Unleashed (TalentBorn Book 4)

by C. S. Churton

  He gunned the engine, switching on his headlights as he pulled onto the road. Night was just starting to fall, and it would be late by the time he got to where he was going. That was okay. After all, his destination was a nightclub – where two young women, one of them matching Anna’s description, had been seen luring pair of men outside. One of the men had been found unconscious, his throat nearly severed. The doctors said it was pure luck he survived – his windpipe had taken the brunt of the attack that was clearly meant to kill him, like his attacker had been rushed. The other man hadn’t turned up yet. Maybe he’d just taken off, but maybe he’d been killed, or kidnapped, either one of which fitted AbGen’s M.O.

  Tonight, he’d take a look around the place, and speak to one of the bouncers. First thing tomorrow he’d speak to the victim – another favour he’d owe to his colleagues. The attack had been a few weeks ago now, and the cops investigating the case had already questioned him extensively. But Iain had questions that would never have occurred to them. He knew that if AbGen had targeted the men, it had done so for a reason. And if he knew what Pearce wanted with the men, then he’d be at least one step closer to Anna.

  He checked his mirrors as he merged with the motorway traffic and exhaled in a slow sigh. It was a long shot, no question about it. But Anna had been there, someone had seen her. That meant there was hope. For the first time in weeks, he knew he was looking for a person, not a corpse. And there weren’t words for how relieved that made him feel. A chuckle bubbled up inside him – the third time today, the third time since he’d had the call that morning. Anna was alive.

  The laughter died on his lips, as it had the other two times. She was alive, and she had been out of Pearce’s sight, but she hadn’t run. It might not be as simple as finding her and busting her out. She’d told him once that AbGen specialised in brainwashing people, and that word sat lodged in his chest like a block of ice, freezing any hope that dared to grow, until it withered and left him hollow again. There was every chance that she wasn’t the Anna that he knew and loved any more. But she was alive. That was enough.

  It was a long drive, but eventually he turned off the motorway and started working his way towards the town. Who knew what Anna was doing in this part of the country. A shiver ran down his spine: there truly was no limit to AbGen’s reach.

  His phone lit up on the seat beside him, rang twice and then turned itself off. The damned thing had been doing it a lot recently. It had taken Charlie a dozen attempts to reach him that morning with the intel about Anna, and then the phone had cut out halfway through the call. He needed to get a new one – he couldn’t afford to be unreachable if there were any new leads on Anna. But not today. Right now he had other priorities. Still, he’d be wanting to give his number to people at the club. He’d pick up a new one in the morning.

  He hesitated for a moment. Stopping to return the call – or at least, try to return it – would cost him valuable time. Ignoring it could mean missing out on vital intel, especially if it was Charlie calling back.

  He flicked the signal on and turned away from the road, into an industrial estate lined with shuttered buildings and dull streetlamps. It had been a place like this he’d first spoken to Anna. He swung over to the curb and killed the engine, then reached for the phone.

  A flash of light caught his eye, reflected in the rear view mirror. He twisted round to watch the dark van pull up behind him. Heat prickled at the back of his neck: it was a little late for a delivery driver to be making his rounds. He squinted, trying to pick out the figure behind the wheel, but he couldn’t make out anything past the van’s lights. He shook his head and twisted back round to the front. He was being ridiculous. Paranoid. Not everyone in the whole country worked for Pearce. He wasn’t even on their radar – the man didn’t even know he existed.

  He thumbed the power switch on the phone, but nothing happened. Battery must have drained itself again. He stretched out the kinks in his spine and popped open the glove compartment. There was a charger in there somewhere. He shifted the handbook to one side and rummaged through a collection of tangled wires.

  The door creaked behind him and cold air whooshed into the car. He spun round in his seat.

  “What the hell do you th–”

  He cut off abruptly as he took in the figure looming in the car’s open door: tall, heavily built, hood pulled up over his head. Gun in his gloved right hand. Iain’s heart stuttered as he saw the ugly black pistol levelled at him and his anger evaporated in an instant. His attacker’s finger was inside the trigger guard, wrapped around the small lever. His eyes fixed on the weapon, no matter how he tried to wrench them away. This was it. He swallowed bile. He was going to die. In a damned carjacking. He should do something. Fight back. Run. Fucking beg. He couldn’t. He just sat frozen, staring at the malicious black barrel.

  A hand grabbed him and hauled him from the car, tossing him to the ground. He hit the tarmac hard with a grunt as pain thrummed through his shoulder. His police training kicked in somewhere between hitting the floor and taking his first gasp of the night air. He rolled onto his back – ready to kick his attacker if he came close enough – but held his hands up, showing the man his empty palms. He just wanted the car. He had nothing to gain from killing him. He sucked in another breath of the cold air, and the gun was aiming at him again, levelled with his stomach. Life wasn’t like a tv show – a gut shot could be just as fatal as a head shot if you didn’t get help in time. And out here there was nothing but strays and foxes. And the man pointing a gun at him.

  “The keys are in the ignition,” Iain said. He twisted his head to the side slightly. “Take it. I haven’t seen your face.”

  “It’s not your car we want.”

  Iain’s heart thudded aggressively in his chest. He didn’t know what about that statement scared him most – that he had been targeted, or that this man wasn’t alone. On cue, he heard a door slam, and twisted his head round to see a pair of boots approaching from the van.

  AbGen. It had to be AbGen. He cursed himself for dropping his guard. Why the hell had he chosen a deserted industrial estate to pull over? No time to berate himself now. The footsteps behind him were getting louder and he was almost out of time. If they took him, he was dead anyway.

  He lashed out with his feet, landing a solid blow to the gunman’s gut. He didn’t waste time watching the man double over or trying to get the gun. He rolled over and jumped to his feet, kicking off against the damp tarmac. His feet slipped on loose gravel as he broke into a run, almost sending him thudding to the ground and certain death. He kept his legs under him through will alone. The road in front of him was lit by the vehicle’s headlights, making it easy for the men to see him in the darkness – and take aim. He leapt sideways out of the beam, sticking close to the buildings and their deep shadows. An alleyway loomed just a few feet ahead and he jerked his head round, undecided. Take the alleyway, or keep running straight? It didn’t matter. Indecision kills. He couldn’t afford to hesitate. Any decision was the right one. Bullets couldn’t fly round corners. He slowed his pace just enough to skid round the tight bend.

  Something solid smashed into his stomach, crushing the air from him. He stumbled back, gasping, as a third man emerged into the light from the alleyway. Clutching his stomach, Iain turned and started stumbling away, back into the road, but he couldn’t catch his breath and the man was on him again in a heartbeat, grabbing his coat and tossing him to the floor like he was made of paper. Iain hit the deck hard, again, and rolled over, gasping for air. He lashed out with his feet, wrapping them around the other man’s legs before he could follow up on his attack. The assailant hit the ground, almost landing on top of the cop. Ignoring the burning in his lungs, Iain raised a hand and thudded it into his attacker’s face. Blood erupted from the man’s nose and he roared in pain and anger, but before Iain had time to draw another breath he was retaliating, throwing a punch that Iain barely managed to block.

  He didn’t have time to brawl.
The others would be here in moments and there was no way he could take on all three of them. He lurched to his feet, but before he could make it even one step, a pair of arms wrapped around one of his legs. In desperation he stamped his other foot down onto the man’s ribs, trying to get him off but the grip only tightened as the man fought to drag Iain back to the ground. He drew his foot back and swung it into the man’s midriff, and the hands holding him went slack.

  He wasted no time pulling his leg free from the gasping man’s hands. He dragged another breath into his own burning lungs and palmed the sweat stinging his eyes. Run. He needed to run again. His legs wouldn’t cooperate, and he barely managed to stumble away from his downed attacker.

  “Don’t move!”

  The voice was only a few feet to his right, and from the corner of his eye he could make out the gun in the man’s hands.

  “I will shoot.”

  Behind him, his other attacker pushed himself to his feet, wiping blood from his face. The gunman didn’t so much as flick a glance at him, nor the third man as he caught up to them, also armed. He was too professional to be distracted. AbGen only hired the best. Iain took all of this in as he forced another burning breath into his lungs. If Pearce had sent them, and he wasn’t already dead, it meant they wanted him alive. The gunmen couldn’t use their weapons.

  “Boss said to bring you in,” the first gunman said, as if reading Iain’s face. “He didn’t say anything about you being in one piece.”

  He aimed the gun at Iain’s foot. Iain hadn’t seen many guns; even at the Ishmaelian base he’d tried to steer clear of them. There were some lines he hadn’t been prepared to cross. Even so, he knew the damage a weapon like this could inflict. Odds of him ever running again if he took a bullet to the foot were slim. The agents wouldn’t care. It would just make their job easier. He raised his hands.

  “Okay, take it easy.”

  The man barked a harsh laugh, then his face hardened.

  “Keep your hands where I can see them.”

  Iain nodded, keeping his arms steady. He heard movement behind him and twisted his head round to see the unarmed man advancing on him, blood dripping from his face. He grabbed the back of Iain’s coat and shoved him forwards. The cop stumbled for his balance without lowering his arms, and the man shoved him again.

  “Move.”

  He made to shove him a third time.

  “Alright! Alright, I’m moving.”

  The three men fanned out behind him as he walked back to the van, staying just out of his line of sight. They weren’t taking any more chances, and Iain didn’t doubt they would shoot him to slow him down. If he was going to get out of this, it wasn’t going to be by running.

  The agents didn’t say another word until they reached the vehicles. Vehicle, he corrected himself. His car was already gone. He should have realised that AbGen only ever sent agents into the field in pairs. Four agents. They weren’t taking any chances. Somebody really wanted him, and they wanted to make sure he wasn’t found.

  One of the agents pulled the van’s back doors open.

  “In.”

  Iain scrambled up inside the vehicle, then twisted round to look at the men. He was just in time to see the gun swinging down towards his head. It struck him hard, knocking him from his feet. Pain hammered through his skull but he was only distantly aware of it. His last thought before he lost his grip on consciousness was that he hadn’t even told anyone where he was going.

  *

  The pain in his head was the first thing he became aware of. The second was that he was tied to a chair in a small room, tightly enough that the ropes were biting into the skin on his chest, knees and ankles. His arms were bound behind the chair – more rope biting into his wrists. He didn’t have enough slack to shift his weight, never mind get free. He wasn’t going anywhere any time soon. And this room was just about the last place in the world he wanted to be. A single bulb illuminated the small room, casting long shadows on the concrete walls that had no windows and was set with a single door, which had an electronic lock. The concrete floor was a dark grey that didn’t quite mask the old blood stains. He saw all this through the bars that surrounded him, marking out a cell that took up nearly a quarter of the room.

  The white-haired man with deep laughter lines etched into his face, and cold, grey eyes was the last thing he noticed. Instinctively, he knew who it was. This was the man who had poisoned Scott, the man who had captured Anna. The leader of AbGen. This was Pearce.

  “Ah, Iain,” Pearce said, turning to him with a smile that belied everything Iain knew about the man. “I’m so glad you’re awake.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Anna

  Routine. It’s easy to underestimate its value. BTD – before the doc – everything was chaos. Panic, fear, anxiety, confusion; those were the emotions that ruled my life. Uncertainty. ATD – after the doc came into my life – things were different. Calmer. Sure, I’d resented his rules at first, fought against his authority like any spoilt child, but I’d soon come to see that it was necessary. Better. Life followed a pattern. If I obeyed the rules, I would be fed, exercised, and given the opportunity to vent my aggression. If I disobeyed, I would be punished. There was no more uncertainty. I might not have liked the consequences of my actions, but I could always be sure of what they would be. Life made sense. There was routine.

  So it’s easy for me to fall into a routine in my prison. Comforting, even. Twice a day, the illusionist works his magic, and we talk, or I throw things at him, depending on my mood. Yesterday I tried to drop a grand piano on his head. He’d only laughed and said I’d watched too many cartoons as a kid. I can’t remember if that’s true or not, which frustrates the hell out of me, but it’s not like anything BTD matters anyway. Eventually he leaves me, after passing on some meaningless message from Scott, and reminding me the traitor loves me. When I wake, my room has been tidied, my wounds tended, and food and water left. Once a day my sheets are changed. I never see a soul while I’m conscious, but I’m sure they watch me constantly through the camera.

  Sometimes Scott speaks to me through the speaker. I never reply.

  In between the visits I pass the time exercising – there’s no telling when I might get another chance to escape, I need to be in peak condition – and meditating – because I’ll be no use to the doc if I lose my sanity in here.

  Today’s no different. I eat after Duncan’s finished annoying me and leave my plate by the door. They gave me cutlery at first, but that stopped after I tried to use it to prise the collar off. All I got for my trouble were a few gouges in my neck, anyway. I’m not getting back to the doc that way, that’s for sure.

  I plop back on the bed. The clean sheets smell freshly laundered and for some reason that irritates me. Everything here irritates me. I cross my legs, ignoring the scent that rises from the disturbed sheets, and rest my wrists lightly on my knees. I had a thought last night, though I’d taken great pains to keep it hidden from Duncan in this morning’s Q&A. My body is trapped in this room, that much is clear. But my mind isn’t. It’s been over a week since I was captured, and the doc hasn’t come for me yet. If I can get a handle on my latent talent, maybe I can project my mind to wherever he is and see what the hold-up is. It might keep me from going mad, at least. At best, I may be able to coordinate an attack with his rescue plan – if I can find a way to smash through Duncan’s illusion.

  I slow my breathing and empty my mind, letting all of the distractions fade away, until the only thing I’m aware of is each breath entering and leaving my body. I wait until my mind is completely focused inwards, then start counting back from ten, taking myself into a deeper state of relaxation. Taking my time, I work through some of the exercises Fisher taught me. I’ve never consciously managed to harness my astral projection talent before, but Doctor Pearce remains convinced I possess it, and he’s never wrong. I’ve just never had the proper motivation until now.

  I try to visualise the room I’m in; ho
w it would look if I opened my eyes right now. I manage to build a couple of walls around me and a vague impression of the photos pinned up – but if I look closely all of them are blurred patches of colour with no definition or faces. I exhale slowly and let the image fade. I’m trying to work from memory, and that’s not how this is supposed to work. The point is to be able to see something I wouldn’t otherwise be able to see – like what the hell is going on outside this room – not to replay a memory.

  I don’t even know where to start. Maybe I should stop trying to make it easy for myself. It’s not like I care about visualising this room, hell if I really wanted to see it, I’d just open my eyes. Our talents are linked to our emotions. Maybe I need to really want to see something to make my astral projection kick in. Like the doc.

  I inhale to a five count, hold for four, and exhale for seven, settling my body back into a calm, controlled rhythm. I repeat the cycle three times, until I feel myself completely centred again. Then I picture the doc.

  I don’t just picture him. I focus on his image, and think of how much I want to see him. Want to be with him. I let all of the longing I’ve carefully bottled flood out into my system, until my heart is pumping need, not blood, through my veins, and my entire body is buzzing with desperation just to know what he’s doing right now. Show me the doc, I command, my voice ringing loudly through my skull. I just need to know he’s okay. I need to know he doesn’t think I’ve betrayed him. Oh please, whatever God there might be, don’t let him think I’ve betrayed him. The wave of longing hits me so bad I double over, gasping, and my eyes fly open. What if he’s abandoned me here? What if he thinks I ran from him?

  No. No, he cares about me. He said I’m important to him. He said he knows I’m loyal. He wouldn’t doubt me. He even said it himself: Your loyalty was never in doubt, Anna. It’s your self-control I question. He was right to question it. Look at me. I’m a mess. I can’t even hold myself in a simple meditation. He also said that when things don’t go to plan, you can make excuses, or you can make changes. I don’t make excuses anymore.