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

by Robert J. Crane

  “Don't come charging in,” Chapman said with a thin smile. “You'd die.”

  “Won't they kill you, then?”

  Chapman shook his head. “The explosives are very focused. They will only hit someone trying to enter through the window or door. I'll just receive a shock and ringing ears.”

  Her shoulders sagged. “If she gets past that, though...you'll be putting your defense entirely on yourself.”

  Chapman gestured to the door, pressing the button to open it. “Don't feel too bad, Chase.” He would have walked her out, but he was in the middle of something. The message was clear, though, and she got it. “I'm just used to doing it myself because no one else ever seems capable of delivering to my expectations.”

  He stood in silence after she'd left, and then Devin's voice sounded, loud and clear: “Boss? I got him.”

  Chapman lifted the phone and the screenshare showed him surveillance footage. Sure enough, there he was, the “EMT” that had saved Nealon in New York, preening in front of a security camera with the Washington Monument in the background. “Got you, you bastard,” Jaime muttered. The words 95% MATCH were written across the bottom of the shot, which was of the man standing, face raised, looking straight into a security camera.

  The man reached up, digging fingers from both hands into his respective cheeks, and–

  The cheeks came off his face with a simple pull, and he stood there smiling.

  72% MATCH

  “What the hell?” Devin asked. “Makeup?”

  The man pulled off his nose, and the facial recognition filter adjusted the result again:

  46% MATCH.

  “It's not him,” Chapman said tensely, clutching his phone in his hand. “We got snookered. He was never even there, at the hotel.”

  “But why?” Devin asked. “Why would they – she – do this?”

  “She's been playing us from the start,” Chapman said quietly. “From the word go.”

  “I don't understand.”

  “Doesn't matter. What about the wheelchair guy?” Chapman asked, thudding, ass-first, onto his desk and rattling the whole thing. It stung, pain making its way from his tailbone up into his spine in radiating waves, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

  “No clue. Not in front of the White House anymore, that's all I've got.” Devin made a noise of pure frustration. “It's like they know where we're looking, and are moving through all the blind spots in our camera coverage.”

  “They are,” Chapman said sighing with resignation. “It's all misdirection.”

  “I still don't get it, though,” Devin said. “If this EMT guy is so involved in this plan...where is he?”

  “I don't know,” Chapman said, running a hand over his face and finding it to be awfully slick with perspiration – both of them, actually. “But I have a bad feeling we're going to find out in the worst way.”

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWENTY-NINE

  Dave Kory

  Charlotte Amalie

  St. Thomas, US Virgin Islands

  He was being followed, Dave Kory knew that much for sure.

  The guy had been on his plane, he realized, boarding with him at La Guardia. He hadn't taken much notice of him at the time, the rugged man with the short hair and perpetual smile, but then he'd bumped into him at the baggage claim, and the dude couldn't take his eyes off Dave.

  Hey, fair enough, maybe he was just dazzled. Or maybe he recognized Dave. That happened sometimes, with news groupies. It wasn't like Kory had zero profile in the world of media. People knew him. He got invited to good parties in Williamsburg, and sometimes in Manhattan. Connected parties. Hell, he'd even been invited to the Network. Talk about exclusive.

  Every major news event the last few years, he'd had a hand in shaping. That was real power. And people knew him for that.

  But this guy...this one guy...

  The way he looked at Dave – well, it was unnerving.

  Was it the smirk? Maybe. The smirk was perpetual, like he knew something Dave didn't.

  LOL, as if. What were the chances some rando on a plane knew more than the editor-in-chief and CEO of the world's largest news-information-entertainment site?

  Still, the smirk was grating. Maybe not as grating as the smarmy politeness. He'd stood in line at the baggage carousel next to Dave, violating his personal space bubble like they were both on the New York subway together at rush hour. Why did he stand that close? Who knew? All Dave knew was that he smelled of Old Spice, reminding Dave of his grandfather. And that he shouldn't have been close enough to smell that about the guy.

  That politeness factor was grating, too, though. When he'd bumped into Dave he'd said, “Sorry about that, compadre.” With a drawl. Not Southern, just...a drawl. Old timey. And the smirk. And bright eyes that found Dave and wouldn't let him go.

  Trying to find a cab at this hour was proving difficult. Somehow they'd all gone home or called it quits for the night. How did that happen? Dave had no idea. The porter had said one would be along shortly, but one look over his shoulder convinced Dave that no, he didn't want to wait.

  Because the guy? He was right there, lingering next to the airport exit, and staring right at Dave.

  He managed to summon a rideshare a little farther up the pickup loop. After they'd exited the airport, Dave was starting to feel like, yeah, maybe he was out of that. Certainly enough to risk logging into Escapade and seeing what was up.

  KORY: Think I picked up a tail from my flight. Lost him now, thankfully.

  FLANAGAN: What?

  CHAPMAN: Are you joking?

  KORY: Lol, no. I swear this guy on the flight was following me. Weird feeling. Kept getting all up in my space at the baggage claim even though there was a ton of room. He

  Kory paused, looking in the rearview mirror. There was a car behind them, and when it went under the street lamp he could have sworn–

  No way.

  But he turned, and the car passed under a street lamp again, and–

  KORY: He's in the car behind me.

  KORY: He's STILL following me.

  CHAPMAN: Describe him.

  Dave panicked, no lie. His breathing quickened, and he turned his head, looking back, then closed his eyes, trying to piece together a description of the guy from memory and what he could see in the dark car behind them.

  KORY: Brownish hair, 5' 10” or so, kind of a rugged dude in the old style. A real Kurt Russell sort.

  CHAPMAN: That's the EMT that saved Nealon in New York. That picked her up before Bilson. That – well, I thought he was the one coming to my hotel in DC tonight, but looks like – no.

  Dave's eyes nearly bulged out of his head.

  KORY: Are you telling me he's one of Nealon's assassins? And he's HERE? WITH ME?

  FLANAGAN: Oh, damn.

  CHAPMAN: It certainly sounds like him. I was trying to find him earlier, but they scammed us with someone dressed up like him with makeup that fooled our facial recognition system. Let me check and see if I can get footage of where you are.

  “How would you do that?” Kory wondered aloud. The driver didn't ask, he didn't offer, and Kory went back to thinking through the implications of this new information seconds later.

  The streets of Charlotte Amelie were quiet, and Dave really had only one destination in mind – the Ritz-Carlton on the other side of the island, with its remote, secluded location, but now that THIS GUY was on his tail...?

  He needed to lose him. Which he wasn't going to do with this driver, who was plodding along at the speed limit.

  “Can you go faster?” Dave asked.

  The driver just shook his head. “No.”

  Dave sagged against the back seat. The guy was still there, one car back, following them down this dead quiet road, the street lamps overhead illuminating him every time his car passed beneath them.

  And even in the dark, with that little light...Dave could still see the smirk, taunting him.

  “Stop here!” Dave shouted, “Stop!” and the
car screeched to a halt.

  Dave bolted out the door, not bothering with his suitcase. To hell with his clothes, to hell with all of it. This was his life on the line, and all he took with him was his phone and his laptop bag and he ran, tearing down an open alley only steps from the car.

  He ran for dear life, past cracked stone facades and colored shutters, past the smell of roasting meat that sent his vegan stomach into a flip, his shoes smacking against the concrete pavement with each desperate footfall. A look back confirmed that no one was following him down the alley, but still he did not stop.

  Dave Kory ran for three blocks, then four blocks, seven and then ten, through dark alleys between, past dilapidated houses and newish businesses. He cast a searching look back every few steps, almost tripping over himself once, twice, until–

  Ten blocks. No one following him.

  Dave finally slowed, his back hurting from where his laptop bag had slapped the skin raw.

  Long, deep breaths were needed. Dave was feeling lightheaded. He stood in the dark, just outside the haloed reach of two street lamps. The street was quiet, deathly quiet, though there was engine noise, faintly, somewhere in the distance.

  He'd done it. He'd outrun his pursuer.

  Now he just needed to get to safety.

  A noise behind him jarred Dave into motion. He looked behind but stepped off the curb, spurred forward by the noise, the surprise. He watched the darkness, expecting a man to come charging out–

  It wasn't.

  A cat strolled out of the alley he'd just emerged from, eyes glinting from the street lights.

  Dave let out a breath, laughing. Figured. His website was one of the top purveyors of LOLCAT gifs on the internet, after all. Of course one would be here, now, in his darkest moment before things turned out all ri–

  “Hey, Dave.”

  Dave snapped his head around, forgetting all about the cat, stopping in the middle of the street.

  There, on the opposite side of the street, standing – like himself – just out of the reach of the street lights–

  Was the guy.

  The guy.

  And he was smirking.

  Dave froze in the middle of the street, all thought of crossing forgotten.

  The guy had followed him.

  The guy had gotten ahead of him.

  The guy was right there, right there and–

  The Tesla was so quiet that Dave didn't hear it, or even see it before it turned the corner and smashed into him at high speed.

  He felt it, though, as it slammed into his legs, breaking them, ripping them from beneath him–

  His head slammed into the hood, snapping his neck and whipping him forward as the car screeched to a stop–

  Dave Kory hit the ground and rolled a good dozen, two dozen feet, aware of every bump, every roll until the last–

  When he hit the gutter and his neck, already damaged from the impact, shattered the rest of the way and cut his spinal cord.

  Dave lay there, in the gutter, breathing his last, gasping breaths, and all he could see, in the dark recesses of his mind as the blood flow to his brain cut off and he died, was that guy and his damned smirk.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED THIRTY

  Chapman

  FLANAGAN: And then there were two.

  Chapman had just watched the thing happen, almost in slow motion. The Tesla had run right over Kory after the dumbass had frozen in the middle of the road. You could tell by the angle of his neck when he landed in the gutter that the Flashforce founder was kaput. Necks weren't supposed to bend that way, and even under the grainy, low-resolution video offered, Chapman imagined he could see the light leaving Kory's eyes.

  “Holy...holy...” Devin was just talking under his breath. “He...it's the guy...that guy...”

  “Yeah,” Chapman said quietly. “I saw.”

  “But he was there,” Devin said. “He got ahead of Kory, even while he was running like crazy! I couldn't keep track of him through the holes in the surveillance cameras in Charlotte Amelie, but this guy – this guy got ahead of him somehow! Beat him to a random spot in the city that he ran to?” Devin's voice lowered, ending up in a near-silent quiver. “How?”

  “Because he sees the future,” Chapman said calmly. He didn't know it for a fact, but it was the only logical explanation. “I think they call that a...Cassandra-type.”

  With that revelation, suddenly Sienna Nealon's successes of the last year seemed all the more clear. How could she lose, with someone like that on her side?

  “Block Kory's phone and delete the app,” Chapman said, turning his attention back to Escapade.

  “Done.”

  CHAPMAN: Looks like I may need a lawyer soon, Tyrus.

  FLANAGAN: I doubt it. But you might need a priest.

  Chapman slumped forward.

  CHAPMAN: How long have you not been Flanagan?

  FLANAGAN: Weeks.

  Chapman closed his eyes. That was the last card played; not only did she have a man who could see the future, but she was inside the Network the whole time.

  CHAPMAN: What happened to Flanagan? Is he dead?

  FLANAGAN: No.

  Chapman took a breath.

  FLANAGAN: But he's not going to be of much use to you...ever again.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED THIRTY-ONE

  Flanagan

  New York City

  One Week Earlier

  The club was pulsating, and Tyrus Flanagan had his eye on that redhead. Hot. Damned hot. En Fuego.

  His assistant was talking to her, paving the way, going to bring her over to make the necessary introductions once she'd done the “pre-close.” She did a great job at it. Sure, every now and again one of these little bitches would get cold feet, but usually – once they knew what he could provide – they'd be quiet and take their medicine and give him a good night.

  And in exchange? Their futures were assured, because Tyrus Flanagan had connections.

  Ah, here they came now, his assistant Greta coming with the redhead trailing along behind her. Under the flashing lights, Flanagan watched her approach. Every step dripped sex; she was a little older than his usual type, a little more made-up, but...

  Dayum. He couldn't argue with the results. Tyrus took a sip of whiskey, and...

  “Hey,” he said, “you look ... kinda familiar. Like a ... that famous lady ... whatshername ... Sigourney ...?”

  He blinked. She was suddenly next to him in his alcove, hands on...well, all over him. They were cool, but hot – burning to the touch, and his head swayed like...

  How much had he had to drink? His head felt fuzzy...

  “Hey, that's my phone,” he said, slurring. It was in her hand, unlocked, which meant...

  She brushed her fingers across his face, and – oh, they burned.

  But after...

  What was he talking about before?

  Flanagan's head was so...so fuzzy. He looked into the features of the redhead, those hawk-like eyes glaring down at him. Pretty, but dangerous, he realized. “What...what's your name?” he mumbled.

  “Lethe,” she said. “Not that you'll remember it.”

  She touched him again. It burned.

  And he didn't remember her name after that.

  Or that she took his phone.

  Or anything about the Network.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED THIRTY-TWO

  Chapman

  CHAPMAN: So...who am I speaking to?

  Chapman sat back in his chair. He'd moved to it, sitting in his quiet, locked-down, lights-out office alone. It didn't make sense to stay on the edge of the desk, so he'd moved while waiting for the answer to his question.

  FLANAGAN: Not Flanagan. Beyond that, does it really matter? Because if you're keeping up with the count...and then there was one. How long do you think you've got, Jaime?

  CHAPMAN: No, really...who is this? Got a name?

  He smiled.

  CHAPMAN: This is Sienna, isn't it?

  FLANAGAN: No. But s
he'll be with you soon.

  That turned his blood cold. He clapped a hand over his mouth, wondering if the serum had worked yet.

  It was funny; he'd started with all these options, or at least the illusion of them – killing the president, putting Barbour in place, taking control, stopping Nealon, killing Nealon – and they'd all been stripped away, one by one.

  Now all he had left was the defenses around his office, and the powers that he hoped would show up soon. So sad to go from having so much at his disposal to feeling like he had nothing. Still...maybe he could yet surprise her. Even if he took her out at the cost of his own life, it might be worth it.

  CHAPMAN: You one of her friends? The guy in the Virgin Islands who took out Kory?

  FLANAGAN: No.

  He changed tacks. He wanted to know something, anything about this mystery talker. And he had nothing else going on; he thought about calling Gwen, but an answer came back that quickly stopped him.

  FLANAGAN: I'm the one who took out Flanagan – and helped take out Chalke.

  CHAPMAN: How did she die?

  FLANAGAN: Fittingly.

  Chapman swallowed heavily.

  FLANAGAN: But not as slowly as I'd have made it if it were just up to me. I think Sienna's going a little too easy on you people for what you've done to her.

  Chapman laughed bitterly.

  CHAPMAN: She seems fine, so...what have we done to her that's meant a damn?

  FLANAGAN: You've tried to make her your servant for a year, to keep her on a leash by any means at your disposal. There's an uglier word for that, of course, and I won't go that far, but if it were me? Your death would be slow, brutal, and last for so long you'd forget your name from the pain by the time I was done with you. But I'm old school like that.

  Chapman found himself licking dry lips.

  CHAPMAN: You sound positively medieval.

  FLANAGAN: Oh, I go way further back than that, Jaime.

  CHAPMAN: Got a name I'd recognize?

  FLANAGAN: Probably not, because I doubt you're well-versed in the classics, but you can call me Lethe.