Caged (Talented Saga) (2 page)

“And you consider me a trusted Operative,” I teased, trying to lighten the mood. “I feel so special.”

“No need for sarcasm, Natalia. But yes, I am confident that you are not the leak,” he answered.

“Why do you want me investigating at the School?”
I asked, a little confused.

“Here and Elite Headquarters contain the Agency’s only Crypto Banks as you know.
There are two possible scenarios for how Crane got his information. The leak theory would mean that an individual obtained access to your assignment information and sold that information to the Coalition. The other theory is that we have a Coalition spy working in our ranks. Even in that scenario, the individual would still have needed your mission specifics, and the only way, to do that would be by hacking the records in the Crypto Bank or bribing a Crypto to do so. If there was a bribe that would mean we have several traitors in our midst.”

“Why me?
Why my records?” I asked with alarm. If Mac was right, wouldn’t it have been more advantageous to leak large batches of information? Or Hunting missions where whole teams could be captured or killed instead of just one Operative? And I hadn’t even been an Operative when I went on my solo mission; I’d been a Pledge.

“Most likely because you were going after Crane directly,” he answered.

He had been making eye-contact with me up until this point, but averted his eyes when he spoke now. He was either lying or at least only telling me part of his theory. I didn’t press the issue this time. If Mac wanted to give me an assignment, I was happy to take it.

“I see.
I suppose this is an unofficial mission?” I asked.

“Yes that would be best.
I don’t want to cause panic within the Agency or tip-off the potential spy by launching a full-out open investigation,” he confirmed, meeting my gaze again.

“When do I start?”
I asked, with a confidence I didn’t feel.

“Tomorrow.
You will be posing as an Assistant Instructor, which includes living in Instructor housing. I’ve taken the liberty of matching you with several individuals who raised red flags in our preliminary search. By tomorrow afternoon, I’ll have each of their files sent to your communicator.”

He seemed relieved I’d agreed.
As if I’d had an option. Even if Mac had actually presented this situation to me as though I had a choice, there wasn’t one. Ian Crane had killed my parents. Ian Crane had nearly killed me. And whoever leaked my identity and mission specifics to Crane was just as responsible as he was for my current condition.

“I’ll pack a bag,” I said glibly.
Mac gave me a hard look.

“I’ll take you over first thing in the morning.”

“I’m sure I can find the campus, Mac. I don’t need a babysitter.” Mac’s house, my house, was on School grounds; it wasn’t like I had far to go.

“I’ll take you over first thing in the morning,” he repeated.
With that, he turned on his heel and left my room.

“Couldn’t even bother to close the door,” I mumbled.

“If you want it closed, do it yourself,” Mac called from somewhere in my sitting room. I stared at the door until I heard a loud, satisfying THWACK. Gratified, I smiled to myself. My pleasure was short lived. A crack, followed by a thud, filled the room. The door had splintered in two when I’d willed it shut. Crap - no more locking the door for me ...Good thing this was my last night here. Unfortunately, this was my also last night in my big comfy bed. Oh, well - my bed was a sacrifice I was willing to make.

Chapter Two

The steady beeping of the alarm clock grew louder with each chirp.
I groaned. The only good part about being medically inactive was
not
having to wake up with the birds. Reaching blindly towards my bedside table, I slapped at the offensive machine. After several failed attempts, I finally connected with the off button. I remained lying face down in my bed for several more minutes, my breathing again taking on the steady rhythm of sleep. The beeping anew began.

Ugh, I must’ve hit the snooze button.
Groaning again I sat up, and rubbed the sleep from my eyes as I swung my legs over the side of the bed. When my feet made contact with the cold wooden floor, I swore loudly, wondering where my slippers were. I padded over to the window and threw open the curtains. It was still dark out ...
Awesome
. Suddenly, I wasn’t so sure that I wanted an assignment; sleep sounded like a much better option.

Despite my increasing desire to climb back under the covers, I grabbed my robe and made my way to the bathroom attached to my sitting room.
I turned on the hot water, waiting for the steam to fill the white-tiled space before stepping in to the walk-in shower. I savored this moment, my last shower without shoes for a while. When I was a student, I’d frequently come up here to bathe, but it was too far to make the trip on a daily basis. The showers at School were definitely NOT my fondest memory from my student days, and I somehow doubted that the teachers’ were any better than the students’.

Following the deaths’ of my parents when I was ten, I enrolled to the McDonough School for the Talented, located on a secure facility in western Maryland.
I’d always known that I possessed the power to hear other people’s thoughts and was capable of controlling their minds, but I hadn’t known that my ability was called a Talent. I soon learned that Talents came in all shapes and sizes. There were Morphers, people who transformed into various animals; Light Manipulators, those who could turn invisible; Higher Reasoning or Brains, who were like human computers, capable of analyzing information in the blink of an eye; Electrical Manipulators, people who harnessed and controlled electricity; Visionaries, who saw glimpses of the future; and Viewers, who could observe a situation that they weren’t physically present in; the list went on.

Our gifts were a result of the Great Contamination, a breakdown of the nuclear reactors all over the world.
The United States created the McDonough School to train Talented children in properly using and controlling their gifts. At sixteen, we took placement exams that ranked our abilities and determined the division of Toxic that we would be positioned in after graduation. I’d been selected for the Hunters, the only division that I’d ever wanted to be a part of.

Hunters went on Missions to track down people and information that are a threat to either Toxic or the country as a whole.
Most recently, the Hunters have focused on finding and destroying a group that opposes the Talent Testing Act, called the Coalition. They don’t believe that being Talented is a good thing that Talents are abnormal, and that what we are able do is unnatural. In a way, it is, but the skills that Talents possess help to protect the Nation. We have capabilities that far exceed those of average people, allowing us to both prevent crime domestically and preclude invasion by foreign countries.

The Coalition is so opposed to the testing laws that it staged an uprising, causing seven states to secede from the rest of the U.S.
Currently, one of the Agency’s main initiatives is to defeat the Coalition before civil war breaks out, hopefully reuniting the country.

“Are you trying to drown yourself?” a woman’s motherly voice called as she knocked on the bathroom door.

Sighing, I turned off the water, but didn’t respond. I opened the glass door of the shower, the steam so thick that I could barely find my towel and robe. I dried myself off as best I could, considering the amount of moisture in the air, then wrapped my heavy terrycloth robe around myself, cinching the tie around my middle. Bending over, I wrapped the towel around my long wet hair. The robe was so long that I had to hold it up, so I wouldn’t trip as I made my way back into the bedroom.

When I opened the bathroom door, steam billowed out into the sitting room, forming warm clouds.
The woman who had knocked on the door was sitting at the small breakfast table in the corner with a plate of scrambled eggs, thick white toast and a huge carafe of coffee. I sniffed the air and drank in the rich fragrance of imported dark roast.

“Morning, Talia,” Gretchen greeted me warmly.
Her clear blue eyes were warm and inviting, a sharp contrast to the cold gray ones of her husband. Despite the early hour, her blonde hair was perfectly coiffed, and she was already dressed in black slacks and a royal blue blouse. “I thought that you could use a good breakfast before your first day of school.”

“Thanks, Gretchen,” I replied, giving her a genuine smile in return.
Gretchen had been like a mother to me since the death of my own as Mac had been like a father to me, and I’d come to love them both deeply. My feelings for Mac had become muddled in the nine months since returning from Nevada, though he had gone to great lengths to aid me in my physical recovery, and I was extremely grateful for his support. But I’d also come to realize that there was a lot Mac had been keeping from me. I knew that as Director, he was privy to highly classified information that wasn’t any of my business, but all the secrets were lessening the steadfast trust that I’d always had in him.

After moving to the U.S. to attend the McDonough School, I’d learned that Mac and Gretchen opening their home to me was a highly unusual practice.
Since Mac had been a close friend of my father’s, he argued that he owed it to him to watch out for me. Mac had recognized me for what I was; he’d known that I was a Mind Manipulator the first time we met because Gretchen was one of the only other recorded Talents with the same ability.

Gretchen had ranked as a Mid-level Talent during her Placement Exams, and been assigned to the Psychic Interrogation Division.
But she had no stomach for the unpleasantness associated with questioning suspects and dreaded performing the interrogations so much that it made her physically ill. She’d requested permission to leave when she was pregnant with their son. Mac wasn’t Director then, but he was still well-connected, so her request had been granted. Now, the only role that she played in the Agency was wife to the Director.

When my parents were killed, Mac had offered me the opportunity to learn to use my Talents, something that my parents had discouraged.
I’d readily agreed, and Gretchen had taught me all about controlling the powers. She taught me to open up my mind so that I could
hear
everyone around me; she taught me to close my mind to keep out others seeking entrance to my thoughts; she taught me how to create a true connection with another person and about the potential harm in doing so. In no time, I’d surpassed her abilities; I was a much stronger Talent than Gretchen. It wasn’t long before I could actively enter someone’s mind without making eye-contact or touching them. I could control a room full of minds at the same time, bending all of them to my will. Thankfully, Gretchen also taught me about what happens when you abuse your power. She explained to me that Mind Manipulators are so rare because most have driven themselves mad controlling others.

“I bet you’re excited. I know how hard these last several months have been on you,” she said gently, cutting in on my memories.

I made a noncommittal noise as I began shoveling food in to my mouth.

The eggs were covered in a salty cheese and contained mushrooms and onions, my absolute favorite.
The thick white bread was warm, covered in butter and strawberry jam; Gretchen had made both the jam and the bread herself. I sighed happily as I chewed. Gretchen’s cooking had been the only other perk of my confinement.

“How are you feeling today?” Gretchen continued, eyeing me over a steaming mug of coffee.

Swallowing the too-big bite of my breakfast, I cleared my throat before answering. “Pretty good, but I’ll be better once I’m around other people.” Gretchen blanched, setting her cup on the table. “Oh, Gretchen that’s not what I meant! You’ve been great, it’s just been a little claustrophobic being stuck inside my bedroom all day,” I tried to backtrack. I hadn’t meant to hurt her feelings. She’d gone out of her way to make me comfortable, and without her companionship, I might’ve gone crazy.

“I understand, dear,” she replied, offering me a small smile.
“Dr. Wythe called late last night. He’s very pleased with your progress.” I groaned. I sort of despised my therapist.

In addition to my physical rehabilitation, Mac had insisted that I see a therapist.
Dr. Wythe was the same shrink that Mac had sent me to after I’d witnessed my parents’ murders, and I loathed discussing my feelings with him; it reminded me of the months that he’d spent grilling me on what I’d seen when the Coalition raided the hotel room where we’d been staying and killed my only family. This time around, he focused incessantly on the conversation that I’d had with Ian Crane following my capture. The therapy was boring and pointless since he typically disregarded what I said and suggested a version of events that correlated with what the Agency wanted me to believe. It hadn’t taken me long to figure out that if I just told him what he wanted to hear, the sessions would end. After I’d agreed that everything said by Crane was a lie, Dr. Wythe declared me healed. He still stopped by Mac’s house when he was on campus, but I was no longer required to endure his daily torture.

Though I’d convinced Dr. Wythe that I didn’t believe Crane’s words, I hadn’t convinced myself.
I didn’t include every detail of our conversation in my official report, leaving out the part where Crane insisted that he’d known my father. I wanted to work through that on my own, wanted to decide if it was a lie without the influence of the good doctor. I wasn’t sure what Talents Dr. Wythe possessed, but they seemed like a weaker version of mine. He couldn’t read minds like I could, but he had an influence over people, much like my compulsion. His suggestive nature had nearly worked on me in my weakened condition, but my desire to cling to the truth won out.

“Has Danbury told you which Instructors you’ll be paired with?” Gretchen continued, a cloud of displeasure darkening her normally bright eyes.

“Um, not yet. He said that he’d have the list sent to my communicator,” I said absently, returning to my eggs now that the topic of Dr. Wythe was closed.

Gretchen grew quiet, scrutinizing my table manners.
The slight grimace contorting her beautiful features was the only outward indication that she disapproved.

“Danbury is out for a run right now, but he wanted me to be sure that you are ready to go at 6:30,” she said, her features reverting back to an easy smile.
“I packed a bag of things for you to take to the dorms with you, but call if I forgot anything and I will send it over.”

The only response that I could manage was a small nod since my mouth was full of egg and toast.
Gretchen scowled again at my lack of social graces. I swallowed. “This might be the last good meal that I get for a while. You know that the School food is barely edible.”

When I was a student, I’d tried to eat in the cafeteria as infrequently as possible, instead sneaking up to have dinner at Gretchen’s table.
It was just another reason that the other students disliked me.

Gretchen made some small throaty noise that sounded a little like a snort.
“The Instructor’s cafeteria fare is much better than the students’,” she promised.

I spared her a skeptical glance. I’d believe it when I tasted the truth of her words for myself.
I quickly scarfed down the rest of my breakfast, gulping my first cup of coffee before pouring a second cup, and sat at my vanity to get ready.

I dried my hair with a blow dryer,
then used a big round brush to straighten out all the chestnut strands. When I was satisfied that it was thoroughly dry, I used a flatiron to ensure that no hint of wave remained. Before the last nine months, I’d always worn my hair curly, but lately, I’d been straightening my locks for lack of something better to do. I’d decided that I liked the straight look – sometimes, change was a good thing.

Next, I pulled my hair into a ponytail at the back of my head.
I stared at my reflection in the mirror for several minutes before deciding in favor of makeup. My skin was smooth but uncharacteristically pale for me thanks to spending the majority of my time indoors. The dark circles under my eyes were a bluish purple, like I’d been on the losing end of a fistfight.

Rising from the vanity, I retreated to my bedroom, where Gretchen had made my bed while I was in the shower.
On the end of the burgundy comforter, in two neatly folded piles, sat several pairs of black stretch pants, white soft cotton t-shirts, and a thin gray sweatshirt. Anticipating my lack of appropriate clothing, Gretchen must’ve ordered me new outfits. Man, I didn’t even have to ask; she always delivered.

My first class of the day was a basic skills combat class, so I grabbed a pair of cotton underwear and pulled them on, followed by the comfy-looking stretch pants.
As I put on a matching bra, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror over my dresser. My back was to the mirror, and over my shoulder, I could see angry red scars, peeking out just above my stretchy pants. Unconsciously, I reached behind me and felt the raised flesh of the scar. My fingers felt the hole where the bullet had pierced my skin, and the places where the Medics stitched me up. I flinched as I touched the flesh even though no sensation came; the Agency doctors said that I may never regain feeling.