Page 103 of Taken

“I… I don’t think so. But there were times I was unconscious.” So many damn times. Moments when the visions had overwhelmed me.

Talon’s jaw tightens. His hand finds mine, warm and steady. “We’ll figure it out.”

Our vehicle tackles the mountain road aggressively, switchbacks sending my stomach lurching. The convoy spreads out, taking different routes but converging toward some destination I can’t yet see. The operative up front maintains constant communication, tracking Syndicate movement, reporting on the other transports.

“Transport two clearing checkpoint three,” he says, and relief loosens the knot in my chest. Hargen is still safe.

We drive for hours, leaving the mountains, entering terrain I don’t recognize. Forests give way to rockier landscape, civilization appearing and disappearing as we skirt small towns. I watch it all with hungry eyes, drinking in the world I’ve been denied.

“We’re approaching our destination,” Talon says finally, as our vehicle turns onto a service road that appears unused.

“Doesn’t look like much,” I observe, seeing nothing but wilderness and rocky outcroppings.

“That’s the point.”

We pass through what appears to be an abandoned mining facility, rusted equipment creating perfect camouflage. The road descends sharply, entering a tunnel cut directly into the mountainside. Massive doors slide open at our approach, closing behind us with finality that makes my breath catch.

Underground again. My hands clench involuntarily.

“It’s not a prison,” Talon says quietly, reading my reaction. “Just the safest place we have.”

I nod, forcing my breathing to steady. His hand covers mine, thumbs grazing over my knuckles. The touch grounds me, keeps the panic at bay.

The tunnel opens to a massive cavern, transformed into what can only be described as a military-grade bunker. Multiple levels carved into rock face, steel walkways connecting different sections. People move with purpose, some in tactical gear, others in civilian clothes. Screens display data, maps, surveillance feeds. A command center built into a mountain.

“Welcome to the Outpost,” Talon says as our vehicle parks in a designated bay alongside others. “Main Aurora operations hub for the western territories.”

The scale of it stuns me. This isn’t some fringe resistance; it’s an organization with resources, personnel, infrastructure. Yet the Syndicate has never mentioned them, never hinted at opposition this organized.

As we exit the vehicle, a flurry of activity surrounds us. Medical personnel approach, eyeing me with professional concern. Talon waves them off.

“She’s fine. Check transport two first. We have a critical recovery there.”

The mention of Hargen sends a pang through me. I scan the bay, looking for the other vehicles, for any sign of him.

“Transport two is five minutes out,” an operative reports. “No pursuit detected.”

Relief washes through me. I turn to find Talon watching me, something complicated in his expression.

“He’ll be okay,” he says, not needing to specify who.

“We have unfinished business, you and me,” I say, the double meaning clear between us. Our interrupted moment. The unexpected intimacy that shouldn’t have happened but did. The mark he left on my neck that faded, leaving me feeling strangely hollow in its absence.

His pupils dilate slightly. “Yes, we do.”

A throat clears behind us. I turn to find Viktor approaching, flanked by two people I don’t recognize—a striking woman with coffee-colored skin and silver hair and a tall, younger man with sharp features and pale green eyes that take me in with cool assessment.

“Briefing room, ten minutes,” Viktor says without wasting time on niceties. “We need to assess how they found us.”

“She needs rest,” Talon counters, protective instinct evident in his voice.

“I’m fine,” I interject before they can argue over me like I’m not standing right here. “I’ll be at the briefing.”

Viktor nods, satisfied, while Talon’s jaw tightens with obvious displeasure. The small display of autonomy feels significant: my choice, my voice, my decision. I’ve spent too long having every moment controlled; this minor assertion of will tastes like victory.

“This way,” Talon says, guiding me through the facility. “They’ll have quarters ready, but you should eat something first.”

The mess hall is utilitarian but comfortable. People glance our way as we enter, curiosity evident in their gazes. The Rossewyn witch. The asset. The prize Talon extracted from the Syndicate’s grasp. I lift my chin, refusing to shrink under their scrutiny.

---