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

by Robert J. Crane

  It looked like the same place – sort of. The farmhouse was gone, and in its place was...well, nothing.

  No crops.

  No buildings.

  Just clean-mowed fields with only a few things on the entire hundred or so acres of open space:

  A table and chair as a rest for shooting.

  And then, hundreds of yards away, close to the treeline, a silhouette target of the kind we used at the gun range.

  “Interesting,” I murmured.

  “Look closer,” Hilton said.

  I did.

  And I saw.

  The entire head and center of the chest of the target were perfectly punched out – and had been done so by a very expert shot, and if they'd done it from the bench rest – the only other thing on the property...

  “I measured it from scale,” Hilton said. “Distance to target from the bench rest and chair? Over a mile away.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT

  I got coffee on the way out to the farm, and suddenly life seemed a little brighter. I had to admit, my opinion of coffee had changed dramatically in the years since I'd first been introduced to it, but now it was like a boy I'd never liked but had suddenly, unexpectedly fallen in love with and couldn't live without.

  Yeah. It was exactly like that. No apologies, no regrets.

  “I hope the president will be okay without you,” Hilton said. She was driving, though she seemed a little nervous. I chalked it up to her wanting to impress me with her detective work. Which she had. It had been a nice bit of connecting the dots, and she'd already done the preliminary legwork for me.

  “They're keeping him in the bunker for now,” I said. “He should be fine. Buried in the earth, all entrances and exits controlled. Even a meta would have a hard time getting to him right now without catching a shit ton of bullets.”

  “What about bulletproof ones?” she asked, her nerves shining through again.

  “They've got some options if that becomes a problem,” I said, a little airily. Because they did, I'd been informed, though the agent in charge hadn't deigned to share said options with me. He also didn't seem to think my presence was needed, though, so you can kinda tell what he thought of me. I understood where he was coming from; how would you like to be in charge of protecting the president only to find out you couldn't really protect the president without some rival agency's help?

  “I hope so,” Hilton warbled. “These are crazy times. I mean...the president? Who shoots at the president?”

  “Someone who's really pissed off at his decisions of late, I assume.” I stared out the window, looking at the vegetation passing. I saw trees, the green shoots in full growth, no hints of winter left behind. Summer was in full bloom, and I was not as pleased about it as I might have been if I'd had zero responsibility to worry about.

  But since I was mired in two cases in a row, my ability to appreciate the sunny days and pleasant weather was much reduced. I did enjoy it as it streamed through the window, though. Might have enjoyed it more if I hadn't felt like I was sleeping in the sun all night in the White House bunker, though.

  “What are you thinking right now?” Hilton asked.

  I stirred from staring out the window, took a sip of my coffee as I pondered it, trying to put it into words. “Just thinking about days like this. When you've got nothing going on, you know?” I took another sip. “You know that feeling when you have a day off and nothing to do?”

  Hilton made a noise that was akin to purring. “Freedom.”

  “Yeah, freedom,” I said. “Nowhere to go, nothing to do, just...whatever you want. Everything seems possible, nothing seems in a hurry. It's just...peaceful.” Another sip, as I looked at some pines streaming by. “I haven't felt that in a long time.”

  “Because of working for the FBI?”

  “Because of that,” I said. “Because before that I was on the run for years, always looking over my shoulder, afraid the law was going to descend on me.” I stared at my left hand, where it rested on my knee. I half expected it to spasm or jerk, because as I considered it, I'd been under the influence of adrenaline in some form or another for...years now.

  “I don't think adults get to feel that freedom feeling very often,” Hilton said. “Especially us. I mean, think how often we work weekends.”

  I blinked, thinking about it. “I don't really even notice anymore.”

  “I notice,” Hilton said sullenly.

  Pulling out my phone, I checked to see if anything had come in out of pure rote habit.

  Hilton cocked her head at me, taking her eyes off the road. “Uh...what is that?”

  I stared at her, then waved my phone. “You don't know what this is?”

  She made a little snort of indignation. “I bagged your phone at the crash site yesterday in DC. It's in an evidence locker right now. Where'd you get that?”

  I made a show of playing with it for a minute. “White House gave me one. They're kind of impossible to get along without these days, you know?”

  The GPS dinged, announcing a turn, and Hilton put aside her inquiries about my phone and followed its request as we turned into a driveway leading through heavy trees on both sides. The road had ended and we were now on a dirt road, bumping up an unpaved driveway, the tires finding every dip in the unmaintained path.

  “Whoa,” Hilton said. “This is crazy.”

  “Welcome to rural America, Hilton,” I said. “This is where the blacktop ends.”

  “They should pave this,” she said, trying to swerve to miss a giant hole in the driveway and realizing that, really, there was nowhere to swerve. We were on a rocky path, rain gullies forming a narrow channel on either side of us. The treeline started less than four feet outside my window and hers, hemming us in to the path.

  “Why?” I asked. “Did you look at the photos? There's no house here anymore. Probably lost it in a bad farming year.”

  She made a face, wrinkling her nose. “What...what do you mean by that?”

  I sighed. “Never mind. Look it up some time when you're looking for a rabbit hole to fall down. Start with 'farmer suicides' and go from there. It's a whole 'nother world you've probably never thought of.”

  She gave me a funny look, but just then we broke through the tree line and into the wide open fields. It sloped up a gradual hill for about a mile toward the treeline in front of us. The grass had been cut, so it was clear ground straight to the other side, and the farmhouse looked like it had been bulldozed or otherwise cleared, nothing left but the concrete foundation.

  “It's so...wide open,” Hilton said, pulling us to a stop where the driveway ended and the green grass took over, like she was afraid to drive on it.

  “You really are a city girl,” I muttered, stepping out, my coffee cup still warm in my grasp. The sun was warmer as it hit my face, and I felt a very light breeze as I stepped down to the grass. I stared at it, fresh trimmings all over the place. “Someone's mowed here. Very recently.”

  “Why would they, though?” Hilton asked. “There's no house. No crops, right?”

  I glanced over the fields. “No. No crops.” They were as flat and bereft of crops as the foundation was of a house. “But the grounds are maintained.” My eyes alighted on the bench and chair from the photos, and I made my way over.

  “See anything?” Hilton asked when I was still a good ten feet away or so.

  As it happened, I did. “Shell casings in the grass,” I said. They were glinting. As I got closer, I pulled the pen from my pocket and slid the tip into one, lifting it so I could look at the bottom. There wasn't a lot of doubt in my mind, but I checked anyway – .338 Lapua Magnum was written across the bottom of the cartridge. “It's the same caliber as was used at Andrews and on Bilson.” I dropped the casing back down.

  “So we've got a lead?” Hilton's voice swelled with enthusiasm as she hurried over.

  “Look, this is America,” I said, “and .338 is not a radically uncommon caliber. Could be someone was sighting in their rif
le for fun, or just getting in some target practice.” I looked up at the target in the way, way distance. It was a good hike out there.

  “You want to go take a look at it?” Hilton asked.

  I yawned, took a sip of coffee. “Probably should.” It wasn't like I could send her out there. And I definitely didn't want to drive through the fields to get up there, because it could contaminate the scene. “Not sure this is enough to get a warrant, but you should call the office and report to the lawyers, see if one of them can swing it. And track down the owner of the property.”

  “Yeah, I looked it up as part of the investigation,” Hilton said. “It was some Delaware corporation. Could be a dummy.”

  “Aren't we all?” I muttered with a smile. “Call it in. I'll stroll up to the target and take a gander.” I hesitated to say the obvious, but in the end, my need to make sure Hilton didn't screw it up won out over tact: “And don't drive up there, whatever you do, okay? You'll contaminate the scene, and we might be able to get a tire print from somewhere out here.”

  “Duh,” Hilton said, irritated that I'd condescended to remind her of such a basic thing. Whatever. I was just doing my job.

  “And good work, Hilton,” I said, offering a sop to her wounded pride. “This is an interesting find.” I started up toward the target. It'd take me a little bit to cover a mile while walking. Even speed walking. Which I was not going to do, because hell if I was going to chance slopping out any of my precious coffee this morning.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE

  Phinneus

  “She's walking,” Veronika said, looking through the spotting scope. They were both in the treeline above the fields, watching Sienna Nealon and her junior partner. “Coming this way.”

  The sun was warm enough that Phinneus was sweating through his camo. Veronika was too, presumably, but she didn't complain. She was a hell of a lady. His cheekweld was tight against the rifle stock, and he had a clear bead on Nealon through the scope.

  “I'm going to let her get about halfway up before I take the shot,” Phinneus said. He was watching her walk through the magnification, blissfully clueless that every step she took was carrying her farther from even the slightest cover.

  Straight into his trap.

  “What if you miss?” Veronika asked coolly. She took out a candy bar and started to unwrap it with one hand. The crinkling set his teeth on edge, but he kept his eye on the scope, watching the target, in spite of the gawdawful, distracting noise.

  “Well, I reckon she's going to have to run about a half mile before she can find anything to duck behind.” Phinneus smiled. “Even she'll take a while to manage that, so I'll have plenty of time to plug her full of holes.”

  “Hm,” Veronika said, still messing with that damned wrapper. It was loud, too. Couldn't she get it open?

  He chanced a look sideways and saw she was eating right out of it, hence the continued crinkling. “Do you mind?” he asked, putting his eye back on the scope.

  “Sorry,” she mumbled, mouth full of Snickers or something. She crinkled it a couple more times and then pocketed it, ending his auditory nightmare. Sure, it was far enough away that there wasn't a prayer Nealon had heard it, but it was driving him up the damned wall.

  She was getting close to the middle of the field now. Close enough he was probably okay to take the shot. He'd seen her run, and if need be, with this much space for her to cover, he could fill her full of enough holes at a full tilt to be certain he'd down her before she reached somewhere to cower. He'd need to zoom the scope out a bit, but he could manage it.

  He took a long, slow breath, in and out, and prepared to exhale to steady his aim.

  This was it.

  It was time.

  Time to do what many had tried, and no one had ever succeeded at.

  Time to kill Sienna Nealon.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY

  Sienna

  I yawned as I walked through the endless green fields. Here, the grass had been long when cut, and cleared, baled as hale, presumably. The ground was a near-flat slope, the grade at ten degrees or less rising to the woodline. It wouldn't be mistaken as Kansas, but it was no hill climb, either, and I took it leisurely, with not an ounce of strain.

  The sun shone down hard, and I started to sweat as I walked. I scanned the treeline, but the rustling of the boughs in the wind was all I could see. Stretching my legs after a night in the bunker and a long day of running and hustling was a pleasant change of pace. All I could see was endless, uniform green grass cut low, and–

  I cocked my head, staring at the anomaly I'd just caught sight of. The lone patch of brown, upturned dirt in the entire green, endless field.

  It was straight along my path, too, this random color patch. I hadn't noticed it until I got close, because it had hay trimmings draped over it, but there it was – a trench no bigger than a couple feet wide, a few feet in length, and less than a foot deep. I stared as I got closer, the hay giving it perfect concealment from sight in the fields.

  The small trench looked a little like a grave, I realized as I drew nearer. Not nearly as deep, of course, it bottomed out at about eight inches or so, another reason I probably hadn't noticed it. Something appeared to be in it, but it almost blended with the grass, the irregular shape the only thing telling me something was there that was different than the dirt and hay. But there it was, the small trench and whatever it contained, right in the middle of this no man's land, and I stopped entirely as I came upon its edge, looking down into its shallow depths.

  My phone buzzed in my pocket. I hesitated again, reaching for it...

  ...And just as the digger had intended, my stopping saved my life.

  The sound of gunfire ripped over the quiet hillside, and I dove, instinctively, into the pit, as the first bullet of many tore past me, missing by mere inches.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE

  Phinneus

  “What in the name of a Tortuga rum hangover is that?!” Phinneus yelled into the empty air. He'd shot as she stopped, the cow, and then she'd dove for the ground and...

  And disappeared.

  “Dunno,” Veronika said. “Looks like she's in a trench or something. Also, that rum thing was awfully specific.”

  “How is there a damned trench!” Phinneus shouted, not caring about his volume. Who was going to hear him, anyway? “The ground was flat, Veronika! Flat! All the way – I walked that ground yesterday, never saw a thing! There was NO cover! That was the point of this!” he raged into the air.

  “You're not telling me anything I don't know,” Veronika said, cool as steel. “If you look, I think you can see her hair. Barely.”

  Phinneus squinted in at the hole where she'd disappeared. He was on a very slight downhill slope – perfect sniping position – and yeah, he could see a very slight tuft of brown hair, like a few stray strands, sticking out of the low grass.

  He took a deep breath, let it out, and steadied himself, venting the rage. If all he could see was hair, he'd shoot at the hair.

  For now.

  Then he'd start figuring out the next move. Which would probably include shooting at the ground in front of the little dip where she was hiding. Because he had a couple hundred bullets. Maybe he could just plow it away...

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO

  Sienna

  “My fairy godboyfriend dug me my very own grave,” I mumbled, face pressed into the dirt as another bullet whizzed overhead. The crack was clear, loud, ringing across the empty fields, and I took a moment – in my irritation, facedown in this little indent he'd dug – to be thankful. After all, I'd been walking in empty fields a moment ago, and if I'd just kept walking I'd have been plowed into by the first shot, no cover for the better part of a mile on any side.

  Which presented an interesting problem.

  Another bullet cracked, the whizz ruffling the hair on the back of my head. A few strands fell past my eyes, and I realized that Phinneus had just given me a fraction of a haircut at the distance of half a mile or
more.

  And I had no answer for it.

  “Shit, shit, shit,” I said, then remembered, feeling a root or something dig into my hip – Hilton was back at the SUV. She'd have a rifle.

  But she sucked with it, in all probability. It was an AR-15 style, definitely not meant to engage targets a mile out. Which was the minimum distance she was.

  A bullet thudded into the dirt in front of my face, speckling me with grains. They fell in my hair, peppering the back of my neck, and I realized not for the first time that in spite of my “grave,” I was in a very fixed position. Stick my head up an inch, Phinneus could blow my brains out.

  Another bullet thudded into the dirt in front of me, showering me again, and it didn't take a tactical genius to figure out what he was up to.

  He was going to pour fire into the front of my little trench, hoping to move aside just enough of the dirt to plow a bullet through it and into me.

  I wasn't fool enough to think he'd stop there, though. He'd put a few more through me, and given that they were coming at me head-on, he'd have me good and brain-dead, at least, before coming over to confirm the kill.

  Sweat dripped down my back as another shower of dirt fountained over me like I was a trench fighter in World War I with artillery going off all around. A bead of sweat dripped down my face, pausing in my eyebrows, threatening to fall in my eyes.

  I took a deep breath. Another. A bullet whizzed into the dirt in front of me, making a solid THWACK! as it came to rest in the thick soil.

  Blinking my eyes a few times, I realized that the tip of the bullet was just barely visible inside my little hidey-hole.

  I had no time.

  Not for Hilton to call in helicopter support.

  Not for her to drive the ridgeline to get in a position to rain fire on Phinneus.