Control: Out of the Box (The Girl in the Box Book 38)

by Robert J. Crane

  “Professional jealousy is not the aristocrat of the emotions,” I said. “What's this other thing you want from me?”

  Darnell nodded, glancing at his notebook. “What was the purpose of the Chinese abductions?”

  I tried to stand still, but my eyes flitted unintentionally left to right. I caught the subtle, subconscious gesture on my own part and recognized it for what it was: me, prey, seeking escape from this uncomfortable situation. “What's the going line?”

  He pursed his lips. “I'm looking for more than 'confirm or deny' on this one.”

  “What's the going line, first.”

  “Well, as you know, the FBI hasn't said much,” Darnell gave me a mischievous look. “But you mentioned in your video there's a meta angle, that China's kidnapping these people for favorable genetics related to powers. I hear there's more to it.”

  I balled my hand into a fist. “Why do you care?”

  “It's a story.” Darnell looked at me evenly. “Everyone else in the press fed right out of your hand, because let's face it, the idea that China's kidnapping people to activate their metahuman genes? That's scary as hell on its own. The implications are...”

  “Yeah, they'll have you wetting your pants,” I said. “That was the main thrust of it, by the way. They lost their metas in 2012 to Sovereign, during the war. They're looking to rebuild. But...”

  “But what?” Darnell asked, firmly, yet insistently. I wanted to smack him but he was too good at this. Probe, but gently.

  “They laid a trap for me,” I said. “They wanted succubus genes. Eggs, actually.”

  He paused, cocking his head. “Oh. Sorry. For a second, when you said eggs, I imagined it like...hard shell, sitting on a nest. Not the kind in ovaries.”

  “Yes, please don't report to your readers that I hatch my young like a bird or a snake. They already hate and fear me enough as it is.” I sighed. “Anyway, yeah. They were after me. They wanted to create...well, you nailed it on supersoldiers. Supersoldiers with the flexibility to absorb any power.”

  “Yikes,” Darnell said under his breath, scribbling that down. “Guess we're lucky they didn't get you. Have you ever seen another incubus or succubus that's absorbed powers? Like, more than you had?”

  “Yes,” I said tightly. “It's...not good, trust me. Having China with a few hundred incubi and succubi and access to all the harvested, collected genetic powers of the thousands of other people they were gathering?” I shook my head. “They wanted to genetically engineer their way to an army that no one could stop.”

  “Thank you,” he said, finishing up his note taking. He looked up. “Now it's my turn.”

  “Great. The Network member?”

  “Like I said, my boss,” Darnell whispered. “Dave Kory.” He pulled out his phone and flipped it around to show me what appeared to be a screenshot...of another phone. “He has an app called Escapade that sends him alerts throughout the day.” He flipped through the pictures to show various alerts on the phone's screen. This was some subtle picture work, some of it over the shoulder, some of it at a distance, and I was guessing he'd been watching this, nonchalantly, for a while.

  I frowned. “So that's how they communicate?”

  He nodded. “I think. Furthermore...” And he brushed the screen so another picture appeared, “...I got his phone one time when he put it down unlocked to deal with a plumbing emergency.”

  I peered at the screen. It was mostly black, with text across in a scrawl. I could only see a few lines, but what was there was...interesting:

  BILSON: The thing about Nealon's possibilities is that she's got the power to go from inception of idea to enforcing will. Soft power is great, you all know I'm a huge advocate of soft power wherever possible, but every once in a while we need something translated into hard reality. Having her on our side could give us that capability – if we make her fully subservient. This halfsies stuff, where she sort of hangs out there, only partially under our control? Not optimal.

  CHALKE: I agree with all of that, but if you can find a way to make her subservient, I invite you to try it. I will applaud you endlessly, because in my experience, if you tell her to swerve left, she's going to go hard right for eight hours, clear off the playing field. Then, once she's out of sight, she'll hook around and crash into your other players, wiping out ten of them while coming out of it looking like either a genius or a moron, depending on the day.

  KORY: Lol. You always talk about her like she's actively thwarting you, Chalke. It looks to me more like dumb luck. Emphasis on the dumb.

  CHALKE: She's thwarting us, nimrod. Emphasis on us, because it's really hard to get things done when she's knocking your players and potential players off the board. Let's count, shall we? She ruined Warrington in Louisiana, who was a promising player in the party and a supporter of Gondry's.

  BILSON: Look, Warrington ruined himself. She just brought it to light after you sent her down there.

  CHALKE: TO PROTECT HIM. Not to preside over him throwing himself out a window! But regardless, now we lose Bernice Adams of Inquest, who was a potential member, and the FBI gets a black eye from her actions in this social media blowup. Not good.

  CHAPMAN: We didn't want Adams. Her empire was built on fraud. Nealon didn't make Inquest a festering shitpile, she just helped reveal it.

  CHALKE: Interesting how she just keeps doing that, huh? But only to people who are of use to us.

  “They don't appear to like you much.” Darnell was watching my reaction.

  “Few do.”

  “I dunno, you seem all right to me.”

  “That's because I haven't punched you. Yet.” I looked at the screenshot again. “You're sure this is the Network?”

  “It's my boss, the FBI Director, the CEO of Socialite and your murder victim all in one chat room on an app that doesn't actually exist,” Darnell said. “I checked. It's in no store, and no one's heard of it. Now I can't prove it's the Network, but you've gotta admit – it sure walks and quacks like a duck.”

  “Can I have a copy of that photo?” I asked, nodding at the last one. The one with all the talking. Shit-talking. About me.

  “Yep,” he said. “Want me to forward it to you via text?”

  “Actually, I want a printout of it,” I said, keeping my voice low. He'd done the same throughout our conversation, which meant hopefully my phone mic hadn't picked it up. “Can you messenger that over to me?”

  He made a funny face. “There's this modern invention called email. Maybe you've heard of it?”

  “I have. My email account is my work email, my laptop and phone are both FBI issue, and all that is overseen by my boss, who as you've just noted, is part of a conspiracy of some sort that involves my murder victim. Other members include potentially the biggest tech CEO in the world as well as your boss, who presumably has some access to your email.” I cocked my head at him. “Now...would you like to email this evidence about their conspiracy to me on my company laptop and phone via my work email? Or would you rather just hand me a hard copy?”

  “I can get one printed out for you at Kinko's or something and send it over,” Darnell said, focusing on his phone. He seemed actually abashed. “So, uh...you look like you're up against some heavy hitters there.”

  I rolled my eyes forgetting he couldn't see it, as I turned away. “I'm always up against heavy hitters, Mr. Darnell.”

  “Does it worry you at all?” he called after me.

  I paused, turned. Pulled down my shades and let him see my eyes.

  “Every time,” I said, being a hundred percent truthful in this. “Every damned time.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Chapman

  “I hear some of you have a grudge against Sienna Nealon,” Chapman said, looking at the five fine metahuman specimens arrayed before him.

  Well...some of them were fine. Some were...old, actually.

  Chapman looked the older one in the face. He was a man with a gray beard and a revolver on his hip like Clint
Eastwood or something.

  The older man looked right back at him, unflinching. “I don't have a grudge against Nealon, no.”

  “Oh, oh, I do,” another said, and Chapman looked at her curiously, then darted a glance at the notes in his hand.

  Bob haircut = Chase Blanton.

  Gray beard = Phinneus Chalke

  “You must be Chase,” Jaime said, looking back up at her. She did have a bob haircut, and her head was cocked, eyes alight with amusement.

  “I got beef with Sienna Nealon,” said another. This one was wearing...yoga pants? And was presumptively male, though Jaime hadn't asked for his pronouns. He skimmed the list...

  Yoga pants guy = Captain Frost

  “Captain Frost, is it?” Chapman looked up. “Wait, you're from New York, aren't you?”

  Frost smiled, and it looked slightly mellow. “Yes. I'm New York's foremost superhero.”

  Chapman made a show of thinking about it. “But...you're taking this job for pay? Didn't know superheroes did that.”

  “I have a condo in Midtown,” Frost said, “and my Patreon subscriptions are down lately for some reason. Gotta make rent somehow.” He shrugged expansively.

  “I, too, have a grudge against Sienna Nealon,” said another. Chapman checked his notes...

  Half-shaved head = Tyler Bowen

  “That's good, Tyler,” Chapman said, looking up. “Not that it's a requirement, because I'm not really looking for a conflict with Sienna Nealon, just referencing your previous work that I'm familiar with. The San Francisco thing, specifically.”

  “Yeah, I wasn't in on that one,” Yoga Pants – Captain Frost – said.

  “Oh?” Chapman looked at his notes again. There was really nothing there beyond the information about whose name went with what appearance. “But the rest of you were, right?”

  “I was,” said a black lady with a small afro hairdo and some seriously tasteful clothing. Chapman wasn't much on fashion, but this woman was done up.

  He glanced at his notes, found Afro, African-American lady = Kristina Bonner, and nodded. “But no particular animus toward her?”

  “I'll fight whoever you want me to long as you pay, baby,” she said with a real jaded air.

  “Same,” said the last woman in line. She was done up fairly nice, too, in a suit with a low-cut tank-top beneath, and business slacks. Her hair was reddish-brown, and her dusky eyes didn't leave Jaime as she spoke. Her mouth was a flat line of disinterest that only seemed to move when she spoke. She'd been there, done that, he could tell.

  “And you must be...” Chapman scanned down to the only unaccounted-for name. “...Veronika Acheron?”

  “C'est moi,” she said with a trace of a French accent. Which hadn't been present a second earlier.

  “Look, the reason I'm getting you all together is that I've got some issues going on in my business,” Chapman said, looking up from the card and drawing it close to his chest. “One of my associates has recently been assassinated–”

  “You're talking about that shooting in DC last night?” This from the old guy. Phinneus.

  “Yes,” Chapman said. “And–”

  “I took a look at that,” Phinneus said. “Nice piece of work.”

  Chapman froze. “Are you a...gun guy?” He eyed the revolver on the man's belt. The answer seemed obvious, but it never hurt to ask, challenging baseline assumptions and all that.

  “You could say that,” Phinneus said, crow's feet wrinkling as he winked.

  “Phinneus is one of the top shots on the planet,” Veronika said.

  “You are such a sweet talker, Veronika,” Phinneus said.

  “Just briefing the boss,” Veronika said.

  “You didn't...uh...take a contract on...that shot...?” Jaime asked.

  Phinneus, thankfully – or maybe not – shook his head. “That one didn't come my way. Fine shot, though, if it came from the building I think it did.” He puffed his slightly sunken old-man chest. “I could have made it. Easy.”

  “Uh huh,” Chapman said, trying not to eye him suspiciously. “Do you know who did do it?”

  “I don't know anyone else quite like me,” Phinneus said. “'Least not anymore. Most metas specialize with their powers. Not too many take the time to train up with a gun. Take Sienna Nealon for instance. She's a fair shot at close range. Get her out to a mile and more, though, and she ain't hittin' shit. Me?” He slapped his hand against his revolver and Chapman jumped slightly, afraid it might go off. “I could just about hit it with this Colt. With one hand.”

  “But you definitely didn't do it,” Chapman said, staring at him. “And you don't know who did?”

  “Probably a military-trained sniper, if I had to guess,” Phinneus said. “It's someone who put the time into the trade. Even I had to practice to get this good, at least at that range.”

  “Okay,” Chapman said, and glanced back at the notes. “Now that we're all acquainted with what kicked this little soiree off, let me get to expectations. I am firmly in the middle of several sensitive business dealings. One of my associates has obviously just been...” He searched for a delicate word.

  “Kacked?” Tyler Bowen asked with a slight smile.

  “Snuffed,” Veronika said.

  “Had his head blown clean off,” Phinneus said.

  “I don't know where it hit,” Chapman said. God, had the bullet blown Bilson's head off? If so, eww.

  “That's less impressive, then,” Phinneus said.

  “Anyway,” Chapman said, moving right along, “I've got concerns. I need security personnel who can identify these kind of threats at a distance and deal with them. Or, if something bigger comes up, and gets,” he waved a hand around his person, “all up in my area...well, I need that dealt with, too.”

  “So this is a security gig?” Veronika asked. Her gaze was cool, and Chapman wasn't sure it had left him yet. That was either amazing eye contact for purposes of paying attention, or some sort of intimidation play. He wasn't sure whether to be flattered or scared. This Veronika kind of inspired him in the direction of both. “Bodyguarding?”

  “That's how it starts,” Chapman said. “But it might...expand. The candidates I'm looking for...well, I'm seeking people who are...morally flexible. At least a little. Willing to step outside the law for the right price if something needs to get done.”

  “I'm perfectly fine with busting kneecaps or skulls if the price is right,” Veronika said.

  “What she said...but maybe slightly less enthusiastically,” Chase said, eyes darting to Veronika and back.

  “Same,” Tyler said.

  “I'm a hero,” Frost said, “but...y'know...there's some flex in there.”

  “Show me the money and I'll do whatever you want in the violence department, baby,” Kristina said, almost cooing.

  “You want someone dead, we can discuss terms,” Phinneus said, a big wad of chewing tobacco in his lower lip. When had that gotten there? Jaime almost heaved.

  “I see I hired the right crew,” Jaime said, forcing a smile. “Well, good. So here's the first assignment: I need three of you on duty, with me, as I go about my day, and the other three to just...sorta chill for now, ready to go on shift later.”

  “You need any three in particular?” Veronika asked. Her eyes still hadn't moved. “Or will any of us do?”

  “Which of you have beef with Sienna Nealon again?” Chapman asked. Frost, Chase, and Tyler lifted their hands. “Okay. That's helpful. Hands down, and here's what we're going to do...”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Sienna

  “The boss is looking for you,” Hilton said as I came into our conference room/impromptu office. Hilton was nose-down in her laptop, the screen angled away from the door so I couldn't see what she was up to. That seemed a pattern with her, and I honestly didn't care enough to try and spy on her. I assumed she was sending illicit texts, though she could have been composing a randy novel, or looking at porn, and I could not have cared any less.


  “Chalke?” I asked, dumping my stuff at the opposite end of the table from her. No need to crowd each other by being in the same forty or fifty square feet. “Did she say what she wanted?”

  “Nope.” Hilton didn't even look up. “Just stuck her head in and asked where you were.”

  “Hoooookay,” I said, checking my phone for messages. There were none, and I wasn't by any means late. “Should I report to her office?”

  “Dunno,” Hilton said, sooooo bored with this conversation of ours. This girl had such a bright future as the World's Worst Receptionist.

  “Any news from forensics?” I asked. She shook her head without looking up. “Any leads you've turned up?” Another shake. “Did the Nats win last night?”

  That made her look up, blinking. “Oh,” she said, sounding vaguely disappointed when her brain decoded my last request. “I'm not into sportsball.”

  “Me either, just checking to see if you were listening.” I debated going to Chalke's office, and finally settled on being safe rather than sorry. “Back in a few,” I said to Hilton. She made a vague hand-wave gesture to indicate...I honestly don’t know what she was indicating. “I'm bored, go away,” or maybe, “Uh huh, whatever,” or possibly even, “Sure, eff off.” It was hard to say, but I got the general idea.

  Chalke's office suite was about three hundred paces outside our conference room, and I stopped just beside the admin assistant's desk. “Heard the boss might be looking for me,” I said.

  The admin assistant glanced at me, then hit a button on the phone. “Sienna Nealon here to see you.”

  “Send her in.” Chalke's voice sounded businesslike. Couldn't tell if it was good or bad.

  The director's office was unsurprisingly cold and sterile, redesigned presumably under the auspices of its current occupant to more closely fit her personality. Any standard issue governmental furniture had been swept out with the refurb and in its place was a glass and metal desk populated with a couple of items – one of those stupid hanging metal ball things that would clack forever if you started it going, and a desk lamp that looked like it had been deposited on her desk by a visiting alien space craft. The lines were wavy and weird, like nothing else I'd ever seen. I started to say, “Nanu nanu,” but passed on the rather obvious joke, mostly because it'd probably just antagonize Chalke and I didn't need dumb jokes to do that.