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

by Robert J. Crane

  “Shit,” I said, writhing, trying to free my AK to shoot back. It wasn't happening, though. He had me dead to rights, and was lining up his fatal shot–

  Boom.

  Red mist exploded out of his neck, his gun barrel rising and letting off a staccato burst like an angry animal. He sagged to his knees, muscle control gone, and fell onto his face, already dead.

  Behind him, advancing, pistol drawn, was Holloway.

  “Oh, hey,” I said, rolling to my back and freeing up my weapon. “Good timing.”

  “Yeah,” Holloway said, sweeping in and kicking the merc's AK out of his grip, then picking it up for himself. “I think we got 'em all.”

  I raised an eyebrow at him. “Oh, did we? How many did you get?”

  “Just the one,” he said, checking the chamber of the weapon. “You?”

  “All the rest, I damned well hope,” I said, taking his offered hand and letting him pull me up. Sirens echoed in the distance over the ringing in my ears. Help was on the way. A little late, but still...on the way.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  Chapman

  “That was some high quality violence,” Chapman said, putting aside his popcorn. Man, he wanted to package this up and release it. It wouldn't be hard to come up with a dummy Socialite account from behind his VPN. It wasn't like it was difficult to open an account, obviously. They hadn't become number one on the planet by making it difficult to surrender your personal information. No, it was painfully easy, and it was right there if he just–

  But no. That may have been his main mission when he'd started the company, facilitating that transfer of personal information and connection, but that wasn't his mission anymore. Well, it sort of was – but his eye was on the ball with this China thing. A hint of disappointment coursed through him. As much fun as it would have been to watch this spread through the net like wildfire, it'd hurt his current cause to play Sienna Nealon up as a hero.

  “Damn,” he muttered, though. It was so disappointing making these adult choices.

  Whatever. The cops were on the scene now, which meant hopefully things would calm down over the next few minutes. Which was good, because Chapman really had to pee.

  Still, he carried his laptop with him as he went, watching the split screens between the overhead cams and Nealon’s and Holloway's phones, hoping something cool would happen to give him just a fraction of the thrill he'd had when the gunfight had unfolded.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  Sienna

  I shook my phone and water flicked off the screen. It was supposedly waterproof, and when I lifted it up and pushed the button to activate it, it lit up like nothing was wrong. Which was good, because replacing phones was such a drag. I probably needed to just switch to a never-ending series of burners, honestly. That'd be a huge timesaver.

  “What the hell happened here?” Bilson wandered up, clearly allowed past the police line, where Baltimore PD had already set up. He sounded more amazed than disappointed, which was a good reaction in my view. I'd gotten tired of having my putative bosses greet my activities with disappointment. If my mother hadn't been able to guilt me with it when I was a pain-in-the-ass defiant child, their likelihood of success now that I was a pain-in-the-ass defiant adult seemed low.

  “Crime-fighting,” I said without missing a beat. I had my boots off and my socks drying in the last light of day as I sat on the hood of the FBI SUV. An AR-15 was just sitting in the lockbox in the back of the vehicle. Too bad it had been parked here, some hundred yards away from where it would have been useful an hour ago. “What's up with you?”

  “I expected to find some questioning going on,” Bilson said as an EMT rolled a stretcher past, the body on it covered with a white sheet. “But it doesn't look like you left anyone alive to question.”

  “Well, they decided to resist arrest,” I said, touching my socks to see if they'd dried yet. They hadn't. Big surprise. They'd been soaked and the temperature was dropping. Sundown was over. Likelihood they'd dry out here? So very low. Looked like I'd be wearing wet socks in my boots again soon.

  “Did you get shot?” Bilson's eyes widened as he saw the bloody compress resting on my shoulder.

  I glanced down, as if unsure. Duh. Of course I'd been shot. “Barely,” I said, though, playing it cool. I pulled the compress away, and the bullet hole already looked much reduced, maybe half the size of a pencil. Still stung, though.

  “What...what was this?” Bilson asked, sidling over to me. His eyes were on the scene, which was swarming with Baltimore PD and FBI. They'd started to dicker over the mess, with divers from the locals working on body recovery and the limited FBI presence picking over the pier for clues. Mostly they'd just found bullet shells so far, though apparently there was some form of written orders – in another language, naturally – left behind by the mercs in one of the containers they'd been waiting in to spring their ambush.

  None of the mercs were Asian. I was unclear how a group of Eurotrash mercenaries had gotten roped into my Chinese case, but here they were, and not a one left alive for me to ask. Alas.

  “Any idea–”

  “No,” I said, pre-empting him.

  He made a face. “I didn't even finish.”

  I sighed. “Doesn't matter. I have no idea who they were, what their connection to this case was, other than they appear to have been hired by this HKKCME, since they were guarding the company's pier. I don't know why they tried to bushwhack me, especially here. I mean, they came at us hard–”

  “'Us?'”

  “Yeah, Agent Holloway was here, too,” I said, waving into the distance. “He's off managing the FBI guys.”

  Bilson blinked a couple times. “Why?”

  “Because he didn't get shot, barely or otherwise,” I said, tossing aside the bloody compress. It had done its job, and now there was adequate scabbing to keep me from bleeding all over the place. “I tell you – this case is a head-scratcher. Or headache inducer. I am so baffled. So very, very baffled. All I have are extraneous pieces that don't fit together, like an eighties hair band but without the unifying theme of the hair, y'know? Like an eighties hair band where one is bald, the next has pigtails, another has a mullet–”

  “Please stop,” Bilson said, looking pained. “This visual is traumatizing.”

  “Sorry. But seriously – tell me you have a clue.”

  Bilson shrugged expansively. “Nothing to add, no. I came out here to see what you were going to find. Official Washington has nothing on this, not even rumors. Or at least not good rumors. There are always rumors, of course–”

  “Give me the bad rumors,” I said, grasping at whatever straw I could get my hand on. “I don't even care at this point. Pure lies probably make more sense than whatever I'm digging at the edges of here. I mean, from my gap-brained vantage point it's basically, Step 1: commit kidnappings. Step 2: ????? Step 3: Profit!”

  Bilson chuckled. “South Park fan?”

  “Early seasons, yeah. I dropped out after about five, I think.” I settled my face in my hands. “Come on, Bilson, give me a rumor. Give me something. Hell, distract me for a minute, because this is seriously gonna blow my pea brain out if I get one disparate, nonsensical piece of information added to my clues list right now.”

  He seemed to take that on board. “Well, there was one interesting rumor, I suppose. That Chinese dissidents decided to make some moves that would shame their government.”

  I sagged a little. “That's depressingly mundane. Dissidents are responsible for this, and framing the PRC? Bleh. Pure Chinese propaganda.”

  Bilson let out another chuckle, but softer this time. “It does sound like the party line, doesn't it? I imagine considering it further won't help your brain.”

  “You're right,” I said. Another car was pulling into the scene, a big government SUV like my own. The driver was flashing FBI ID to the cop manning the line, and he dutifully lifted the tape so they could drive on in. “Oh, look, here comes my boss. The real one, not this
week's edition. By which I mean you.”

  “Heh.” Bilson turned as the big SUV drove right next to my vehicle and stopped. The driver popped out and opened the back door, and sure enough, out came Chalke a moment later. “Hey, Heather.”

  “Russ,” Chalke said formally. There was a hint of understanding between them, something beneath the surface that I didn't quite get. Chalke made her way over to me, eyeing the exposed shoulder wound and the blood that had darkened my blouse. “You all right?”

  “Mostly,” I said. “Holloway and I came here to execute a warrant to look around and got bumrushed by mercs with automatic weapons. It got a little dicey.”

  “I heard,” Chalke said coolly. “Glad to see you're okay.”

  “Thanks,” I said, not really sure how to take that. I assumed it was sincere, because assuming otherwise would have opened the door to mad sarcasm, yo. “You didn't have to come out here just for me, though. I would have given you a report...once we had something to report other than 'Shots fired!'”

  “I'd like to have known before the shots were fired,” Chalke said primly. Not quite as arch as she had been after I'd made other ridiculous, stick-the-neck-out first moves, but not happily, either.

  “I called Bilson when I was on the way,” I said, “but you're right. I should have called first. We had a break and I ran with it.”

  Her lips moved as though her tongue were battling for something to say. Finally, “Well, lucky you weren't injured.” She eyed my shoulder. “Seriously, at least. But this might have been prevented with a little more warning.”

  “True,” I said, because I didn't feel like arguing.

  “What do you have so far?” she asked, settling back on her heels, arms folded over her blazer.

  “Dead bodies,” I said, “automatic weapons. The guys looked and moved like mercs. None appear to be Chinese–”

  Chalke got a pained look. “That's a bit accusatory. Let's tread lighter, shall we?”

  I paused. “Uh, okay. None appeared to be of East Asian extraction...?”

  She considered this for a moment. “Better.”

  “I think they were Eastern European,” I said. “At least the ones I fought. Dressed in full tactical gear, like one of our Spec Ops teams. No camo, just black. Popped out of a container in ambush, filled the air with lead, and didn't quit until they died. Forensics is trawling now, but I'm guessing they'll come up with little. We have written orders. Maybe the guns will lead us somewhere. If any of the guys have tattoos, we might get a nationality.”

  Chalke nodded. “Dental records?”

  I felt a very slight flush. “There might be a possibility of using that on a few of them, yeah. The majority, though, uhm...” I mimed moving my hand across a horizontal plane. “Splat.”

  Chalke peered at the docks, gaze alighting on the containers. The scene wasn't much of a puzzle, the container I'd kicked absolutely covered in blood spatters. “I see.”

  “Like I said, it got ugly.” I shrugged. Bilson was paling just looking at the bloodied container.

  “Hey Nealon!” Holloway's shout reached me, causing me to turn my head around swiftly. He was all the way over by the pier, waving at me. “C'mere!”

  “My partner appears to have discovered something urgent,” I said. Chalke raised an eyebrow; presumably because I'd called Holloway my partner on this when she'd clearly designated Bilson as my wingman. Bilson showed no interest in standing up for himself, though, and Chalke's ire was quiet and passed in moments.

  “Anything else I should be aware of?” Chalke asked as we strode toward the pier entrance.

  “Nothing since my last report,” I said. “I've just been working that list since.”

  She looked at me sidelong. “And?”

  “Tough to say anything for certain. Seems like there might have been some additional kidnappings, but they weren't the sort to file missing persons reports.”

  Chalke's eyes were narrowed in thought. “But the first target was a college professor. You're saying the purported others...?”

  “Were kinda like those witnesses we ended up with at the furniture store,” I said. “People dependent on a work visa or outright smuggled in.”

  Chalke nodded. The water lapped at the concrete edge, loudly, like waves against the shore. The cawing of gulls was in the background, mildly annoying. Damned flying rats. “This is a confusing one. Are you sure there's something here?”

  I thought about answering with a reflex, “Duh! Yes, dumbass!” but didn't. And not only because I was trying to play nicer with Chalke, but because at this point in the case, I honestly didn't know. If there was a larger conspiracy here, I was at a loss to explain the how or the why.

  “Hey,” Holloway called. He'd moved back down the pier fifty or so feet from where he'd initially shouted out to me. “Think we might have something. We're busting open containers.”

  “What's in 'em?” I asked.

  “Electronics,” he said. “Consumer goods. All from China, so far.”

  “Stolen?” I asked. Because if they weren't, I was hard pressed to see how this implicated HKKCME in anything criminal, barring the written orders having the issuer's name on them.

  “Dunno,” Holloway said, “but one of these containers started making noise.” He raised his eyebrows significantly.

  “Like how?” I asked, holding out an arm to keep Chalke back. “Like a ticking bomb?” Because if so, we didn't need to expose the FBI director to that.

  He shook his head. “Scratching at the metal.”

  I made a face. “Could be that white tiger.”

  Holloway chuckled. “Interesting your mind goes to that.”

  “You should wait here, Director,” I said. Chalke had been giving my arm, which was across her chest just south of her collarbones, a mildly irritated look. “If this is some sort of radiological or biological weapon–”

  “No sign of radiation,” Holloway said. “At least from outside.”

  “I'm taking a look,” Chalke said, ducking around my arm. I didn't stop her, though I could have. Far be it from me to keep my boss from doing something stupid.

  A small mob of local PD and FBI agents was gathered around the container in question. I could hear the faint scratching now, though I was hard pressed to quantify it. It sounded a little like a cat picking at a door, and I approached the entry just as an FBI agent cut the lock off with a bolt cutter. Two others threw open the latches keeping it closed, and pulled the doors wide–

  We were all nearly bowled over by the wave of stink coming out of the thing. It was ripe, rank, smelled like an outhouse I'd visited once in rural Kentucky. I pulled my blouse top up over my nose, but it did almost nothing.

  Chalke retched behind me, and she was not alone.

  I didn't take my eyes off the prize, though, and boy...was it a hell of a prize.

  Because the container was filled with people.

  Asian people, to be specific.

  Chinese people, if I was forced to guess and absolved of racism if I guessed wrong.

  “Holy hell,” Holloway muttered. I couldn't tell whether he was taken aback by the smell or the sight of them; they looked utterly wretched. Dirty, bedraggled, bloody in some cases. They stared out into the deepening dusk around us like we were aliens come to take them to another planet.

  A thought occurred to me, and I blurted it out before I could stop myself. “What do you bet...” I looked at Holloway, and I could see he'd already come to the same conclusion as I had, “...these are the people from our list of kidnapped?”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  They were the kidnap victims.

  It took almost an hour, and the work of Chinese translators of various stripes (because China has many languages, not just Mandarin), but we confirmed it. The people in the container matched the list that Holloway and I had gotten to a T.

  Perfectly.

  “How do you like that?” Holloway asked me. We were watching at a distance as the kidnappees were bei
ng interviewed. We were both sidelined due to being in officer-involved shootings, at least temporarily. I had a feeling that wouldn't stick, though, given our entire division was now sidelined from shooting people. Holloway, at least, deserved a reprieve, having only shot one person in the last few days. Hilton was at two, and I was at...hell if I even knew. Though I was technically guilty of agent-involved squishing, I'd also drilled a couple snipers and at least a couple mercs on the ground. Sad that I couldn't keep track of these things, I suppose, but killing mercs was so passe for Sienna Nealon at this point.

  I looked to Holloway. “You mean how do I like our case busting wide open right before our eyes?” Chalke was talking to Bilson a short distance away, but I couldn't overhear them with all the background noise. “I find it very convenient.”

  “Me too,” Holloway said. “The exact list? I mean other than your college professor? That's...”

  “An orgy of evidence?” I asked. “A beautiful coincidence?”

  “I mean, it's probably great for these people who get to go home now,” Holloway said. “Assuming they're just released without complication, which is probably far from certain. But...” He shook his head. “I don't like it. Too easy.”

  “I've long said I could really go for things being easy on me, for once,” I said, fighting back a nagging feeling. “But I didn't for a minute believe it'd actually happen. Especially not like this.” I settled back against the cargo container we were both resting against. We'd gotten the basic story out of the translators, having been kept at least a little in the loop given it was our case. “There's still the question of who could execute this many kidnappings? This is full-on human smuggling activity. You can't tell me this HKKCME just evaporates as a paper trail from here.”

  “Right,” Holloway nodded. “These mercs weren't the source of this. They were hired muscle. I bet they didn't even do the kidnappings; they seem like after-the-fact accessories. They're nothing like that crew that tried to snatch your professor.”