Dragon: Out of the Box (The Girl in the Box Book 37)

by Robert J. Crane

  I looked over the field. It was a hundred yards, easy. “That's a metahuman sprint time all right. The fire eyes thing is interesting, too.”

  “What type is that, you think?” Hilton was all up at my elbow like an eager little puppy.

  “Who's the vic?” I asked, ignoring my partner in hopes she'd control her bladder if I didn't give her attention. “And where is she?”

  “One Cathy Jang-Peters,” Stacks said, nodding at an ambulance parked on the shoulder. “Adjunct professor at Georgetown. Chinese history, I think.” She fished out a little notebook, flipped to the middle and read for a second. “Yes. That's it.”

  “Huh,” I said, and looked at the sheet-covered bodies before making my way over. The van was big, white, one of those models used as work trucks for electricians or for delivery services. “Got a registration on this?”

  “Tags are stolen,” Stacks said. “VIN suggests it's registered to a corporation in Delaware: HDRKVC Corp.”

  “Front company for somebody?” I asked, squatting to lift one of the stained sheets. “Or do they actually do something?”

  “No website, the storefront is empty,” Stacks said. “Ten other companies are registered to the same address.”

  “So it's a front,” I said, and looked at one of the downed kidnappers. “Curiouser and curiouser.” I took a step over and lifted the second sheet. “I don't mean to be a racist, but I think I detect an ethnic pattern among these perpetrators.”

  “They're Asian,” Hilton said, still dangerously close to my shoulder.

  “As is the vic,” Stacks said coolly, looking at Hilton. She was black, Stacks and I were white. It was just safer for her to make that observation aloud.

  “Any ID on these guys?” I asked.

  “Nope,” Stacks said.

  “Hm,” I said, dropping the second sheet. I beckoned to a guy standing a little ways off with a gurney. “You can have the ME take them away now. I'm curious about tattoos and other identifying marks.”

  “Aren't we all,” Stacks said dryly, and nodded at the guys I'd beckoned to.

  “Victim know these guys at all?” I asked, making my way back to Stacks.

  She shook her head. “I took a picture of their faces and showed her. She said she didn't recognize them. She's pretty disoriented, though, even now. Chloroform does a real number on you.”

  “Anything else of interest before I start making my rounds?” I asked.

  “Perps had Glocks,” Stacks said, reading off her notebook. “Model 19's, if that helps. Stolen.”

  “Common as dirt. Your people take a look at that tire yet?” I pointed at the BMW.

  “It's definitely popped,” Stacks said. “It'll take ballistics work, but preliminary suggests it was probably shot out. Small caliber, either .22 or .223 is what our guy says. Oh – and there was duct tape and zip ties in the van.”

  “Oh my,” I said, glancing at the van again. It looked new. “Sounds like one of your dates, Hilton.” She made a noise of irritation behind me. “Does the van have a GPS?”

  Stacks gave me a ghost of a smile for the first time since I'd arrived. “Yeah. We're getting a warrant to release the GPS records.”

  I made a fist and raised it. “Rock on, Stacks. Great work. Let me talk to the witnesses and tell me immediately if that warrant comes through.”

  Stacks just nodded. “Sure,” and she peeled off to go do her thing.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “Sir,” I said, approaching the older black gentleman who'd been talking to the sheriff's deputies before he saw me coming and cut it off. “I'm Sienna Nealon.”

  “I know you,” he said, offering me a hand and shaking. “Fred Brooks.”

  “Well, I'm glad to meet you,” I said. “You called this in?”

  “A-yep,” he said, slow drawl coming out as he hooked his thumbs in his belt loops. He had a little belly on him, a bit past his prime, but he still looked like the kind of guy you wouldn't want to tangle with unless you had superpowers. “Saw the whole thing while I was driving. Pulled over to see if I could help with the flat tire. Didn't quite connect the flash to the flat, at least at first. Then those fellas popped out and tried to grab the lady, and I just...well, old habits die hard, you know?”

  I knew. “You retired from the service?”

  “Yes, ma'am,” he said, and his chest puffed out a little. “I was a gunnery sergeant. Marine Corps.”

  “Semper Fi, gunny,” I said. “I took a look at your handiwork. Were you back here by your car when you opened fire?”

  “Yes, ma'am,” Brooks said, and pointed to his vehicle's trunk. “I was behind cover right there.”

  “Nicely done.” I eyeballed it; it was a good thirty feet and he'd pegged both those guys in the 10 ring. “What were you shooting?”

  “Colt 1911,” he said with a trace of pride. “Used it in the service when I first went in, before they switched to those damned Berettas. Never could accustom myself to those.”

  “A classicist, huh?” I smiled. “Really good work there.”

  Brooks puffed up a little more. “Thank you.”

  “Did you follow this van for long?” I asked.

  “I don't rightly know,” Brooks said. “Probably been behind them since at least Yorkshire. I was really into my audiobook so I didn't much take notice. I was in the right lane the whole way. They were ahead of me for a bit, but I couldn't say how long.”

  I nodded, giving it a little thought. “Did you hear a gunshot when you saw the flash?”

  Brooks thought about it a second. “No. No, I would have known if I'd heard a shot. My book wasn't turned up that loud.”

  That was interesting. I looked across the field again; he would have heard the crack of a rifle, even in his car, unless it was turned down. Most likely a suppressor plus a subsonic round. Unless it was something else entirely, as in not a bullet. “I'd say you did your good deed for the day, sir.” I gave him a smile. “Let the officers know if you think of anything else?”

  “Yes, ma'am,” he said, offering me a thumbs up.

  I walked away, almost bumping into Hilton as she hurried to clear out of my path. She leaned in to whisper to me. “You think he's telling the truth?”

  I waited a few steps until we were well out of Brooks's earshot before answering, mostly because I didn't want him to feel insulted by Hilton's question. “Yeah, he seems on the level to me. No signs of lying, and he gets the presumption of good faith from me because of his service.” We went past the dead bodies, red stains starting to spread on the white sheets that covered them over. The medical examiner was preparing his gurney to pick them up, and the smell was already getting a little ripe.

  “But he shot these guys,” Hilton said in a hushed whisper.

  “And if he hadn't, he'd have gotten drilled himself,” I said, making my way toward the open ambulance where our victim waited, looking a little woozy. She had a plastic oxygen mask in her hand, like she'd used it some recently, and I caught hints of the chloroform even at this distance and after the paramedics had surely cleaned her off. She'd gotten a stiff dose, I gauged, if that much was lingering in the air even after this long. “Plus, our vic would have been kidnapped.”

  “I guess,” Hilton said. “It just weirds me out when citizens try to do our job for us.”

  “He served and protected better than we could have,” I said. “We're cleanup and investigation, Hilton. Cops are barely ever there when things go down and it's lucky if we are. We catch the bad guys after the fact – if at all. I say good for Gunny Brooks. He probably saved this lady's life.”

  We cut it off as we approached the victim. She'd locked eyes with me as I came up, head bobbing slightly, eyes looking a little watery.

  “Hey,” I said, “how are you feeling?”

  “Like I took a snort of Drano right up the nose,” she said, blinking a few times at me. “Hey, aren't you...?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Are you Cathy?”

  She nodded slowly. “Cath
y Jang-Peters.” She looked around dazedly. “Have you seen my husband? He's supposed to be on the way.”

  I made a show of looking around, then settled my gaze on the line of cars logjammed in our lane. “If I had to guess, he's probably stuck in traffic.” Turning back to her, I asked, “Mind if we talk real quick?”

  She took a quick snort of the oxygen. “Sure, but I don't know if there's anything I can tell you that I didn't already tell the other detective.”

  “Can you think of a reason anyone would want to kidnap you?” I asked, going for the basics anyway.

  Cathy Jang-Peters shook her head slowly. “I'm an adjunct college professor at Georgetown. Unless one of my students commissioned someone to kidnap me because I graded them too harshly, I honestly have no idea.”

  “Are there any students you can think of that'd have an axe to grind?” I asked, maintaining eye contact and giving her a gentle smile. I was coaxing, trying to get her to give me anything. If she knew literally nothing about why this was happening, it'd probably be obvious, because it was much harder to lie or be guileful under the influence of chloroform.

  “No, not really,” she said. “I teach mostly juniors and seniors, and have a very limited class load. I'm not sure I even have anyone failing my classes at present.” She gave it a moment's thought. “No. No, I don't think...no one's failing.”

  Scratch that one. “Is there anyone professionally that you're having a problem with? Or personally?” I glanced back down the slow-moving line of cars. “Everything going all right at home?”

  Cathy snorted a laugh. “Other than my husband convincing me to move out to the sticks, everything's fine at home. And no, I can't think of any enemies that would sic a group of kidnappers on me.”

  “Family money?” I asked. “Shot in the dark, but...”

  She shook her head again. “My parents are first generation immigrants from China. They came over after Tiananmen Square with nothing. Both are college professors. My in-laws are farmers a few hours southwest of here. They have good years and bad, and have made it through a lot, but they're not exactly running a huge agribusiness. So...no to your question.”

  “Hm,” I said, trying to think of anything I'd missed. Money was the biggest motive for kidnapping, followed by personal reasons. If no one in her family had money or an axe to grind, I was hard pressed to figure out why she had a professional kidnapping squad complete with a metahuman come after her. “If you think of anything else, let the officers know.”

  “Sure,” she said, then raised her eyes, a little sluggishly, to meet mine. “Have you ever heard of anything happening like this before? Metahumans kidnapping a regular person?”

  I paused, really trying to give it some thought before answering. “It's unusual, but metahumans are people like any other. It seems like this is a well-planned attempt, though. Professional to the max, and it only failed because there was a retired Marine that just happened to be behind you today. So, to answer your question – no, this is new. But we're going to find out why it happened, don't worry.” I forced a tight smile. “Until then, it's probably best if you have local police watching out for you.” I caught Stacks's eye from across the scene. She was beckoning.

  With a last nod, I disengaged from my conversation with Cathy and headed toward Stacks. When I got close enough, she arched her eyebrows. “A couple things just came through – first, the warrant is approved. We should have GPS data on where that van has been in the next little while.”

  I nodded. “What else?”

  “We sent searchers into the woods,” Stacks said, nodding in the direction where the putative shot had come from to pop Cathy Jang-Peters's tire. “They found fresh tire tracks on a dirt path about a mile away. Looks like our sniper and metahuman had an escape vehicle waiting.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I hiked across the field under the hot morning sun, Hilton struggling along in my wake. I wasn't a forensic guru, but I did want to see for myself both the scene of the sniper's nest and the dirt road where the getaway car had been parked. A helicopter chopped overhead, sweeping the area and hopefully ensuring that our perps were not still close at hand.

  “Can you just...wait up?” Hilton puffed from behind me.

  “No,” I said. “Go get the car and find the entry to the dirt road Stacks mentioned, will you? I might need a quick pickup from there.”

  “I don't have the keys,” Hilton whined.

  Barely looking back, I turned and tossed her the keys. She fumbled them, of course, in spite of my perfect throw. I might have put a little heat on them, but only because she was both annoying and deserved it.

  That settled, I broke into a metahuman-speed jog and left Hilton behind, disappearing under the canopy of trees in seconds. The shade brought the temperature down by at least ten degrees, but I was already sweating and the air was heavy with moisture. I found the cops hanging around the sniper's spot and gave it a quick look.

  It looked like someone had gone prone here. Eyeing the distance to the BMW, I thought the shot was decent, but not exactly professional quality. I didn't take Stacks at her word about there being no visible shell casing, but after a couple good minutes of looking, I had to concede that she was probably right. Most likely, the shooter had used a bolt action and not chambered a second round. No ballistics to be found here. They might still turn up the bullet, which had either lodged in Cathy Jang-Peters's car or traveled beyond. I had my doubts they'd ever find it if it hadn't stopped in the BMW.

  Getting a quick directional point from the officers at the scene, I trotted off toward the dirt road where they'd found the tire tracks. I marked it on my map and sent the location to Hilton via phone. She didn't acknowledge, presumably because she was driving. Not that she was the sort to put down her phone while driving.

  Jogging through the woods was surprisingly peaceful, if a little steamy. My boots were laced nice and tight, and the topography was mild hills, changes of altitude no more than about twenty-five feet, total, from hilltop to gully. I crossed three or four of those sort of slopes on my traversal, stopping and checking my GPS every couple hundred yards to adjust my course.

  It was a lovely forest of aging pines, sweet scent filling the air, needles covering the ground along with the decayed remnants of whatever had been left over from last fall. My boots crunched as I went. I broke a heavy sweat about halfway to the road. Not because of the exertion of the hills, but because of the warmth. I checked my weather app and it informed me that it was 85 degrees Fahrenheit but felt like 92. The humidity was thick and only getting worse as the sun rose higher.

  About two hundred feet from the road I came out of the cover of trees and found a couple sheriff's cars parked ahead, khaki-uniformed deputies holding court just outside of a yellow taped-up crime scene. I slowed when I got close and ducked under to take a peek at the tire tracks.

  Well, they were tire tracks, all right. A cursory examination suggested to me a sedan, though it was just a guess. It looked like someone had parked here when the ground was still wet from morning dew or a light rain that had come in the night, very clear indications from when they'd driven in on the right side of the road. They'd driven out under slightly less damp conditions on the left side of the road, and those tracks were less clear.

  My big government SUV appeared ahead, turning the corner through a densely packed copse. I heard it coming a little before I saw it, Hilton taking her sweet time, like she was afraid she'd run off the road into a ditch and get assaulted by hillbillies or something.

  The deputies just nodded to me as I passed and I returned the courtesy. A text lit up my phone.

  GPS data – Stacks.

  With it came a file that I opened. It popped up a map, with lines drawn all over the Northern Virginia and DC metro. The finish was obvious, a blue line terminating on VA-28 just out there across the woods I'd just traversed.

  I zoomed in, peering at the most recent destination. It seemed to be a residential area a little farther so
uth, in Manassas. A flag there suggested the van had been idle in that location for just under an hour. I texted Stacks a quick inquiry, snapshotting it and sending it along, then continued following the trail on my screen.

  The blue line led back to DC, to some commercial zone therein. A flag on the map suggested the van had been parked at a location in that area for twelve hours. Looking closer, I switched to my own mapping app as Hilton rattled the SUV to a stop beside me.

  “These are rough roads,” Hilton said as I swung into the passenger side and closed the door. My phone buzzed with a response from Stacks.

  Jang-Peters says the location where the van waited is at the end of her driveway.

  That was interesting. I flipped back to my mapping app, inputting the second address, where the van had spent twelve hours the previous day and into last night.

  It popped up quickly: Save Much Furniture Store. In DC proper.

  “What?” Hilton asked as I hit the button to Get Directions. “What is it?”

  “Our next stop,” I said, as the GPS voice chimed in and told us to turn around. “Let's go.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Driving back into DC was not nearly as heavenly as leaving, but at least we'd managed to avoid rush hour. We hit the Key bridge over the Potomac just before 10 a.m., and followed the GPS to a commercial development that was technically just over the DC boundary in Maryland, reaching the Save Much Furniture Store just after 10:30.

  “Drop me around back,” I said, casing the place as we went through the parking lot. It was a decaying strip mall of the kind you could find in almost every suburban area: bright paint colors that had faded with seasonal wear, empty spaces punctuated by the usual assortment of coffee shops and overnight gyms farther down the line. “I want you to go in and look around. Don't flash your badge unless you have to.”