The bar fell silent. Even the dim neon lights seemed to hold their breath, casting colors across features hardened by years of Boundary survival. Blood decorated Jameson’s face like war paint, his clothing soaked in darker stains. She recognized the look in his eyes—the same wild fury she’d seen in her own reflection after she’d put a bullet in Marcus Webb’s head only hours ago.

Callum shifted slightly, positioning his body between her and Jameson’s gun.

The gesture was so subtle, so instinctive, that Lira doubted he was even aware of it.

“I advise you point that thing away from me,” Callum said, nodding to the gun trained on his head. His hands remained visible, relaxed at his sides, but Lira knew how quickly those hands could produce a weapon of their own.

No one moved. The tension pulled tighter, an invisible wire about to snap.

Callum broke the silence again with a low chuckle that somehow made the air in the room even heavier. “Well, well, I’m more shocked every day by the traitors you’re collecting, Jaeger.” His eyes flicked briefly to Mikel. “Tell me, does the Veyra captain still have the President’s tracking device under his skin, or did you cut that out before letting him in on all your secrets?”

Mikel’s hand unconsciously moved to his forearm where Lira knew all high- ranking Veyra officers were implanted with trackers. The gesture was confirmation enough.

“He’s clean,” Jaeger answered. “All of my people are clean.”

“Your people,” Jameson spat, gun still trained on Callum. “Since when did Heart aristocracy become your people, Jaeger?”

“Since they proved more useful than your emotional outbursts,” a new voice cut in. “Put down the gun, Jameson.”

Lira recognized her immediately—Kestrel Farrow, the Cardinal’s most notorious information broker. Their rebel leader. The woman whose contact information had been in Brooker’s personal effects.

“The princess of the kingdom finally coming to play with the big boys,”

Kestrel said, a smirk tugging at one corner of her mouth. “Welcome to the rebellion, Lira Serel. I was wondering when you’d come to the dark side.”

Jameson’s gun wavered slightly, confusion flickering across his blood- spattered face. “What the fuck is going on here?”

Jaeger slammed his fist against the table and Lira’s blood curdled in her veins at the sound, like a gunshot in the tense silence. A programmed reaction to her own father’s violent outbursts.

“Everyone. Sit. Down.” Each word of Jaeger’s carried the weight of a command, not a request. “We don’t have time for this territorial bullshit.”

Reluctantly, Jameson lowered his weapon, though his finger remained dangerously close to the trigger. He backed toward the table but didn’t sit, positioning himself with a clear line of sight to both entrances.

Callum guided Lira forward with a light touch at the small of her back. The contact anchored her, kept her moving even as her mind raced through possibilities, assessing dangers, formulating responses. This was familiar territory for her—navigating treacherous social waters, reading the undercurrents of power and intent. She’d been doing it since childhood in her father’s government. Only the setting had changed.

A server appeared, setting drinks before each of them. Lira noted that the men and Farrow received whiskey, while she was given wine. Small assumptions about class, even here at the edge of the world. She picked up the glass carefully, then poured the contents onto the concrete floor. Next, she reached for the bottle in the center of the table and poured herself two fingers of amber liquid.

“I must say,” Farrow said, swirling her own drink and eying her, “I was surprised to get your call, Lira.”

Callum’s head snapped toward her, genuine shock breaking through his expression. “Your call?” The question hung in the center of the table, laden with implications.

Lira shot Farrow a warning glance, which she acknowledged with the slightest incline of her head. Some things were still not for public disclosure.

“I found Farrow’s contact information on my brother’s tablet after his death,” Lira said, choosing her words carefully. “I called it to see if I could gather any clues as to why he died.”

Farrow shared a quick glance with Jaeger at her words, both eyes falling back on her as if assessing.

It wasn’t a complete lie. She had found Farrow’s contact details among Brooker’s things. What she omitted was the truth of why she had called, the plan that had formed. But that she would never speak of until it was carried out.

Lira took a deliberate sip of her whiskey, then set the glass down. “But that’s not why we’re here tonight.” She turned her gaze to Mikel, letting the full weight of her anger show on her face. “Why the fuck are you here? Didn’t you just help my father imprison Shadera and my brother hours ago?”

His jaw clenched, a muscle jumping beneath the skin. In the harsh bar light, he looked older than what she saw through surveillance, deep lines etched around his mouth and eyes. When he spoke, his voice was rough with an emotion Lira couldn’t immediately identify.

“I did my job,” he said finally. “Your father has become… unpredictable.

There are things happening in this city that you know nothing about, and my task with the rebellion was to get close to him. I’ve done what is necessary to make that happen.”

Before she could respond, Jameson cut in, his voice sharp with suspicion as he turned to Callum and finally dropped into a chair beside Jaeger. “What about him? Why is Heart mafia at this table? Why is the Executioner’s sister here at all?”

Callum sucked in an exaggerated gasp. “Mafia? You honor me.”

Jameson’s hand twitched toward his weapon again. “Don’t play games with me, Thane. I’ve lost too much to this fight to be jerked around by Heart elite

playing at rebellion.”

“Jameson,” Jaeger warned.

“No,” Jameson snapped. “No more secrets. No more need-to-know bullshit.

We’ve lost too much time because we didn’t share information. Because we all thought we were so fucking clever keeping our own little sections of the rebellion separate.” He turned his fury on Farrow. “Did you know Maximus has bombs he’s planning to drop on the Boundary? The drones I told you about.

That’s why he’s mapping the rings, so he knows where to drop bombs.”

Farrow’s expression faltered for the first time. “What?”

“It’s worse than just bombs,” Callum interjected and every gaze turned to him.

Lira felt the room tilt slightly, the enormity of the situation finally dawning.

She hadn’t known about the bombs. The back of her throat started to burn, acid building from the twisting of her stomach. This wasn’t just about saving her brother and Shadera anymore. This was about saving thousands and thousands of lives.

“They are gas bombs that will disintegrate human life on contact.” Callum paused as if he were preparing himself for what he would say next. “The President is calling it the Culling.”

A heavy silence descended over the table, each person absorbing the horrifying truth of Callum’s words.

Mikel broke the silence first. “Greyson and Shadera are being held in your father’s penthouse.” He glanced at Lira. “He has a level beneath his floors that he uses as a private prison for important people.”

Lira’s stomach dropped.

“He will keep it under twenty-four-hour surveillance using Veyra whose loyalty is resolute. We will not be able to get to them until after the Vow ceremony, until after he releases them.” Mikel’s face softened. “I respect your brother. I’ve known for a long while what he has been doing for the rings and I have tried to protect him, to ease his burdens on the platform when I could, and I will do everything I can to get him out of this alive.”

“Why?” Lira snapped, her voice rising as her fingers curled into fists on the table. “Why do you have such an interest in him? Why do you care what happens to him when you have been following my father’s orders at every turn to hurt him?”

Mikel looked at Farrow only once and she nodded. Then he took a deep breath and answered. “He’s my son.”

That wasn’t possible. How could that…? It couldn’t be possible.

Lira shook her head. Refusing to believe the lie as her breathing began to come in rapid pants. “No. No, that’s not—”

“He’s coming.” Farrow’s voice stopped Lira’s words, and her eyes snapped to her.

Static began to rupture in her ears, a tingling spreading over her limbs.

Too much was fucking happening.

“Who?” She could barely hear her own voice. “Who else could be a part of this?”

She felt Callum’s hand suddenly slip into hers on the table, squeezing as if he was afraid, as if she might be ripped away from him.

No one answered her, no one said anything as the door to the entrance of the bar pushed open at her back. The hinges whined as every eye dragged over her shoulder to a place beyond.

Then out of the quiet, a voice she could have picked out of a screaming

crowd sounded from behind her.

“Hi, sis.”