Scorched Earth (The Girl in the Box Book 57), page 1
SCORCHED EARTH
THE GIRL IN THE BOX
BOOK 57
ROBERT J. CRANE
Scorched Earth
The Girl in the Box, Book 57
Robert J. Crane
copyright © 2023 Ostiagard Press
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
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
Teaser
Author’s Note
Other Works by Robert J. Crane
Acknowledgments
PROLOGUE
Agent Mariya Cox of the FBI knocked on the door of the house in Dodge City, Kansas. Nerves tingled up and down her spine as her knuckles met the wood, sharp sounds echoing against the white-painted facade. The sun shone down on this fine May day, summer already coming to the plains.
Her partner, Carol Hartley, half a head taller than her, was standing at the edge of the porch uneasily, her broad features and blond bun lit by the sun shining in slantwise. “Four-hour trip from the Oklahoma City field office for this,” Hartley grumbled, looking across the dappled plains. It was endless fields all around them, flat and empty, tilled and brown, planted, but with only the occasional hint of a sprout here and there. What did Mariya know about farming? That was about the extent of it, but the occupants of this house surely knew much more, since they must have owned at least some of the fields surrounding them for all these endless miles.
The third member of their party harrumphed, head swiveling about as they waited on the porch, Mariya's knuckles still echoing from the knock. She watched that third person, her stomach buzzing with displeasure. Nothing about this felt right. “Let's just kick down the door,” he said, shoulders tense, voice displaying every inch of the annoyance he was clearly feeling.
“Or we could wait a minute,” Mariya said, trying to soothe the rumbling worry in her belly. She could hear motion within, and kicking down the door seemed like the sort of swiftly violent reaction one might expect from an idiot – or a home office dipshit. And the third member of their party was both of those things.
“I'm on a timetable here,” Special Agent Erik Carter said, checking his watch. It was a fancy one, maybe Rolex, Mariya didn't really know watches. It shone in the light, gold gleaming as the sun hit it. He adjusted his tie in his tight, broadcloth collar, beneath the tailored pinstripe suit. He didn't look like he shopped off the rack, as Mariya did, as Carol surely did, government employees on a government employee's salary. “And I don't want to spend one more minute out here in the sticks than I have to.”
Mariya shared a look with Carol; they'd been partners for a couple years. Duty in the Oklahoma City field office wasn't bad. Every once in a blue moon you'd even get a national case, either because the evidence trail ran through this field office territory, or because the perp did.
This was one of those cases...sort of.
“Just kick the door down,” Carter said.
“We should be careful about that, sir,” Carol said. She didn't sound totally opposed, just cautious.
Carter's pale, pinched face turned cold. “We have whatever I say we have, okay?” He checked his watch again. “Ten more seconds and we're busting it down.” He felt for his gun, which sent a thrill down Mariya's spine. It was about to be go time.
The door lock clicked, and the hinges squeaked as it parted enough to reveal an eye. An eye buried in an old face, one lined with wrinkles, diminutive chin, and fearful eyes. “Yes?” the old woman's voice asked.
“Mrs. Sutera?” Mariya asked, abrupt. She felt Carter bristle behind her, tensing as though he still wanted to kick the door down himself. “I'm Agent Cox, these are agents Hartley and Carter–”
“Special Agent Carter,” Carter harrumphed.
Mariya avoided shaking her head. “Special Agent Carter. We're from the FBI, and we're here to ask you about your daughter, Monique?”
“She ain't here,” the old lady said forcefully, not opening the door more than a crack. Light spilled in anyhow, illuminating her wrinkled chin and lips. “I haven't seen her in months.”
“Bullshit,” Carter said, pushing up to Mariya's shoulder. The DC lawyer – how did he get the coveted Special Agent title? She suspected asskissing – had all the subtlety of a brick to the skull. Or maybe taking lots of assignments like this.
Whether Mrs. Sutera didn't hear, or didn't care, she gave no sign she took Carter's word to heart. “I haven't seen her since she left for DC that last time. Wish I had. I sure miss her.”
“Your daughter's a wanted fugitive,” Carter said, hissing with impatience. “If you've helped her, that's aiding and abetting. Federal prison, not state. You know what that means, you old bag?”
“I told you, I haven't seen her.” Sutera's jaw was clenched, her feet set. Also, Mariya was pretty sure she was lying, and another little tingle ran through her. This was about to get interesting. She wondered if she'd get to slap the cuffs on or if Carter would be stealing the glory of this one for himself.
Question answered: “I've had enough of this,” Carter said, and he shoved the door open, knocking Mrs. Sutera over. She struck the ground with a yelp, and Carter burst right in, gun in hand. “Hartley – watch her. Cox, you're with me.”
“Great,” Mariya said, but Carter had already vanished into the back of the house, clearing the rooms ahead of him about as professionally and carefully as a teenager who needed to check the box on something to get it over with. Corners? Carter paid no attention. Look behind doors? Nah; Carter was a walking human sacrifice, bumbling his way forward through the house without a care.
Probably because he knew this was the deadest of dead ends, and Mrs. Sutera was about as likely to be harboring a serious fugitive as she was to run a marathon.
“He knocked me on my ass,” Mrs. Sutera whimpered as Hartley came over to kneel by her.
“Should have cooperated,” Hartley said. She didn't have much sympathy, either.
“Agent Cox!” Carter bellowed from the next room.
Mariya grunted, “Coming,” and was on her way.
They tore the place apart from top to bottom and found precisely nothing, as anticipated. There was not so much as a hint that anyone else had stayed in the house anytime more recently than the nineties. Peeling wallpaper and the smell of lemon Pledge worked to give the appearance of a home that was well cleaned, but not so well maintained. It seemed to Mariya that the old lady was doing the best she could, but her best had peaked a few decades earlier. Drawers were filled with coupons that were years out of date, closets with clothes that had been devoured by moths in the last century. By the time they were finished, it was all strewn over the battered wood floors, someone else's problem and mess to clean up.
“Let's get her back to the office,” Carter announced after they'd completed the search and returned to the entry to find Mrs. Sutera still whimpering, unable to stand.
“I think you broke her hip,” Hartley said. She sounded almost amused.
“So pick her up and carry her,” Carter said, with all the care one might show for a wounded badger that was making noise like it still want ed to murder you. He offered a pointed grin. “It'll be a good incentive for her to talk, getting some medical treatment.”
“Ugh,” Hartley groaned, rising to her feet.
“This woman's daughter was secretary to the world's biggest terrorist,” Carter said, grinning. “Right at the heart of the conspiracy that led to the nuking of CIA headquarters. We're all getting pats on the head from this. Smile – and drag her ass to the car, you two. She could hold the keys to this entire insurrection for all we know. Let's get her into interrogation.”
Mariya shared a look with Hartley. There was about as much chance of Mrs. Sutera holding any keys to this case as there was either of them sprouting wings and flying her back to the FBI SUV. But Carter was right; the edict had come down from on high. This was the direction they were going in, and who could blame them with the CIA headquarters building going down in a flash of nuclear fire?
Hartley looked up at Mariya. “Let's just get this over with.” So they did, and in spite of the old lady's groans, shoved her in the back of the car, moaning softly as she leaned against the window, clutching her hip.
“Get us back to the office,” Carter said, flipping the lights and sirens. “Top speed. I've had enough of this dusty, rustic shitpile.”
Mariya shrugged, her hands on the wheel, foot on the accelerator. Did Carter know that driving fast along the rutted dirt and gravel roads out here would be absolute hell on Mrs. Sutera's hip? Probably not. Did Mariya care? Not that much, she realized, and gunned it. The speedometer flew up to ninety by the time she'd reached the turnout onto the highway, and Mrs. Sutera was doing more than whining as she took the curve at almost fifty, then had it back up past a hundred miles per hour a few seconds later.
“Someone actually bothered to write a book asking, What's the Matter With Kansas?” Carter chuckled under his breath. “Like you need a book to explain it.” He cast his eyes up the seemingly endless road ahead, the green, sprouting fields and flat lands surrounding them on all sides.
Mariya looked in the rearview. Behind her, through the cloud of dust, she would have sworn she saw something moving.
“What is it?” Hartley twigged to her staring in the rearview first, and turned to look for herself. “Something out there?”
“Don't know,” Mariya said, staring into the dust. “Could be.” The government SUV jolted as they hit a low spot in the road, and Mrs. Sutera cried aloud. “Whoops.”
“Who cares about her?” Carter stared out the window in disinterest, leaning on his hand. “She's one of them. Save your pity for us, having to come out here, to this place. What are you doing?” he asked, because the entire vehicle shook, a low rattle proceeding through the frame like someone had attached a jackhammer to the chassis and turned it loose. “What's that?”
“I don't know!” Mariya shouted, letting off the accelerator and mashing the brakes. They did nothing, which sent a swell of panic through her, the engine still racing as though she'd done nothing at all. Depressing the brake pedal all the way to the floor produced no result save for the engine whining as the tachometer revved up, the car's speed increasing. “It won't stop!”
“This is Nealon, it has to be,” Carter said, his gun drawn, waving it around as he turned to look out the rear window. He pointed it back, between the heads of Hartley and Mrs. Sutera, and in spite of an abrupt cry from Hartley, the back window exploded and a deafening roar filled the interior of the SUV as the dumbass fired–
Three shots, and Mariya's ears felt like they exploded. The wheel jerked in her hand, turning over as the SUV flipped, then flipped again–
When she came to, Mariya found herself swirling in semi-darkness. Carter was grunting next to her, hanging, his arms and hands limp against the ceiling of the vehicle. Sun was shining in from her window, and she squinted against it. “Where...where's my gun?” Carter asked, his voice pained.
Mariya didn't know. She didn't know where hers was, either, and there was an agonizing, burning pain in the side of her neck. Blood was coursing down the side of her face, blinding her in one eye.
“Hartley?” Mariya tried to turn, but her neck screamed at her to stop, and she heeded it.
“To hell with her,” Carter said, fumbling for his seat belt. He released it and dropped with a heavy thump, clipping her in the face with his shoe. His face was partially covered with a slash down his forehead, blood dripping up into his dark hair. He managed to get himself upright, and then pushed against the door on his side. “Let's get out of here. I'm gonna–”
There was a sound of metal tearing, and Carter disappeared, screaming as he was dragged from the SUV. Mariya locked eyes with him as he vanished around the side of the vehicle, his scream cutting off abruptly.
Mariya was left waiting – just waiting – blood dripping down her face, until she heard the metal beside her tear as the door came off, and then, with a flash, the pain, and death came for her, too.
CHAPTER ONE
Sienna
Warm, sticky west Texas air. This wasn't how west Texas air was supposed to be; it was supposed to be dry, like an oven-heated punch to the face, not swampy, oppressive, inescapable, like stepping into a shower turned up to the max.
“Girl, you look like you're about melt,” Persephone said, smirk painted across her lightly wrinkled face. She was, after all, the origin of all this humidity. New Asgard, Texas, was an aberration in the middle of the desert, green with fertile crops instead of brown from desert sands and scrub brush. A classic American town had sprouted here in this little corner of hell, ripped right out of a Norman Rockwell painting, from the white clapboard houses to the storefronts on Main Street to the immense live oak, hundreds of years old, that was the centerpiece of the town square.
“Admittedly I haven't spent much time in Greece,” I said, fanning myself. It did no good. Already my clothing was soaked through, like I'd taken a dip in the pool. I applied my Poseidon powers to the problem, spraying the water out of the fabric of my clothing in a cloud; immediately new sweat formed on my body, as if to replace that which I'd just removed. “But I cannot believe you left a Mediterranean climate for this...swamp.”
“I made it a swamp,” Persephone said with more than a trace of pride. “Well, me and some of them other boys, the Poseidons. They draw out the moisture, I make the plants keep it, and now you got a little slice of green heaven in a place where almost nothing grows.” She looked out over the sun-torched fields, well into their growing season, corn already as high as my waist in the fields that surrounded the town. “Not that you appreciate that.”
“I appreciate it more in winter,” I muttered, matching her pace. We were walking down Main Street, and I was catching our reflection in every window we passed. Motion catching my eye was bad; it made me jitter and jump, afraid it was a Chinese assassin come to take me out. Not that they'd had much luck with that. That was the nice thing about New Asgard; the number of metahumans here precluded the possibility of Chinese assassins. Everyone knew everyone else in this small town. There was nowhere for a killer to hide without being noticed.
“Now I could talk about the weather all day, m'dear,” Persephone said, gray hairs sneaking in among her dark strands, “but I sense you didn't dig yourself out of whatever hole you're hiding in these days just to enjoy eggs and hash browns at Magni's diner, fine as those are, or stroll down here a-sweatin' down Main Street with me.” She traced a path toward that immense live oak in the square, a hundred feet tall, branches swaying in the warm breeze.
My shoes scratched against the steaming pavement as we stepped off into the road. No traffic was in sight on either end of town. New Asgard was all of six blocks, end to end; seldom did anyone bother to get in a car for jaunts across town. We cut across Main Street without fear of being run over, unlike, oh, every visit I ever made to New York City, for instance. “First of all, don't underestimate how peaceful I find this place, nor the draw of that on me.” I'd spent six months here after the Minneapolis incident. Six months to find my sobriety again, to find...peace...before the world ripped me back out into it. So many days since I wished it hadn't. “Besides, there's definitely not anything interesting going on in the world right now.”
“Oh, there's not?” Persephone asked playfully. “News to me. But then, news doesn't get here very often, or very easily.”
