Unforgettable (Talented Saga #6)

  Unforgettable

  Sophie Davis

  Copyright © 2015 by Sophie Davis Books

  Smashwords Edition

  For Barbara Gordon-

  Your patience, faith, and unwavering loyalty are more appreciated than we can ever properly convey.

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  About Sophie Davis

  Talented (Talented Saga # 1)

  Caged (Talented Saga # 2)

  Hunted (Talented Saga # 3)

  Captivated (A Talented Novella)

  Created (Talented Saga # 4)

  Unforgettable (Talented Saga # 4.5)

  Exiled: Kenly’s Story (A Talented Novel)

  Inescapable (Talented Saga # 5)

  Pawn (Nightmares Trilogy #1)

  Sacrifice (Nightmares Trilogy #2)

  Checkmate (Nightmares Trilogy #3)

  Fragile Façade (Blind Barriers Trilogy #1)

  Platinum Prey (Blind Barriers Trilogy #2)

  Vacant Voices (Blind Barriers Trilogy #3)

  “HOW MANY?” PINT Dunkin asked.

  “Five.”

  “You’re sure?” Pint pressed.

  “Am I ever wrong?” Libby challenged.

  Pint ignored the other girl’s snarky comment, but inside a wave of annoyance crashed over her.

  Bloody stuck-up prat, that’s what she is, she thought bitterly. You’d think she was next in line for the throne.

  “Alright then, love, how you wanna handle this?” Arthur’s voice crackled through the comm unit.

  “Quickly and quietly, that’s how,” Pint replied. “I want off of this forsaken continent just as soon as possible.”

  “Daddy said to get as many of them as we can. Daddy said to—”

  “Daddy isn’t here now, is he? Daddy left me in charge, Libby, not you,” Pint snapped, effectively cutting off the other girl’s whiny protests.

  Lord Nigel Monroe, Duke of Shrewsbury and London Isle—Libby’s father and Pint’s boss—hadn’t been specific on the details of the roundup. One thing he’d been clear on, though, was that handling the situation with care was of the utmost importance. He was always prattling on about patience and planning, lecturing that prudence was how they’d survived, and thrived, when others like them had succumbed to the laws of ordinary men. Which was such a crock of shit, really, since they were only trying to protect ordinary men from the brutes that lived among them.

  “Whatever,” Libby huffed, clearly annoyed that her opinions counted for so little when far from home. It was only then that Pint felt comfortable putting the other girl in her place without suffering repercussions.

  With exaggerated theatrics, Lady Elizabeth Monroe flopped down on the bench in the back of the surveillance van in a very unlady-like manner. Her long, golden ponytail dangled over her shoulder, the ends coiled in perfect ringlets. Pint wished Libby’s impeccable hair would wind around her swan-like neck like a noose, thus putting both girls out of their collective miseries. Working with a drama queen was bad enough in Pint’s opinion. But the fact that Libby was one of them, a beastly Chrome, was vile. It was reason enough for Pint to wish her coworker—and yes, her cousin—dead.

  Pint checked the clip of her tranquilizer gun. Fully loaded. Ten darts with enough sedative to knock out an elephant for days. She hoped it was enough to bring down even one of the Chromes they would face. The Created, as the American news outlets were calling this new breed, were like nothing Pint had ever come across. They were stronger and faster, superior in every way to the natural born Chromes that Pint dealt with every day in Europe.

  Learning from experience was crucial when encountering an unknown enemy, and all of the Created her team had captured thus far shared a flaw that could be exploited. They were fearless. Only fools were too stupid to know fear, in Pint’s opinion. That was why so many of the new mutants had lost their lives.

  “Alright, then. Artie, you’re with me, we’ll go in the front. Benson and Hugh, you two go round through the emergency exit at the back. Lilliana, Jaylen, and Tuck, you three will serve as backup. If they manage to get by us, it’s up to you.” Pint holstered her tranq gun as she doled out orders, grabbing a second weapon for good measure.

  Never can be too armed when dealing with this lot, she thought wryly.

  “What about me? What would you have me do, oh great leader?” Libby asked, her tone oozing sarcasm thick as petrol.

  Pint rolled her dark eyes, a gesture that revealed her age. At only twenty-four, Pint Dunkin was a senior officer among the Poachers. Rightfully so, in her not-so-humble opinion. She was a member of the founding family, after all. Although the Dunkins were treated like the bastard children that no one wanted to acknowledge, Pint planned to change that. And this was her chance. Spearheading this acquisition for the upcoming auction would go a long way in returning her branch of the family to favor. The Created were the rarest merchandise the world had seen in seventy-five years. And Pint was plucking them up like eggs from a chicken coop. Soon Libby Monroe would be curtsying before her.

  “Stay here, that’s what you’ll do. The Duke will be brassed off if you’re injured, and I won’t incur his wrath for the likes of you. You’ve done your job. Now sit back and paint your nails or whatever it is you do in your free time,” Pint ordered.

  “What about Jaylen?” Libby whined. “Daddy won’t be happy if he’s hurt either.”

  Libby knew she had a point, defiantly crossing her thin arms. Her smug smile and pointed glare made the blonde’s cool beauty downright icy.

  “Unlike you, Jaylen can be replaced. The Duke won’t be put out if he takes a bullet or two.” Pint held up a small hand to halt further protests the moment Libby’s lips parted. “Enough. We need to move on this. If we know about this lot, you better believe UNITED does, too.”

  With that, Pint stalked to the back doors of the surveillance van and threw them open. Behind her, Jaylen Monroe was whispering platitudes to his sister, attempting to calm the snobby twit before her temper ruined the entire operation.

  The targets were located on the top level of a five-story walkup in an area known as Spanish Harlem, though it had been eons since immigrants had dominated the community. According to Pint’s intel, the area was mostly used for dodgy business and squatting holes. It reminded her of the Slums in London.

  Bloody hell, my first trip to the Big Apple and I’m stuck in this rubbish, Pint thought as she jogged across the street. She’d read about New York’s posh neighborhoods, the ones where the movie stars and sports legends lived. Secretly, Pint had wondered if she might do a bit of sightseeing. America’s wealthy lived so very differently than England’s. No drafty castles and ancient traditions. They were modern and chic.

  Modern, that is what I’ll make the Poachers when my time comes, Pint thought.

  “All clear round back. We’re going in,” Benson’s voice sputtered over Pint’s comm unit.

  Pint shook her head of short, black hair and pushed her thoughts of everything but the Created from her mind. She needed to get it together, live in the here and now, or she wouldn’t live to make her dream of heading the Poachers a reality.

  A quick sweep of the street told her that not a soul was i
n sight. The burnt out streetlights provided a convenient veil for her team’s approach. Even if one of the targets was looking out the window, they would have a hell of a time seeing the Poachers.

  “Affirmative. Clear out front, too. Everyone in position?” Pint asked her team.

  Five voices responded in the affirmative.

  The front door of the walkup was ajar. Pint’s stomach twisted uneasily and she hesitated.

  Are these Created really that daft? she wondered. Did they not have a shred of self-preservation?

  Apparently Artie had the same thought. As Pint began to push the door inward, he surged forward and grabbed her arm.

  “Let me go first, ducks. Don’t like the feel of the place.”

  Artie wasn’t much older than Pint, just four years her senior, but was fiercely protective of her. His family had been in league with the Poachers for decades, serving as foot soldiers in the war to contain the Chromes. Faithful as a lapdog, just as his ancestors before him, Artie was perfectly willing to lay down his life for Pint and other members of the family.

  Pint nodded to Artie, giving him the go ahead. With one gloved hand, he eased the door open, tranq gun poised and ready to fire at the first sign of trouble. Given her small stature, Pint had difficulty seeing around him into the vestibule. But the smell of decay told her enough. The door hadn’t been locked because nobody had lived there in a while. It probably hadn’t worked properly in ages. Their targets were likely the only residents the place had known in years.

  “Where are you?” Benson asked in her ear. “We’re on the third floor landing. Place seems deserted other than our friends on five. Stinks like the sewers, though.”

  “Appropriate place for rats then, isn’t it,” Pint replied. “We’re on our way up now. Don’t go in without us.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” Benson said.

  “Careful on the stairs, Artie. Floorboards are likely rotten,” Pint called in voice just above a whisper.

  Like Benson, Pint was fairly sure the building was empty, save the five Chromes. Still, she didn’t want any witnesses to the raid. On the other side of the pond, witnesses could be bribed and law enforcement bought if needed. Few people in Europe, even fewer in England, would dare to cross the Poachers.

  But America, the land of Chrome freedom, was a different story. Pint knew what a risk it was to be here. She’d made the team wear masks to obscure their faces. Masks, for bloody’s sake. It was absurd. They weren’t the bad guys.

  “We’re at the door to the flat. I can hear ‘em inside,” Benson’s voice was low and predatory in her ear.

  “Be there in a minute,” Pint replied softly.

  As expected, the stairs were rotted and littered with rubbish—aluminum cans, old newspapers, and discarded clothing. It was like the former residents had left in a hurry, forgoing suitcases in favor of carrying only what they could hold in their hands, then dropping half the contents on the way out the door.

  By the time Pint and Artie reached the fourth floor, Pint was thankful they only had one more raid after this one before heading home. Nearly every one of their targets had been found living in squalor similar to this building and she was tired of wading through shite.

  Lost in her own thoughts, Pint didn’t hear the soft creak of a door opening on the first level. Nor would she have, since her senses were those of a normal human.

  Benson and Hugh were stationed outside a door in the back corner of the fifth floor. In the darkness, their silhouettes were all Pint could see. Even still, the vibe wafting off of her teammates told her that they were ready, eager even, to get the show on the road, as the Americans liked to say.

  “How’s it looking outside?” Pint asked into her comm unit.

  “Brills. All clear,” Lilliana answered.

  “Then we’re going in,” Pint said, giving a nod to Benson and Hugh.

  It occurred to Pint in that moment that Lilliana’s voice was thin and tense. Given the danger any raid posed, it wasn’t all that unusual. Except, Lilliana was normally like Benson and Hugh—she loved the excitement of the hunt. It also occurred to Pint that the getaway driver, Linus, hadn’t spoken in some time. But Pint was just as addicted to the thrill as her teammates, just as susceptible to being overcome by the thrall capturing the Chromes offered. So instead of trusting her gut, Pint ignored the bubble of doubt about to burst in her stomach.

  The loud crunch of Benson’s foot crashing through the door to the flat marked 516 covered the sound of feet pounding the rotted floorboards five stories down. The Poachers stormed into the flat.

  Benson entered first, Hugh only a step behind. Three of the five targets were in what Pint guessed had once been a living room, but was now covered in dirty blankets and pillows.

  “Down on the ground!” Artie shouted, levelling his gun.

  “Where’s the rest of your lot?” Benson snarled. “Should be two more of yous.”

  Without answering, two of the Chromes dropped to their knees immediately, hands raised protectively in front of their faces. As if that would stop the Poachers from shooting them. The third, a boy of seventeen, remained standing, a mug of baked beans in one hand and a comically shocked expression on his gaunt face.

  “I said, on the ground!” Artie barked, waving his tranq gun at the boy with the beans.

  Paralyzed by fear, the boy didn’t as much as blink.

  A churning in Pint’s belly served as an early warning system that something was about to happen. Sure enough, flames erupted from the corner of the room. With her weapon still trained on the foe with the beans, Pint whipped around as the burst of light caught her attention. Without a second thought, she squeezed the trigger and fired off a round.

  The dart went wide, missing the mark by several inches.

  The two kneeling Chromes leapt to their feet. One dove for Benson, catching him low around the knees. Surprised, the Poacher fell backwards, inadvertently pulling the trigger on his own tranq gun in the process. The dart missed Benson’s attacker, sailing harmlessly over the girl’s head and into a wall.

  The other Chrome, a scrawny boy no older than twelve or thirteen, went for Hugh, but made the mistake of reaching for Hugh’s gun. Pint took aim, firing three darts in rapid succession into the boy’s side. Artie followed suit, pumping two more doses of sedative into the Chrome before the kid knew what had hit him. Add to that the dart Hugh shot directly into the boy’s open palm, and the child crashed to the ground with a thud. His scream of fright and pain was cut off before it ever had the chance to exit his lips.

  Pint turned her attention to Benson and the female Chrome he was grappling with. They were now fighting for dominance amidst the rumpled blankets and flat pillows that had been serving as beds. The older boy, the one who’d refused to submit, charged Artie. In an instant he was doing a number on her teammate’s face. Hugh tried to insert himself into the fight without any luck.

  Thick, black smoke began to fill the flat. Pint held her breath, determined not to breathe in any of the fumes. Heat seeped through the mask covering her face. She desperately wanted to take it off, but knew better. If this fight didn’t go their way, she couldn’t risk one of the Chromes identifying her.

  “Bugger it all,” Pint muttered, and fired at the tangle of limbs that belonged to Benson and the female Chrome. Eyes watering and vision obscured, the tiny Poacher prayed the darts wouldn’t hit her teammate. Normally Pint wouldn’t have cared, the sedative was only temporary, after all. But the situation was getting out of hand quickly. She needed all of her troops fully functional to get out of the apartment alive.

  The first shot missed both Benson and the Chrome. Her second dart hit the female in the leg. Before Pint could pull the trigger a third time, the tranq gun was yanked from between her gloved hands. Like a frightened cat, Pint whirled to locate her assailant. Between the smoke and the tears, she was unable to see anyone or anything. It was all a ghostly haze.

  “Pint!” Artie screeched from somewhere nearb
y.

  “I’m here. I’m here,” she called back, reaching for the backup gun on her belt.

  No sooner had she spoken then her feet flew out from beneath her, as if a nonexistent rug had been pulled away. The air whooshed from Pint’s lungs when her back slammed against the ground, and she began to wheeze. The smoke she’d been desperately trying to avoid inhaling filled her mouth and nose.

  “Francie! Alana! Run!” someone screamed.

  Cotton seemed to be clogging her ears, muffling the noises around her. Francie and Alana must be the other two Chromes who were hiding in the shadows, she thought through the haze.

  A popping noise, followed by a crack that sounded like a tree limb snapping jarred Pint back to reality. The damned place was burning to the ground around her.

  “Abort. Abort. We’re coming out hot,” Pint wheezed into the comm unit.

  A profound dread overcame her when there was no response.

  “Jaylen? Lilliana? Libby? Someone answer me!” Pint screeched, rolling to her side.

  Smoke rises, stay low, Pint thought as she crouched on her hands and knees, gun in one hand. She crawled towards what she hoped was the door. After only a couple meek shuffles, Pint’s arm landed on something that felt like a leg. Her eyeballs stung and she didn’t want to open her lids to see who the leg belonged to, but Pint knew she had no choice.

  “Bollocks,” Pint swore when she recognized Benson’s boot.

  An arm closed around her waist from behind. Pint thrashed against the attacker’s hold, trying to break free as she was hauled to her feet.

  “Damn it, Pint, it’s me,” Artie growled in her ear. “We’ve gotta get outta here!”

  “Benson’s down,” Pint replied, calming instantly with the knowledge she wasn’t the only Poacher still alive.

  “Leave him. We’ve enough to deal with.”

  “Bollocks!” Pint repeated. “We can’t just—”

  Artie began dragging her backwards, sputtering, away from the front door and further in to the flat.

  “You know as well as I we have to leave him, now don’t be unreasonable,” Artie said. Between the smoke inhalation, her head still smarting from its rendezvous with a wooden floor, and his proper logic, Pint knew he was right. She wasn’t in any condition to go another round with new opponents.