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

by Robert J. Crane

  “What do we do?” Holloway called.

  I turned back to the tiger, trying to gather my senses and answer that question for myself. “You – stop,” I said to the albino predator.

  The tiger looked at me for about a second, with eyes of bright blue.

  Then it turned into a hawk and swept off, ignoring me completely. It flew up and over the office building at incredible speed, disappearing before I could even get a bead on it with my pistol. Which was not exactly designed for bird hunting.

  “What the shit was all that?” Holloway called. We'd gone from one meta in combat to two to none in ten, fifteen seconds by my reckoning.

  “I have no idea,” I said, plopping squarely onto my ass. My sides hurt, and I was in no condition to run down Firebeetle on foot, let alone try and hunt the damned hawk that had just flown off. But it seemed clear to me now that not only did I have one problem, in the form of Firebeetle and his Chinese-linked kidnap syndicate, but also a new mystery:

  Who the hell was that shifter? And what did they want?

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Shortly after my bad guy and the shifter escaped, the scene was teeming with local cops crawling over the partially destroyed office building. It was a mess of uniforms, various jurisdictions trying to assert their authority over the scene: local PD, some state agency, and of course me and my little FBI division. More like a micro-division now that Hilton was on leave. I tried to defer to the locals while getting leeway for my forensic team to crawl the battle site, but I had about as much interest in an internecine pissing contest as I did in a real one. Control of the scene went to the locals.

  Which is why it shouldn't have surprised me when someone very definitely not in law enforcement appeared, touring the ruin of the building, trailed by a police officer. It all looked very aboveboard, and I tried not to jump to any conclusions when I looked up from filling out my small mountain of paperwork and saw them poking around my scene.

  It was kinda hard to miss, though. Because one of them was Bilson, and the other was a random Asian guy in a nice suit.

  “What the hell kind of circus is this?” I muttered under my breath, putting down my clipboard on the back of a police pickup truck.

  “Well, you already had the tiger, so a pretty decent one,” Holloway answered back from where he'd been filling out his own incident report.

  I ignored him and crossed the distance between the truck and the collapsed facade of the building, where Bilson was standing, just talking with the Asian man. I tried not to come in hot, but I was curious why he would show up here with a not-cleared civilian. Hopefully he was someone connected to the US government and not someone related to the People's Republic of China (I didn't want to leap to a conclusion here).

  “Ah, there you are,” Bilson said sunnily as I approached.

  “Here I am, where the trouble is,” I said, looking theatrically at the collapsed floor. “It's the first place you should check whenever you lose me.”

  Bilson chuckled, then, gentleman that he was, immediately turned to his companion. “Sienna Nealon, this is Gang Liao. He's an aide to the Chinese ambassador.”

  I should have jumped to that conclusion like Evel Knievel over the Grand Canyon, apparently. I tried to control my reaction, but my eyebrows probably climbed into my hairline. “Nice to meet you,” I said in a way that probably indicated I was in no way pleased to meet him, at least not at this time nor this place. “Can I ask why you brought the aide to the Chinese ambassador to my crime scene?”

  “This building is owned by a Chinese citizen,” Gang Liao answered, in flawless English. “I was having a conversation with Mr. Bilson about other matters when the calls came in to both of us. In his case, informing him of your unfortunate incident here. In my case, from the owner of the building, who is currently in Shenzen, managing other businesses.”

  Now I was only raising one eyebrow. “Oh, you're talking about the owner of HKKCME?”

  Liao chuckled. “No. I'm referring to Mr. Huang, who owns this property. The company that leases it is unrelated to him or his businesses save for the leasing transaction.”

  “I'll just bet,” I said. “Any idea how Mr. Huang ended up with this particular piece of property?”

  Liao wore a small smile. “Chinese businessmen have made many investments in America, from real estate to the bond market. I couldn't say why he would pick this particular parcel. Only that he owns it, and was concerned enough to ask that I take a look at how things have turned out for him here.”

  “Well, this place certainly hasn't suffered what I'd call 'Maximum Sienna,'” I said, “but it's obviously not good.”

  “Indeed not.” Liao's smile faded. “Still, the damage could have been considerably more.” He pulled out his cell phone and snapped a couple pictures of the facade. “If you'll excuse me, Ms. Nealon, Mr. Bilson.” He raised the phone. “I'd like to send these to Mr. Huang immediately.”

  “Hey, if the local cops don't want to stop you from taking pictures in my active crime scene, far be it from me to object,” I said, catching a warning look from Bilson.

  Liao chuckled, inclined his head at me, then wandered away, texting.

  The moment he was out of earshot, Bilson leaned in toward me. “That was a little antagonistic.”

  “Be thankful it wasn't a lot antagonistic, cuz I'm doing my best here,” I said, drawing a barely-controlled breath. “I know you're new to this law enforcement thing, but you cannot bring a civilian into a crime scene until it's been sifted. It's an ironclad thing in our field. Civilians have this tendency to trample on evidence.”

  “Understood,” Bilson said, but went on in a way that suggested he clearly did not heed. “But this came from the president. Huang, the owner of this place? He's a big wheel in China, and holds a lot of sway in the US, too.”

  “He's the one who just got that big deal with Jaime Chapman, right?” I asked, watching Liao mess with his cell phone.

  Bilson cocked his head at me in mild surprise. “Yes. How did you know about that?”

  I gave Bilson a look. You can imagine what kind. “I know I'm just a blunt instrument to you, but I do read the paper every now and again. Or at least the internet. Chapman's China deal was not small news.”

  “Right, sorry,” Bilson said, shaking his head. “Didn't mean to suggest you were stupid. It's a little outside your field is all.”

  “I'm a multi-dimensional person,” I said. “I have outside interests.”

  This caused him to raise an eyebrow. “Okay, I'll bite. Such as?”

  I felt my breath catch in my throat. “Finding new and creative ways to cause maiming harm to lawbreakers, for one. Did he just make a less-than-subtle reference to how China is buying up US Treasury bonds?”

  Bilson smirked. “You caught that, huh? You're right, it wasn't subtle, at least for those who follow the Chinese model of communication. It was a little for Americans, though. We're so blunt, comparatively.”

  “And me more than most,” I agreed. “Why would he bring that up now?”

  “Could have just been him poking at you in a way he thought you wouldn't notice,” Bilson said with a shrug. “It didn't seem all that serious.”

  “Why is it a poke at me but not at you?” I asked. “Aren't you an American?”

  Bilson shrugged again. “I guess I just don't care about that particular bait. They're buying our debt. Good. Someone should.”

  That raised my eyebrow again. “Maybe it's just my inherent paranoia, but most people associate money with power.”

  Bilson let out a little chuckle. “'The borrower is slave to the lender?' That kind of thing?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Or, alternatively,” Bilson said, “the Chinese could be investing in the stablest currency in the world because they recognize the return is thus stable. Because it's backed by the full faith and credit of the United States.”

  “Yeah, but strategically, they're trying to supplant us,” I said, causing Bilso
n to raise another eyebrow. “They literally have a fifty-year plan to outpace the United States economically and in a global security sense.”

  “Well, the longest Treasury bond is thirty years, so...” Bilson's smile was so annoyingly effervescent, and I could tell he wasn't taking my pronouncement very seriously. “...By that logic, they'll be well clear of the investment in US debt before they overtake us. Where did you hear about this 'plan,' anyway?”

  “I read it on the back of a cereal box,” I said, trying not to snap at him but failing. He was being a little condescending.

  “Just curious,” Bilson said, voice losing not an ounce of his usual friendliness. “I was wondering the source to see if it was something easily refuted.”

  I started to open my mouth to throw out a response, one which was not designed to be patient nor nice, when a forensics monkey in the full suit came walking over to me. “Ma'am?” she asked, a clear plastic bag in hand, piece of paper secured inside it, her pale blue eyes all I could see behind the mask. “We found this in the office where you were ambushed.”

  “Oh?” I took the bag from her and peered at the paper within. It was a single printed page, written in English but...it had an awful lot of names of Chinese origin. It was a list, I realized while scanning it. Most of the names were crossed out with a pen. But not all. “Who are these people?”

  Then I got to name number five, which was not crossed out, and part of the question got answered for me. “Shit,” I muttered.

  “What?” Bilson asked.

  I turned it around and flashed it at him. Gave him a moment for it to sink in.

  “Names,” Bilson said, scanning it. “What about them? Could be a client list. Or workers. Or–”

  “It's not,” I said, feeling an ominous prickling. “Look at the fifth name.”

  “'Cathy Jang-Peters,'” Bilson read. “What about her?”

  “That's the name of our first victim,” I said, “her name uncrossed, but so many of the others aren't?” I could see the slow comprehension dawning on Bilson, but I could also tell he didn't want to admit what this was. So I said it for him. “This...

  “It's a list of kidnap targets.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  “Impossible,” Bilson said as I snapped a picture of the list with my cell phone. He was looking a little pale, and it wasn't because of the Virginia sunshine, which was bright and hot, glaring down at us. “That's...there have to be forty, fifty names there!”

  “Yep,” I said, sending the picture to Holloway and Chalke. I wrote: Evidence recovered from most recent conflict with kidnapper suspect. Original kidnap victim Cathy Jang-Peters is on list. Suspected list of kidnap victims. Need to track these people down. Then I sent it.

  “Look, you said before that maybe there were more victims,” Bilson was still talking, but his voice had dropped to a pleading tone. “You didn't say anything about there being fifty people missing.”

  “The case just took a hard turn, yes,” I said, plowing my way toward Holloway, who'd just picked up his cell phone and was frowning at – presumably – my message.

  “Wait, hold on.” Bilson seized my arm.

  I spun on him. Not violently, just in a hurry. “What?”

  “You cannot possibly believe these kidnappers got...fifty people?” Bilson laughed weakly, the desperate laughter of a man who didn't want to believe what he'd just heard.

  “Why is that a problem for you?” I asked calmly.

  Bilson paled further, looking around, presumably for Liao, who was nowhere in sight. “Because kidnapping fifty people is not a small undertaking.”

  A very tiny smile may have made its way across my lips. “You mean it's an operation large enough it would require, say...a government to be involved?”

  The deathly twitch of Bilson's eye told me that yes, this was exactly his fear. He didn't say it, though. Didn't need to. If you were going to kidnap one person in the US, you needed a team.

  If you were going to kidnap fifty...

  That was a whole 'nother organizational ballgame. Kidnap one person and you could stuff them in a trailer in the backwoods, keep them tied up or prisoner by very easy conventional means.

  Kidnap fifty and you needed a warehouse, ways to feed them, places they could relieve themselves. That would require a compound of some sort. You had a serious chain of logistical difficulties to deal with. That wasn't a game for one person, or a small crew of criminals.

  That was a conspiracy. That required resources, planning, scale of a sort that some small gang couldn't manage.

  But a nation could.

  “You don't know that a state actor is behind this,” Bilson said, just this side of panicking. “Or that it's this specific state actor.”

  “No, I don't,” I said airily. “But I am going to find out.” My phone lit up with a call. Chalke, of course. I figured when I sent the text I'd hear from her in mere minutes. Seconds, if she wasn't too busy. “Excuse me.” And I answered the call.

  “What the hell is this?” Chalke asked.

  “Don't know for sure,” I said, “but I think it's a list of kidnap targets. I'm going to have to run them down, see if any of them have been approached, or snatched like Jang-Peters.”

  There was a pause. “I'm getting you that call with SecState Ngo,” she said. “But this...” She let out a not-mild expletive under her breath, which of course I heard. “Do your checking, but it goes nowhere past your team and me, you hear?”

  “You might want to loop the president in on this,” I said. Bilson was watching me, and shook his head.

  “No,” Chalke said.

  “...No?” I asked. “You want to cut him out of this?”

  “Until we know these people are definitely taken, yes,” Chalke said. “If it is what you think it is, we'll brief him. But you need to prove it first. Until we know they're gone, it's nothing more than a list of names. Got it?”

  “You got it, boss,” I said. It was not a ridiculously unreasonable request, though my preference would have been to be more communicative with the president rather than less, but he was probably experiencing a firehose of information on any given day, so keeping this back until we were sure didn't strike me as grossly negligent or conspiracy-ish. A little overcautious, maybe, but not malign – yet.

  “Get on it, then,” Chalke said. “Ngo will be calling you within the hour.”

  “Roger that.” And she hung up.

  “The president doesn't need to worry about this yet,” Bilson said. “Prove it's something and then–”

  “Yeah, I got it,” I said, heading for Holloway again. “He's a busy man, this is just a thread so far.”

  “Yes,” Bilson said, sounding a little taken aback. “Exactly. That's very...reasonable.”

  I shot him a playful smile. “Were you given to understand I'm unreasonable?”

  Bilson chuckled. “Well, this is DC. Rumors circulate.”

  “I've had some bad bosses,” I said. “We've butted heads. I'm probably at least half the problem, but...” I took a breath, really aimed for seeming contrite. “...Well, I'm trying to do better.”

  “Good for you,” Bilson said sincerely. “So...what next?”

  “Need to talk to Holloway,” I said, nodding in the man's direction. He was still waiting for me at the pickup truck where I'd left him, watching my progress but staying patient. “We're going to have to do the leg work of trying to find these people. Chalke said I have to compartmentalize this info, which means it's on us, I guess. So that's phone calls and scut work, beating the bushes to find these folks with just a name and nothing else to go on.”

  Bilson nodded. “I might be able to help with that. Let me prevail on Chalke, see what we can come up with.”

  “I'm all for getting help with chasing down names,” I said, “but she was pretty firm about not letting this list out, so...”

  He nodded sympathetically. “I'll work on her.” And off he went, fiddling with his phone.

  “You se
em to have made some new friends,” Holloway said when I drew close to him. “And dug up some new trouble. This kidnap list legit?”

  “That's what you and I have to figure out,” I said. “Come on. Screw the incident report; we need to get on this.”

  “Ah, the glorious life of an FBI agent,” Holloway said, tucking the clipboard with his report under his arm. It was the report for the local PD. His FBI report would come later, and be typed up rather than written. “Screwing the locals and running down leads on the phone like a damned telemarketer.”

  “I could do with a little of that kind of glory right now,” I said, taking one last look at the collapsed facade of the office building. “Besides, we bagged a couple of security guards committing firearms felonies and trashed a building. What more could you ask for?” Holloway's sour look told me the answer – a lot more.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Julie Blair

  The email came across her desk shortly before normal quitting time, and Julie Blair was tired. Not only because she'd been up late the last few nights, not only because she hadn't seen her kids in the daylight in two weeks (and seldom awake, at that), but because she knew that at best, her workday would not end for three or four more hours.

  And she'd started at six this morning.

  Bleary-eyed, she pounded down a cold coffee as she read the missive for the third time, trying to fully comprehend it.

  Ms. Blair,

  My name is Marta Hale, and I am one of President Gondry's donors. We met at his fundraiser at Marian Cain's apartment in New York last year, and you and I talked about balancing work and motherhood, and the tensions that those twin poles of responsibility create, especially in high-powered careers. I have been holding onto your card since then, preferring not to prevail on you or the White House for any favors and quietly cheering for the president to make the policy changes that you and I discussed.