Insight (Foresight Series Book 3)

By EJ McBride

Join Clara and her group as they take on their biggest enemy yet, as they bring the fight back to America in an attempt to bring down the secretive Agency, and make their nightmares stop once and for all.

This is the thrilling conclusion to the Foresight series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: EJ McBride
• Release date: Feb 5, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311112811

Book preview

INSIGHT

EJ McBride

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Smashwords Edition

May you have the Foresight to know where you’re going, the Hindsight to know where you’ve been, and the Insight to know when you’ve gone too far…

No part of this publication may be copied, reproduced in any format, by any means, electronic or otherwise, without prior consent from the copyright owner and publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places and events are the product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously.

Copyright © 2014 EJ McBride

All rights reserved.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Prologue

Chapter 01

Chapter 02

Chapter 03

Chapter 04

Chapter 05

Chapter 06

Chapter 07

Chapter 08

Chapter 09

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Connect With EJ

Prologue

The dreams are spiteful, malicious things. They don't come every night. Instead they trickle in and out of your life like rainwater slowly dripping through a broken ceiling, gradually flooding your home. It’s a part of their cold and calculated style. Some nights you sleep like a baby, the best night's sleep you’ve had in weeks or months. Then some nights, without warning, they attack, creeping into your slumber in the early morning hours of rest, striking like a viper.

They generally begin the same way. I'm standing up, always out of bed. Don't ask me why the first few moments of the dream are missed, glossed over, because I don't know. The moments of opening your eyes, sliding the blankets away from your body, rolling off of the mattress and standing upright–none of us remember those moments. They always begin standing, sometimes right next to the bed, sometimes further away. Tonight is no exception. Maybe the dreams don't want to bore us with the finer points of waking up. Perhaps they have a sick sense of humor in that way.

I find myself standing on the landing of the villa we've been hiding in for the last couple of months. It's dark, though I've lived in far darker places, literally and metaphorically speaking. There's something about the moon here, something different, the way it permeates through the windows of our luxury vacation spot, dancing around the room and penetrating every inch of space. While it may be dark, the stunning light of the full moon guides me, so I don't need to switch on any of the lights. I walk quietly, deliberately quietly, so as not to wake anyone up. JJ should have heard me by now and have come and stopped me. The rules we set were simple: we sleep while JJ stays awake because she's the only one unaffected by the dreams. Then she catches up on sleep the next morning. It's tough on her, being alone while we rest, having to work the nightshift night after night. But this is the only way. We've thought of everything else and tried everything else. Tying us down before we sleep doesn't work–we always manage to break free. Locking the door to the room doesn't work because we find something in the room we're locked in to do damage with. As much as it's unsustainable, as much as the sleep deprivation is screwing with JJ's head, this is the only option. She has to keep a watch over us.

Of course, tonight, she hasn't. It's clearly all become too much, and sleep has taken hold of her. And the dream, the vile, opportunistic dream, seizes its chance.

Seconds later and I'm in the bathroom, quietly rummaging through the various bags stuffed in the cupboard of a solid oak cabinet. My hands, like the rest of my body, have taken on a life of their own, and while my eyes are open and I can see into the bag, I don't really know what I'm looking for. Not to worry–the dream knows, and it's the dream that's in control now anyway. I play the part of a spectator in my own head, like I'm watching a movie, trying to second guess what might happen next. Sure enough, after a few quiet moments of rummaging, my hands emerge holding the three bottles of super-strength painkillers that JJ had left in there.

That's the second rule broken tonight; all dangerous items were to be kept in a safe downstairs, hidden under lock and key. These had clearly slipped under the radar, probably a result of how tired she is these days, and my subconscious brain must have noticed them at some point but decided not to mention it to my conscious brain, knowing they'd come in handy later on.

Agency bastards, they really know how to mess with someone's head.

Pills in hand, I tiptoe out of the bathroom and head slowly downstairs, taking extra care with every footstep, desperately trying not to creak a floorboard too noisily or scratch my foot against the carpet, anything that could wake JJ from her sleep and send her rushing to my aid. I don't need to worry about Nick or Robin because they're under the same spell that I'm under. It's as if the dreams have the ability to work together, almost to support one another. I could stroll into their room right now smashing pots and pans together, and neither of them would even stir. To wake JJ would be counter-productive because it might stop me from doing what I'm about to do, and the dream needs me to succeed.

At the bottom of the stairs, I hang a right and find myself in the sprawling living area of our beautiful villa. It's odd; were it not for the constant threat of being hunted down and wiped out by government hitmen or mafia goons, this pad would be a dream place for a vacation. We've tried to make the most of our stay here, done our best to soak up the sun and relax in the glamour and luxury of our surroundings, but you just can't help but lose focus on things like that when you know death could be waiting for you right around the corner. Kind of takes the shine off things, I guess.

I walk past the minimalist coffee table, the empty glasses from the previous night's quiet drinking session still dotted across its surface, something the first one of us up in the morning would have dealt with, and head to one of the cabinets. I open the heavy wooden doors delicately, slowly, slowing down even further the second the old wood makes even the slightest hint of a creak until the door is completely open and I can reach inside. The hands go back to work again, the dark interior of the cabinet making it impossible for my eyes to work out what we're looking for this time. More rummaging, moving things out of the way, lifting things out of place. Eventually they emerge victorious, clutching their prizes: a full bottle of whiskey and an almost full bottle of vodka with another of tequila following seconds later.

I sit on the floor and shudder as I notice how cold the stone floor feels against my skin, skin that only moments ago was warmly tucked up in bed. Ironic that the dreams can shut down the part of the brain that allows rational thought or control, yet allow the pain and feeling receptors to continue unrestricted. I cross my legs and reach across to the coffee table, pulling the seven or eight large drinks glasses over to me, tossing out the dregs on to the floor wherever required, lining them all up in an almost obsessive-compulsive row. Then I grab the pill boxes, quietly clicking the lids off and pouring the contents delicately into my hands, like a child grabbing a mouthful of candy. I spill the medicine out on to the floor in front of me, collecting them together into a little pile, a miniature mound of tablets. By the time I’m done, there are easily ten of the things clumped together, probably a few more. I reach for a whiskey glass, one of the smaller ones on the table, far stronger and thicker than the others. With great care, I force the base of the glass down on top of the pills, crunching them underneath, grinding them slowly and deliberately until I've created a soft powder. I grab a small piece of card from the table and use this to scoop up the white dust I've just created before dropping it into a tall glass. I repeat the process two or three more times, crunching up around fifty of the extra-strength painkillers before I'm done. Then I reach for the liquor bottles, popping the caps off and carelessly sloshing the contents into each of the glasses, including the ones with the crushed-up painkillers, filling them all the way up to the brim, to the point where you couldn't fit another drop into any of them.

I pause to look at my creation, my line of clear and amber liquid, some clouded from the painkiller mixture. Why the dream does this, I'll never know. This quiet moment of contemplation before pulling the trigger, almost as if even my subconscious needs a moment to compose itself before committing the most hellish of suicides. It’s utterly trivial and pointless when you consider the circumstances. Nonetheless, I stare at the line of poison in front of me, the harmless-looking glasses of my deadly treat glistening in the moonlight.

If my mind were working properly now, I'd be justifiably panicked. The intentions are as clear as the liquid I'm about to consume, and I'd probably have to marvel at least a little bit at the ingenuity of it all. In the past, when any of us have gone into these suicidal trances, the dreams have tried to get rid of us in the quickest way possible. But the quickest way is also often the noisiest way, and even if JJ hadn't spotted one of us getting out of bed, she'd usually come dashing to our aid the second we made enough of a racket. Tonight's dream was almost so clever and calculating as to deserve applause.

I reach for the first glass on the left and without so much as a down the hatch, bring the vessel to my lips and begin to drink. The liquid rushes into my mouth much faster than I've ever drunk even water before, something deliberate I suppose, as the dream wouldn't want me lapsing into my coma too early, not without consuming the full dose first. I finish the cocktail and place the glass back down on the table before reaching for the second glass almost immediately and resuming the process.

Did this one have painkillers in it?

I don't remember, not that it would make much difference now anyway; they're all destined for the same fate. I glug the contents of glass number two before putting it back down on the table.

But as much as my mind is controlled and influenced from elsewhere by someone or something else, you can't outwit the body. As my motor skills begin to take a hit, the alcohol in my system quickly taking hold, I realize that the glass didn't come down gently on the coffee table, but instead smashed noisily on the stone floor to my right, leaving a mess of broken glass and a small puddle of alcohol in its place.

I hear footsteps. Footsteps from upstairs.

The noise must have woken JJ up, thank God! The footsteps are running now, moving more quickly than before. I look down at the mess of broken glass by my knees and notice that my right hand has picked up one of the shards, my left arm held out in front of me, as though my body is offering itself up to the inevitable. Desperate times clearly call for desperate measures, I guess. The sharp end of the blade touches my skin, softly for a second, and then the pressure is applied and the skin is split, crimson red blood shooting immediately out of the every growing wound. I feel everything as the blade drags and tears slowly, excruciating pain that makes me want to scream out in agony, but I'm completely unable to, trapped somehow in this body, this body that's destroying itself.

JJ. She's in the room now, rushing toward me, screaming something, throwing herself at me with all her body weight, knocking me back hard on to the icy concrete floor.

Then cold, empty darkness.

Chapter 01

How is she? asked Robin.

The question, in all of its innocence, nearly offended Nick with what he perceived as stupidity. JJ, whom Robin had been referring to, had spent the first part of last night awake, fighting off the sleep that had always come naturally to her late at night. She'd spent the second part of last night sobbing and shaking uncontrollably, convinced that by allowing herself to doze off for a few choice moments, she'd unwittingly almost caused the death of one of the group, the little sister of her best friend. Now Robin wanted to know how she was.

She's resting.

That's good. I mean, that's something at least. How long has she been sleeping?

Nick sighed, running his hand through his hair. Thinking about it, he supposed it wasn't Robin's question that had bothered him, quite the opposite. The question was a fair one, the kind that any decent friend would ask, the kind that showed that he cared. It was his own lack of sleep, the irritability that comes with not having rested properly for weeks, that was forcing him to have to carefully consider every response, to bite his tongue several times throughout the day. He glanced at his watch.

Well, it's 11:20 a.m. now, so I guess some six, maybe even seven hours.

That's good, replied Robin. I guess the one good thing that comes from this is that she's getting some uninterrupted sleep.

Nick watched as Robin took a seat at the breakfast bar, the two making brief and awkward eye contact before Nick looked away, trying desperately not to roll his eyes, to even appear to roll them. Robin wasn't dumb; he'd be able to sense the tension in the room, and Nick was grateful for Robin's uncanny ability to apply tact in a conversation. He was glad Robin could let sleeping dogs lie.

Do you think this is all part of their plan? asked Robin, pointing his finger blankly up into thin air, referencing an unknown their. 

Do I think what is part of whose plan? asked Nick.

The sleep deprivation. I think I read that somewhere. When governments, ya know, the ones who can't go on record and admit that they do proper torture, when they want to get information out of someone, they deprive them of sleep. Flash the lights on and play loud music as soon as you begin to drift off, screw with your head. I know if someone kept me awake for long enough I'd tell them anything.

Nick gently placed the cup of coffee he'd been drinking down on the kitchen counter-top. He picked a spoon up, dunked it meticulously into the drink and slowly, delicately stirred. He always stirred his hot drinks, at every stage of the drinking process, and wasn't sure if this counted as an obsessive-compulsive tendency or was in fact just a more odd aspect of his character. 

You really think this is about sleep deprivation? he asked, lifting his line of sight up away from his drink for a moment, locking eyes with Robin. He didn't read Robin's mind, and he knew Robin hadn't read his. It was more out of respect for each other than anything else, but in this case they didn't need to anyway. Robin stood up and walked toward the large glass doors that led out on to the patio and pool area of the villa. The mid-day sun was almost at its highest point, the temperature hot enough to be uncomfortable to all but the most hardened of sun-seekers, the air conditioning in the villa working overtime to keep them cool. JJ had been sitting outside for most of the morning, facing away from the villa, sitting at the edge of the pool, her legs submerged in the water, head down,