Nikki Owen - The Girl Who Ran

‘Powerful and gripping - an adrenaline-filled thriller you won’t forget’

Sunday Times bestseller Kimberley Chambers

‘Taut and clever, with a fascinating, complex lead character in a terrifying situation.’

New York Times bestselling author Gilly MacMillan

‘A gripping and tense thriller’

Heat Magazine

‘A must have’

Sunday Express ‘S’ Magazine

‘high-octane … made me feel like I should be hyperventilating at times’

New Books Magazine

‘Always a step ahead of the reader’s expectations’

David Mark, bestselling author of The Dark Winter

‘Fast-paced thriller … building with pace to a dramatic finale.’

Gloucestershire Gazette

‘Seizes your attention from the very first page.’

Liz Robinson, LoveReading

‘A great conspiracy thriller and a mind-bending tale!’

Booktime

‘One of the UK’s most exciting new thriller writers’

Talk Radio Europe

‘Truly excellent!’

My Weekly

Born in Dublin, Ireland, NIKKI OWENis an award-winning writer and columnist. Previously, Nikki worked in advertising as a copywriter, and was a teaching fellow at the University of Bristol, UK, before turning to writing full time. As part of her degree, she studied at the acclaimed University of Salamanca – the same city where her protagonist, Dr Maria Martinez, hails from.

Nikki’s novels are published in many languages around the world, and her debut novel was selected for TV Eire AM prestigious Book Club choice and Amazon’s ‘Rising Star debut selection’, the AudioFile Earphone Award and was a finalist for the USA Independent Publishers Award. Her second book was awarded the Book Noir Book of the Year Award.

Nikki now lives in the Cotswolds with her husband and two children.

To Dave, Abi and Hattie – my beautiful little family.

Cover

Praise

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

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

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Copyright

Deep cover Project facility .

Present day

The room is strange and yet familiar. I know where I am yet it is all new, and when I arrive at a white door marked Project Callidus – Clearance Grade Two , I know that this, finally, is the right place.

I know I am truly home.

I enter. I return the black security card into a zipped pocket and proceed. Everything is neat and ordered. The walls are white and gleaming, and the door three metres and eleven centimetres ahead of me is brown, neat and straight, a gloss to its surface reflecting the strip of muted, butter-yellow lights above me. There is barely any sound. My black boots brush in clipped, precise patterns on the cream polished tiles and, as they do, I count my steps, pausing at the now familiar notice that sits encased on the wall, a note repeated at careful, measured intervals throughout the clean, frosted walkways of each Project facility in the world.

Order and routine are everything. The Project is our only friend .

I read the words on the wall and a feeling passes over me: I am one of them; finally the rightful place for me in the world is here. For is that not what we are all searching for? Acceptance? I reach the far wall, stop and turn right. In every way now I know where I am going, but there are moments when I wonder who I truly am, when I think it’s hard to find a place in the world when you don’t know who you are supposed to be.

Striding seven more steps in the glow of the bulbs above, I reach a small grey monitor. Ahead, another subject number talks in hushed tones to a fellow colleague, and while we follow protocol and acknowledge the other’s numerical existence, each one of us is careful to make no eye contact at all.

There is a quick crackle from the monitor. ‘State your name and subject number.’

I clear my throat. ‘Dr Maria Martinez. Subject number 375.’

One second passes, two, until a mild buzzer sounds and, as per measured routine, I lean in to allow a soft pink light to scan my retina. The door ahead of me clicks, followed by a familiar whoosh of air and, striding seven more steps, I knock on another door. This one is thick, metal and heavy with silver casing and deep, solid locks with a sensory entrance system designed to withstand the harshest attack.

‘Enter,’ announces a familiar voice from inside.

In my nightmares and memories, the sound of him, of his accent, used to bother me. It would pull me into a downwards spin of fear, but now my mind has learned to find the Scottish lilt comforting, helpful to me and a welcome element in my daily routine. Placing my hand on the steel of the door and, the internal scanner tracing every groove of the unique lines on my skin, I walk in. There is a banging noise from somewhere, a mild moan, but my brain ignores it and my eyes remain facing forwards.

‘Subject 375,’ he says, inhaling through flared nostrils on a thin, pointed nose, ‘you are three seconds late.’

His skeletal fingers drum on a white file that sits on a metal desk, eyes as dark as oil, two round patches of bitumen pressed into deep, bottomless sockets. As he breathes, his head tilts and his tissue paper skin shines translucent, stretched across bones so thin that the blue roots of his veins glisten, criss crossing his face and neck and arms, down to where two spindled wrists hang on hooks from his triangular joints. He wears a white coat and a brown lambswool jumper, his shirt cornflower blue, and on his legs that bend like twigs about to snap hang trousers scratched from polyester and cotton that stop at his ankles where the bones jut out.

I speak. When I do, I am careful to ensure my voice does not shake or flip or fold. ‘Forgive me, Dr Carr.’

He regards me. He taps a single finger on the metal table and looks to the right where a large, rectangular mirrored window rests. I catch my reflection. Hair back to black, cropped neat to the scalp and neck, my green contacts are now gone to reveal birth-brown eyes that match a tan skin which softens to honey in the glow of the light hitting the curve of my elbow. Since I was brought here and recommenced training, much of my body has changed. Where before I was lean, now I am strong, muscular, the definition of my biceps and triceps outlined under the soft cotton white t-shirt and the smooth black brush of my Project-issue combats. My stomach is taut and when, on instruction of Dr Carr, my legs stride to the chair and sit, my quads tighten automatically, flexed, honed.

He installs a smile on his face, no eye creases, and clicks his pen. ‘Time for our daily chat.’

A ripple of nerves passes through my spine down to the soles of my feet. I smell in the air, for the first time since entering, his familiar scent, a scent I have known for almost three decades since the Project took me and began their conditioning programme. Hot garlic, stale tobacco – the odour trail of his presence left long ago in my road map of memories. My immediate instinct is to run, to bang on the door with curled-up fists and yell for them to let me out, yet instead I find a way of breathing through it, of practising mental yoga in my head and moving my mind in a gentle rhythmic flow of reassurance and calm. He has taught me to react this way. When pushed to its limits, the mind can achieve so much, he says. And so I inhale his aroma and ignore the bubble of worry that threatens to burst, and gratefully channel the emerging inner-strength that the Project has helped me cultivate.