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

by Robert J. Crane

  Reed looked so sour he might as well have swallowed a whole bag of skinned limes. “Well, I don't like it. I'd rather eat the trouble that'd send my way with an industrial side of horse shit than have you tie one hand behind your back in the investigation because you don't want to call out my former employees for becoming presidential assassins.”

  “Relax,” I said, waving a hand in front of him.

  He flashed annoyance at me. “You're not a Jedi, I'm not going to just forget this. This is stupid, Sienna. Reckless. They're taking shots at the president. I know you're no fan of Gondry, but–”

  “He's fine,” I said with deep exasperation. “I'm trying to save him, aren't I?”

  “I can't help but feel – for some mysterious, undefined reason – that you're not exactly giving it your all in that department.”

  “I will stop them,” I said, glaring at him. “I've got it under control. Don't worry about me.”

  “I'm not worried about you,” he said crossly. “I'm worried about the country, about the president, and lastly – okay, actually, firstly – about you. Still...” He shook his head. “I'm really not going to sway you on this, am I?”

  “Nope,” I said. “And you don't need the hit to the business that the bad PR from this would bring, so...I got it. Just...I got it. Don't worry.”

  “And you don't need my help stopping it?” he asked, glaring at me. “Because I've got people sitting idle who could use something to do to justify their paychecks. None of us have really had a job since that thing in Tennessee.”

  “Ouch,” I said, grimacing, but secretly thankful for the distraction from the main subject. “That sounds bad.”

  “Oh, it's bad,” Reed said. “This is how bad: I've brought a TV into my office and now I'm just replaying Witcher 3 during the days. Because there's nothing else to do but watch cable news otherwise. Fun fact – you know what succubi have in Witcher 3? Hooves and horns. Like goats.”

  “Sounds like they based it on those Flashforce articles about me.”

  “Oh, you mean the ones where they sent a reporter to talk to your former lovers to find out what you're like in bed?” Reed asked acidly.

  I pursed my lips hard before answering. “So...you saw those, huh?”

  “Yeah. Those were scarring.”

  “I'm not apologizing because I didn't write them, and I damned sure didn't tell my exes to run their mouths off to reporters about my sex life. And really, it's among the least terrible things you could read about me online.”

  “Agree to disagree.”

  “Fine,” I said. “Can we talk about something...less weird?”

  His eyes narrowed. “Where are you right now?”

  I froze. “Here with you. Duh.”

  “Where are you really...right now?”

  I sighed. “The White House bunker. With the president. Guarding the president,” I amended. “Don't worry, I'm not giving Flashforce grounds to write another of those articles about me or anything.”

  “Like they need grounds. All they need is a seed and they're off to the races, providing the water and soil and claiming it's a redwood seconds after it blooms into a potato plant.”

  “True enough,” I said. “Maybe they'll stop soon, though.”

  He raised an eyebrow at me. “You think Flashforce – the internet home of all clickbait – is going to stop running stories about you and your sex life because...why, you think you don't like attention? Or paying their bills? Or buying their artisanal cocktails and craft brews?”

  I chuckled. “No. Because someone told me today that their CEO/publisher is a member of this Network I'm tracking. You know, the one that's taking the hit for Bilson's death. The one that's probably behind the assassination attempts on the president. Among other things.”

  Reed's brow furrowed. “There is something really wrong in what you just said.”

  “You are parsing my words awfully closely tonight,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Are you crabby? Did you accidentally sit on one of your boys again?”

  “It happened one time that you could see and suddenly you think you know my life.”

  “Hey, when you jump up like something bit your ass, it inspires your family members who love you to worry. I thought Scott had put a tack on your seat.”

  Reed sighed, hanging his head. “I just feel like...there's a lot you're not telling me. A lot you're...” He looked up, straight into my eyes. “...That you're dealing with on your own. Or with Harry. None of which you're talking about, at least to me.”

  “Because it's under control,” I said softly.

  “Sienna, it's you versus this Network,” Reed said. “It has been ever since...I don't know. Before you took the job, at least. Since they sat on the truth about your innocence. If I'm crabby, it's because I'm sitting here thinking about my sister going up against the most powerful people in the world. Their influence – hell, Chapman and Kory and your boss alone – it's vast.”

  “You think they're more powerful than me?” I asked, barely hiding a smile.

  “In their respective domains...yes,” Reed said. “They have pipelines to public influence, information, law enforcement...that you just don't have, Sienna. You can punch your enemies very hard. But if you go and punch any of those people, you become the villain, and we're right back to fearing that you're going to end up in the Cube. You're either on the run or locked up. That's their power over you. Yours is...” He shook his head. “Yes. You are powerless to them.”

  “I guess we'll see,” I said, my voice cracking. “I gotta go. I just wanted to...check in and–”

  It was Reed's turn to wave me off. “Don't lie to me.” He looked up at me, and his eyes were glistening. “You don't have to tell me the truth – about being scared. You are too ruthlessly practical not to know what I just said is true, that you're walking into this fight with everything you have and it's insufficient to the battlefield you're fighting on. Just...don't lie to me about it. I can't stand the thought of you both keeping me out of it and then trying to put on the brave face and saying, 'I got this, fam.' Because,” and it was his turn for his voice to crack, “you damned sure don't. And I don't know why you won't let me help. Won't let...any of us...help you.”

  “Because they don't play fair, Reed,” I whispered. “They never have. And I never want to see any of you staring down time in the Cube...because of me. My choices. My enemies.” I stood, straightening up. “And I know you don't believe me...but I will handle this. My way.”

  He stared at me, and a ghostly flicker of worry passed over his face. “That's what I'm afraid of,” he said at last, as the dreamwalk started to fade. “That's exactly what I'm afraid of.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX

  Chapman

  Sleep didn't come easy, and it felt like he'd barely made it in when his phone trilled. He grabbed it sleepily, saw the number, the name with the contact–

  Gwen.

  “Hey,” he answered, mumbling into the darkness. “How are you doing?”

  “Better than you, I'm guessing,” she said. “Are we on one of your 'secure' lines?”

  He checked. “Yep. Why?”

  “I just didn't know if we were doing real talk tonight or fake talk. Didn't want to speak out of turn, but since I know we're good – did you try and kill the president today? Because if so – wow. You have balls that I simply have not seen upon personal inspection. I'm talking cajones, boy.”

  Chapman chuckled. “You don't sound too upset.”

  “Meh,” she said. “I've been on a coding binge most of the day, wired in and all, but when I popped out I saw the news. Yesterday he calls you out, today he almost gets whacked? I don't know, after that Sienna Nealon stuff a few days ago, I'm beginning to question some things about you, Mr. Chapman.” Her voice sounded high and mocking, but in a faux way.

  “Such as?” he asked, shifting position in bed.

  “Well, I'm worried you need to hire some more competent people because – I mean, come on. Swing and a
miss, my dude.”

  “Sienna Nealon's kind of a pain in the ass,” Chapman said, yawning. “Something I think you are aware of.”

  “From your recent dealings, yes. Bummer about the Chinese deal.”

  “We could still save it – maybe,” Chapman said. “If things get fixed quickly enough.” Though he hadn't heard from Huang in a few days. Was probably hiding out in China, afraid to show his face in the West.

  “Ah. I see.”

  “That's – no,” Chapman said, shaking his head. “That's not why. Gondry's going into an election and he's going to get decimated if he does this. The economy relies on China. He goes full embargo – and it kinda sounds like he wants to – he's going to wreck on the shoals, and we'll get Charlotte Mitchell. Can you imagine eight years of her?”

  Gwen seemed to shudder on the other end of the phone. “No.”

  “Exactly,” Chapman said, wondering why he was even saying all this. Gwen could have a recorder on at the other end of the phone – but he doubted it. She'd partaken in helping surveil Sienna Nealon. Had been damned helpful in it, actually. “Besides...I'm not saying I have anything to do with this. You know that, right?”

  “Dude, we're talking over a secure line, I'm not expecting you to swear on a stack of Bibles or anything. Though I guess you wouldn't be the first to do that and then lie your ass off. Anyway, I'm just commenting on what I see. And what I see is your point. It's a decent one. That said, I have some advice. If you want it.”

  “Sure.”

  “You better not let this bitch see you coming,” Gwen said. “That's my takeaway after today, and just in general. Serious as I can be. She can't hit what she can't see, but if she sees you doing any of this, you're going to die screaming.”

  “Don't worry,” Jaime said, smiling in the dark. He almost felt like he could feel Gwen here, next to him, and he looked at the empty bed next to him, then traced a finger on the sheets in the shape of her imaginary outline. God, he wished she could really be here for this. “She won't see anything coming.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN

  Sienna

  I woke to a Secret Service agent shaking my shoulder, bright lights shining like a sunny noon around me. I was disoriented, and wondered if it was midnight, noon, or some point in between. “You have a visitor upstairs, ma'am,” the agent told me, and I blinked a few times under the brightness.

  “Who is it?” I asked. “And what time is it?”

  “Eight in the morning,” he said. His job done, he retreated to a few steps away. Did I look like I was going to eat his arm off if he stayed close? It was hard to say, with no mirrors present.

  I looked around the room. The president was in the corner, sitting at a desk, doing something or another. He had his head down, concentrating, and I couldn't tell if he was reading or staring. “Is he...? What's he doing?”

  “Studying a speech,” President Gondry said, squinting under the harsh light that was covering every inch of the room. Damn Kristina Bonner. I wish I'd known if she was dead or not. “Which I probably won't even get a chance to deliver.” He turned to look at me, sliding his glasses off his nose and rubbing his eyes. “The Secret Service has canceled everything on my schedule for the next few days, pending this situation being resolved.” He stopped rubbing his eyes. “Do you think it'll be more than a few days before it does get resolved?”

  I yawned. “Usually doesn't take that long.” I looked at the agent. “You guys got this if I step upstairs to see this visitor? Who is...presumably allowed to be here...?”

  “It's one of your fellow agents,” the Secret Service guy said. “Name was Hilton. She's on the list as your partner, but we can't let her get any farther than the lobby when we're in lockdown.”

  I groaned, mostly because for now, Hilton was, indeed, my partner. “She give any hint as to what she wanted?”

  “Something about your case,” the agent said, retreating farther into the background.

  There were other agents in the room, I realized at last. They must have come in sometime between when I'd fallen asleep for the first time last night and the last time; I hadn't slept well. No surprise, since my bed had been an antique couch that had probably once held up the ass of President Taft and never recovered. I'm not saying it was lumpy, but it would have made dumplings seem creamy and smooth by comparison.

  Cracking my spine and other joints back into the appropriate positions kept me busy during my ascent to the surface. The West Wing was quiet today, presumably because of the lockdown. I didn't see any press, and most of the staff were absent as well, at least from the halls. Stepping out into the lobby I found an excess of security and a minimum of guests. Just one, really, standing in the middle of the empty space past the metal detectors, swaying back and forth like she was bored while every guard in the place eyed her suspiciously.

  “Hey!” Hilton chittered the moment she saw me. “Good to see you...” Her face fell. “...You're looking...alive.”

  “Spare me your transparent lies,” I said, walking right up to her. It was apparent to me that the hair on one side of my head was sticking up from being mushed against a pillow that had felt like it was stitched out of rough canvas. I'd had better nights of sleep in the box. “Have you brought a sacrifice to appease the goddess?”

  Hilton's eyes got wide and worried. “...Sacrifice?”

  “Coffee, Hilton. Did you bring me any coffee, perchance?”

  “Oh!” She laughed weakly. “No. But I brought you a possible break in the case...?” She smiled as she held out a thin paper file, a much worse offering than coffee.

  I took it from her wordlessly, staring at the written words on the page, trying to decipher them through my fatigue. It wasn't easy.

  The paper was a combined report; page one was forensics for the bullets that had been shot at the president out at Joint Base Andrews. “.338 Lapua Magnum,” I muttered.

  “Does that mean something to you?” Hilton asked.

  “Not particularly,” I said. “It's a type of a rifle round developed in the 80's because the US government was looking for a sniper round that could penetrate body armor at great distance. So they started with an old English big game round called the .416 Rigby and tailored it to–”

  I looked up to find Hilton staring at me with a frown, lips slightly askew. “How do you know this off the top of your head?”

  “I'm a human weapon,” I said, turning my attention back to the report. “And I studied all the tools of my trade.”

  “Your upbringing must have been a hell of a thing,” Hilton muttered.

  I ignored her commentary, getting back to the meat of the report. There was no match in the database for the rifle barrel the Lapua Magnum rounds had been fired from, not even to Bilson's killer. Which was hardly a surprise.

  That made it definite: whoever was trying to kill the president, it was not the same person who'd killed Bilson. Or, at the very least, it wasn't the same gun.

  What was a surprise was that Bilson's forensics were not in the file. They probably hadn't been processed yet, though I would have thought they'd have been stepped up in the wake of this new incident, and especially given the possible tie between the two.

  I started to voice this, but Hilton spoke up first. “Bilson's forensics should be in later today. Chalke requested them expedited. I guess the lab was backed up when they first came in, and somehow they didn't get priority.”

  Nodding, I flipped to the next page in the folder. Did I smell coffee on the paper? Argh.

  It was a transcript of a call from...well, an anonymous person. I made it about halfway down the page through some boilerplate explanations and an address before I got to the real meat.

  CALLER: And they shot...I dunno, a bunch of times. But with a break between them, you know? Like – shoot. Ten seconds. Shoot. Seconds tick by. Shoot. And it was loud, too. Like, really loud. I don't want to get anyone in trouble, I just...thought you should know. With what happened to the president toda
y.

  OPERATOR: And you're sure this has never happened before?

  CALLER: Uh, no, I think I'd remember my neighbor shooting a gun like this. It wasn't quiet, and it wasn't normal, okay? And it happened just the once, about a week ago. The property had been bought up by someone else like five years ago, and no one lives there, so it was really, really weird. Just sayin'.

  OPERATOR: Can you tell us anything else about...? Hello...? Are you still there?

 

  “We get a million of these kind of tips after major events,” I said, giving the paper one last look before I flipped to the next page. It was a map.

  “I know, I didn't start the job yesterday,” Hilton said with obvious impatience. “Which is why I brought...that.” And she gestured at the map with a flourish.

  I stared at it. It was a satellite overhead shot, with a big tag on it that had the same property address as referenced earlier in the transcript. But beyond that, it seemed a very large farm with wide open fields. A picturesque little house stood in the middle of the property, and woods ringed it at some distance, out beyond the fields. “Yeah, I'm not buying that these people never heard guns fired before, unless they just moved out of the city. Do they even know any farmers? Varmints catch bullets all the time. It was probably a farmer pissed off at deer getting into his corn.” I paused, thinking.

  It was May. Would corn even be ready for harvest yet? No. Would it be springing up enough for deer to get into it? Maybe. I didn't know enough about matters of agriculture to say for certain, really.

  “I thought that, too,” Hilton said, and here, her eyes gleamed. “That map is from two years ago. Publicly accessible on the internet. Ordinary farm, right?”

  “Right,” I said, suspicious of where she might be verbally maneuvering me. I flipped to the final page in the file, and found another overhead shot, this one much tighter than the satellite one.

  “That's from this morning,” she said with a smirk. “I had two agents drive out and take a look at the place before I brought this to you. They used a drone to capture overhead imagery.”