Small Things (Out of the Box Book 14)

by Robert J. Crane

  “The US and UK are allies,” I said. “And the US Government is hunting me like a dog. How would you explain that away?”

  “I think we could overlook our extradition treaty just this once,” Wexford said, blowing gently on the steaming cup. “In exchange for perhaps a favor or two of your usual variety. We seem to be having an artificial rise in the number of metahuman crimes in the UK as well, and … tragically, thanks to the EU regulations on the matter … no one to help us police them.”

  It was a damned good thing that Greg had brought me a chair, because I leaned back in it now pretty heavily. This wasn’t the sort of offer I’d expected to come my way, and damned sure not from a guy I hadn’t seen in years. “Okay,” I said, absorbing the logic of it all. “But … why me? There are other metas who you could hire.”

  Wexford paused, his teacup still steaming, hiding his smile. “I do hate to see a good person get a bad run of luck. It seems to me … you could use a break. And fortunately, after many months of lobbying, it seems the PM agrees.”

  I leaned back again, taking it all in. It was like a perfect gift handed to me, and naturally, I was looking for the strings, the bad horse teeth, the army of Trojans that was going to come bursting out—pick your metaphor. After what happened in LA, the Montana incident was just the beginning of the hell that was bound to be headed my way. The US Government had tasted blood, and with the media in a frenzy about me being the worst thing to happen to America since the advent of reality TV, me being attacked relentlessly was going to be the new normal.

  I didn’t even have to think about it for very long. “Yes,” I said. “The answer is yes.” My eyes stung a little bit at the realization I was having to basically flee my homeland. “But …”

  “But you want to wrap up this last job before you go, yes?” Wexford cocked his head at me and took a little sip. “Naturally. I’m here to provide a limited amount of aid in that regard as well.”

  “Wait,” Friday said, “so … what are we doing now?” He looked right at me. “You’re leaving?”

  “Not until I make sure you’re safe from Sam the incredible shrinking a-hole,” I said, “and his boss, McGarry.”

  “Yes,” Wexford said, “Mark McGarry. Bit of a blight upon humanity, that fellow. I can provide you with his current whereabouts, courtesy of MI6.”

  I raised an eyebrow at that, and Greg said, “If you know where he is … I have a modest proposal for what to do next.”

  Wexford smiled faintly. “I do hope it doesn’t involve eating Irish babies.” He paused as Greg frowned and Friday openly gawked at him. “It’s from Swift.”

  “Taylor?” Friday asked, frowning. “Damn. She must take her beauty regimen seriously, eating Irish babies. Probably really good for fair skin.”

  Wexford cringed. “It’s from Jonathan Swift, actually.”

  Friday stared at him blankly. “Is that Taylor’s brother?”

  “Sam is mean,” Greg said, jumping right in so none of us had to sit there and work to disassemble Friday’s idiotic misunderstandings, “but as you pointed out,” he nodded at me, “he won’t waste his time working for free. Remove McGarry, you remove the money that drives Sam. He won’t be happy, but without the contract, he won’t waste his time hunting your …” He looked at me like he was trying for my approval, “… friend? Compatriot?” He looked helplessly at Friday.

  “Near stranger?” I offered.

  “BFF,” Friday said.

  “… He’ll be safe, whatever he is,” Greg finished.

  “All right,” I said, nodding slowly. “So we go after this McGarry … and take him off the board. Case closed.”

  “Yeah!” Friday pumped his fist. “Then I get to go back to … uhm … sitting around … doing nothing, I guess. Lame.” He looked at me. “And you get to go to England. Which is totally kittens, except for the teeth over there.” He looked at Wexford. “Do you guys not have dentists?”

  “Tired joke, that,” Wexford said, looking at the ceiling to avoid the question. He looked to me. “Where do you wish to begin?”

  It didn’t take me more than a second. “Where’s McGarry right now?”

  “I thought you might take the aggressive tack,” Wexford said, and he pulled out his phone, studying the screen for a moment. “He is presently on a transcontinental flight to Newfoundland, where he will refuel, and then hop across the ocean on his way back to the nation of Revelen.” He looked up at me and smiled. “It seems your brother and some of your old friends tore apart his entire organization in a series of stunning raids yesterday. It’s left Mr. McGarry scrambling for safer ground.” He put the phone away. “I should warn you … should he reach Revelen, he will be nearly impossible to apprehend.”

  “Revelen … again,” I muttered. “I’m about tired of that country always being a pain in my ass.”

  “You going to war with a nation state?” Friday asked. “Because that would be cool. Like something out of one of my stories.”

  I raised an eyebrow at that, because … it might just be like one of Friday’s stories. “Not today. Let’s bag McGarry and get this assassination business over with.” I looked at Greg. “How do you feel about attempting a midair assault?” And I could tell, by his smile, that he felt as good about it as I did.

  59.

  Greg

  Greg knelt down next to the bed where Morgan lay beside Eddie, and her eyes fluttered slightly open to look at him, the morning sun shining in through the window behind him.

  “Morning,” Morgan whispered softly, trying not to wake Eddie.

  “Good morning,” Greg said. He half expected to see Sam appear at any moment, out of some darkened corner. It was an irrational fear, unlikely to happen, of course, but then, probability had been shot to hell over the last couple of days, had it?

  “Are you leaving?” Morgan asked. She sounded warmer about it, almost regretful, something he might not have been able to imagine a day earlier. After the fight.

  “We’re going after McGarry,” he said. “If we can remove him, Sam will be working for free.”

  “He won’t like that,” Morgan whispered.

  “Yes, I expect he’ll go find something else to do at that point,” Greg said. “Something that pays.”

  “He might not,” Morgan warned. “He’s not like you, Greg. He holds a grudge hard. You know that.”

  “Hm,” Greg said, almost smiling. “Would you say he’s even pettier than I am?”

  “Less fastidious,” she said with vague amusement, “more hot-tempered. He won’t get hung up on the little details the way you do, but he’ll get mad about you doing this to him when he’s just worked his way into McGarry’s confidence.”

  “After his failure yesterday, I doubt McGarry is feeling much confidence in him,” Greg said. “After this … we won’t need to worry about it anymore.”

  “Be careful,” Morgan said, putting her hands on his face and pulling Greg close to kiss him.

  “Hide in my workshop with Eddie until I get back,” Greg said as he withdrew after the kiss. It felt warm and wonderful, a lively promise he couldn’t recall feeling in …

  Years.

  “I will,” she said, shrinking and rolling off the bed so as not to disturb Eddie. She regrew at Greg’s side. “Why don’t you … carry him, though?”

  Greg looked down at Eddie. Morgan was perfectly capable of lifting a five-year-old and carrying him to the tiny, hidden door in his office, shrinking down and getting him through …

  But … he couldn’t miss this opportunity, could he?

  Greg leaned down carefully, shrinking his arms until they were sandwiched between Eddie and the sheets, and then expanded them again, lifting his son off the bed carefully, gently bracing his little blond head against Greg’s upper arm. Eddie moved a little, then snuggled in.

  He carried his boy down the stairs with care, making sure that he never once rustled him out of sleep …

  And relished every minute of it.

 
60.

  Sienna

  “I’m gonna be happy once this is over,” I said to Wexford, who was strapped in next to me in the Concorde. “I could use another nice little vacation, and merry old England in the middle of summer seems like just the place. Especially if I can stop trying to hide who I am with these ridiculous disguises.” I wasn’t wearing one right then, but only because I had Greg up in the cockpit, ready to shrink me in case we ran into any trouble.

  “Well, you can’t exactly parade through the streets of London,” Wexford said. “Some discretion will be expected. We can turn a blind eye, but if you become too … loud, shall we say, our position will become … difficult, in relation to diplomatic matters with the United States.”

  “I’ll try to keep from causing an international incident,” I said dryly. “Still … the offer is appreciated.” Wexford inclined his head toward me. We were in the front of the passenger section of the plane; Greg was in the cockpit, along with Friday. I couldn’t see Greg from where I was sitting, but I had a feeling based on the volume of chatter from Friday—it sounded like a monologue—that Greg was probably not having one of the best days of his life. “And it’ll be nice to put this annoying case behind me.” I narrowed my eyes. “Say … you don’t happen to have a reason in that MI6 report for why this McGarry guy put the hit out on Friday to begin with?”

  Wexford took a deep breath, which, coming from a guy so British and uptight he might have been carrying an undeployed umbrella up his ass for safekeeping, was a pretty solid cue that he was holding back something. “It’s not in the report, no.”

  I stared him down. “But you know, don’t you?”

  He squirmed a little in his seat. “I do. Friday, as you call him, knows as well. He is aware of precisely why McGarry wishes him dead.”

  I felt all the blood drain from my face. “I’ma kill his ass right now.” I clenched my fist. “I have been through hell these last two days, and followed every one of his bullshit stories with him—and he’s known why all this time?”

  Wexford put a hand on my wrist, a brushing, gentle one that got me to simmer down for a moment as he put on his best sympathetic look. “He doesn’t hide this secret—and it is, as you Americans might call it, a ‘doozy’—he doesn’t hide it out of malice toward you.” He wore a warm, empathetic look that wouldn’t have been out of place on Dr. Zollers’s face. “He hides it out of shame.”

  “Friday has no shame,” I said, but uncertainly.

  “Oh, but he does,” Wexford said. “Much shame, in fact. His entire persona, all his bluster, it’s all a mad effort to hide his feelings of deepest inadequacy—of intellect, of prowess, of social skills. You could scarcely name a category of belonging where your associate feels he excels, other than perhaps in raw strength. Even there, he would pale in comparison to your abilities.”

  “But he—” I started to say.

  “We’re coming up on McGarry’s plane now,” Greg called from out of the cockpit. He sounded pretty damned cross, like someone (Friday) had twisted up his pubes. Which was a shame, because he’d looked all relaxed and happy right before we’d left. “Two minutes.”

  “You’re not coming aboard with us, are you?” I asked, shedding my seatbelt and stepping past Wexford into the aisle.

  “I believe I’m better remaining here,” Wexford said with the trace of a smile. “I’m not much for physicality, but I’ll be watching and lend a thought if things get out of hand.”

  “Do you consider it likely they will?” I asked, looking out of the window. There was a Gulfstream IV below us and ahead, a plane I was intimately familiar with from having flown on it more times than I could count.

  “He has bodyguards,” Wexford said. “Very strong ones. Enhanced with additional powers from a chemical source I believe you’re familiar with.”

  “Revelen.” I cursed again. “Any chance you’d care to share what’s going on there, behind the old Iron Curtain?”

  “We’ll discuss it on another occasion,” Wexford said, “a more … opportune time than now.” He smiled once more, as Greg came stomping out of the cockpit, his eyes threatening to roll back in his head, with Friday a couple steps behind. “After all … you have work to do right now.”

  61.

  Blowing into the passenger cabin of Mark McGarry’s plane involved a neat little skydiving maneuver, with Greg riding my back and controlling our size, and Friday clutched in my arms, rolled up like he was about to do a cannonball into a pool. We battled through the howling wind outside to fly right through one of the seams in the airframe, and then, POP! We were in the plane, staring at a seething Mark McGarry, who didn’t look at all like I thought he would.

  I was expecting an old fat guy with a three button suit, a cigar, maybe bald, you know, a typical diabolical arch villain.

  Mark McGarry looked like he was in his late twenties, with black hair and olive skin, a frown of deep impatience on his face. He was wearing one of those Reebok jogging suits that were probably really expensive but still made you look like you just got in from a run or from the gym. It was a look that screamed, “Bro douchebag,” to me.

  “This is gonna be fun!” Friday shouted, and McGarry’s brow creased. He heard it, but it was probably so distant and tinny he wasn’t putting two and two together yet.

  “Now!” I shouted, and Greg grew us back to normal size at McGarry’s feet.

  Or at least, I thought he did. Apparently, I didn’t think this entirely through, but fortunately, Greg did.

  He stopped growing us at about half size, which was good, because Friday was already yanking himself out of my grasp and bellowing as he flew at McGarry’s face. My skull thumped against the bulkhead, and I felt Greg sliding off in order to avoid being crushed.

  “Lose some altitude!” Greg shouted at me as a half-sized version of Friday went screaming into McGarry’s face like a dwarf lusting for blood. McGarry, for his part, was screaming right back, probably from being attacked by what looked like a very bulky child. “You’re smashing my head against the top of the cabin.”

  “Sorry,” I said as Friday got hold of McGarry. There was some serious face punching going on there, I could see, as I drifted downward. Greg started to grow the two of us again, and once we were back to normal size I settled us on the thin carpeting that covered the floor of the Gulfstream. “I’m just not used to this shrink and grow thing.”

  “It takes some adjustment,” Greg said apologetically. He was watching Friday, as was I. Dude was really going to work on McGarry, whose pretty face was not looking quite so pretty. Greg shouted, apropos of nothing: “Mark McGarry! Any last words?”

  I let that dramatic question hang in the air for a minute as Friday worked McGarry. I watched for a few seconds, then winced. “Friday,” I said, prompting mini-Friday to turn around and look at me. He was pretty feral at that point, so I put a lot of command in my voice to get him to lay off. “Don’t kill him. Go to the body for a bit.”

  “Okay!” Friday chittered, and man, he back to punching McGarry in the gut. McGarry, for his part, was still screaming at being attacked by something so small and vicious.

  “Looks like a pitbull attacking a yuppie on his way to spin class,” I said.

  “Help me!” McGarry screamed in between punches. Friday hit him right in the breadbasket with a devastating cross and McGarry said, “OOF!” and then stopped talking for a couple minutes.

  “Pilots coming at us,” Greg said, looking out of the corner of his eye. “Probably bodyguards, too.”

  “Wexford warned me he had a couple.” Greg was right. The cockpit door was open and the flight crew was stepping out, menace on their faces. One of them had an arm that started to glow, like he was channeling energy through it, ready to rumble on the plane.

  “Yeah, no,” I said, and shot a light net with a little extra gusto. It peppered him right in the face and knocked him over with the force of the blast, sealing his head to the deck. I did the same to the co-pilot, but he got bond
ed to the back of his seat.

  “I’ll finish dispatching them,” Greg said, striding off toward the front of the plane, “non-lethally,” he added after a pause, as though he needed to reassure me of this for some reason.

  “Cool,” I said noncommittally, “you do that.” I heard a mighty whack of Greg’s fist against a downed pilot’s jaw and winced. He might be doing the non-lethal thing, but it wasn’t going to be a painless one.

  “Please make it stop!” McGarry screamed, and I stepped over to pitbull Friday and yanked him off.

  “Let me at him!” Friday growled, still swinging his tiny fists. Looking at him more closely, he was less than half size, more like a third or a quarter, because I was holding him several feet off the floor by just dangling him out from my body.

  “Okay, McGarry,” I said, “you know who I am?”

  He took one look at me and nodded, dabbing with a nylon sleeve at his nose, which was dripping blood. “You’re Sienna Nealon.”

  “Not that it matters, I guess, since Friday was already doing a number on you,” I said, “but if you know me, you know my lack of reticence to use violence on people who deserve it—”

  “I didn’t do anythi—” he started to protest.

  I swung Friday toward him and the miniature schnauzer in my hand upped the intensity of his swings. Even though he was attacking nothing but air, it was air that was a lot more proximate to McGarry’s face than it had been a second before, and McGarry seemed to catch the implication, because he shut up. “Don’t give me those lies. I will let this little pitbull loose and watch him eat your eyeballs with a peanut butter sandwich.”

  Friday stopped for a second, dangling completely still. “I would not eat his eyeballs on a peanut butter sandwich. That’s just nasty.”

  “It’s an expression,” I said. “You’d probably do worse to him.”

  “I’m just going to punch him until he can’t breathe right anymore,” Friday said. “Maybe do the tango on his junk—”