TALENTBORN:EXILED
Book 2 of the TalentBorn Series
C. S. Churton
This is a work of fiction. The characters and events described herein are imaginary and are not intended to refer to specific places or to living persons alive or dead. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher except for brief quotations embodied in critical reviews.
Copyright © 2019 by C. S. Churton
All rights reserved.
Chapter One
I catch myself about to check my watch again and lower my arm back to the table. That’s not helping. I hear my fingers begin to tap a rhythm on the plastic covered table top and stop them before I can drive the people on the neighbouring tables as insane as me. It’s true what they say – the devil makes work for idle hands. And I’m feeling distinctly idle right now.
I snatch up a spoon and stir my coffee again, somewhat more vigorously than the situation requires, sending splatters of coffee across the red chequered table cloth. With an inward groan, I remove the spoon, tap it twice on the rim, then set it down on the table. I stare across at the mug opposite me, and the empty chair beside it.
I’m not worried about him. I know better than to worry; he’s plenty capable of taking care of himself. He’s spent years in training, both firearms and unarmed combat, working with some of the best instructors in the country. He’s been trained in surveillance, counter-surveillance, and advanced evasive driving. And, of course, he can sense the bad guys coming before they can even see him. So of course I’m not worried about him. That would be silly.
I pluck a stray hair from my top and let it drift to the ground, then sit examining my fingernails. They’re chipped and neglected – more so than usual, I mean. Don’t judge: it’s been a rough month. My ex-boss tried to kill me, the damsel in distress turned out not to be in distress, and hardly a damsel, and the aforementioned ex-boss’s minions are hunting us down. Not my ex-boss himself, of course, because he’s dead. Not my fault, I should add. Mostly. So anyway, nail care has been a little low down my list of priorities. Like I said, don’t judge. And it’s not like Scott cares. I can guarantee you it’s not my neglected nails that are keeping him away.
Which brings me back to the question: where is he? Not because I’m worried, obviously, just because, well… Ah, who am I kidding? Of course I’m worried. That’s what you do when you love someone, right? You worry. So I might be a little worried that he’s late back from meeting his contact. Not because I think anything has happened to him, just… because. Any moment now he’s going to push through that door, ringing the little bell set into the ceiling above it, sweep the café with his eyes, and then find me sitting in the corner. My heart will skip a beat as our eyes meet, and he’ll come to me, we’ll hug and everything will be fine.
I stare at the unmoving door, with its silent bell. Stupid door. I turn away in disgust and take a sip of my coffee. My eyes are on it again before I set my cup back on the table, searching the throng of people in the street beyond. But not because I’m worried he’s hurt.
I pick up the laminated menu and flip it over in my hands, wondering if I should order breakfast for us, or if he’ll be in a hurry when he comes back. It depends on what his contact says. Of course, I’d be there hearing it first-hand if the man wasn’t so paranoid that he’d refused to meet anyone beside Scott. As if it isn’t more dangerous for Scott than it is for him anyway. Not dangerous dangerous, obviously, nothing’s going to happen to him… but the more time that passes since we left AbGen, the more chance news of Gardiner’s death – and our part in it – has reached Scott’s contacts. We had a near miss last week. Turns out AbGen have put a price on our heads. Not that I should be surprised, one thing AbGen have by the bucket load is money. Another is ambition. They have dozens of absas – Atypically Biologically Selectively Advantaged – working for them, with all manner of talents, but still they wanted mine bad enough that they were prepared to… well, I’m not going to get into that.
“You going to stare at that menu all morning, or order us some food?”
I glance up and everything else fades into the background.
“Scott!”
He slides into his seat with a weary smile and takes up his coffee. I tuck a strand of hair behind one ear and feel like an idiot. I knew there was nothing to worry about.
“Sorry I was gone so long. Traffic cops.”
Our lives are all about staying under the radar now. If either of us get so much as a speeding ticket it could bring AbGen down on us, and that’s not a battle we’re ready for yet. They’re too big to take on alone.
“Did Wilson know anything? About the Ishmaelians?”
Find the Ishmaelians. That’s what Joe had said, right after shooting Gardiner and freeing us from who knew what fate. That’s the only clue he gave us, and it wasn’t much to go on. Still, if you’re going to take the word of anyone, it might as well be the mind reader. If Gardiner’s dying thoughts had been of the Ishmaelians, then it’s a fair bet they’re the ones we want on our side. Trouble is, it’s not like we can google them for a phone number, and they’re proving pretty elusive. A month later, and we’re not a sniff closer to them. Unless Wilson knew something that could justify dragging Scott from my side for so long. I look up at him hopefully. He shakes his head.
“Nothing.”
He plucks the menu from my hands and grins when I swat at his head with my empty palm, and then gets serious again.
“Nothing useful, anyway. AbGen have increased the price on our heads.”
“Nice to be wanted,” I observe dryly.
“And Pearce is still heading up the organisation.”
I suppress a shudder. Dr Pearce was the most innocent-looking mad scientist – right up until he developed a way to neutralise my talent so he could force me to use it for his own ends. It almost worked, too. And what’s the deal with that, anyway? You cut the head off the snake, the snake’s supposed to die. There’s a whole saying about it. It’s not supposed to grow another head, otherwise where’s the point? Now that I think on it, Pearce might even be worse than Gardiner… Actually no. I don’t think anyone’s worse than Gardiner was. Okay, so maybe this is an improvement. But not much of one, and definitely not while he’s got people hunting us down. And what’s up with that? Joe stayed behind – risked his own neck, too – to tell our side of the story, to tell everyone what Gardiner really was, so that one day we could go h- No. I don’t even think that word any more. I press my lips together and focus on the positives. Scott is here. Also, he’s ordering us breakfast.
“Something bothering you, Anna?”
I follow the direction of his gaze and realise my foot is tapping frantically. I make a conscious effort to still it as I gripe:
“I don’t like sitting around doing nothing.”
He reaches over and takes my hand in his.
“I’m sorry. I’d have taken you with me if I could. I didn’t mean to worry you.”
“It’s not just that. This whole time we’ve been creeping around, trying to track down these Ishmaelians, who might not even want anything to do with us – that’s if they even still exist. We need a better plan.”
It’s an argument we’ve had a dozen times. We don’t know anything about the Ishmaelians: this could be a wild goose chase. And while we’re wasting time trying to find them, we’re at risk of AbGen finding us. Not to mention all the other innocent people whose lives they’re ruining. But I know what Scott’s going to say. We can’t take…
“…on AbGen by o
urselves. It’s too dangerous.”
I know, I know. He’s willing to risk his own life, but not mine. And I’m not a fan of walking into danger myself. That place terrifies me, it haunts my dreams, even when I’m not asleep. Scott sees my answer in my face. He always does.
“Just try to be patient. We need to trust Joe.”
“I do. It’s Gardiner I don’t trust.”
It would be just like him, still screwing with my life from beyond the grave. Scott laughs, and for a moment I lose myself in the sound, and I don’t want to go over old arguments. I don’t even want to take down AbGen. I just want to spend the rest of my life alone with him. Sadly, unless we do something about our erstwhile masters, the rest of my life isn’t going to equate to very much, so… I sigh, and ask:
“What now?”
“There’s a cyber café across town. We’ll head there later and see what we can find out. But first, we eat.”
He raises a hand to signal the waitress, who greets him with a flirtier smile than necessary: he has that effect on people. I’m not jealous. I’d be smiling at him too, especially if the girl sharing his table was scruffy looking, with bags under her eyes and bad nails. I make a note to find time for a manicure before Scott drags us off to track down his next shady contact, then I scratch that note and try to remember I have more important things to worry about. Maybe I should focus my efforts on making Scott scruffier too… it’s not a good idea for us to attract too much attention. Especially female attention.
I roll my eyes as he’s orders full English, then cave and order myself exactly the same. His bad habits are rubbing off on me. The waitress totters off in her entirely unpractical heels (in a café, for crying out loud) and I turn my attention back to the matter at hand.
“How many of your contacts have we met in the last month?”
Scott’s forehead creases as he thinks.
“Seven. Eight if you count Wilson.”
“And how many of them knew anything about the Ishmaelians?”
“Davey had heard of them.”
“How many of them knew anything useful about the Ishmaelians?” I amend.
“We’ve learned other useful intel.”
“We have,” I acknowledge. “That’s not my point.”
He waits as I marshal my thoughts into an actual sentence.
“The Ishmaelians are a clandestine organisation of outcasts, trying to stay under AbGen’s radar.” That much we had managed to glean from his contacts. “I’m not sure how effective asking around is going to be.”
We break off as the waitress sets out our cutlery, giving Scott another ingratiating smile. I fight the urge to stamp on her foot. I mean, seriously, I’m sitting right here.
“What do you propose?” he asks when she leaves.
“They’re recruiting too, right?” This is an assumption, but one we both agree on. If the Ishmaelians are AbGen outcasts, then it makes sense that they’d be trying to stop other new absas falling under AbGen control. To reduce the strength AbGen could rally against them, if nothing else. “Well, how are they finding out about new absas? It’s not like they have your talent.”
Scott’s silent for a long moment. He’s a tracker: his talent alerts him to other absas within a few miles of him. He used to be AbGen’s recruiter. He recruited me. I’ve forgiven him.
“So we just follow any leads on potential absas and see who else shows up?”
“Precisely.” People new to their talents are exposure risks – the first time I shifted it was in front of two cops and a shop full of people – so leads shouldn’t be that hard to come by.
“Anna?”
“Yes?”
“You never fail to amaze me.” I smile, and I’m still smiling when the waitress brings our food. I don’t notice whether or not she’s making eyes at Scott. I’m too busy making eyes at him myself.
“It’s so simple.” He frowns. “It’s risky too, though. AbGen are watching for new absas too.”
“Don’t even think about sidelining me, Scott Logan.”
“No ma’am,” he says with a grin, unperturbed by my fierce expression, and leans back in his chair. “You know, you use to be such a sweet, innocent girl – not the running into danger type at all. I miss her.”
“Ha. Ha. That’s funny coming from a man who used to obey without question.” I gesture to the situation at large. “Something’s changed about that, I can’t quite put my finger on it...” I tease. Truth is he followed those orders because he believed in AbGen. I came along and shook his whole world up. At least life’s never dull now.
“Alright, Ms Mason, point taken. Can we get back onto first name terms now?”
Chapter Two
“I didn’t know these places even existed anymore,” I say as we push open the door into the cramped but brightly lit cyber café, occupied by several rows of computers, most of which sit unoccupied.
“Just be grateful this one does,” Scott says as we head to the counter and pay for an hour on a pair of the machines. Scott’s laptop had fallen victim to our need to make a hasty escape a couple of days ago – a run-in with AbGen’s agents that had almost ended in disaster. We got away, but just barely, and we’d had to sacrifice everything in our B&B room. Luckily, we’d already taken to keeping the essentials – passports (fake) and cash (real) – on us at all times. It was at Scott’s insistence, and yet again I concede that he’s much more prepared for this sort of thing than I. But be fair: he was part of AbGen for years, whereas until a few months ago I was just a waitress, until my somewhat erratic talent first reared its head in the middle of a busy shopping centre, landing me smack bang on AbGen’s radar. It hadn’t been all bad, I have to admit. Without them I wouldn’t have control of my talent, I’d probably still be shifting all over the country (and further) every time I got scared, and of course that’s how I met Scott, so… no regrets. But it sure would have been nice if they hadn’t turned on me the moment I demonstrated an ounce of free will. Still, gotta take the rough with the smooth, I guess.
We settle at a pair of adjacent computers, and I have to resist the urge to spin around on my chair. I’ve never worked in an office a day in my life, so the novelty that is the swivel chair has yet to wear off. I tap the keyboard a couple of times to wake the computer up, then open a browser, and hesitate.
“Where do we start?” I ask. It’s all good and well saying ‘let’s track down some new absas’ but I have literally no idea how to do that. I’m just the ideas gal.
“I’ll take social media, you start with news outlets. The smaller the better: the big papers aren’t going to run a story about the local drunk claiming he saw someone disappear into thin air.”
I nod. Makes sense. I tap away at the keyboard, and pull up the local newspaper’s website. I chew my lip for a moment, and then type in ‘Person witnessed using abnormal powers.’ No results. No surprise. I’d have felt stupid if I didn’t check. I think for a moment, then try ‘Witness suspects special powers.’ Two results. I click the first. An article about the courts granting special powers for witness protection.
I click the second and scan the article with no more luck than the first one, then lean back in my chair with a groan. This is going to take forever. I can’t possibly search every single paper in the country. I sneak a peek at Scott and see his fingers flying across the keyboard: either he’s got a much better idea of what to look for, or he’s having a wicked game of Tetris. He’s still favouring his right hand slightly, and I silently berate myself. I should have made him see a doctor after Marcus stamped on it during our escape from AbGen, but at first he said we couldn’t afford to stop moving, and later that it was fine. It wasn’t fine, but I let myself believe him, even though he was incapable of driving for weeks. He can still only manage short journeys, but of course he tells me that most of the healing is done now, and there’s nothing a doctor could do to help. He’s starting to make my aversion to doctors look mild. I resolve that before we move on from here, I’ll mak
e him get it x-rayed at the local hospital – whether he wats to or not. For now though, back to the task at hand. I sigh and turn back to the computer.
Okay, so searching individual websites is obviously a waste of time. Google it is. I pull up the search engine and once again type in ‘Person witnessed using abnormal powers.’ 255,980 results. Hmm, opposite problem this time: too many results to possibly search through, and a good half of them are from the US, way outside of AbGen’s reach. I chew my lip. I’m assuming their reach only extends as far as our borders… Never mind, I don’t have time to dwell on it right now. There’ll be plenty of time for me to traumatise myself with thoughts of their never-ending power this evening. For now, I’ve got work to do.
I add in “Staffordshire” – might as well start local – and immediately drop to a little over 30,000 results. I click the first one and start to read. Got to start somewhere.
*
An hour and a half and three coffees later I’m starting to wish I’d kept my mouth shut. If I’d known my idea was going to involve this much research I’d have kept it to myself.
“If you keep sighing, someone’s going to think you’re attempting morse code,” Scott observes, draining the last of his coffee.
“When they research stuff on TV, it’s never this boring,” I complain.
“No luck then?”
I shake my head mutely.
“Me either. There’s something out there though, we just have to find it.”
“I was afraid you were going to say that.”
Scott smiles and turns back to his social media, leaving me to the mind-numbing news sites. I try a new search, this time for ‘Unexplained suspicious behaviour Essex’.
I click the first link absently – it’s a news site, which I take to be promising – and wait for the page to load. An image starts to appear in slow motion, revealing a hauntingly familiar pair of eyes, then nose, and by the time the lips have loaded, I’m staring at the screen in horror. Staring at my best friend, Janey, under the headline LOCAL WOMAN FOUND DEAD.
Exiled (TalentBorn Book 2) Page 1
