Cloud Dust: RD-1 (R-D #1)(19)

"Corinne, get in the shower," August said when I'd finished half my coffee.

"Fine." Taking my cup with me, I wandered toward the door leading into my suite. I took my time, too. That's why the chopper blew up before we left the Mansion, instead of after we were inside it.

*

Notes—Colonel Hunter

Burning debris was strewn across the yard and guards were everywhere, with more on the way. It took a while to determine that the pilot was involved—he'd taken off running seconds before the chopper exploded.

He sat in an interrogation room inside the Mansion while another chopper was ordered for us—the President was waiting, although she'd been briefed. James stood with us as we watched a fire crew put the last of the fires out—singed and blackened grass littered the lawn in front of us and the unpleasant scent of burned fuel, rubber and metal hung about the Mansion.

"Colonel?" James said, nodding toward the back entrance, near the helipad. He wanted to talk.

"Let's go," I said and followed him toward the Mansion.

"Do you think Corinne," he began before I held up a hand. He and I both knew—Corinne was never late. She'd dragged her feet today.

"We'll have this conversation later," I said. "What's the ETA on the second chopper? Do we have an inspection crew ready?"

"Yes, sir. And we have experts coming to examine the wreckage."

"Good. I want to be informed if they find anything."

"I'll keep you in the loop. Who would do this?" he added.

"That's what I want to know."

*

"Our first attempt failed. We will try again."

"See that you do," the voice crackled over the secure line. "This problem must be eliminated."

"Agreed."

*

Ilya

This looked familiar—I'd seen others die the same way. Dmitri could be behind this. How had he found the information? Had someone discussed me while Dmitri's watchdogs were listening?

It angered me that they'd killed Ambassador Bespalov; he'd secretly arranged to get me out of prison. I wouldn't reveal that information—his wife still lived in Novosibirsk. I was likely involved in her husband's death; I didn't want trouble to visit her, too.

More than anything, I wanted to know what the pilot had to say, but held back from asking. Dalton stood nearby, watching closely, keys clicking sharply on his cell phone as he tapped a message. My guess was that General Cutter would receive the message.

Corinne wasn't far away, so I turned toward her. She was pale, but not as frightened as one might think. Did she see this coming?

I wouldn't be surprised.

*

Notes—Colonel Hunter

After the second chopper was gone over twice and declared free of explosives, the pilot was searched carefully for weapons. We loaded in four hours late. I had texts from one of the President's aides, telling me the meeting scheduled that morning was postponed.

Madam President really wanted Corinne and Rafe there for some reason. Corinne didn't like flying in a helicopter; that was easy enough to see when she sat between Rafe and James. Dalton reached over to help buckle her in when he saw her hands shaking, but she managed to get it fastened on her own. Rafe helped her adjust the headset so she wouldn't be deafened by the noise.

That's when I learned Rafe had my phone number. She's not used to this, he texted.

Then she'd better damn well get used to it, I texted back. Lose my number or I'll get your phone privileges revoked.

They all had special issue phones for this trip, but only for use within the group. All other numbers were blocked. I thought Corinne was the only one with my number. Obviously, I was wrong.

Dalton provided your number, at the behest of General Cutter, came the reply.

Then f*ck off, unless it's important, I returned.

You got it.

*

Corinne

Rafe and Auggie were having a textual tussle. I wanted to roll my eyes. I didn't—I was too busy trying to ward off a panic attack. Dr. Shaw was on one of the first two helicopters and long gone before ours exploded on the lawn.

I wasn't looking forward to this trip, not least because the French Ambassador would be there. No doubt, an incident that happened six years earlier would be brought up, as it was a sore spot between him and the President.

Priceless paintings from the Louvre had been burned after a section of it was taken over by terrorists. Tourists—visitors to the Louvre on that fateful day—died while nations watched artwork that had survived for centuries turn to ashes in a matter of minutes.

One of the terrorists, who'd reportedly committed suicide with the rest of the attackers, was American. That was enough fuel for the French President and the French Ambassador to condemn the involvement of a U.S. citizen.

It didn't matter that twenty-six of the thirty-nine tourists' deaths were also American. French nationals, Swiss, German and British citizens died, too. Thirty-nine deaths attributed to eight terrorists, who'd committed suicide after killing the last of their hostages.

French forces stormed in shortly after.

Nothing has been the same, since.

I drew a shaky breath.

No need to bring up that debacle now—I'd likely hear enough about it after I arrived at Camp David.