My hand twitches in anticipation of electricity pulsing through it. I still it irritably. I won’t give the enemy any advantage over me. My fear gives them an advantage.
I launch myself at taser-guy, all feral aggression and fury. I stop just shy of letting the Savage out of her cage: I can do this on my own. My foot connects with his hand before his finger can close around the trigger, and the weapon falls from his grip and skitters across the tarmac. I lock down its position in my mind: if the tall guy takes a single step that way, he’ll become my priority. Not that he can see anything right now, through the blood smeared across his face and the tears streaming from his eyes. Can’t beat a broken nose for slowing an assailant. Meanwhile, taser-less guy is favouring his right hand – I probably broke something in it – and stepping forward with his left raised. He’s a brawler, so he’ll rely on his uninjured hand rather than switch to legs. Rigid fighting systems are a mistake. A true soldier uses every weapon at their disposal, and if he took advantage of the greater reach his legs would give him, he could give me some trouble. But he doesn’t, and that’s why I’m going to put him down without breaking a sweat.
I draw him in, letting him see the blood running down my arm. He’s eyeing me with a little more respect now, he’s seen what I did to his partner, and how easily I disarmed him. Still, I’m a girl, and society has conditioned him to think I’m weak. I take an unsteady step back and throw a look over my shoulder. He comes forward. I step again, and look back again. That’s when he makes his move, as I knew he would, trying to crash into me with his greater weight. Predictable. Another sin. I’m not predictable. I step without even looking, and let my arms find him and block his haymaker. I’m right inside his guard now, and a quick swing of my elbow takes him off his feet. I catch his temple, full force, and he won’t be coming round for a while. Too easy.
I step away from the fallen body just as his partner lunges for the taser. My foot connects with his midriff, sending jolts of pain along my leg. His torso is pure muscle. I struggle to keep my balance – I’m still dizzy from the shift, is all – and quickly get my leg back under me. My target’s straightening, his eyes darting between me and the taser. I make sure to keep myself between them – not even I can withstand fifty thousand volts shooting through me. And I won’t let them take me. No-one’s taking me. I bare my teeth at him, curving my lips into twisted grin. Sometimes the best weapons are psychological. He hesitates, watching me with wary eyes, but I’m pretty sure he’s still seeing double.
He throws a punch, and I throw up a block, then realise a split second too late that it was a distraction. His foot sweeps my legs from under me, and I go crashing to the ground. I hit the concrete hard, and the impact knocks the wind from me. I roll, gasping, and a searing pain runs along my shoulder. I blot it from my mind, and I look up in time to see the boot swinging towards my ribs. I roll again, then grab his foot and yank him off balance. He tumbles to the floor and I’m on him in a flash, raining blows onto him until he stops moving.
I push myself up and pause to take stock. I can feel blood flowing freely from my shoulder blade. Dammit. I’ve reopened the wound. Good job I’m standing right next to a medical centre. I look around to make sure our scuffle hasn’t attracted too much attention. I estimate we were fighting for less than a minute. If anyone noticed, they’re keeping their heads down. And I can’t imagine the residents round here phoning the police. I stoop to the fallen bodies, pluck their phones from their pockets, and crush them under my heel. I don’t want them calling for backup too quickly when they come round – not that I plan to be here when that happens. For good measure, I pocket the taser. I’ll dump it in the canal first chance I get.
I snatch up a broken brick from the floor to smash the drop-in centre’s window, then pause. My face creases into a frown. The door is open a crack. I discard my brick and cock my head, assessing. Perhaps they left in a hurry? No matter, their carelessness is my advantage.
I pull open the door, and freeze. The man inside is watching me carefully. His uniform tells me he’s a medic of some sort. He must’ve been getting something from the unit when I happened across it. Or setting up for tomorrow. Whatever. All I need to know is that he’s between me and what I want, and I don’t intend to let him stay there.
“Get out of my way,” I demand. He’s completely still apart from his eyes, which find mine.
“I can help you.”
I consider it for a quarter second, then discard the notion. I don’t need help, and I can’t afford to drop my guard. Around anyone.
He slowly spreads his open hands by his sides and says; “I’m not going to hurt you.”
As if he could. I look him up and down, appraising what I see. Early-forties, he’s lean and athletic, but he’s no fighter. He doesn’t have a fighter’s eyes. There’s no hardness to him.
“Not that I could even if I wanted to, right?” he adds with a glance at the bodies behind me. I twist round to glance at them too, to make sure they aren’t moving. They’re not.
“That’s a lot of blood,” he says, casting a meaningful look at the red stain spreading through my top. It’s saturated above my shoulder and started spreading down my arm. He’s not wrong: it is a lot of blood. “It probably needs stitches. You can’t do that by yourself.”
It wouldn’t be the first time.
“Because of where it is,” he adds, reading my mind again. I knew a guy who could do that once – a mind reader – but I’m pretty sure the medic is just reading my face. I scowl. I ought to have been more disciplined. A soldier shows no weakness. A soldier needs no-one but her commanding officer.
“Why do you care?” my mouth asks without my permission.
“I’m a doctor. It’s what we do. We help people.”
“That hasn’t been my experience.”
“What sort of doctors have you met?” he asks, unable to keep the frown entirely out of his voice. I shake my head. No-one I know would ask a question like that.
“You don’t want to know about my world.” Someone like him wouldn’t last two minutes in my world. He’s too pure. Doctor Pearce wouldn’t like him.
“You don’t have to tell me,” he says. “I just want to help you. No strings attached. How about it?”
“What about them?” I ask, jerking my head in the direction of my unconscious attackers. “You don’t feel all warm and fuzzy about them?”
“I think they’re big enough and ugly enough to take care of themselves, don’t you?” he says, and adds softly, “I saw what they did. I’m not like them. I just want to make it better. Please, let me help you.”
“Please, let me help you.”
The unit is gone and I’m standing by Ryebridge lake. Scott’s standing opposite me, hands stretched out to his sides. It’s the day Pearce and Gardiner tried to cage me – for the first time – and I don’t have a clue who to trust. All I can think of is running, and for the first time in my life, I’m utterly alone, and I’m terrified, and I want to trust someone. Anyone. He holds a bike helmet out to me.
I blink and shake my head, and I’m back in the drop-in centre. The medic is looking at me strangely, but at least he didn’t see my flashback play out. He only suspects I’m nuts.
“I’m guessing you don’t want to go to the hospital?” he hazards.
I shake my head.
“My friend has a clinic a few miles outside town. I’ll give him a call; we can head there. It’s better equipped than here, at least.”
I shake my head again before he finishes speaking. One person involved is bad enough, two is an unacceptable risk. And I’m wasting time.
“Get out of my way. I’ll take what I need and patch myself up.”
He looks torn, but still doesn’t move. I don’t want to hurt him – he’s not my target – but I won’t let myself get caught. I pull out the taser. People instinctively fear a weapon.
“Don’t make me hurt you.”
“Alright,” he says, raising a hand. “We�
��ll do it here. Just me and you, okay?”
I hesitate, but he’s right: I can’t stitch that wound by myself. By way of response, I reach behind me and click the door shut. He nods, and takes a key from around his neck, then reaches up and unlocks a cupboard.
I watch him pull a medical bag from it, then realise I’m still pointing the taser at him. Belatedly I lower it, and tuck in back into my waistband.
“Thank you,” he says, casting a quick look in my direction. Civilians. Never thank an assailant. It gives them power over you. Guess he doesn’t like tasers any more than I do. He pulls a pair of scissors from the bag and passes them to me.
“The sleeve needs to come off. Sorry.”
I nod and make short work of the fabric. He gestures to a seat and I perch on it, while he turns a light to focus down on me, then settles in a swivel stool opposite me.
“What happened to your arm?”
“I fell.”
“Uh-huh. On a knife?”
I don’t answer. He peers at it, then swivels round to his bag and pulls out a pair of purple latex gloves and some tweezers.
“I’m going to need to remove the glass from the wound,” he says, scooting closer and snapping the gloves on. “I’m sorry, we don’t keep any painkillers here.”
“It’s fine.”
“If the pain gets too much, tell me. You don’t have to be tough in here, you know.”
As if I would ever show weakness in front of a stranger, in enemy territory.
“It’s fine,” I repeat. He wisely doesn’t press it, and instead turns his attention back to my arm, and starts gently tugging the tiny shards. One refuses to budge, and he pulls harder. I hiss quietly, then silence myself. He pauses and looks at me, then bites his tongue and carries on.
“So, what brings you onto the Woodgrange estate? Do you have family here?”
Family. The word thuds through my gut, and I bite my lip and shake my head.
“No.”
“Friends? Anyone you can stay with tonight?” His head stays bowed over my arm, so he doesn’t see the effect his words have on me.
“I don’t need anyone.”
“You really shouldn’t spend the night alone.”
“I’m better on my own.”
“Well, that may be true,” he says, spraying something into my arm that makes me hiss again, “but I think you hit your head, and you may have a concussion.”
When I don’t bother replying, he shrugs lightly.
“It’s your choice.”
“Yeah, it is. Don’t forget it.”
He gets up and tosses the glass fragments into a medical waste bin. Smart move. It’s not a good idea to be sitting too close to me right now. I’m tired of men telling me what to do. I can feel my muscles rippling under my skin, ready to be used. Duncan was right: I do have a temper. And I’m going to unleash it on every person who’s ever crossed me. Which isn’t this man. I take a few deep breaths. He’s not my enemy. Yet.
“I’m going to take a look at your shoulder, okay?”
He’s regarding me cautiously as he approaches with a suture kit and stops short. I give him a curt nod. He starts by wiping the wound, clearing out any dirt and removing the blood obstructing the view. My muscle twitches as the wipe brushes the wound, and I make a conscious effort to still it. He sprays it with something that stings for good measure, but this time my body is more disciplined.
“I’m going to start stitching. I’m sorry, it’s going to hurt.”
Story of my life. I stare at the far wall and try to tune out the pain as he starts probing and pulling the jagged flesh. I bite down on my lip as pain lances through me, trying to keep from moving the injured limb and pulling the stitches out. I’m also trying pretty damned hard to shut down the instinct that’s telling me – no, ordering me – to defend myself.
The slightest whimper slips from my lips and I clamp my jaw shut, staring at a crack in the sterile while wall in front of me. My body’s weak from the shift and the fight, and the weeks in captivity. The pain bothers me more than it should. Much more. My head starts to spin and my stomach rolls violently. The medic tugs another stitch, sending fire through my shoulder. I bite back another cry of pain and–
Chapter Sixteen
My eyes fly open and I sit bolt upright with a gasp, looking around in alarm. I’m sitting on a bed – whose? – with a duvet pooling around my waist. A faint thrumming in my head tells me the collar is active again. Did the rebels recapture me while I was out? Panic floods through me, making my head spin and my stomach cramp painfully. But this isn’t my cell in their hideout. It doesn’t make sense that they’d take me anywhere else. Maybe the collar has a failsafe? I turn that over in my head while I take in my surroundings. The pale walls are blank aside from a couple of bland sea photos in frames hanging from them. A chest of drawers sits beside the bed, with a lamp on it, and a wardrobe is pushed up against one of the walls. There’s a worn but serviceable carpet covering the floor, and light cotton curtains covering the window. In short, I have no idea where the hell I am.
I hear movement and roll off the bed – noting with relief I’m still fully clothed – and land silently on my feet. I ease the handle down on the door. It’s not locked. Amateur. I swing it inwards and slip through, padding down the eerily domestic hall towards the sounds I can still hear coming from downstairs. I pay scant attention to the unfamiliar hallway, and ease down the stairs, listening for any creaks that might give me away. I make it to the bottom without betraying my presence. The sounds have stopped but I keep moving in the direction they emanated from.
An open door leads me to a kitchen, and a lone familiar figure stands with his back to me. I could go the other way and slip out of the front door, but I don’t back down from a fight. Besides, the medic is no threat to me. And he has answers I want.
I get halfway across the room before he hears me and starts to turn.
“What did you do to me?” I demand.
“Nothing. You passed out.” He sets a plate down the on round wooden table in the centre of the room. “Eat.”
I narrow my eyes, watching him closely and not allowing myself to be distracted by the scents rising from the plate just a few feet from me. He looks completely unfazed by my aggression. I’m not used to that.
“Coffee?”
He spoons some granules into a mug without waiting for a reply and fills it with steaming water from the kettle. After a quick stir he puts it on the table next to the hot food that I’m still not looking at. I swallow the saliva gathering in my mouth.
“Where’s my taser?”
He leans back on the counter and nods across the room. I see the device sitting there and snatch it up.
“Better?”
No. Not even close. I hate the weapon in my hand – but better in my hand than his. He seems harmless enough, but that doesn’t mean I’m taking chances. I weigh it for a moment, thinking things through, then put it on the table and drop into a seat in front of the still-steaming plate. Food is fuel.
I grab the fork, spear a sausage, and take a bite, then another, barely pausing long enough to swallow. The food is good, and I’m running on empty. If the medic’s telling the truth and I passed out, then my glucose levels must be run right down. A bowl of cereal or some fruit would be better, but the taste of hot food is all I can think about. I’m famished.
“My name’s Ollie, by the way,” he says, taking a seat on the other side of the table. “What’s yours?”
I take another bite while I consider whether I want to answer the question.
“What time is it?” I ask, looking at the light filtering in through the window. If Ollie cares that I didn’t answer his question, he doesn’t show it.
“Almost nine. I didn’t want to wake you. You needed the sleep.”
“Why didn’t you wake me?”
Iain’s cooking breakfast, and I’m furious. I’m snapping at him, but it’s myself I’m angry with. Scott’s missing, captured by
Pearce, and I’d spent the entire morning in bed when I should have been out looking for witnesses.
“You needed the sleep. You were exhausted,” Iain says, cracking some eggs into a pan.
“No, I needed to be out speaking to the locals! Now how are we going to know if anyone saw anything? Scott could be–”
I blink rapidly and snap back into Ollie’s kitchen, but the dread remains in the pit of my stomach, twisting it and trying to reject the food. I swallow hard and force it to stay put. I’m going to need my strength to find Sc– No, to get away from Scott.
“How long have you been having flashbacks?”
I look up at Ollie sharply.
“What?”
“I’ve seen it before, I know the signs. You had one in the drop-in centre, too.”
“It’s not important.” I push my plate aside. “I can’t stay here.”
“No-one knows you’re here, if that’s what you’re worried about. Your attackers were still unconscious when we left – I checked them over. They’ll be fine. I’d say they’re not going to be bothering you again, though.”
“You’d be wrong,” I mutter. Whoever they work for, they’re not about to let me go that easily.
“I promise, you’re safe here.”
“Safe is a myth.”
And the fact he even believes safe exists proves just how far removed from my world he is. And should stay. I push myself up from the table, wincing slightly as the movement pulls on the latest batch of stitches in my shoulder.
“At least let me check your wounds again, then I’ll get you wherever you want to go.”
I slump back into the chair. There’s no telling when I’ll next have access to medical care. Might as well make the most of it.
Unleashed (TalentBorn Book 4) Page 11