Cloud Dust: RD-1 (R-D #1)(55)

"Ted Ryan and his militia have been a problem for twenty years," the President leaned back in her chair with a frown. "Long before I took office. His biggest problem with me is that he thinks I should be in a kitchen somewhere, doing dishes and cooking. His is a male-dominated world," she added, "where women have no place in positions of authority. He backed Cutter when Cutter ran against me in the last primary. The FBI keeps track of his movements and his social presence online. He made no secret of the fact that he'd never want a woman in the White House."

"He's a murdering creep," I said. "And I'm only saying creep because saying what he really is involves the worst profanity I can come up with."

"I tend to agree," President Sanders said. "What can we do about Nick?" She turned back to Auggie.

"No idea. Corinne needs medical attention, as do Rafe and James. I'll discuss this problem with Maye and them afterward and get back with you, if that's all right."

"Absolutely. If you need resources you don't have at the moment, let me know. I'll do what I can."

"Thank you, Madam President."

"You're welcome."

*

Rafe insisted on waiting outside while they did the MRI. I'd never had one done of my entire body, but they were doing one now. I thought Auggie might have a stroke when somebody suggested taking a blood sample.

That was tabled, and I was glad.

A mild concussion was the diagnosis afterward, and I was given medication for the cuts, scrapes and pain.

Rafe's elbow was sprained, so he was outfitted with a sling and told not to use the arm for a few days. I didn't point out that he couldn't do Krav Maga lessons like that.

James had a hairline fracture on his wrist, so he was the only one who ended up in a cast. I felt sorry for him—it interfered with his typing.

"I'm not letting you have alcohol for a few days, although we need a drink," Rafe muttered as he followed me into our shared suite.

"That sucks."

"What would you like to do instead?"

"Stay away from mirrors. My whole face is purple."

"Let us rest and consider what we should do later, eh?"

"Yeah. I'd like to lie down."

*

Nick

I can remember clearly the times Becker and I belittled Corinne. Called her a worthless cunt—or worse. Becker's biggest problem with Corinne was she refused to go to bed with him. I could see why, now.

Corinne turned out to be better than both of us.

Her note was still inside the envelope I pulled from my jacket pocket. Also stuffed in the envelope was ten grand in small bills.

Just in case, her note read. The envelope had been shoved under my door at the villa the morning she left for the UK. Somehow, she suspected what I was thinking.

The money would allow me to do what was necessary to track Becker and his f*cking handler, Gene. I had no qualms about naming Gene the instigator in this mess, but Becker knew better. He knew what giving his blood to enemies of the state might cause.

I cursed Cutter under my breath. As much as Gene was responsible, Cutter made it all possible.

They'd taken an oath, goddammit. All of them.

I'd sat in a booth at a truck stop, having dinner when the capitol in Sacramento fell. Somehow, I knew Cutter was behind it, I just couldn't prove anything to anybody. I was back on the road, now, my backpack hefted over a shoulder as I made my way into North Dakota. Rain pattered on the hood of my jacket as I trudged along soaked back roads.

Maye said Corinne was capable of transfer. I wasn't sure of that until now.

Nick, her voice sounded in my mind. If you want Gene and Becker, they're with Cutter. She even gave me a f*cking address in Utah. They have guards, she added. Call for backup, unless you want to commit suicide.

I had no intention of committing suicide. I had friends, and I intended to ask them for help.

*

Notes—Colonel Hunter

Corinne and Rafe were still asleep when I received the news. Sometime during the early-morning hours, Ted Ryan and four others involved in the Sacramento bombing had driven off the Ship Canal Bridge in Seattle, killing all inside the white van. Two died when they hit the water 182 feet below the bridge; the other three drowned before a rescue crew could get to them.

They'd been driving toward Canada. I suspected they had someone waiting somewhere, to get them past the border. Ted Ryan wasn't the brightest of people for sending the video claiming responsibility for the bombing before he left the country, but Cutter had guaranteed safe passage, somehow. It made me wonder if Cutter had used Ryan, then cut him loose.

"James, see if there were cameras on that bridge. I want to know if this accident was no accident," I said.

"Right away, sir," James called from his desk. "Do you suppose Cutter was attempting to divert attention to someone else?" James asked after a few moments.

"Possible, but we know better."

"Because of Corinne," James walked into my office. "If she hadn't given us a heads-up, we might be in the dark on this."

"True."

"Here," he handed his tablet to me after tapping for a few seconds. "Camera images of the accident."

James and I watched as the van suddenly careened across four lanes of traffic at high speed. The vehicle's front wheels ran up and over the railing, with no braking evident. Then, the van teetered on the railing for a few more seconds while two other vehicles pulled over nearby. Before any of the other drivers could reach the van to help, Ted Ryan and his crew toppled over the side and the van dropped into the water below.