Exiled (TalentBorn Book 2) Read online

  A shrill sound pierces the air, and it takes me a moment to recognise it as a phone’s ring tone. It’s coming from the glove compartment. I throw another glance at the bike behind us – he’s still following at a distance. There’s nothing I can do about it, other than trust Iain. I pull the lever and drop the door open. The phone tumbles out, lit up and vibrating, and I hit the answer key.

  “Yeah?”

  “Anna, it’s me.” Like I couldn’t guess that the only person who would be calling this number is Ephraim.

  “This isn’t a great time.”

  “I am aware. The biker following you is Andrew. I have sent him to guide you the rest of the way. Please pull over.”

  I pull the phone away from my ear and stare at it in disbelief. What, he couldn’t have told us that earlier? Like before we thought we were being chased by one of Pearce’s men? I shake my head and end the call.

  “What did he want?” Iain asks. Right. It’d probably help if I relayed the message.

  “We need to pull over. It’s Andrew behind us.”

  “It’s–” Iain sighs and eases off the accelerator, then looks across at me. “They didn’t think it might be a good idea to tell us that?”

  He brings the car to a halt, and the biker pulls up alongside us, tugging his helmet off as the bike idles beneath him. Iain rolls down his window.

  “Sorry guys, didn’t mean to spook you.”

  Andrew tugs a radio bud from his ear, and tucks it inside his leather jacket.

  “Ephraim sent a couple of gifts.”

  He swings a backpack off his shoulders, and pulls out a pair of guns. He passes them through the window to a shocked-looking Iain, and then pulls out a pair of magazines.

  “You do realise I’ve never fired a gun?” Iain says. “Not to mention that this is highly illegal.”

  I take one from him. It’s a Glock, similar to the Sig-Sauer I trained with back at AbGen, but has a slightly larger magazine capacity, and the trigger requires only four to five pounds of pressure, as opposed to the whopping ten pounds required by the Sig – which means more chance of an accidental discharge if your safety’s off. I slide the clip back to check the chamber is empty, run my thumb over the safety – it’s on – and then gently wiggle the magazine inside. Iain looks first horrified and then impressed, and I reach across and take the second weapon. He’d probably have stopped at horrified if he’d ever seen me shoot. Andrew nods his approval and switches his attention back to the cop.

  “You won’t be so concerned about whether it’s legal if Pearce’s men come after you. Don’t worry – it’s pretty straightforward. Just point, and squeeze the trigger.”

  I know from experience that there’s a little more to it than that, but there’s no point in worrying him. Besides, if I do my part right, we’ll be out of here before we need them.

  “Alright, follow me.”

  Andrew tugs his helmet back on and revs his engine, kicks the machine into first gear, and takes off. I watch him enviously as Iain puts the car in gear, and we trundle after him. I absent-mindedly take a sugar pill from the glove compartment and start to chew it. We don’t go far – only a couple of miles – before the biker tilts his head to the left. I squint in that direction, trying to make out what he’s seen, and then as I look closer I pick out the slight disruption to the topography. My heart stills. A bunker. Scott’s in there.

  We carry on past it, take another bend, and then Andrew pulls into a layby. We pull up behind him.

  “You can shift from this distance?” he says, pulling off his helmet again. I nod. A quarter mile at the most. Now that I know where it is, it shouldn’t be a problem.

  “Good.” He slots his radio back into his ear. “I’m in contact with Ephraim, he’s going to liaise between us, the decoy group, and your AbGen agent friends, so we can co-ordinate our strikes.”

  He touches a hand to the earpiece.

  “Extraction team in position.”

  “Isn’t that going to stop working as soon as I shift?”

  “It’s EM shielded. The tech boys have been working overtime to get it done.”

  I nod. Ephraim really has thought of everything.

  “Copy that.” He turns to us. “The decoy team have eyes on Pearce. The infiltration team will make their move any moment now. You’re clear to shift in.”

  This is it, then. My throat goes dry. I swing open the car door and step out, my hair splaying around my face as the wind tugs at it. I tuck one of the Glocks into my waistband. I’m all but paralysed with fear that I’m going to screw this up, or that I’m too late, or somehow Pearce knows what we’re planning and it’s a trap. I embrace it. Fear is fuel. I take a breath, close my eyes and search for the box of terror inside me. It doesn’t take a lot of searching, just nestled there, right beneath the surface. I fling the lid open and let it flood through me, until I’m rooted to the spot but I’ve got to get away from here, I have to get into the bunker, I’ve got to–

  My hair falls limply about my face. I’m inside. I open my eyes and it takes them a moment to adjust to the semi-darkness. As soon as they do, I’m scanning the room. It’s small, ten by twelve at the most, and there are no windows. We’re underground. The floor is bare and the walls are unpainted. The room is entirely barren except for...

  I gasp. There’s a single chair positioned in the middle of the room, beneath a weak bulb. Scott is tied to it, unconscious.

  “Scott?” My voice is hoarse and echoes round the room. I start towards him, and in my mind I see his eyes flicker open, his head raise, and his bloodied lips curve into a smile.

  Real Scott does not move. My heart thuds painfully as I creep towards him.

  “Scott?” I stretch my hand out tentatively and touch his shoulder. Nothing.

  “Scott!” My voice isn’t a whisper anymore, but I don’t care.

  “Please, wake up.” My breath catches in my throat. Still he doesn’t respond. My hand shakes as I stretch two fingers towards his neck. The faint, thready pulsing there snaps me out of my daze. He’s alive. That’s all that matters. I have to get him out of here. I take both his hands in mine – I’m not risking taking his t-shirt and leaving him behind – and let all of my fears overrun me. We’re not safe yet, something’s wrong with him, we’ve got to get out of here, we’ve got to get to the layby, we’ve got to–

  My legs collapse from under me and I tumble to the floor, my hands still entwined in Scott’s. The wind whips my hair into a frenzy around me but I refuse to let go of Scott’s hands to push it out of my eyes.

  “Anna!” It’s Iain, not Scott – he’s still unconscious and still bound – I shifted the whole damned chair. I feel Iain’s hand on my shoulder but shrug it off. How can he be worried about me when Scott is barely alive?

  “We have Scott,” Andrew mutters into his radio, then, “Copy that.”

  I ignore him and look up at Iain, who’s just now taking stock of Scott’s condition.

  “He won’t wake up. I can’t wake him up.”

  The cop presses his fingers to Scott’s neck.

  “He needs a doctor. Help me get him out of this chair.”

  That last was obviously not directed at me because I’m already tugging frantically at the ropes binding him. I’ll chew them off if I have to.

  “Scott’s injured,” Andrew says into his radio, as he produces a knife and starts sawing at the ropes. I move out of his way and go back to holding Scott’s hand.

  “Yes, sir. Copy that.” He looks at me. “Good news. The decoy team have pulled back safely. No word about the mind reader’s family yet.”

  I nod, but before I can even fully process what that might mean, he adds hastily:

  “But I’m sure they’re fine.”

  Now I’m worried that they’re not fine. Along with Scott, who is clearly not fine. The last of the ropes fall to the ground. No longer bound in place, he slumps forward. Iain grabs his shoulders before he falls.

  “Come on,” he says to Andrew
. “Help me get him into the car. We need to get him to a hospital.”

  “Bad idea.”

  “What do you mean, bad idea?” I demand, every muscle tensing, except the ones that make my arm inch closer to the gun in my waistband, seemingly of its own accord. I won’t lose Scott now.

  “Easy,” he says, raising a hand. “It’s not what you think. We need to get him back to the barn.”

  “The barn? That’s nearly two hours away. He needs a doctor now.”

  “Look at his arm. Do you see these marks on it?”

  There’s a rash running almost the full length of his arm. Was that there before? I don’t remember seeing it in the bunker. I don’t remember much of anything in the bunker, other than the terror that I was too late. Maybe. I don’t know. A few scattered patches have almost reached his hand. Higher up they’re clustered closer together and are more vivid.

  “There.”

  Andrew points to the centre of the most intense clusters. It takes me a moment, then I see it too. A needle mark.

  “This must’ve been his back-up plan all along,” Iain says, cursing. “He knew we’d never go through with the trade.”

  “No hospital is going to be able to cure whatever Pearce has injected him with. We’ve got people back at the barn who can help.”

  They both look to me. I realise my hand is still on the hilt of the gun, and prise my fingers loose. No-one moves.

  “Then what are we waiting for? We don’t have time to stand here talking!”

  Between them they load Scott into the back of the car, while I stand around uselessly, trying to hold myself in one place. Once he’s in, I slide in next to him, and wrap my hand around his. Andrew kicks his bike into life and roars off down the road. Iain swings out onto the road behind him, and floors the accelerator.

  “You promised,” I whisper fiercely in Scott’s ear. “Don’t you dare leave me now.”

  A note from the author

  Thank you for sharing part two of Anna and Scott’s journey with me. To find out what happens next, be sure to check out TALENTBORN:DEADLOCK, book three in the TALENTBORN series. And if you feel the same way I do about cliff hangers, don’t panic! I’ve put a little sneak peek of book three after this note. Keep reading for a glimpse of what lies ahead.

  Meanwhile, if you enjoyed this book, I’d be really grateful if you would take a moment to leave me a review.

  Sign up to my newsletter by clicking here or visiting www.cschurton.com to be kept up to date with my new releases and received exclusive content.

  There’s one thing I love almost as much as writing, and that’s hearing from people who have read and enjoyed my books. If you’ve got a question or a comment about the series, you can connect with me and other like-minded people over in my readers’ group at www.facebook.com/groups/CSChurtonReaders

  The Adventure Continues…

  Chapter One

  I’ve walked the whole of hell in the last three hours. Set up camp there, learned every inch of its fiery walls, and breathed the brimstone air until my lungs are charred to dust. Hell is guilt. Hell is knowing the man you love is lying two rooms over but not being able to go to him. Hell is knowing he could be dead right now, but being too afraid to find out. Hell is knowing it’s your fault.

  It’s my fault. Scott was counting on me, and I failed him. It should be me lying in there, and believe me, I’d trade places with him in a heartbeat. Trade places. That’s what I was supposed to do. That’s what I told Pearce – who was holding him prisoner – I would do. But Pearce knew, somehow he knew that we were planning to double cross him, and he took it out on Scott. He didn’t have to do that. Why did he do that?

  I pace the room, bouncing first off one wall and then another. Wait here, they’d told me, leaving me little choice in the matter. We’ll tell you when there’s news. Then they left. Even Iain had left me. He helped me rescue Scott – if you can call this rescued – but Ephraim had summoned him away. To debrief, he’d said. This is Ephraim’s base; we have to play by his rules. So Iain says. I refuse to play by anyone’s rules. I’m not interested in being debriefed. I’m waiting right here until the doctors come back.

  Here is not a pleasant place. Here is a room full of doubt, of fear, of every bad decision I’ve made in the last month. Here is no less than I deserve. I bounce off another wall, my hands propelling me away from it as my feet automatically retrace their steps. The gun tucked into my waistband digs into my stomach, left there from the rescue mission. An unnecessary precaution, in the end. We weren’t the ones in danger. Its hammer rubs uncomfortably against me and I relish the distraction. My feet keep moving. I’ve walked the path a hundred times. A thousand. I stopped counting.

  The door isn’t locked. No locked door could hold me, anyway. I can’t be caged, at least, not by any physical means. If I wanted, I could reach inside myself to that place my talent lives, and shift right to Scott’s side. I don’t dare. What would I find? Are his eyes open, is he looking for me? Or are they staring lifelessly at the ceiling, while the doctors look on with resignation etched into their faces, wondering which of them will have to break the news to me? Perhaps they’ll draw straws.

  My nails dig into my palms as I try to drive the image from my mind. It’s immediately replaced by him lying in the dirt, with a sinister rash crawling down his arm, spreading from a single needle mark. By the time we got him here, the rash was covering his hand and his neck. I didn’t dare look how far it had spread across his chest. Coward!

  I bounce off the wall again, leaving a smear of red where my palm makes contact. I don’t know how long I’ve been here. I know the tears have long since dried up, and my throat is raw. Good. I deserve the pain. Scott would never have let me be infected with a genetically engineered virus. I failed him. I heard the doctors talking when we got here, before they led me to this room. They’ve never seen anything like it before: the distinctive maculopapular pattern, how quickly it spreads. The way it renders its victim so utterly vulnerable. Unconscious. Shallow breathing. Thready heartbeat. I saw it in their faces. They were worried. They don’t know how to fix this. How could they? They don’t even know what it is.

  A single wooden chair is all the furniture that’s in the room. It’s in two pieces after I threw it at the wall, some time between the crying and the pacing. A single fluorescent strip hangs from the ceiling: the only source of light in the room. There are no windows, of course, since we’re deep underground. The barn itself is above ground, but we all cower beneath the surface, hiding from Pearce, and the rest of AbGen’s agents. The Abnormal Genetics Research Department. No-one is fully beyond their reach – they’re the government – but here we can pretend. If Scott is truly dead, then I won’t have any more use for hiding. I will dismantle the corrupt agency, one person at a time, and I will see Pearce pay for his crimes. I’m through with pretending, and I’m through with hiding.

  I wrap my hand around the door knob and yank it open. Then I slam it shut again. What if they couldn’t save him? I start to pace again, and stumble over the stupid broken chair. My feet forget how to be feet and I end up on the floor in a pile of bones and clothing. Whatever. I don’t feel like getting up again. I lay there staring at the far wall, chair pieces blurring in my periphery, and wonder not for the first time how my life came to this. Modestly skilled waitress in a dead-end town, to hunted absa and girlfriend of a dying man. No, he’s not going to die, dammit! I fling a chair leg at the wall with a scream, breathing heavily as it rebounds and skitters across the floor.

  He’s not the only one whose life is on the line today. A handful of the Ishmaelians – the rebel group whose furniture I’m smashing – acted as decoys, distracting Pearce and his men while I rescued Scott. Helen, Nathan, and Joe, friends from our former days as AbGen agents, risked everything to free Joe’s family from Pearce’s dungeon. No-one has brought me news about any of them. They could all be dead too, for all I know. I can barely bring myself to care. If Scott is gone, what does it
matter who remains?

  Except it does. It should. These people are my friends. I push myself upright and shuffle back into the corner. I should go to Ephraim. Even do his stupid debrief if that’s what he wants. And I will. As soon as I get some news about Scott. Until then I’m waiting right here.

  “Anna?”

  The door opens a crack, and I look up as Iain walks through.

  “What are you doing down there?”

  I shrug. He looks around the room, pausing on the smashed chair.

  “No news about Scott?”

  I shake my head, and he drops down on the floor beside me.

  “What about the others?” I drag the words from myself. They’re flat even to my own ears.

  “Alistair, Rohan and the rest of the decoy team gave Pearce’s men the slip. They’re on their way back now. Your AbGen friends arrived back a little while ago. They’re all fine. Ephraim’s waiting to debrief them. I don’t think he’s quite sure how to handle Helen.”

  My lips twitch. Helen’s talent is a potent one: she can change people’s perception of her. It sounds pretty benign, until you realise that if you can change how people feel about you, you can get them to do pretty much anything you want. ‘Mind control’ might be a bit of a stretch, but I can understand Ephraim’s reluctance. Especially since Helen has spent years work for AbGen, who drove the Ishmaelians underground – literally and figuratively. But that was before she knew the truth about them. She more than proved her loyalty last month when she helped me and Scott escape AbGen’s trap. And she’s the reason Joe’s family are free.

  “Nora’s not quite what he was expecting.” Nora being Joe’s AbGen handler. Not an absa – Atypically Biologically Selectively Advantaged – but an integral part of Joe’s ability to do his job. Normally handlers are young, athletic, and combat trained. Nora’s sixty-eight. I may have led Ephraim to believe otherwise. But his prejudice against the ‘ungifteds’, as he calls them, was beginning to wear on me. Iain is ungifted. He did more to help me find Scott than anyone on this base. Nathan is ungifted. He risked his life to save Joe’s wife and son, freeing the mind reader from Pearce’s control. Pearce himself is ungifted. Ephraim of all people should know not to underestimate the ‘ungifted’. And he shouldn’t define them by what they don’t have. This talent of mine – this gift as he calls it – doesn’t make me better than anyone else. Just more of a target. And that’s why the people around me keep getting hurt.