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

  CONTROL: OUT OF THE BOX 28

  The Girl in the Box, Book 38

  ROBERT J. CRANE

  Ostiagard Press

  CONTROL

  The Girl in the Box, Book 38

  (Out of the Box, Book 28)

  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 [email protected].

  Created with Vellum

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87

  Chapter 88

  Chapter 89

  Chapter 90

  Chapter 91

  Chapter 92

  Chapter 93

  Chapter 94

  Chapter 95

  Chapter 96

  Chapter 97

  Chapter 98

  Chapter 99

  Chapter 100

  Chapter 101

  Chapter 102

  Chapter 103

  Chapter 104

  Chapter 105

  Chapter 106

  Chapter 107

  Chapter 108

  Chapter 109

  Chapter 110

  Chapter 111

  Chapter 112

  Chapter 113

  Chapter 114

  Chapter 115

  Chapter 116

  Chapter 117

  Chapter 118

  Chapter 119

  Chapter 120

  Chapter 121

  Chapter 122

  Chapter 123

  Chapter 124

  Chapter 125

  Chapter 126

  Chapter 127

  Chapter 128

  Chapter 129

  Chapter 130

  Chapter 131

  Chapter 132

  Chapter 133

  Chapter 134

  Chapter 135

  Chapter 136

  Chapter 137

  Chapter 138

  Chapter 139

  Chapter 140

  Chapter 141

  Chapter 142

  Teaser

  Author’s Note

  Other Works by Robert J. Crane

  Acknowledgments

  PROLOGUE

  New York City

  The club smelled of sex and adventure, and Tyrus Flanagan was in the mood for both. A lawyer by trade, a CEO by dint of years of hard work, senior partner of arguably the biggest, most lucrative law firm on the face of the planet, Flanagan worked hard and he played hard.

  This...this was pure play.

  The music pulsed as Tyrus nodded along idly, sipping a Vodka Collins, his preferred drink. The lighting was about fifty percent too low for his eyes, but he didn't care. Flanagan was in his mid-fifties, so the dark was his friend in this environment. Nodded past the bodyguard into this exclusive club by virtue of his relationship with the owner, he was well aware that he was outside the usual age range in a place like this.

  They played the latest music; he preferred classic rock. They served new concoctions dreamed up by mixologists who were being born as he set out building his firm, he stuck with the classics, drink-wise. Martinis, the Collins, stuff built around top-shelf vodka. Flanagan was a product of his age, and he'd accumulated the wealth that allowed him to say “Hell no” to anything produced after 1999, which was the end of the cultural universe, for his purposes.

  But Tyrus Flanagan did like one thing that came along after 1999: the women. Which was why he was willing to brave this club, with its shitty, pulsating music, and its $25 artisanal cocktails.

  Because this club was the hottest ticket in New York for the 21 – and under, with the right fake ID – set.

  Long days at the office left Tyrus tuned up. Muscles taut, mind focused on the thousand endeavors of law and power that he worked on with all his attention and focus – during the day and into the nights, anyway. Once he'd quit for the night, the vodka helped turn the volume down on a world that seemed a little too real for him at times. He exercised influence in his work to accomplish his goals, but in his off-hours, he needed to exercise it even more in order to achieve his personal goals.

  He had just such a goal tonight, as the beat of...whatever the hell this was...ran through his bones. Thank God for the Vodka Collins. Really, the music here gave him a headache until he got to his second or third drink. Then he started to appreciate it. Lightly, though. The appreciation would fade as soon as sobriety kicked in, and as he took his morning snort to wake up and shake off the hangover.

  Colored lights flashed in front of him as Tyrus sat at a corner booth, watching the pretty girls dance. He wore a smile, glass almost to hi
s lips. He'd reached the point in the evening where he was sipping, staring, trying to decide on his choice of prey. This was the tough part. They were never much interested until they found out who he was, what he could do for them.

  There wasn't a high-status person in New York state that Tyrus Flanagan couldn't find a professional connection to. Admissions officers at every college. HR administrators at every major corporation. Casting directors, both here and in LA. Hell, he even had connections in DC and Silicon Valley now, thanks to his membership in the Network.

  Cable news? Check. He knew Chris Byrd, check, a top anchor at NNC. Listened to by all the right people.

  Print press? Morris Johannsen, editor of the Washington Free Press, the third biggest newspaper by circulation in the nation.

  New media? Dave Kory, head of Flashforce.net, the premiere web news service.

  Jaime Chapman, head of Socialite, the world's largest social network, and FindIt, the top search engine now that Inquest had cratered. He had some other bullshit companies, too, though Tyrus couldn't remember them off the top of his head. Nor did he care.

  The FBI Director, Chalke. Boom. Huge get. The corridors of government, open to him.

  And the top lobbyist in DC, soon to be National Security Advisor. Sure, Bilson was on the outs with them over this China business, but he'd be back in the fold soon enough.

  All those connections and more, accumulated over thirty years of working with the elite of America and the world, all at his fingertips. He had his feelers out, his personal assistant Greta was out on the floor, acting natural, until he signaled who he wanted to talk to. She'd make the introduction, make the arrangements. She was their age, and it came off a lot less intimidating to be eased into the situation by someone who wasn't a fifty-plus guy swilling Vodka Collins as he stared at women thirty plus years his junior.

  This was power, Tyrus thought as he took a swig of his drink, the harsh aroma of the vodka overpowering his senses for a moment. This was the fruit of his labors, plucked for his enjoyment nearly every night. What was it that Kennedy had said about the formula for a good life? “The exercise of vital powers, along lines of excellence, in a life affording scope.” Something like that.

  Well, Tyrus was about ready to exercise some vital powers and bring a young lady to his bed for the night. Occasionally longer than a night, but usually not longer than a week. His favors corresponded with the duration of his enjoyment of her. After a night, she'd receive an introduction – even an enthusiastic recommendation – a door opening of her choice. A week? She might get a nice vacation, too, maybe a couple more doors opened. More than a few girls of this age had been set up to enter a life of luxury thanks to Tyrus Flanagan's efforts. A ticket to ride the bullet train to the top, a cab onto easy street.

  It intoxicated him even more to ponder how life-changing, how life-making for these girls a night with him could be. If they only knew, they'd be lining up to him instead of him having to send Greta out to cull one from the herd for him.

  But there was power in being the chooser, not the chosen. And Tyrus liked the power more than the flattery of seeing them all beat a path to his booth.

  So...which one would it be? That willowy blond with the perfect legs, the narrow hips? Mmm, too boyish for his liking. Her hair was a shade too short.

  What about that brunette with the nice bosoms? That was tough in this age bracket. Go too young, they didn't have enough time to get a little meat on their bones. She was good, though. Implants? Maybe. Not that it mattered for his purposes, but it suggested she might have daddy's money behind her and thus have no need of his favors. Pass.

  Hmmm. There was a redhead by the bar. Low cut dress. Perfect hourglass figure. Skirt ended at mid-thigh and in the flashing neon he could see smooth legs, creamy thighs, perfect calves. Her hair was beautiful, layered. She'd spent real time on it, and it showed. Her shoulders had some definition to them, too. Not that he was into butch chicks, but this gal took some time on herself. He was waiting for her to turn, intrigued by what he'd seen, but unwilling to commit without seeing the face.

  The face...vitally important. Sure, he'd lowered his standards a time or two, gone for a butterface. “But her face!” Tyrus chuckled, sipping his drink, watching the redhead. A classic joke. He'd lived it, though. He possessed a light switch, after all, the great equalizer for such occasions.

  The redhead turned, a martini glass in her hand.

  Tyrus blinked.

  A knockout. Body, face...Flanagan thought he might swoon right there.

  His signal to Greta was not subtle, but it got the point across. With that, she immediately cut through the crowd and, without once circling, honed in on the redhead.

  Tyrus watched, anticipating. He caught the initial lean-in, watching Greta talk to her. She was making the contact. Soon enough, she'd make the pitch.

  Then Tyrus would have his answer, and the redhead would have her dreams come true. After all, what was one night with an older man when compared with the promise of having everything you ever wanted delivered unto you?

  CHAPTER ONE

  Sienna Nealon

  Washington DC

  One Week Later

  “Whoa!” My Uber driver didn't even bother playing it cool as I popped into the back of his Honda Civic. “You're Sienna Nealon!”

  “Yeah,” I said, slamming the door on the cool Washington DC night. I'd just stepped out of my apartment and hurried to the car. It wasn't cold, being a mid-May evening in the US capital, but after sundown it had gotten chilly. I wore my usual steel-toed boots, work pants, blouse and a jacket, but still felt it creeping through my clothing. Something about the humidity in this city conducted both heat and cold, and the hairs on the back of my neck were standing up.

  To be fair, though, that might have had something to do with the call I'd gotten that brought me into this car rather than the weather.

  The Honda smelled lightly of cotton candy, the artifact of my driver's vaping habit. No normal person would have picked that up, but I was metahuman, and my senses were enhanced, making the traces of sugary sweetness stand out, wafting off the cloth seats. The overhead light clicked off, leaving my driver shaded by the car's instrument panels.