Captive: Book Five in the Enhanced Series Read online

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Next Up - Renegade

  Captive

  The Enhanced, Book Five

  T. C. Edge

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Next Up - Renegade

  This book is a work of fiction. Any names, places, events, and incidents that occur are entirely a result of the author's imagination and any resemblance to real people, events, and places is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright 2016 T. C. Edge

  All right reserved.

  First edition: March 2017

  Cover Design by Laercio Messias

  No part of this book may be scanned, reproduced, or distributed in any printed or electronic form.

  THE ENHANCED SERIES:

  The Enhanced (Book One)

  Hybrid (Book Two)

  Nameless (Book Three)

  Assassin (Book Four)

  Captive (Book Five)

  OTHER BOOKS BY THE AUTHOR:

  THE WATCHERS SERIES:

  The Watchers Trilogy:

  The Watchers of Eden (Book One)

  City of Stone (Book Two)

  War at the Wall (Book Three)

  The Watchers Trilogy Box Set

  The Seekers Trilogy

  The Watcher Wars (Book One)

  The Seekers of Knight (Book Two)

  The Endless Knight

  The Seekers Trilogy Box Set

  1

  There’s a darkness here that not even my Hawk-eyes can penetrate. An unremitting gloom that gives so little shape to where I am.

  All I can make out are the blank features of the walls, surrounding me on each side. It’s a small space, a silence space. A space that could be anywhere.

  I don’t know where I am. In the High Tower? Somewhere else in Inner Haven? Outside of the city, perhaps at the REEF, waiting to have my fate revealed?

  I just don’t know…

  All I do know is that I’ve failed.

  Cromwell saw me coming, my plot discovered and revealed to him by Agent Woolf long before I’d managed to get her to my brother. And when I stepped out into that room on level 99, I walked straight into a trap.

  And now, everyone in the city is going to pay the penalty.

  I search my memories, and find them faded. There’s an ache to my head, a fatigue spreading through my limbs. They’re bound tight, my wrists fastened to the arms of a chair, my ankles to its legs.

  I can’t move. I can barely think. Everything in my body and head is dulled and blurred.

  The last waking moments I can remember are of Cromwell’s eyes, icy blue, searching me as a needle was jabbed into my arm, drugs sent through my blood. I’d lost consciousness immediately, tied to that chair up on level 99, my mind going blank and heart slowing to a crawl.

  And now, here I am, waking in this dark place, with no knowledge of how long I’ve been out, of where I am, of what truly lies in wait for me now.

  All I can do is consider the extent of my failure, a failure that will lead to so much death, so much suffering. I should have seen it coming, should have spent a bit of time searching through Woolf’s mind for the truth. I should have realised that it was too easy, that the path had been laid out before me, luring me into Cromwell’s lair.

  But then, there are others to blame here too. Others who made my job so difficult, set me this impossible task.

  Perhaps, in the end, this was always going to be the result. After all, how could I possibly contend with a man like Cromwell, a woman like Woolf? I’m just a girl of 18, new to all of this.

  I was always going to fail.

  Sitting there, stewing weakly on my fate, I think of Adryan. He’d have been waiting for my return in our apartment, nervously counting the seconds and minutes until the door knocked and we could escape this place together.

  But the door won’t have knocked. It will have been battered down, a force of Stalkers surging in to take him into custody. He’d have known then of my utter failure, of the failure of this plot, so long in the making.

  And now, what will become of him? This traitor to his people, this spy within their midst. Of all of us, he’ll be most vilified, a terrible fate of torture and death awaiting him.

  It’s a thought I can’t bear. I screw up my eyes and turn my mind from it, and more memoires come, further details of my final moments before that needle punctured my skin.

  I’d managed to get one of the Stalkers to try to shoot me dead. I’d done so purely to protect the information in my head from those who will now extract it. To keep that secret path to the underlands hidden, and all those complicit in this plot.

  He, like me, had failed. The other Stalker had dashed ahead of me to block the path of the bullet, taking it for himself. Bleeding to death, he’d only left us under the orders of his master. Without Cromwell’s command to get attention, he’d have stood there and let his body empty of blood.

  That is the extent to which the Director controls his people.

  Once the Stalker had left, I was left alone with the man I’d attempted to assassinate. He’d oozed out a few more details, told me about his huntress, Agent Woolf. How she’d been manipulating Adryan all along, mining his mind for details of what we were up to, before simply covering her tracks afterwards and deleting the memory of her presence.

  It was she who removed knowledge of the new gene testing directive from my husband’s mind. I’d been baffled as to why he didn’t know about it, why he hadn’t told me. Now, it makes so much sense. She’d merely eliminated it, forcing me into a situation where my powers would be tested.

  All along, she’d been toying with me, with us. She’d let it all play out, let me believe the mission would work, let us both get in so deep that we’d walk right into their trap.

  I think of the voice in my head, whispering the name of Rebecca to me, guiding me along the path. Was that her too? Had she fashioned some pathway into my mind, some manner of manipulating me from afar?

  Did she allow me this free rein of the High Tower so that I’d be lured into this false sense of security, give myself over to them willingly so that my mind can now be searched for all knowledge I have of the Nameless?

  All I can hope is that my telepathic words t
o Zander would have gotten through. I’d shut my eyes tight in that room, and projected those simple words to his consciousness.

  Forgive me, Zander.

  I’ve failed.

  I didn’t hear a reply. I’d been too distracted by Cromwell’s revelations about Woolf, and of the sound of the lift clicking open behind me, and the footsteps that came towards me, and of the needle being stuck into my arm.

  Yet whether he heard me or not, my failure will be quickly discovered. And now, I pray that they’re already moving from the caves and caverns they’ve settled in. I pray that they have some contingency for when their underground city is discovered.

  A means, perhaps, of blocking any entrances and relocating somewhere safe. Or quickly migrating beyond the reach of the Stalkers and Con-Cops once more.

  As yet, they can’t know of the secret tunnel into the underlands that I know of. As yet, they haven’t looked into my thoughts.

  At least, I hope they haven’t.

  Because, truly, my faith has been shaken in my powers, and the trust I give my own knowledge, my own memories. For all I know, they might have been extracting every single relevant memory from my mind for days, only to cover their tracks as Agent Woolf did with Adryan.

  How can I truly know? Perhaps I’ve been here for weeks? Perhaps the northern reaches of the underlands have already been attacked? Perhaps the likes of Sophie and Rycard, and Mrs Carmichael and Tess, and Adryan and Zander, are already dead?

  Perhaps my failure is more total than I know?

  Because, in the end, how can I know? How can I trust my own thoughts and recollections when there are people who can remove them, or hide them, or muddy them to such an extent that they become so indistinguishable?

  All I can do is utilise my own abilities, place some trust in my own powers. And so, sitting there in that dark, silent place, I shut my eyes again and try to search my own cognition. Try to examine the darkest recesses where any concealed memories might be kept.

  And as I do, I feel that pain in my head rise up, that ache growing more acute.

  It’s so severe that it stops me, prevents me from being able to search my memory bank, or speak to Zander, or do anything more than think of the dreadful fate that awaits us all.

  The drug within me, I know, will be suppressing my powers. Weakening my ability to resist when they sift through and and search my mind. And my Hawk-eyes too offer further proof, the blackness of the room calling those powers into question, my many gifts blunted and dulled.

  So all I can do is sit here and wait. Wait for someone to come, to give some context to my plight. And when that happens, I can only pray that, somewhere out there, the fight goes on.

  And that, despite my failure, the Nameless have a plan B to turn to.

  2

  Amid such a deep silence, the tiniest of sounds make an impact.

  The thudding of a heart can sound like a pounding drum. The intake of a slow breath can be as loud as a gust of stormy wind. The blinking of an eye can mimic the shutting of a camera lens.

  Right now, with my ears being accosted by the noisy, natural sounds of my body, a fresh assault batters its way into my head.

  Footsteps.

  They’re light, tapping away. Too light for me to hear were it not so quiet. But it is, and I can, the footfall getting nearer until the blank wall to my cell suddenly opens up.

  In the darkness, a sudden burst of light attacks me, the doorway into the room becoming visible as the radiant, white deluge pours in. I shut my eyes, unable to shield them with my bound hands, and turn away as the door quickly shuts and casts the room into darkness once more.

  I open my eyes again, and still see the little dots of white flickered amid the black, searching for the new entrant.

  “Who is it?!” I mumble. “Who’s there?!”

  I turn my eyes left and right, my chest drumming louder, and then see the outline of a shadow, hidden against the wall ahead. The shadow takes shape in the dark, forming into a man. And from that man, a deep voice flows, smooth and calm.

  “You know who it is, Brie,” says Cromwell, standing still before me in the pitch black. Then, he says: “Lights,” and the room begins to glow, slowly growing brighter as I shut my eyes once more.

  I creep the lids open, widening them bit-by-bit to ease the passage of light inside. And gradually, the form of my enemy reveals itself, equally as bright, his white suit always as pure as a newborn baby’s laugh.

  Into those eyes of blue ice I look, across the half-crinkled, half-youthful visage that stares straight back. He offers little expression, studying me in a manner that reminds me a little of my husband.

  My husband…who’s probably dead.

  The thought brings my voice to life.

  “Where’s Adryan?” is the first question I ask.

  I wonder, oh so briefly, if I’ve asked that question before. If my memories have been erased or hidden, perhaps floating somewhere in the depths of me that, right now, with these drugs in my system, I cannot explore.

  He doesn’t react in any fashion, but just stares right at me. Then, after a moment, he answers.

  “He’s here,” he says quietly. “In another room.”

  My heart blooms a little, providing me with some false hope, inadvisable in such a place, such a time. A hope that can’t possible lead anywhere. Adryan will, whether today or tomorrow or a week from now, be killed. His current location, so close to me here, isn’t relevant.

  “Is he safe?” I ask weakly. “Have you…hurt him?”

  I watch as Cromwell’s head refuses to nod, or shake, or offer any signal beyond his words. There’s no way to read his body language, no way for me to know if he’s lying or telling the truth. All I can go on is what he tells me.

  And right now, all he says is: “He’s alive.”

  I suppose it’s foolish for me to expect anything more. Foolish to give voice to any hope that he’ll make it out of here intact, wherever we happen to be. He won’t. I won’t. We are nothing but pawns in a greater game.

  And our part is done.

  Yet, a new question forms as my thoughts tumble. Cromwell is here. Does that mean I’m in the High Tower still? Would he have journeyed beyond it just to see me? Or is it merely hours after our last meeting? Has it only been such a short period of time since he sprung his trap?

  I have little to go on. There’s no thirst to me, no hunger. I don’t feel as if any time has progressed beyond mere hours. Maybe my mind hasn’t yet been explored. Maybe there is still some hope that Zander has been given some warning of the inevitable assault to come.

  I decide to ask.

  “How long have I been here?” comes my croaky voice.

  “Not long,” comes the swift and ambiguous reply.

  “Where am I?” is my next question.

  “Where do you think you are?” retorts Cromwell.

  I search his eyes and still see no change in him.

  “The High Tower,” I say. “I’m still in the High Tower.”

  Now, the tiniest of changes: a smile, thin and knowing.

  “That’s right, Brie. You’re still here.”

  He begins to move now as he speaks, his form like a block of ice, thawing and melting as it glides towards me. He veers to the right, slowly walking around my back, taking his time before returning in front of me.

  I don’t know why he does it. Whether to delay or intimidate, I can’t tell. I suppose it doesn’t matter either way. I have no control here.

  “How do you feel, Brie,” he asks, still moving in front of me, walking slowly back to the wall. He turns and looks upon me, his eyes taking in my full form.

  I have on idea how to answer the question. Physically, I feel weak, drained of life. Mentally, I feel shot, emotional, desperate. And yet, there’s a cold detachment in me too, knowing what will happen to me. Knowing that I have no control over proceedings.

  In some strange, warped, sense, having no control is liberating. Soon enough, I’ll be de
ad, and then all of this will be over. A part of me longs for that, longs for some finality to it all.

  Yet, the concoction of emotions inside me is so utterly confusing. One moment, I’ll feel numb and uncaring. The next, as thoughts of my friends and family come, I’ll feel like crying and screaming and begging for some sort of mercy.

  And so, no answer falls from my lips. I just sit and stare and let him come to his own conclusion.

  He obliges, nodding subtly, and then slowly reaches into his jacket pocket. And as his fingers withdraw, they bring with it a small piece of card that is so familiar to me.

  Opening it up, he looks down upon the image, and then back up at me.

  “This is your inspiration, is it?” he asks coolly. “You’re doing this because of your parents?”

  The mention of them brings one side of me alive. The side that still wishes to live, wishes to know the truth. The side that will resist to the end my inevitable fate.

  “What do you know about them?” I plead. “Who was my mother? Tell me that, at least…”

  I stare at him, open-eyed, and watch as he looks upon the faces of my parents once more. He folds the card, shutting away my hope.

  “You think I know?” he says. “I don’t. I don’t recognise either of them. I can see you wish to know the truth, but I don’t have it, Brie. Yet I do find it quite…funny…how you grew up under the guardianship of someone else, some foster parent, just like how all Savants do. You see, you’re not so unlike us, are you?”

  “I’m nothing like you,” I bite. “You’re a murderer, a genocidal tyrant. You don’t value life. You don’t even understand it!”

  “Oh, how wrong you are. I understand life better than you do, better than anyone. I understand the true tenets of life, and its true meaning.”

  “Enlighten me, Director,” I growl, watching as his face brightens a little.

  He steps a foot closer, until he’s looking down on me from a greater height.

  “Life, Brie, is about strength. The weak perish, and the strong rise. Evolution has brought us to this point. I am merely speeding it along.”