Extracted (Extracted Trilogy, #1)

by R.R. Haywood

She goes up, trained to defend but designed to attack.

‘Who are you?’ Ben asks while getting his head groped. ‘John Watson.’ ‘Huh?’ ‘And no I am not making that up,’ the doctor says in a tone that suggests he’s said the same thing many times. ‘It’s a common name.’ ‘Doctor Watson?’ ‘Yes. I am Doctor Watson.’ ‘Oh.’ ‘My father was called John.’ ‘Oh.’ ‘And my grandfather.’ ‘Oh.’ ‘My great-grandfather was called—’ ‘John?’ ‘Hamish.’ ‘Hamish?’ ‘Doctor Watson’s middle name.’ ‘What is?’ ‘Hamish.’ ‘Hamish is Doctor Watson’s middle name?’ Ben asks, fighting the confusion to keep up with him. ‘Yes. Doctor John Hamish Watson.’ ‘Oh. Your family liked Sherlock Holmes then,’ Ben remarks as the doctor’s fingers probe about and start pushing into Ben’s stomach and ribs while he watches Ben for a pain reaction. ‘Indeed.’ ‘Is your middle name Hamish?’ ‘No.’ ‘Oh.’ ‘It’s Sherlock.’ ‘You are shitting me?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Eh?’ Ben blinks at him. ‘I am shitting you. My middle name is not Sherlock,’ Doctor Watson says while working down Ben’s legs. ‘Oh . . . what is it then?’ ‘Holmes.’ ‘Seriously?’ ‘No.’ ‘What the fuck? Who are you?’ ‘Doctor Watson, I just said that.’ ‘No . . . I mean who are you? Like . . .’ ‘Ah,’ the doctor says knowingly. ‘I see we have a loss of cognitive function.’ ‘Do what?’ ‘What is your name?’ ‘What?’ ‘Hmmm, quite a serious loss of cognitive function it appears,’ Doctor Watson says with a serious nod at Ben. ‘Ben.’ ‘What is?’ ‘My name. I’m Ben.’ ‘Nice to meet you, Ben. I’m Doctor Watson,’ he says, holding a hand out to shake. ‘You’re f...

says, shaking his head again. ‘Did we?’ ‘We did.’ ‘Sure?’ ‘Yes, I am sure.’ ‘You are sure we shook hands.’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Hmmm.’ ‘Okay, weirdo, why are you here?’ Ben asks. ‘Checking on you,’ the doctor says, looking down at him as though the answer is obvious. ‘Not here in this room, but why are you here? In Roland’s Batcave in dinosaur times?’ ‘I just said. I’m checking on you.’ ‘Fuck me, you’re a one, you are,’ Ben says, getting up into a proper sitting position and reaching for the cup, which is on a newly installed bedside

Where does the money come from?’ ‘Ben, what is—’ ‘I will throw you off that fucking ledge in a minute you nasty, vile, selfish, egotistical prick. You brought three people into a sterile bunker. You shoved them in rooms like cells and expected them to be heroes because a fucking computer program told you they would be okay and you left them to it while you went to the park with your son—’ ‘Now listen here—’ ‘I investigated suicides. I had to look into the lives of people to validate the claims and nearly every single one of them were cunts like you. Rich fucking bastards that bankrupted themselves through greed and couldn’t face a life of poverty and not being able to drive a fucking Porsche. People like you have no concept of the misery you cause. You fucking killed yourself for money? You abandoned your family for money? You brought us here and dumped us in the fucking dinosaur times to alleviate your own guilt? Fuck you. Fuck you and what you stand for. This is too big to be left in the hands of a fucking idiot like you. Where does the money come from?’ Roland swallowed. The intensity of the words pouring from Ben wilted him. The ferocity of the glare together with the calm tone of the voice was frightening. ‘Investments,’ he said weakly. ‘Investments? What investments?’ ‘We can’t just take money. The impact on the timeline would be . . . I mean. In theory I could use future knowledge to gain a fortune but that could influence the timeline. I invest in stocks and shares...