Page 91 of Break Out the Girl

London puts a hand on my face, twisting me towards him. “Magic eyes can see what we can’t, and yours? Yours are glowing like the only stars in the night sky. You can find her.”

Yes. I know I can.

“She’s running out of air, Rory,” Tally gasps.

“Then try and keep up,” I tell them.

Whoosh.

The transition is effortless.

The solid world dissolves, and I launch myself, a silver mist, into the dark, cold woods.

32: FRANCOIS

I’d planned to immediately split off towards sector four, but a lumbering servant jogs up to me, dull-eyed and panting.

He holds a tablet. “I’m to record your hunting adventure, sir.”

“Not necessary,” I say, waving a hand to dismiss him.

The man turns a dull, ashen gray beneath his brown skin. “Um, sorry, sir. If you don’t mind? The Director insists.”

“And I also insist. I do not enjoy being filmed.” I’m about to deal with the problem hypnotically, but the drudge unconsciously pulls at his neck, revealing a shock-collar.

“Sorry again, sir. But would you reconsider? I’ll get, er, reprimanded if I don’t do what I’m told.”

Fuck.

My new-found conscience is irritating at the best of times, and now, absolutely infuriating. Having to let this haggard, worn-down slum-man be punished, doesn’t sit well with me.

Hmm. I guess he can tag along for a while, then I’ll make his recording device ‘malfunction’. That should ward off too hard of a beating.

I eye his shock collar again. It has a small digital receiver blinking green. If I’m not mistaken, that is a proximity sensor. I imagine it is set to a perimeter that traps him within the grounds.

He’s a prisoner.

Maybe I will destroy both the sensor and the tablet when the time comes. Give him at least a chance to run free.

Though in his current malnourished state, the idea of him running anywhere seems unlikely. One thing seems certain, he’s not my enemy.

“Come along then.” I click my fingers and he looks up gratefully, stumbling after me into the woods.

Navigating the dense timberline of Sector Four with this shadow trailing in my wake requires every ounce of my fading patience. His movements are stiff and slow, though he does his best to keep up. As soon as we are somewhere more discreet, I’ll ditch him and shift.

“Sir,” he gasps, jogging behind me. “You said you didn’t like being filmed, but there are cameras in the trees too.” He indicates towards a tall birch.

Ah, yes. I see the dark, unblinking lens nestled in the ivy. “Thank you for the information. Do you have any more to share? Especially the location of the main prize.”

His eyes narrow with disgust before his expression blanks back into subservience. “No, sir,” he mumbles, then trips, going down hard into the freezing mud.

Merde. This is not working.

“What’s your name, man?”

“James, sir.”

Before he can utter another syllable, I slide a hand inside my coat pocket, tracing a tight geometry, while muttering a cast. I send an artificial burst of static interference into his device—a temporary moment of privacy.