CONTROL: OUT OF THE BOX 28
The Girl in the Box, Book 38
ROBERT J. CRANE
Ostiagard Press
CONTROL
The Girl in the Box, Book 38
(Out of the Box, Book 28)
Robert J. Crane
Copyright © 2019 Ostiagard Press
All Rights Reserved.
1st Edition.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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CONTENTS
Prologue
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
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
Chapter 109
Chapter 110
Chapter 111
Chapter 112
Chapter 113
Chapter 114
Chapter 115
Chapter 116
Chapter 117
Chapter 118
Chapter 119
Chapter 120
Chapter 121
Chapter 122
Chapter 123
Chapter 124
Chapter 125
Chapter 126
Chapter 127
Chapter 128
Chapter 129
Chapter 130
Chapter 131
Chapter 132
Chapter 133
Chapter 134
Chapter 135
Chapter 136
Chapter 137
Chapter 138
Chapter 139
Chapter 140
Chapter 141
Chapter 142
Teaser
Author’s Note
Other Works by Robert J. Crane
Acknowledgments
PROLOGUE
New York City
The club smelled of sex and adventure, and Tyrus Flanagan was in the mood for both. A lawyer by trade, a CEO by dint of years of hard work, senior partner of arguably the biggest, most lucrative law firm on the face of the planet, Flanagan worked hard and he played hard.
This...this was pure play.
The music pulsed as Tyrus nodded along idly, sipping a Vodka Collins, his preferred drink. The lighting was about fifty percent too low for his eyes, but he didn't care. Flanagan was in his mid-fifties, so the dark was his friend in this environment. Nodded past the bodyguard into this exclusive club by virtue of his relationship with the owner, he was well aware that he was outside the usual age range in a place like this.
They played the latest music; he preferred classic rock. They served new concoctions dreamed up by mixologists who were being born as he set out building his firm, he stuck with the classics, drink-wise. Martinis, the Collins, stuff built around top-shelf vodka. Flanagan was a product of his age, and he'd accumulated the wealth that allowed him to say “Hell no” to anything produced after 1999, which was the end of the cultural universe, for his purposes.
But Tyrus Flanagan did like one thing that came along after 1999: the women. Which was why he was willing to brave this club, with its shitty, pulsating music, and its $25 artisanal cocktails.
Because this club was the hottest ticket in New York for the 21 – and under, with the right fake ID – set.
Long days at the office left Tyrus tuned up. Muscles taut, mind focused on the thousand endeavors of law and power that he worked on with all his attention and focus – during the day and into the nights, anyway. Once he'd quit for the night, the vodka helped turn the volume down on a world that seemed a little too real for him at times. He exercised influence in his work to accomplish his goals, but in his off-hours, he needed to exercise it even more in order to achieve his personal goals.
He had just such a goal tonight, as the beat of...whatever the hell this was...ran through his bones. Thank God for the Vodka Collins. Really, the music here gave him a headache until he got to his second or third drink. Then he started to appreciate it. Lightly, though. The appreciation would fade as soon as sobriety kicked in, and as he took his morning snort to wake up and shake off the hangover.
Colored lights flashed in front of him as Tyrus sat at a corner booth, watching the pretty girls dance. He wore a smile, glass almost to hi
s lips. He'd reached the point in the evening where he was sipping, staring, trying to decide on his choice of prey. This was the tough part. They were never much interested until they found out who he was, what he could do for them.
There wasn't a high-status person in New York state that Tyrus Flanagan couldn't find a professional connection to. Admissions officers at every college. HR administrators at every major corporation. Casting directors, both here and in LA. Hell, he even had connections in DC and Silicon Valley now, thanks to his membership in the Network.
Cable news? Check. He knew Chris Byrd, check, a top anchor at NNC. Listened to by all the right people.
Print press? Morris Johannsen, editor of the Washington Free Press, the third biggest newspaper by circulation in the nation.
New media? Dave Kory, head of Flashforce.net, the premiere web news service.
Jaime Chapman, head of Socialite, the world's largest social network, and FindIt, the top search engine now that Inquest had cratered. He had some other bullshit companies, too, though Tyrus couldn't remember them off the top of his head. Nor did he care.
The FBI Director, Chalke. Boom. Huge get. The corridors of government, open to him.
And the top lobbyist in DC, soon to be National Security Advisor. Sure, Bilson was on the outs with them over this China business, but he'd be back in the fold soon enough.
All those connections and more, accumulated over thirty years of working with the elite of America and the world, all at his fingertips. He had his feelers out, his personal assistant Greta was out on the floor, acting natural, until he signaled who he wanted to talk to. She'd make the introduction, make the arrangements. She was their age, and it came off a lot less intimidating to be eased into the situation by someone who wasn't a fifty-plus guy swilling Vodka Collins as he stared at women thirty plus years his junior.
This was power, Tyrus thought as he took a swig of his drink, the harsh aroma of the vodka overpowering his senses for a moment. This was the fruit of his labors, plucked for his enjoyment nearly every night. What was it that Kennedy had said about the formula for a good life? “The exercise of vital powers, along lines of excellence, in a life affording scope.” Something like that.
Well, Tyrus was about ready to exercise some vital powers and bring a young lady to his bed for the night. Occasionally longer than a night, but usually not longer than a week. His favors corresponded with the duration of his enjoyment of her. After a night, she'd receive an introduction – even an enthusiastic recommendation – a door opening of her choice. A week? She might get a nice vacation, too, maybe a couple more doors opened. More than a few girls of this age had been set up to enter a life of luxury thanks to Tyrus Flanagan's efforts. A ticket to ride the bullet train to the top, a cab onto easy street.
It intoxicated him even more to ponder how life-changing, how life-making for these girls a night with him could be. If they only knew, they'd be lining up to him instead of him having to send Greta out to cull one from the herd for him.
But there was power in being the chooser, not the chosen. And Tyrus liked the power more than the flattery of seeing them all beat a path to his booth.
So...which one would it be? That willowy blond with the perfect legs, the narrow hips? Mmm, too boyish for his liking. Her hair was a shade too short.
What about that brunette with the nice bosoms? That was tough in this age bracket. Go too young, they didn't have enough time to get a little meat on their bones. She was good, though. Implants? Maybe. Not that it mattered for his purposes, but it suggested she might have daddy's money behind her and thus have no need of his favors. Pass.
Hmmm. There was a redhead by the bar. Low cut dress. Perfect hourglass figure. Skirt ended at mid-thigh and in the flashing neon he could see smooth legs, creamy thighs, perfect calves. Her hair was beautiful, layered. She'd spent real time on it, and it showed. Her shoulders had some definition to them, too. Not that he was into butch chicks, but this gal took some time on herself. He was waiting for her to turn, intrigued by what he'd seen, but unwilling to commit without seeing the face.
The face...vitally important. Sure, he'd lowered his standards a time or two, gone for a butterface. “But her face!” Tyrus chuckled, sipping his drink, watching the redhead. A classic joke. He'd lived it, though. He possessed a light switch, after all, the great equalizer for such occasions.
The redhead turned, a martini glass in her hand.
Tyrus blinked.
A knockout. Body, face...Flanagan thought he might swoon right there.
His signal to Greta was not subtle, but it got the point across. With that, she immediately cut through the crowd and, without once circling, honed in on the redhead.
Tyrus watched, anticipating. He caught the initial lean-in, watching Greta talk to her. She was making the contact. Soon enough, she'd make the pitch.
Then Tyrus would have his answer, and the redhead would have her dreams come true. After all, what was one night with an older man when compared with the promise of having everything you ever wanted delivered unto you?
CHAPTER ONE
Sienna Nealon
Washington DC
One Week Later
“Whoa!” My Uber driver didn't even bother playing it cool as I popped into the back of his Honda Civic. “You're Sienna Nealon!”
“Yeah,” I said, slamming the door on the cool Washington DC night. I'd just stepped out of my apartment and hurried to the car. It wasn't cold, being a mid-May evening in the US capital, but after sundown it had gotten chilly. I wore my usual steel-toed boots, work pants, blouse and a jacket, but still felt it creeping through my clothing. Something about the humidity in this city conducted both heat and cold, and the hairs on the back of my neck were standing up.
To be fair, though, that might have had something to do with the call I'd gotten that brought me into this car rather than the weather.
The Honda smelled lightly of cotton candy, the artifact of my driver's vaping habit. No normal person would have picked that up, but I was metahuman, and my senses were enhanced, making the traces of sugary sweetness stand out, wafting off the cloth seats. The overhead light clicked off, leaving my driver shaded by the car's instrument panels.
Control: Out of the Box (The Girl in the Box Book 38) Page 1
