Awakening (TalentBorn Book 1)

by C. S. Churton

  “Scott?”

  “Okay… don’t panic, Anna – but you’re in France.”

  Chapter Eleven

  I stagger back against the wall, reaching my hand out for support. France… How… Why… France!

  “Anna?” Scott’s distant voice buzzes persistently in my ear until I can’t ignore it anymore.

  “Anna, can you hear me?”

  It takes me a moment to find my voice, and when I do it doesn’t sound like my own.

  “I’m here. I’m… not panicking.” Oh no, I’m way beyond panicking. It’s taking everything I’ve got just to hold myself in one place. Maybe that’s why I sound so breathless.

  “Just sit tight – try not to shift.”

  What does he think I’m doing??

  “We’re on our way, Anna, just stay calm.”

  Easier said than done, I think. Or maybe I said it out loud, because Scott is telling me:

  “Remember that day down at the lake?”

  The day I decided to accept AbGen’s offer – how could I forget?

  “You remember skimming stones, and the birds circling overhead?” he continues, his voice soothing and calm. “Just focus on the lake.”

  Birds circling above the lake, birds circling above the lake. I let the image fill my mind… their graceful outlines as they drifted through the thermals, the way the breeze blew ripples across the lake’s surface, the sun glinting off the calm water. I take a few breaths and keep playing the image in my mind until the panicky thudding of my heart has subsided. As much as it’s going to, anyway. I’m in France. It’s not ideal, but it’s not the end of the world.

  “Okay, I’m good,” I tell Scott with as much conviction as I can muster. “What now?”

  “Tell me what you can see. The area you're in is showing up as a blank zone on the map.”

  “I'm inside some sort of compound, it looks like there's an abandoned warehouse.” I try to peer through the railings again. “I can't see what's outside.”

  Someone speaks at the other end of the line, but the voice is too muffled to make out, and then Scott curses loudly, and I hear the vehicle's engine scream as someone floors the accelerator.

  “What?” I ask, a note of alarm returning to my voice.

  “Nathan thinks you might be in a French special forces training site – that's why nothing's showing up on the map.”

  “And what happens if they find me here?”

  “It’s probably best you get out of there before that happens.”

  “Uh, slight problem with that,” I tell him. “The gate’s locked and the fences are too high to climb.”

  “Okay, don't panic,” he says, but his voice is too urgent to be comforting. He seems to realise, and moderates his tone. “Just try to lay low. If you get caught, don't resist.”

  “I could shift,” I say. Not panicking be damned. I need to get the hell out of here. “Anywhere’s got to be–”

  “No,” he cuts across me. “You might not make it far so soon after your last shift, and at least right now you're conscious.”

  An image of myself, passed out, defenceless, lying in the path of the French forces flashes through my mind and I suppress a shudder.

  “Don't shift. Got it. Scott...”

  “I know,” he says, and I can hear the firm set of his lips in his voice. “We're coming as fast as we can.”

  I shuffle along to the broken window, and raise myself up on my tip toes. I can't make out much in the gloom, but inside looks spacious and deserted – and much less exposed than standing out here waiting to be caught.

  “There's a broken window,” I tell Scott. “I think I can get inside. Should I try?”

  The muffled voices start again. I pick out Scott's amongst them and strain to hear what he's saying, but it's like listening to an untuned radio – the odd words I can make out make no sense. Then I make out the word “captured” in Nathan's voice, and my stomach lurches. I stop trying so hard to listen.

  After what seems like an age, Scott comes back on the line.

  “It's too risky. Nathan thinks that if you get caught, it’s going to look a lot more suspicious if you’re inside than if you’re outside. I agree.”

  “I can't just stand here waiting to be spotted.”

  “I know. Is there anywhere you can hide?”

  I scan the area, looking for anything tall enough to hide behind, or big enough to hide inside. I spot a concrete tunnel – the sort they use for laying underground drains – and jog over to take a closer look. It’s about seven feet in length and a couple of feet wide.

  “Anna?”

  “There's a concrete tunnel, like a drainage pipe – I think I can fit inside it.”

  “Okay, good. But first you need to get rid of the tracker – the technology is years ahead of anything available to the public, you’ll never be able to explain it away. Chuck it over the fence – if you get taken, we'll have you out before anyone can find it.”

  I tug the tracker from my wrist and throw it up at the fence. My hands are shaking and it falls short, bouncing off the railings and clattering to the ground. I scoop it up in trembling fingers, take a breath and hurl it as high as I can over the fence. I hear a muted thud as it falls through the foliage on the other side and hits the sodden mud, then make my way back to the concrete tube.

  I drop to my hands and knees, keeping the phone pressed to my ear with one hand, and crawl inside. It's tight, but if I can just twist – there – I can sort of sit and look outside, albeit from an awkward position.

  “Good. Now, what's my number programmed into your phone as?”

  I tell him, and hear a humourless chuckle from Nathan.

  “Change it to DS Yates – I'll stay on the line.”

  I pull the phone away from my ear and make the change, remembering his fake police credentials the day I found him inside my flat. I can't help feeling that they wouldn't hold much sway with the French forces, though.

  “If anyone asks, you're a witness in a murder case – you've changed your mind about running and want to come in.”

  He carries on fleshing out my cover story – I try to absorb as much as I can – in between reassuring me that this is just a precaution and that it's unlikely anyone will come out here.

  I interrupt him in a hoarse whisper that sounds too loud inside the tunnel.

  “I can hear someone coming. They’re opening the gate.”

  “Okay, now listen to me very carefully Anna. If they sweep the compound, they’re going to find you. You need to do exactly what they say.”

  “I don’t speak any French,” I confess.

  “At all?”

  “No, I took German.”

  “Dammit. Okay, this is what you’re going to do. When they find you, crawl out of the tunnel – slowly. Put your hands on your head and say ‘Je ne parle pas français’. Do you understand?”

  “Mm-hmm,” I answer, as quietly as I can: the compound is filling up with a dozen men, each one carrying a gun.

  “We're an hour away, Anna, you've just got to hang in there. And whatever you do, you can't let them see you shift.”

  “Sortez avec vos mains vers le haut!”

  The command must have travelled along the line, because Scott says:

  “You need to crawl out now, Anna.”

  “Sortez avec vos mains vers le haut!” The command comes again, louder this time. The soldiers have fanned out into a semi-circle around my tunnel, and all of them are pointing their vicious-looking weapons at me.

  “Go! And Anna... I– we’re coming.”

  I pull the phone away from my ear with shaking hands and stuff it into my pocket. Slowly, I crawl forward, and as soon as my head is poking out I raise my hands, and shuffle out on my knees. A soldier in the centre of the semi-circle barks another instruction, which I assume means stop. I do, and kneel there with my hands behind my head while the soldiers advance, weapons still raised.

  “Je ne parle pas français,” I tell the one who
had spoken to me, then look frantically around the advancing faces. “Please don't hurt me.”

  “Sur le sol!” The soldier barks at me.

  “Je ne parle pas français,” I insist.

  He exchanges a look with another soldier, and gives a curt nod.

  “On the floor,” the other soldier instructs in heavily accented English, and my head snaps to him. “Face down.”

  Relieved that I'm not about to be shot for skipping high school French, I lower myself onto my stomach. But the relief is premature.

  “Hands behind your head,” the same voice snaps. “Interlock your fingers.”

  I do as he says, and try to get a look at them from my new perspective. All I can see are several pairs of boots and a pair of kneecaps. None of them seem to be moving and I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. Somehow I doubt they’re going to let me lie here until Scott comes to rescue me.

  “Eyes down.”

  With an effort, I force my gaze back down onto the ground in front of me, against every instinct in my body screaming at me not to take my eyes off them – for all the difference it would make.

  “Please don’t hurt me,” I plead again into the asphalt.

  “Taisez-vous!”

  I can’t see who said it, but I assume it was an instruction to shut up, so I do. A pair of boots move to stand a little in front of me, and I can practically feel the weapon pointing at me. I can hear another pair of boots moving to my side, but bite down on my lip and force myself to keep looking away. My ears are straining to pick up any sound that might give a clue what he’s planning, but I can barely hear a thing above the beating of my own heart. Something touches my shoulder and I flinch, then steady myself. It’s a hand, I realise, as a second one joins it on my other shoulder. I keep very still as the soldier pats me down, his rough hands fast and business-like. He pauses at my pocket and pulls out my phone and a couple of coins. I mutter a silent prayer of thanks that AbGen insist we don’t carry anything that can identify ourselves – I’d thought it was silly at the time, but now I’m beginning to rethink my whole attitude.

  The hands carry on searching but there’s nothing left to find. He grabs one of my wrists and I flinch again. He pulls it behind my back and brings the other to join it, then binds them together using what I think might be a plasticuff – I can feel the edges digging into my skin. A sack is pulled over my head, and suddenly I’m surrounded by darkness and the sound of my own breathing. Panic starts to well in my stomach again and the adrenaline coursing through my body threatens to make me shift. I take a long moment to calm myself, and to remind myself that Scott is coming, and that they’re just doing this to intimidate me. It’s working.

  Two pairs of arms seize me and pull me roughly to my feet. Still holding my arms, they start walking, and I stumble along between them. I am disorientated by the sack, and several times would have fallen if it wasn’t for the hands holding me up.

  “Where are you taking me?” I ask desperately into the black. I am answered only by the heat and moisture of my own breath reflecting back off the inside of the hood. After a moment, one of the hands jerks me to a halt, and I stand still, straining my ears for any clue as to where we are, or where we might be going. Another set of hands reaches down and hauls me upwards. I try not to resist but every part of me tenses as my feet leave the ground. Terror sends a flash of heat through me. My feet finally manage to find some purchase and I scramble backwards, assisted by the hands.

  “Lie down,” a voice barks, and I do so awkwardly, struggling without the use of my hands and my eyesight to guide me. The floor is cold and metallic, and the voice echoes around me: I surmise I am in some sort of van. A moment later my suspicion is confirmed when it roars into life. It’s not until the vehicle starts to rumble along the track that the reality of my situation really hits me. I’m bound and blindfolded in the back of a van, surrounded by strangers who clearly don’t harbour any good intentions towards me, heading off to somewhere Scott might not be able to find me, especially with my tracker lying in a ditch. I need to get away! I’ve got to get out of here, I’ve got to– No! I’ve got to… stay. Got… to wait… for… Scott…

  Chapter Twelve

  I awake and open my eyes, but the darkness is absolute. Why is it so dark; why can’t I see? I can feel the heat and moisture of my breath crowding me claustrophobically, feel something clinging to my mouth as I gasp the stagnant air. The hood! It’s the hood, I realise with a surge of relief. Oh shit! The French military. Scott warned me – I’ve revealed my secret. I just shifted in front of a van full of French soldiers – there’s no way we can cover this up! I make myself take a deep, slow breath, and then another. Panicking isn’t going to help. Nothing is going to help. I’m screwed. But right now I can’t worry about that. I have to work out where I am, and find somewhere to hide.

  My hands are starting to go numb from the plasticuffs, and my shoulders are burning from being pulled up behind my back. I wriggle my fingers and try to get some feeling back into them. I need to get this damned hood off so I can work out where I am.

  “Ne bouge pas!” a voice orders me.

  I freeze. Where am I? Wait, am I still with the French forces? How is that possible; did they recapture me while I was out? The floor beneath me moves, almost sending me rolling to one side. I’m still in the vehicle. I’m not sure how I didn’t notice sooner; we’re travelling at speed and I can feel every bump in the road jolting through my spine. Could I have shifted and been recaptured? No, I don’t think they could have found me that quickly, and I’m sure that if they had, they’d be treating me a lot differently by now. I recall the conflict in my thoughts right before I blacked out – the urgent need to escape, and the equally pressing need to stay so that Scott could find me. Could that have somehow kept me from shifting, but the conflicting desires cause me to black out? Or maybe my body hasn’t recovered from the last shift yet. Either way, I don’t think my secret’s out yet. Could I have passed out without them knowing? They couldn’t see my face, and any changes in my breathing would have been masked by the hood, so I’m going to go with yes, it’s possible.

  What I don’t know is how long I was out for, or where we are. The silence is suddenly oppressive as the van stops, and the doors swing open. Hands seize me from behind and pull me to my feet, dragging me from inside.

  We must be in some sort of building, because I don’t hear any wind rushing around me, or feel it on my exposed arms. I hear two voices and strain to catch what they’re saying, but I can’t quite make it out and it’s probably in French anyway. Resigned to being kept in the dark – figuratively and literally – I allow myself to be led forwards again, meekly obeying my captors.

  We follow what must be a long corridor, taking countless twists and turns, and the further we go, the more disorientated I become, until I’m certain I would never find my way out of here alone. A hand jerks me roughly to a halt and I stand rigid, listening intently, but I can’t hear anything above the blood pounding in my ears.

  Fingers wrap around my wrist and I flinch away, but the grip only tightens and yanks me back into place. I bite back a sob and screw my eyes shut. It’ll be over soon, it’ll be over soon, oh God please let me get out of here soon.

  I feel the plasticuffs tugging at my wrists and biting into my skin. Something cold and hard brushes against my wrist, and instinctively I know it is a knife. My breath catches in my throat and I force myself to go very still. Abruptly it is gone and I feel the cuffs fall away, leaving my hands unbound. I fight the urge to rub my wrists as the blood rushes back into my hands, hyper aware of the fingers still digging into my forearm.

  My right arm is pulled in front of me and pressed onto a surface at waist height. My exposed fingers curl themselves into a fist, trying to get away from whatever horrible thing is about to happen to them. My hand trembles and I shrink back, colliding with something – someone – behind me. He grabs the back of my t-shirt and pushes me forwards again, an
d the whole while my hand is pinned in place.

  “Open your hand.” I can’t tell if it’s just his accent that makes him sound angry, but reluctantly I force my trembling fingers to stretch out. The surface beneath them is smooth, like glass. The soldier takes my thumb and rolls the tip from one side to the other. They’re fingerprinting me, I realise with a feeling akin to relief. Relief that’s short-lived. Who knows what information they can get about me. I just have to trust that the guys at AbGen know their stuff. Truth be told, I’m running a little low in that department right now, so I think of who I do trust. Scott is coming. Every second he’s getting closer, and he’s going to get me out of here. I cling to the comforting thought like a life raft as the rest of my prints are taken. My wrists are pulled behind me again and a pair of metal handcuffs ratchets shut.

  Another hand closes around my arm and pulls me away. I lose my balance and stumble, but the iron grip keeps me upright, biting into my arm. Between the movement and the darkness, nausea hits me with overwhelming force. I start retching into the hood but the hand forces me onwards without mercy. I gulp in the stale air urgently. The darkness and the heat of my own breath are suddenly claustrophobic. Sweat prickles my forehead and I gasp frantically, the hood being pulled into my mouth with each breath. My feet have no choice but to keep moving at the soldier’s pace, but my every instinct is screaming at me to run… or shift. No, I can’t shift, Scott is coming. Scott is coming.

  My breaths start coming a little easier and I try to focus on what’s happening around me. I hear a door creak open in front of me and we walk through. A moment later, it shuts with a bang that echoes around the room.

  “Sit.”

  My bound hands grope behind me and brush against something – a chair. Cautiously, I lower myself into it and the hand releases its grip on my arm. I hear boots crossing the floor and then the door opens and closes again. I think I’m alone. I listen intently and hear only my own breathing. I daren’t attempt to remove the hood, and with my hands still cuffed behind my back, I’m not sure I could even if I wanted to.