Recoil (24 page)

He stared at me for a long
moment. In the dark, I couldn’t see the expression in his eyes, but I felt his
fingers gently touch the cut on my cheek, trace my lips, as if he was
memorizing my face.

“When you’re over the fence,
hit the ground running, and keep running. I’ll be right behind you,” I said.

“So you’re coming with me?”
His tone was unmistakably reluctant.

Until that very moment, I’d
just assumed we’d flee together. I had nowhere else to go. I could hardly head
for home, and surely his brother’s secret organization must have a safe house
somewhere? I wanted a chance to explain what had happened today, to make him
understand, perhaps even to help rescue Connor. But it was such a lukewarm,
halfhearted invitation that every fiber in my being recoiled from accepting it.

“Screw you, Quinn
O’Riley
!” He could take his half-assed, unenthusiastic
offer and shove it up his rebel ass. “The safest place you could be is with me.
You may not believe it, but you need me much more than I need you. You’re going
to have a posse of trained spooks and shooters on your tail, and you don’t even
know how to hold a gun, let alone shoot one. Good luck out there.”

“I’m not helpless,” he
snapped.

“Right. Whatever. Just go
already.”

When he hesitated, I said
again, “Just go!”

“How do I know you won’t raise
the alarm as soon as I move? And send the pack of ratters after me? Or follow
me yourself so you can tell them where I am? Like you did today.”

“You don’t know. But you’re
the one holding the gun. So if you really don’t trust me, shoot me now.” I was
out of patience.

“I guess I don’t have a
choice.”

For a second I thought he
meant he’d have to shoot me. But then, without a word, he turned and sprinted
off. I watched as he ran into the night, away from the building, away from me.

I shook off my aching daze and
set off after him at a different angle, so I’d hit the fence at a different
spot — doubling the target, halving the odds of being hit. I was still about
twenty-five meters from the fence when I heard the generators fire up. Lights
flooded the compound in white brilliance. I ducked behind the inadequate
protection of a slatted bench beside a potted tree.

A glance to the side confirmed
that Quinn was on the other side of the fence, clinging to the mesh with the
gun still held awkwardly in one hand. He’d cleared the electrified strands at
the top while the power was out, but was now still about four meters off the
ground, frozen in place. Clearly visible in the wash of light. At any moment,
one of the guards in the security huts would see him. If Quinn moved, it would
be sure to attract their attention.

The guard with the binoculars
switched on a massive spotlight. I followed with my gaze as he began sweeping
it slowly across the compound building, pausing on the shattered first-floor
window.

I stared at the ASTA building
behind me. Bright light shone from its sealed windows. Inside the security
cameras would once again be rolling. Even now,
Sarge
and Fiona and maybe even Roth would be searching for me. Compiling questions
for their Angel of Death. I could make up a story about how Quinn had
overpowered Bruce, compelled me to take out the power, forced me out the
window, threatened to kill me or take me as a hostage.

Maybe they’d believe me and
maybe they wouldn’t. If they didn’t, I’d be the one tied to the chair in that
room, with a sack over my head and fists pounding down on me. If they did, I’d
be sent straight back to shooting. No way would they allow me to leave now. I’d
have come full circle.

I turned my head to stare at
the fence and allowed my gaze to reach into the darkness beyond. Freedom lay on
the other side of that fence. Danger, yes, but also freedom. A chance to see my
family again. And Quinn. Could I make it? In seconds, I ran through various
scenarios in my head.

The current was sure to be
pulsing through the strands of electric fencing again, so I’d have to figure a
way around that. I didn’t think my thin polka-dot pattern latex gloves would
give me any protection at all. My mind raced through the options as the
spotlight’s bright beam slid down the wall of the building and crept across the
grounds of the compound.

If I’d only thought to bring
along Bruce’s
multitool
, I might have been able to
make it to the fence and use it to cause a short in the circuit of electric
fencing. But there was no way to go back now without being seen.

Maybe I could try creeping
across to the base of one of the guard towers, climbing up to the hut,
overpowering the guard somehow and leaping to the ground beyond the fence off
the back of the hut, bypassing the electrified lines that way?

But even as I weighed that possibility,
the moving spotlight stole inexorably towards the fence where Quinn still clung
like a paralyzed monkey. One moment more and it would find him, illuminate his
outline and contrast, highlight the shine of his weapon.

Another choice that wasn’t really
a choice.

I stood up, thrust my hands up
into the air and began shouting. The spotlight swung back to pin me in a circle
of cold light.

“Help!” I screamed, as loudly
and as shrilly as I could, drawing all attention to me. “Help me!” I waved my
arms over my head.

A trio of armed guards stormed
up to me.

“On the ground! On the
ground!” they yelled. “Hands behind your head!”

I stretched out on my front in
the dirt, laced my hands behind my head and turned my face so that I could fix
my sniper’s eye on the darkness beyond the fence. In the distance, I saw the
faintest flash of motion. My pirate needed just a little more time.

Thrashing about on the ground,
I struggled as if about to rise, and screamed hysterically.

A punch of pain to the side of
my head. A pop of light behind my eyes. I fought the blossoming darkness,
squinted at the fence. Nothing. No one. Quinn was free.

My words came out as a mumble
past the smile that twisted my mouth.
           

“What’s that you say?” a guard
shouted down at me.

I lay in the dirt. Stones
pressed into the softness of my cheek, and fear contracted my gut. My right
hand was trapped beneath my chest, and I pushed down onto it, so that my
fingers could trace the circle of Quinn’s silver earring beneath the soft
fabric of
the awful dress.

Circles never end.

“Failure —
s’not
an option,” I
repeated. “I will not quit.”

End of Book I

Jinxy’s
story continues in Book 2 of the series,
Refuse
,
which is now available on pre-order
here
. Check out
the first chapter of
Refuse
at the end of this book!

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Acknowledgements

I would like to thank all my
wonderful beta-readers for their invaluable help and feedback, and express my
special gratitude to James Bristow of Magnum Shooting Academy for his patient
advice on weapons and shooting — any mistakes are on me!

REFUSE

(Book Two)

Chapter 1

Eyes Open

When I open my eyes, I am blindfolded, traveling in a vehicle,
with my hands tightly bound together and lying in my lap.

I know that my hands are tied because when I try to rub at the
tickle of something trickling down the side of my face, both hands move
together. They must be secured to something else as well, because I can only
lift them as far as my chest before some restraint kicks in. I yank hard, but
it holds firm.

I know that I am in a vehicle of some kind because I hear the
engine and feel my body lurch against the seatbelt when it accelerates and brakes.

I know I am blindfolded because I can feel my eyelashes brush
against something as I blink, and even though my eyes are open, everything is
still dark and unfathomable.

Kind of like my life.

I have never seen clearly, never fully grasped what is actually
happening, even when it is happening in full view and all around me. I have
been like a mushroom — kept well and truly in the dark and fed a load of crap.
About my father, about ASTA, about Quinn.

The tickling sensation continues. It must be blood still oozing
from the place where the guard hit my head. The fog clouding my brain begins to
dissolve, only to be replaced by a throbbing headache.

“Hullo?” My voice is hoarse in my dry throat.

No answer.

I am not alone in this car or van. I can sense the presence, just
about hear the breathing, of someone sitting to my left. I am totally alone,
though, in my predicament. I helped Quinn escape, but it came at the price of
my own capture, and I suspect that things are about to get rough.

At the thought of what I know must lie ahead, my heart kicks into
a faster rhythm, and a flush of adrenalin tingles through my fingers. I am not
brave, just an ace with a virtual reality gaming console and a highly skilled
expert with a sniper’s rifle. But I have no rifle now. No rifle, no
tranquilizer dart gun, not even a freaking pea-shooter. I will need to use my
brain to get through the next few hours. Or days. Weeks? I swallow hard. I am
more thirsty than I can ever remember being.

“Can I have some water?”

More silence.

“Please?” It can’t hurt to try the magic word.

“Shut up,” says a voice to my left. It is deep, male and
completely unfamiliar to me. “We’ll let you know when we want you to talk.”

A bubble of fear releases itself from somewhere deep in the pit
of my stomach and begins to rise up into my chest. I fight against it. I need
to stay calm and clearheaded, concentrating on the present moment rather than
on some possibly painful near future. And the skill of staying focused is one I
have in spades. Accurate marksmanship was not the only skill that we sniping
cadets were trained in by our instructors at ASTA — The Advanced Skills
Training Academy of the Southern Sector. I force myself to slow my breathing,
pursing my lips as I exhale to allow the air to trickle out gradually. Within a
minute, my heart rate steadies.

I shift my attention to my senses, determined to register any
details I can about this journey and our destination. At the Academy, the
cadets in our unit were also trained to be exceptional observers, drilled to
notice and memorize details. It’s time to kick that aspect of my instruction
into gear.

The vehicle slows, turns, moves forward more slowly — down a
driveway? — turns again, and then stops. The engine is turned off. Silence. The
click of a seatbelt clasp and then I am yanked forward.

“Where are we?” I ask.

“Duck,” says the voice.

A hand presses against the top of my head — I guess to prevent me
banging it as I stumble out. So they do not want me hurt. Not yet. All pain
will be inflicted deliberately and intentionally at the right time and for the
purpose of extracting maximum information from me.

I drag my thoughts back to the present, force myself to
concentrate on the details of our walk. Gravel crunches underfoot, then my feet
are on a smoother surface — paving? I scan my senses. I can smell the sharp
scent of male aftershave or deodorant coming off my captor, but nothing beyond
that. The air is cool on my face, and I don’t hear birds calling, so it’s
probably still night then.

“Four steps up,” says the man.

I make out the sound of a big car or truck somewhere not too
distant. I reckon we must still be in the city, off the street, perhaps at the
back entrance to some building where no one will see or wonder at the
appearance of a sixteen-year-old girl with long blond hair tied up in a
ponytail; wearing a pink dress, a blindfold and restraints; and being hauled,
stumbling, up a set of stairs.

“Where are you taking me? Who are you?”

Aftershave says nothing, just shoves me through what must be a
doorway, banging my arms against its narrow frame.

“We need to take her straight up. They’re already waiting.” A new
voice, female.

I distinguish two sets of footsteps, apart from my own, clicking
against the floor — marble or tiles, judging from the hard, smooth surface —
and echoing through the open space. Are we in a foyer?

It occurs to me that we haven’t passed through a decontamination
unit. Then I register, belatedly, that I am not wearing a respirator and,
judging from the fact that the man’s voice does not sound at all muffled,
neither is my escort. According to President Hawke’s government, the Rat Fever
virus supposedly lies in wait, patient as death, on surfaces and in the air,
ready to infect and reduce its human victims to gibbering, hemorrhagic bags of
pus and blood. But we are not wearing even the most basic of protective masks.

We cross the open space and wait for a few moments, and then a
chime sounds the arrival of an elevator. Three paces inside. The doors swish
closed behind us, and I am spun around. Going up, three soft pings for three
floors.

Already I am noting our route and committing it to memory,
forming a picture in my mind’s eye of our course through the building. The
doors open, and I am tugged forward. Left on exit, twenty-one paces, right
turn, a long walk of fifty paces, another right, seventeen paces, left, thirty
paces and then we halt. I use the pause to memorize the route — L21, R50, R17,
L30.

I hear a door open to my left, and I am pushed inside and onto a
chair. Something fastens around my waist, tying me in place. A brief tug of
hair at the back of my head and the blindfold is pulled off my eyes.

“Where am I?” I demand,
squinching
my
eyes against the sudden brightness. My only answer is the sound of a slamming
door and a clicking lock.

It is several moments before my eyes grow accustomed to the light
and I can look around. It takes only one swift glance for me to know where I
am. I have seen a room like this before. Was it just last night that I sat
beside Quinn on my bed in my quarters at ASTA — my heart full of hope about the
two of us, my head full of doubts about everything he had just told me — and
stared with growing horror at the illicitly obtained video footage on the
screen of his phone? I watched as a man I had immobilized with a tranquilizer
dart was questioned and tortured in a room just like this. Perhaps it was this
very room.

Now I am the one sitting under a bright light, on a steel chair
bolted to the floor, in the center of an interrogation room.

Now I am the one about to be interrogated.