Cut and Run

Chapter One

Chapter One

Jason Chastain

Jason came to in a whole world of pain. He stopped himself from letting out the grunts and moans he wanted to voice, instead clenching his fists as hard as he could in a silent attempt to release some of his agony, frustration and anger. No way did he want the fuckers who’d taken him to know he was conscious. Much better they believed he was still out cold and therefore no threat to them whatsoever.

In reality, he was very dangerous indeed. Particularly since acquiring his newfound… ability. He could be rid of his bindings, the black hood over his head and the gag stuffed into his mouth with the most miniscule amount of effort. All he’d have to do was phase through them. But that would show his hand in a major way, and the whole point of allowing himself to be abducted had been to get inside the group’s HQ, find out who they were, what they were up to and, more importantly, just what they planned to do with Kim and the ygrene—all without them suspecting he was anything other than some random bloke. To do that, he needed to stay calm and quiet. If the goons thought he was still out for the count, they’d talk, and it would only be a matter of time before someone let something slip, something Jason could use to his advantage.

Firstly, it’d come in handy to know how many people were around, what sort of room he was being held in, and whether he was ever left alone. With that information in his arsenal, he could start to formulate a plan.

He remained still, silent, keeping his breathing slow and deep, which had the double bonuses of making it appear he remained unconscious if there was anyone with him, and allowing him to hone his senses more easily. Obviously with the hood he couldn’t see a damn thing, but he could feel, hear and smell. The first thing he realised, to his immense relief, was that he was still fully clothed—including shoes. Thank God for that. That’ll certainly make getting home much easier, once I’m done here. He moved on to his other senses. To begin with, he didn’t pick up anything beyond the sound of his own breathing and heartbeat, and the musty stench of the hood itself, but he drew on all his training and experience to push past that and reach for what was beyond.

No human sounds—no breathing, shuffling, coughing, sniffing, talking. Which either meant he was alone, or with someone extremely quiet. No one’s that quiet. He suspected the former, leading him to believe he was in an incredibly secure room, likely part of a bigger complex. If he was in some ramshackle garage on an industrial estate somewhere, there’d be bods right there ensuring he didn’t break out through some weakness in the structure itself—if he could get out of his bonds, that was. If only they knew.

He risked a sigh. So much for someone letting something slip in my earshot. There’s no fucker here.

In the past, the idea of being caged, alone, in an incredibly secure room would have concerned him, made him long for the ramshackle garage and the bods—easy prey for someone with his background. But now, even a steel box couldn’t contain him. He hadn’t yet tested the theory, but he suspected that not even metres and metres of reinforced concrete would hold him hostage. Yes, it’d slow him down, and escaping it wouldn’t be the most pleasant of experiences, but it was probably achievable.

He turned his attention to smell. After the pongy hood and gag, most obvious were his own body odour and the tang of blood—also his own, he suspected—but otherwise, zilch. Nada. He frowned. What kind of room or building was so… sterile?

He took another deep, slow breath. Even the air itself seemed clean. Not the pure freshness one would get from being outside or next to an open window; more like from air conditioning. With that thought in mind, he listened harder and… yes, unless he was mistaken, there was the gentle, regular hum of a system which circulated air.

He frowned. So he was in some kind of sterile environment with air conditioning? A hospital, or lab of some kind? Despite his extremely low opinion of the muppets who’d fallen into his trap and swiped him from the Greenwich street outside Kim’s house, they clearly worked for someone with resources.

But the question was, did those resources extend to having eyes and ears of the technological kind on him? That would be a problem, because although he could phase his way out of here at the drop of a hat, if his escape was caught on video, that was proof of what he could do. And, even if it got out to the wider public and he somehow managed to say the footage had been made up, manipulated somehow… well, there was no smoke without fire, was there? He’d have something he’d never wanted, something he definitely didn’t want now: attention.

No, he needed to exit this room with the minimum of fuss, find the information he’d come for, then get far, far away from here while he figured out what to do next. And the sooner he could do that, the better, because the longer he was out of reach, the more likely it would be that Smith and the others would notice—and come looking for him. Admittedly, this objective would have been much quicker and easier to achieve with help from the others, especially taking into consideration their new abilities, but the more people who were involved, the more dangerous things became, and worse, the more noticeable things became. It was going to be enough of a challenge for him to keep his ability under wraps, but throw in three more people and it’d be nigh-on impossible.

Three? Who was he kidding? He snorted. If the others figured out something was wrong and came looking for him, he’d bet his last pound Kim would be right there beside them, particularly since this whole situation had ultimately come about because of her and her discovery of the ygrene. No way would she sit around waiting to hear what had happened—she’d be right there in the thick of it, despite not being his biggest fan.

Infuriating bloody woman.

He let out a sigh of frustration. How she was managing to annoy him when she was hundreds of miles away was anyone’s guess. He needed to put her—and Smith and Jota—out of his mind and concentrate on the here and now. One thing at a time. First, how was he going to find out whether there was a camera trained on him? He couldn’t hear or smell that.

Phasing through the hood, just enough to allow him to see, was a possibility, but if there was a camera and it was pointed directly at his face, it would provide a view of exactly what he was up to. Unless he did it so fast that, even if someone noticed, it could be explained away as some kind of weird glitch. Like a flicker? Crossed signals? A ghost in the machine?

After a minute or two of pondering, he came to the conclusion he was overthinking it. Why use his ability at all, when an old school method was just fine? If he could get the material of the hood between his teeth, he could eventually work it up and over his head—maybe even bite a hole in it, if it was thin or worn enough.

Trouble was, to get anything between his teeth, he needed to ditch the gag first. Unfortunately, whoever had put it on him had done a good enough job that he couldn’t just spit it out, or work it down over his jaw—it was wedged too tightly. Looks like I’m going to have to cheat a bit, after all. At least no one, not even a camera, can see me do it.

He took a breath, then phased carefully—it was a good job he’d been practising—so only the material at the front of the gag was affected. Gravity caused it to flop benignly onto his collarbone. Hopefully the hood was long enough that the now-dislodged gag wouldn’t be visible. If anyone was watching, he didn’t want them to be tipped off that something was up.

Next, he fidgeted around enough to ascertain where he had the most play in mobility. The chair he was bound to was solid, metal, by the sounds it made scraping on the—concrete?—floor as he moved. His wrists were tied individually to the struts joining the chair back to its seat, meaning he could tilt from side to side a fair amount. Perfect. All he had to do was lean to one side as far as he could manage, then begin inching the hood off. Eventually its weight, gravity and a shake of his head would work together and it’d fall to the floor, leaving him able to see. As long as no one had burst into the room by then and smacked him around some more, that was.

He was in no rush to get a further beating—he was still in agony from the last one, and only planning his next move was distracting him from the discomfort—but he had to risk it, otherwise he’d just sit here until his captors—or, more realistically, their boss—decided what to do with him. And who knew how long that would take. They didn’t know a thing about him—who he was, what he wanted, what he was capable of. And until they knew that, it was unlikely they’d act. They were probably scrambling around right now, trying to put together a plan to extract information from the man they’d ‘caught’ loitering near Kim’s home. For all they knew, he’d been casing the joint—they hadn’t a clue of any link between him and Kim, so for now he wasn’t in mortal danger.

He took another deep breath and tipped to his right, then let his head loll as far over to the right as possible. If he was displayed on a screen somewhere, they’d probably—hopefully—think he was trying to get comfortable or easing out some kinks in his muscles. He stayed still for a minute or so. Anyone who might be watching would likely be bored now, confident all he was doing was fidgeting, adjusting his position. If they’d been suspicious, someone would have turned up by now.

His confidence bolstered, Jason put his plan into action. He tilted his head until gravity presented him with some of the hood’s material close enough to his mouth to take it in his teeth. He grabbed it and got to work, soon falling into a repetitive bite, shove, bite, shove rhythm that slowly but surely inched the material towards the top of his head. By the time it slipped off and landed with a soft thwap on the floor, he’d added jaw and neck ache to his list of physical complaints. But at least he could see now—thank God!

With a sigh of relief, he eased himself into an upright position and squinted at his surroundings. The overwhelming sensation to start with was one of whiteness. It was almost blinding—not helped by the fact he’d had his eyes closed and a hood over his head for who knew how long. He blinked a couple of times and waited for his eyes to adjust. Then he peered around. Huh. Not the shittiest place I’ve ever been imprisoned in.

The room looked as sterile as it smelt—all white-painted walls, floor and ceiling. A sturdy metal door with a porthole and an ominous-looking drainage grate in the middle of the floor finished it off. The air conditioning pumped in through a vent in the ceiling, which was dotted with recessed lights and, unless there was a hidden camera, which he highly doubted—because why would you even bother to hide the fact you were keeping an eye on someone in a place like this?—that was it. Apparently his captors were confident enough in his bonds and the thickness of the door that the occasional peek through the porthole in the door was sufficient.

He tutted and shook his head. All that messing about for nothing. I could have just phased out of the lot. f*****g amateurs. Even before he had his ability, he’d have found his way out of here. It might have taken quite a while and possibly involved some violence, but he’d have managed it.

Now, though, it was a piece of piss. Particularly since no one was watching. They’d be so confused when they found him gone.

With a grin, Jason phased through his remaining bonds, then got slowly to his feet and spent a couple of minutes stretching out his tight muscles. Even his arse was numb. He’d been stuck in that chair so long he’d have felt like s**t even without the beating, and his next task meant moving fast was a necessity, so the last thing he wanted was to cramp up. Better to take the time now than pay for it later and end up back at square one. In the hopes it would add further confusion to the scenario when his disappearance was noticed, he undid the material they’d used as a gag from around his neck and dropped it on top of the hood, then removed the bonds from the struts of the chair and added those to the pile, too. That way, they’d likely think someone had helped him to escape. The more interference he could run, the better.

That done, he scooted to the door and carefully peeked through the porthole to see a narrow corridor. He moved from one edge of the glass to the other, making sure there wasn’t someone there who was out of sight. He was certain there wasn’t, but he waited a moment, listening carefully for any signs of life. Hearing none, he straightened his spine and prepared himself to phase. As something occurred to him, he paused, then glanced down at the door handle. He could try it—perhaps by some freak of nature it wasn’t locked. Maybe his captors really were that cocky. Not wanting to risk leaving fingerprints, even partials, he pulled his sleeve down over his hand and pushed the handle. Locked. Okay, not that cocky then.

Jason shrugged. He’d guessed that would be the case, but it’d have been stupider not to try.

He found himself wondering if they’d fingerprinted him in an attempt to identify him. There was no ink on his hands, but there were modern methods which left no trace. Plus, there was a chance they could have got some prints from his watch, or could do in future if they hadn’t considered it already. If they had, it wouldn’t help in terms of finding out who he was—his military record deliberately didn’t contain that detail, and he’d had no run-ins with the law—but him leaving more prints behind in this place would give them clues, evidence, as to where he’d been and what he’d been up to. It was better not to touch anything if possible—and if he did, he’d wipe it down afterwards. With that thought, he turned, covered his hand with his sleeve again and rubbed vigorously at the chair, just in case he’d left any partials. Unlikely, but not impossible.

Satisfied, he moved back to the door. He was about to step through when he heard something, and froze. Another glance through the porthole showed nothing. He closed his eyes and poured his concentration into what he could hear—a hum of some kind, rhythmic. Growing louder all the time. A vacuum cleaner? One of those floor polishing machines? He quickly discounted both possibilities when the sound grew louder still. He opened his eyes and peered through the door again. No one around.

Suddenly, the noise flicked a switch in his brain. A plane. Low, too. So I’m near an airport, then. But which bloody one?

It wasn’t immediately relevant, so he filed the new information away, waited for the hum and the roar of engines to dissipate, then phased through the door and into the corridor beyond. Empty.

Out here was much the same as the room he’d just left—lots of white nothingness, recessed lights, the low hum of air con. Even better, still no cameras. Either there were other means of security which he’d not come across yet, there was nothing worth securing, or the employees and any visitors were incredibly trustworthy.

It was time to find out. Not that he knew what the damn time was—his captors had taken his watch before they’d laid into him, and since there were no windows to the outside world, he had no idea if it was day or night. Maybe it was the latter, hence the lack of personnel. Though the lights were on—but then, businesses seemed to leave lights on 24/7 for some idiotic reason, whether anyone was in the building or not, so that was no help.

He frowned. Did they even have any personnel? What the f**k was this place? Other than a white, hellish nightmare. He scrubbed at his beard as he considered which way to go, where to start searching. He needed to get as far as humanly possible—or was it superhumanly? He shook his head and pushed the idea away—before he was discovered, gather as much intelligence as he could. That was the best way to help Kim. She needed time and space to study the ygrene and get everything worked out, and she couldn’t do that with the threat of the goons—and their employer—hanging over her. If he took care of this, got rid of this threat, she could research in peace and safety.

A very human signal temporarily changed his priorities. Pee first, then search.

There was an identical door a few paces to his right on the opposite side of the corridor. It was as good a place to start as any. He approached, then peered through the porthole. Mercifully, the room was empty of people, but contained more than the one he’d been imprisoned in. One wall was covered in banks of monitors. He squinted, hoping to see the images on the monitors better, before realising how moronic that was. If he wanted a closer look, all he had to do was, well, get closer. I’m such a t**t.

He phased into the room, shaking his head at his own idiocy, then at the irony of the fact that what appeared to be some kind of security office had nobody in it. What good was CCTV without someone there to keep an eye on it? But then it was entirely possible the camera feeds were accessible from more than one place—even a phone—so perhaps that was no indication.

Facing the wall of screens, Jason peered at each one in turn. Almost immediately, he came to an odd conclusion—they’re all captures of outside. He checked again, in case each monitor flicked through various camera feeds. But no, they were all static, all showing points on the outside of the building. He presumed it was this building, but he wasn’t sure of anything anymore. Nothing in this place seemed to be what he expected, which only served to put him even more on edge than he already was. Was it possible the goons had identified him somehow, and were now leading him into some kind of trap?

No. He shook his head. Now he was being utterly paranoid. Even if they’d found out who he was, they couldn’t possibly know anything about what he’d been up to for the past few days, and they certainly didn’t know about his new ability. The most they’d have gleaned from a background check would be his former career—which he supposed could potentially have provided them with a link between him and Kim, albeit one that wouldn’t bear fruit, since they hadn’t known each other then—and his current job. So yes, they’d know he was more than capable of looking after himself and getting himself out of tricky situations, but unless he’d had some kind of lock-picking kit on his person that they hadn’t found when they’d searched him, the most he could have achieved was to get loose from the chair—and without his ability, he’d still be busy attempting that right now.

He peered at the screens for a little while longer. Naturally, they were no use whatsoever in terms of telling him what the building was, what it was used for, who was inside it, but he was hoping the exterior view might give a hint as to where it was—since knowing it was near an airport didn’t narrow things down that much. Anything, even a crumb of a hint, would be helpful.

But there was nothing, aside from he now knew there weren’t any security guards patrolling the grounds, and that it was night time—or at least it was fairly dark outside, anyway. The exterior seemed to be as nondescript as the interior—there wasn’t even any sort of signage. It was simply devoid of anything identifying whatsoever, which set off alarm bells for Jason. This nothing, nowhere place seemed to be operating under the most ridiculous level of anonymity and secrecy—and this was coming from a man well used to classified, need-to-know-only missions. He raised his eyebrows as the realisation sunk in. That was why there were no cameras inside—whatever this building was, whatever happened here, they didn’t even want the security personnel to know about it. Wherever the hell they were.

His heart sunk. That couldn’t possibly be good news. People and organisations with resources could be dangerous enough—but people and organisations with resources and secrets were downright lethal.

All the more reason to find out who these fuckers were, and why they’d been watching Kim. But first, he really needed to find that bathroom.