Enemies: The Girl in the Box, Book Seven
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Authors: Robert J. Crane
THE GIRL IN THE BOX
BOOK SEVEN
Robert J. Crane
ENEMIES
THE GIRL IN THE BOX
BOOK SEVEN
Copyright © 2013 Reikonos Press
All Rights Reserved.
1st Edition
AUTHOR’S NOTE
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.
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“I don’t have a warm personal enemy left. They’ve all died off. I miss them terribly because they helped define me.”
—Clare Boothe Luce
Dedicated to the memory of my aunt, Betty Jo McGuire, who never had an enemy in her life.
CONTENTS
Other Works by Robert J. Crane
I stared at him, he stared at me; he knew he was only centimeters from death. A gentle stroke of the trigger of my gun, and his loathsomee brain would be decorating the Coldplay posters on the wall behind him. It was a delicate air between us, him and me, as the world kept going somewhere outside the four walls of James Fries’s house. There was a smell in the air, his cologne—heavy, overdone. It was just like everything else about him, from the leather jacket that looked like it would cost more than a third world country’s GDP to the finely manicured nails, each smoother than the last, to the chiseled features that most girls would die for. More than a few had, actually.
“So …” he said casually, not meeting my heated glare. My gun never wavered off of him and he knew it. He was doing everything he could to try not to appear cowed by the subordinate position I had maneuvered him into. “We’re just going to sit here until—”
“Yep.” I maintained a level gaze at him, trying hard not to take my eyes off him even to blink. He was cagey, this bastard, overly clever, and I didn’t want to provide him an opening. I didn’t really think he was going to try something, but part of me really, really wanted him to, just so I could have an excuse to kill him. And I’d have to kill him, if it came to that, because I couldn’t fight him, not right now. I was missing a hand from a battle I’d been in earlier in the evening. I had the stump carefully covered up, unwilling to let him see my weakness before the appendage had a chance to grow back. “The less you talk, the more likely you are to maintain the structural integrity of your skull all the way through to the end of our time together.”
He gave a half-hearted laugh, but it was a thing of the wind, a subtle breath of air like a hiss rather than anything remotely jovial. “You’re not going to kill me.”
I didn’t even blink as I fired. Twice. “No?”
Blood seeped across his clean white shirt and dribbled down his chin. A steady ooze of red radiated outward from both sides of his chest. “Bitch,” he said, and a cloud of red and spittle was brought out by his speech, wet words tinged with the air and liquid seeping into his lungs from where I had shot him. “This won’t kill me.”
I watched as he slumped on the couch, the stains on either side of the buttons that demarcated the center of his chest growing worse by the second. It had been pretty decent aim, I thought, to put one in each lung, stopping him from calling out. He wheezed as he slid limply down the couch to a resting position on his side. I sat in my chair across the room, watching, never taking my eyes off him even as he registered the agony of what was happening to him. “You …” he gasped, trying to force air into his lungs. It wasn’t staying in, however, but draining out and filling his chest cavity. I was strangely unmoved, both emotionally and physically, as I watched.
“If you’re going to call me a bitch again, you can save your breath,” I said, keeping my pistol leveled at him. I aimed for the head this time. I really didn’t think he was going to do anything threatening in his present state, but he was rapidly outliving any uses I had for him. The sting of phantom pain in my missing hand was making me ornery. Either that, or the recent rash of people I had killed had eliminated any desire on my part to be merciful to one of the most prolific serial killers I had ever encountered.
It was actually rather sad that I could say he wasn’t even close to the most prolific. The man (beast) with that singular honor still resided in my own head.
“This won’t …” He spat up blood, even as his cheek pressed against the cloth of the couch he was now splayed on. He didn’t look like he had much control over his limbs. The smell of gunpowder was thick in the air, finally blotting out his awful cologne. I was thankful for that little blessing. “This won’t … kill me …” he gasped out then went silent, a torrent of red flooding out of his lips as his eyes glazed over, then closed.
“No,” I said, relaxing in the chair, letting the gun slide out of my grasp to rest on my lap, “but it’ll damned well shut you up.” His muscles relaxed, and his body went limp on the sofa. I saw the soft up and down motion of his chest as he continued to breathe in spite of his injuries, his meta-human physiology already working to repair the damage I had done. “And frankly,” I said, rubbing my eyes, which were burning, with my remaining hand, “that’s all I need from you at present.”
“Was that truly necessary?” He sighed and shook his head almost paternally. I didn’t buy it.
“Hello, Janus,” I said. He had walked in without a word, seen Fries lying in a pool of his own blood, and cast me the look. You know the one—something between disappointment and resignation.
“Hello,” he said, somewhat gruffly this time. He gave a wave of his hand at the mess of Fries on the couch. “Is this to be the omen on which we open the next chapter of our relationship?”
I tried to keep from curling my lip. “I saw the way Kat was all over your suit last time; I think I’d prefer something like this as an omen rather than something that might leave you open to any suggestion.”
A wry smile, a little self-deprecating, made its way over his stony facade. “Fair enough.” He stiffened, his tweed suit coat rustling as he went upright, as though someone had hit him in the back. “Good gods, he’s still alive.”
I shrugged. “Yeah. And …” I frowned. “You just said, ‘Good gods.’”
He stared at me in concentration, as though he were picking through his last statement. “Yes? What of it?”
“You self-reference in exclamation?” A deeply disturbing thought crossed my mind that caused me to grimace further. “Wait … when you’re with Kat, do you call out your own name?” My face soured, utterly beyond my control.
“If I may,” Janus said sternly, “this man is still alive.”
“Barely,” Fries groaned, his eyes still closed. He was splayed out on the sofa, arm draped over the side.
“Oh, stop milking it, you big faker,” I said. “You’re fine.”
“You shot me in both lungs.”
“You’re probably halfway healed by now,” I said. “Besides, your boss and I have things to discuss.”
“Do we, now?” Janus said with a cocked eyebrow. His beard was looking a little longer than when I had seen it a week or so ago. “Very well, then. You had James summon me from my business in Texas.” He spread his arms expansively then nudged Fries’s legs out of the way. The incubus groaned before moving them reluctantly, and Janus sat down, careful not to park himself in the puddle of blood. “What would you like to talk about?” He eyed the pistol in my hands. “And, before we begin, do you truly feel as though you need that?”
“Strictly for him,” I said, gesturing to Fries.
“I don’t think he’ll be giving you any more problems,” Janus said and gave Fries a sharp slap to the hip that caused the younger man to grunt in pain. “Isn’t that right, James?”
“I will give you no difficulties,” Fries said, gasping. “You, on the other hand, have given me—”
“A down payment on future pain,” I said. “I could make another installment now, if you’d like.”
Fries went quiet, and Janus gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod of agreement. “So,” Janus said, “what shall we talk about? The state of the world? Employment opportunities?”
“Erich Winter,” I said.
“Mmm.” Janus gave me a slight nod. “Not one of my favorite subjects, I will admit. But very well. What about him?”
I watched the old god’s eyes, and he watched me. “You know what he did?”
“Indeed I do,” Janus said slowly. “Rumors percolate quickly through the meta world, especially when one spreads money around with recently unemployed persons who used to work for—”
“You paid some of the agents that used to work for the Directorate?”
Janus gave another easy shrug. “It would be foolish of us not to. We give them a little ‘severance package’ to compensate them for the fact that Erich Winter did not, and they are kind enough to send a few whispers our way.” He grew more serious. “I was … very sorry to hear about what he did to you, of course.”
I didn’t blink. “Your organization has done almost as bad or worse to me. Winter only metaphorically ripped my guts out. You remain the only ones who have done it literally.”
Janus gave a slight grimace. “I have already apologized for this … unkindness on the part of previous management, but if you’d like, I’d be more than willing to tell you how sorry I am again—”
“And I’d be no less likely to believe it now than I did then.”
There was a faint settling of the lines at the crow’s-feet around his eyes. “This is a problem, then,” Janus said, his voice smooth. He rested his left hand on the wooden edge that was exposed at the end of the arm of the couch, relaxed. “Without trust, it will be difficult to have any sort of communication between us. I could tell you many things, but …”
“Stow it,” I said. “I’m not looking to trust you on anything other than a limited basis. But you want Winter dead, and I can deliver.”
“Ah, but in point of fact I don’t care whether Erich Winter lives or dies at present,” Janus said, “so long as he continues to stay out of my way. Out of Omega’s way.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “Are they one and the same—your way and Omega’s?”
He shrugged again. “Not necessarily. I am hardly the Alpha of Omega, if you’ll pardon the pun.”
I rolled my eyes. “As I understand it, you have an entirely different Alpha trying to batter down Omega at present.”
His expression darkened though only briefly. “An unfortunate group of upstarts and malcontents who suffer from delusions of being a far greater danger than the nuisance they actually represent to us.”
“That’s not how I hear it.”
“Yes, well,” Janus said with a little bit of snap, “when you only hear one side of the story, you shouldn’t be surprised when it turns out one-sided.”