Blood Ties

by Robert J. Crane

  BLOOD TIES

  OUT OF THE BOX

  BOOK 25

  Robert J. Crane

  BLOOD TIES

  OUT OF THE BOX, BOOK 25

  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.

  The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the internet or any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced in whole or in part without the written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, please email cyrusdavidon@gmail.com.

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  1.

  2.

  3.

  4.

  5.

  6.

  7.

  8.

  9.

  10.

  11.

  12.

  13.

  14.

  15.

  16.

  17.

  18.

  19.

  20.

  21.

  22.

  23.

  24.

  25.

  26.

  27.

  28.

  29.

  30.

  31.

  32.

  33.

  34.

  35.

  36.

  37.

  38.

  39.

  40.

  41.

  42.

  43.

  44.

  45.

  46.

  47.

  48.

  49.

  50.

  51.

  52.

  53.

  54.

  55.

  56.

  57.

  58.

  59.

  60.

  61.

  62.

  63.

  64.

  65.

  66.

  67.

  68.

  69.

  70.

  71.

  72.

  73.

  74.

  75.

  76.

  77.

  78.

  79.

  80.

  81.

  82.

  83.

  84.

  85.

  86.

  87.

  88.

  89.

  90.

  91.

  92.

  93.

  94.

  95.

  96.

  97.

  98.

  99.

  100.

  101.

  102.

  103.

  104.

  105.

  106.

  107.

  108.

  109.

  110.

  111.

  112.

  113.

  114.

  115.

  116.

  Author’s Note

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Other Works by Robert J. Crane

  Prologue

  San Francisco, California

  I hate them, the text popped up on the screen as he typed. My hate boils in my veins, super-heats my blood to explosive thresholds. I want to blow up at them, like literally blow up, take them all out in a blast of super-heated fire.

  You know what I mean?

  The words were so easy to type, easy because he meant them, meant them down to his bones, which felt like they’d picked up part of the boiling in his soul.

  The air had a scent of dead flowers, sickly and sweet, and light streamed in through a single window. A squeak above him heralded the movement of his upstairs neighbor. Quiet as a mouse. Hell, maybe she was a mouse.

  He stared at the screen, waiting. Would an answer come?

  The reply finally came back: I know exactly what you mean. But what are you going to do about it?

  That was the question, wasn’t it? He shifted in his seat, leaned back as he stared at the almost unnoticeable pixels in the laptop screen.

  Kill them all, probably, he typed back. Then he smiled.

  Really? That answer came back quick.

  He shrugged. No, not really. I mean, I maybe sort of could, but... A frown puckered his brow. They deserve to hurt, but if I tried to kill them...well, they’d stop me, I think.

  He stared at the screen.

  Maybe. But you could still make them pay. There are other ways to hurt them, make them suffer other than just killing them.

  A light tingle in the back of his head turned to a buzz as the idea caught hold and triggered a physical response.

  His scalp was tingling.

  They deserve more, after all. For what they did to you.

  He stared at the chat bar. This was a secure connection. He was sure of that much. The encryption was beyond the government’s ability to easily listen in on them. And he’d known...well, the two of them had been talking long enough that he was sure his friend wasn’t a government agent trying to induce him to do something just to bust him. There was trust between them. They were simpatico, at least in this particular target of hatred.

  You still there?

  Yeah, he typed back. Just thinking.

  Then, ahh, what the hell:

  What did you have in mind?

  The answer came immediately. You strike back. Not let this shit go unanswered. They deserve it, the arrogant bastards. Why not make them pay for once? Really rub their faces in it.

  He rubbed a hand through his thinning hair, felt the sweat break out on his upper lip.

  They did deserve it, didn’t they?

  Why would he even hesitate to pay them back?

  And then the words appeared, the question that made him think he’d sat idle long enough:

  So...what are you going to do about it?

  1.

  Guy Friday

  This was going to be the greatest day in the history of all days, ever, anywhere.

  “What’s up, Friday?” Augustus Coleman asked as Friday, the titular hero of his own and everyone else’s stories, strolled into the bullpen of the Metahuman Search, Seek, Destroy and Ass-Kicking Agency of Eden Prairie, Minnesota at the crisp and wonderful time of twelve noon.

  “I am up, and moving, and rolling, and life is totally kittens, my homie,” Friday said, snapping a finger at Augustus, who was the funkiest of funk soul brothers. Much funkier than Jamal, whose level of funk was somewhere around minus-two. Life had to be tough for the non-funky.

  “Whassup, Friday?” Jamal said, with his negative funkiness. He was reading, which was par for the course for his geeky self. Always with the glasses and the reading. Like a geek. Maybe he was actually a minus-fifteen, funk-wise.

  “The skies are up. Also, my erection.”

  “Thanks for sharing,” Jamal said, cringing and turning away.

  His name wasn’t actually Friday. That was a nickname given to him by his favorite (and only) niece, Sienna (Funk Level: 8,000, because she was the SLAY QUEEN). As nicknames went, it took a while to grow on him. It was everybody’s favorite day of the week, after all. When people said his name, it was like weight came off their shoulders. FRIDAY!

  Also, the title of a
fantastic classic of the American Cinema.

  Friday made his way through the strangely quiet rows of cubicles in the bullpen, bouncing to the badass rendition of Uptown Funk playing in his head. He almost ran into that little Olivia, but she hurled herself out of the way at the last second, luckily for her. Nothing could stop Friday, the unbelievable steamboat of manliness, as he cruised toward his destination.

  “Friday,” Reed called from his office door. There he was, the long-haired hippie boss that was so uptight he practically sprained a muscle every time he spoke. Friday figured his bowel movements must come out as compressed coal, he was so uptight.

  “Dude,” Friday said, heading for his desk. No finger-snap for Reed. He was too tense to appreciate one, anyway.

  Reed just cringed, a perfect picture of his utter hopelessness as a hip cat. “I sent you an email last night. Did you get it?”

  “Email? Pfffft!” Friday dismissed that foolishness out of hand. “Emails are so noughties. It’s all text messages these days, bro. Get with the program. This is why you’re dating an aged slice instead of a young, hot dish.”

  Reed’s eyes twitched slightly. “I’m going to ignore what you just said there. I sent you an email telling you to be here at 9 am for a meeting.”

  “I didn’t get it,” Friday said. “Because I don’t do email. Old people do email. Your grandmother probably does email. I’m guessing she forwards like ten, twenty chain letters a day. Probably half of them are making fun of President Gondry for being a lame-o.”

  Reed paused, thinking about that sage slice of wisdom for a second. “My grandmothers are both dead, so far as I know, so I doubt they’re forwarding me anything these days, related to Gondry or no.”

  “You should have sprung for a deluxe coffin with internet access,” Friday said. “Keep in touch in their twilight, graveyard years.”

  Reed just shook his head. “Life has really been a struggle, communicating with you.” He swept his door wide. “Come into my office, please.”

  Friday paused at his desk. It was in perfect, immaculate condition. “Just a sec. I have a very important morning routine item that I have to scratch off before I can have any meetings.”

  “Yeah, sure, okay,” Reed said. “Make it qu—”

  “Great.” Friday opened the top drawer and pulled out a package of Fruit-by-the-Foot and opened it, peeled the whole thing off the paper in one long lump, then stuffed the whole thing in his mouth. “Juzz uh secun.”

  “Why did you stuff that whole thing in your mouth before our meeting?” Reed asked, throwing his arms wide, his eyes squinted and his mouth hanging open.

  Friday held up a finger. Needed to swell his jaw muscles to finish this quickly. “Breh-fs!”

  He grew those muscles, chewing furiously, until he’d shredded the Fruit-by-the-Foot into submission. “Ah!” he said once it was done. “I triumph over this, as I do over everything.”

  Reed was just shaking his head. “Just get in my office.”

  “Hey, guys, I’m getting a raise,” Friday said, looking back at Jamal and Reed. They had their heads down. Very down. Studiously down. Hmm. Maybe Jamal’s geekery was bringing down Augustus’s funk level, too. Friday would have to play some tight music for them later, break them out of this sad state. Bang Bang by Jessie J ft. Nicki Minaj and Ariana Grande would probably do it.

  Friday cruised into Reed’s lame-tacular office and sat down in one of the tiny, inadequate, probably European chairs he had sitting across from his desk. He had to shrink to fit, which suggested, again, lameness and inadequacy. No one liked small, after all. “This place is dead today,” Friday said. “Did everyone call in sick with low funk levels?”

  “I don’t think that’s an actual, permitted sick day excuse,” Reed said, taking his own chair, which was slightly more adequate and less European. Because it was bigger. “At least not most places.”

  “It should be,” Friday said. “Low funk levels can cause a variety of ailments such as Elephantiasis, gout, and even impotence.” He nodded at Reed. “You should really get yours checked, unless you want someone more manly to come and snatch that piece of Mexican sweetness from you.”

  “For the hundredth time, my girlfriend is Italian,” Reed said, taking a deep breath before speaking.

  “She’s far, far too adequate to be European,” Friday said, shaking his head. “Trust me on this.”

  “I don’t think I will, no.”

  “Your loss,” Friday said. “And I mean that literally. You’ll be crying when she leaves to jam with someone with a higher funk level. I mean, you probably cry a lot anyway, given that femme hairstyle of yours and the sheer volume of product you use to keep it looking smooth and pretty, but I would guess this would result in more crying than is standard even for you.”

  Reed just stared at him through partially closed eyes. “So...the reason I called you in for this meeting today...”

  “I know,” Friday said. “I’m doing an awesome job. You don’t have to say it.”

  Reed’s eyes narrowed farther. “I can’t actually say that.”

  “Because you’re femme and don’t know how to adequately express your overwhelming feelings about me? That’s cool, it happens a lot. And I’m very manly, so I don’t need to hear compliments from you, anyway. My sense of self-worth is very well-developed.”

  “I can’t argue with that,” Reed said, blinking a few times. “But no, that’s not why I called you in here—”

  “I’m ready for my raise now,” Friday said.

  That made Reed blink more. “That’s not—”

  “I understand that as a femme type, you are probably uncomfortable discussing money, which is a very manly pursuit,” Friday said. “That’s okay. I’m going to write down a number here on your girly sticky pad—”

  “It’s a Post-it,” Reed said, watching him pick it up, “and it’s blue. How is that girly...?”

  “Blue is the color of little boys,” Friday said, writing down a number. “And only a woman can have a boy.” He tore the note across the bottom, intentionally leaving behind the sticky portion on the pad, and flashed the number to Reed. “Here. This is what I’m worth to you. All you have to do is tell whoever handles your money to start putting this in my account every week.”

  Reed leaned forward. “That says one million dollars.”

  Friday nodded. “Trust me, girly-man. It’s more than fair.”

  Reed settled back rather heavily in his chair. “No, it’s not. A million a year for you is ridiculous. That’s more than the yearly revised payroll for the entire agency.”

  “It’s a million a week,” Friday said. “Your girly command of manly math betrays you again. Stay in your lane, fem-boy.”

  Reed just stared at him, then sighed. “I didn’t call you in here to give you a raise.”

  “Well, I’m not leaving without one,” Friday said, and crossed his arms in front of him. “So I guess we’re going to see if your weak, feminine will can hold out against my bold, hugenormous, masculine one.”

  Reed clenched his jaw tight. “I don’t know why you keep calling me femme or feminine like it’s some sort of insult, but I’m not insulted by it. I think it’s a little weird—”

  “You’re a little weird. And femme. Which is normal for boys nowadays, I guess, in this weird, femme, testosterone-reduced world.”

  “Friday, you’re fired,” Reed said, eye twitching at the corner. “That’s what I called you in for.”

  Friday just sat there, sifting through that. “You can’t fire me.”

  “Pretty sure I can,” Reed said. “That’s why I’m the boss.”

  “Your sister is the boss,” Friday said.

  Reed’s eye twitched again. “No, she’s not. She put me in charge here.”

  “Let’s call her up and ask her what she thinks about all this femme ridiculousness, then,” Friday said, rising to his feet and reaching for the phone.

  “You can’t call Sienna,” Reed said, rising up himsel
f. “She works for the FBI now. She’s busy.”

  “Then you can’t fire me,” Friday said, crossing his arms.

  “Yes, I can,” Reed said. “That’s why I’m the boss.”

  “Then I’ll sue you for sexual harassment.”

  Reed blinked a couple times. “What?”

  “I see the way you look at me,” Friday said. “With those bedroom eyes. Flipping your hair over your shoulder when you see me.”

  “I do not do any of those things in response to you. I have a girlfriend, for crying out loud—”

  “You’re singling me out,” Friday said. “You can’t handle my raw sex appeal. I see it plainly. And I bet a court will, too.”

  “I did not ‘single you out,’” Reed said, face a couple shades darker. “I fired a lot of people today who we can no longer afford. None of the rest of them asked for a raise before I did so, but I guess that’s what makes you special, Friday.”

  “Oh.” Friday just sat there for a minute. “Who else did you fire?”

  “Almost everyone,” Reed said. “Except for Eilish, Angel, Olivia—”

  “You kept the girls. Because you’re girly and you feel more comfortable with your own kind.”

  Reed’s eyes honed to a fine, squinted glare. “Also Scott, Jamal and Augustus.”

  “Because you lack any funk whatsoever and can only hope that some of Augustus’s rubs off on you by proxy. But the joke’s on you, because Jamal is dweeby and possessed of negative funk, and you’re getting that, too.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “It’s kind of racist to assume you can sponge funk off of them just because they’re black.”

  “Okay, we’re done,” Reed said, standing up and pointing to the door. “You’re fired. There’s no longer a reason for you to be here. Please leave.”

  “I see how it is,” Friday said, getting to his feet. “You’re threatened by me. By the manliness that just wafts off of me. You can smell it.”

  “Mostly I smell the Fruit-by-the-Foot on your breath.”

  “You know what?” Friday asked.

  Reed froze, sighed, then asked, “What?”

  “I’ve been on my best behavior for you while I’ve been working here,” Friday said.

  “That was your best, huh? Might want to work on that if you expect to keep another job someday, because I’ve been holding off on firing you for a long time at Sienna’s recommendation. You’ve earned this twenty times over just by virtue of your sexual harassment practices.”