Cloud Dust: RD-1 (R-D #1)(2)

"Corinne, it's standard procedure. We wouldn't have chosen this location if your neighbors weren't safe."

In them speak, safe meant oblivious.

"Have you considered the self-defense course I suggested?"

"Yes." My shoulders sagged. I'm five-four and weigh one-hundred-three pounds. I might be able to wrestle a nine-year-old to the ground. Maybe.

"Corinne, Krav Maga is good exercise. I saw that pathetic treadmill you own."

"Hey, I can run three miles on that thing," I huffed.

"But that doesn't improve your arm strength."

"I can type five thousand words in one sitting."

"Cori."

When August calls me Cori, he's flabbergasted. Disgusted. Probably several other words that end in –ed, too.

"When are the classes?" My shoulders sagged another notch.

"Tuesday and Thursday evenings," he said, a smile touching the corner of his mouth. "I set it up already. The gym is five minutes away, and I know the instructor."

"Right. Mincemeat, here I come."

"Cori."

"Auggie."

He frowned deeply at the corruption of his name. "I've disciplined soldiers for less than that," he said.

"You know, I get that about you." I let the slat in my fingers fall—I was done staring at my unfortunate neighbor's house. I'd have to go to a window on the opposite side to see my other neighbor's home, but that could wait.

"Any nearby hotels on the list of approved vendors?" I asked. "I'll pay my own way, unless you can't restrain yourself."

"I'll allow it."

"Wow. Thanks. Can we go for ice cream, now?"

"You know I can't."

"I know. Your wife and your department won't approve. I'm not trying to steal you or embarrass you, you know. I realize I can't cut it compared to the others. That's embarrassing enough."

"Corinne, the others had a choice in the matter. You didn't."

"But it messes with your tough-guy mojo."

"I have a tough-guy mojo? I'll add that to my job description."

"Holy cow, is that sarcasm? There's hope for you, yet," I said.

"Cori."

"Yeah."

*

Maybe it would have made a difference if I'd bothered to watch the news in my hotel room.

I didn't.

Instead, I unpacked my laptop and brushed aside the events of the day to lose myself in writing. That's what writing is for me—an escape. I didn't bother to turn on the news until three days later, after my cable was hooked up and turned on in the new house.

There he was, standing behind Vice President Al Flint, looking as smugly innocent as a cat that had just swallowed the pet goldfish.





Chapter 2

"I promise that General Edwards' killer will be brought to justice," the VP announced at the White House press conference. After a while, I tuned him out and focused on the man standing behind him.

Hugh Lawrence. Secretary of Defense Hugh Lawrence. I shuddered as I studied him. Of all people—well, too bad, I guess. "So sorry you're going to die unexpectedly, dude," I whispered, before turning off the television and tossing the remote onto the coffee table with a sigh.

*

"It has just been announced that Hugh Lawrence, Secretary of Defense and trusted adviser to President Sanders, was found dead this morning of an apparent heart attack," the newscaster announced while I peeled a banana for breakfast. "An autopsy will be performed to confirm the cause of death, but doctors are unanimous in their preliminary findings. Mr. Lawrence appeared in good health, and leaves behind two sons and his ex-wife, Stacia. Hugh Lawrence, dead at fifty-six."

"Hugh Lawrence, dead at fifty-six," I mimicked before tossing my banana peel into the wastebasket. Murdering, filthy bastard, I added mentally.

*

Notes—Colonel Hunter

There are six of them in the Program. Actually five, since one of them isn't talented. Everybody else who got the drug is dead—all ninety-five of them. Nobody has figured out why some live and most die. Time and resources have been allocated to that problem, with the best scientists working on it. Nothing has been determined as yet.

Of the six living, I was assigned to the untalented one, because Hugh Lawrence and the Joint Chiefs disliked me.

It takes a very high clearance to know about the Program. Cloud Dust, they call it. Who knows where the name came from? There are many things about it that even I don't know.

I like Corinne. Funny, beautiful, can write mysteries that show up regularly on the bestseller lists. She's also the best judge of character I've ever met, and can read situations accurately in seconds. I figure she's been studying people all her life and has developed the talent over time. That talent consistently comes through in her books.

She self-publishes—it's the only way the bigwigs will allow her to do it, and she has to write under a pen name. People who read Sarah Fox's books have no idea who Corinne Watson is. The bigwigs—and the big publishing houses—despise her.

It's better that way.

"Colonel?" Maye stepped gracefully into my office. She is deadly at several martial arts. I'd hesitate to take her on, and I'm seldom taken down, even by the best.