Cloud Dust: RD-1

by Connie Suttle

  CLOUD DUST

  RD-1

  A Novel by

  Connie Suttle

  For Walter, Joe, Sarah H., Lee D., Dianne J. and Larry O. Thank you.

  And for Clare and Dave B. for invaluable assistance and information.

  * * *

  The Author's information may be found at the end of this book.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters and incidents portrayed within its pages are a product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons (or vampires, werewolves, High Demons, Greater Demons, Lesser Demons, Larentii, shapeshifters, Ra'Ak, wizards, warlocks, witches, Avii, Saa Thalarr or gods) living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cloud Dust, © 2014 by Connie Suttle

  All rights reserved

  This book, whole or in part, MAY NOT be copied or reproduced by mechanical means (including photocopying or the implementation of any type of storage or retrieval system), without the express written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  The author wishes to thank you for purchasing this e-book. Purchasing this book through legitimate channels supports the author and makes it possible for her to keep writing. If you did not purchase this book through legitimate channels, or have downloaded it from a website that pirates authors' works, the author kindly asks that you purchase a copy for yourself, as sales of her books are her only source of income.

  * * *

  ISBN-10: 1939759293

  ISBN-13: 978-1-939759-29-0

  Other books by Connie Suttle:

  Blood Destiny Series

  Blood Wager

  Blood Passage

  Blood Sense

  Blood Domination

  Blood Royal

  Blood Queen

  Blood Rebellion

  Blood War

  Blood Redemption

  Blood Reunion

  * * *

  Legend of the Ir'Indicti Series

  Bumble

  Shadowed

  Target

  Vendetta

  Destroyer

  * * *

  High Demon Series

  Demon Lost

  Demon Revealed

  Demon's King

  Demon's Quest

  Demon's Revenge

  Demon's Dream

  * * *

  The God Wars Series

  Blood Double

  Blood Trouble

  Blood Revolution

  Blood Love

  Blood Finale

  * * *

  The Saa Thalarr Series

  Hope and Vengeance

  Wyvern and Company*

  * * *

  The Finder series

  Finder

  Keeper*

  * * *

  The R-D series

  Cloud Dust

  *Forthcoming

  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 1

  I got out five years ago.

  Untalented, they said.

  In other words, they didn't know what to do with me, and murder usually leaves a mess.

  I understood messes. Saw too many of them in my dreams. That's why I live where I do, still in their shadow but outside their walls. The conditions, of course, are that I have to move every five years, check in now and then, and never, ever, talk about them to anyone.

  It was time to move.

  "I don't want you to go." Eric, my next-door neighbor looked like a sad puppy as the movers loaded my caramel-colored sofa onto their truck and wrapped it in heavy plastic.

  "Honey, I'll send postcards, I promise." He peered over our shared side fence, watching as five years of my life were loaded into a moving van.

  I didn't want to go, either. Eric and his partner, Max, were the only friends I had, and even they knew little about me. I knew all about them, though, and fed their cat when they went on vacation or out of town for weekends with Eric's family.

  "You'll send me the next book?"

  "Yes. It's such a burden and all, but I'll send it," I teased.

  That's what I do—I write books. Mysteries. Under a pen name. There wasn't any way I wanted to give up an entire catalog of work again, just because I used my current name.

  To Eric, Max and the rest of the world, I'm twenty-seven. It says so, right on my driver's license—Corinne Watson, born May 29, twenty-seven years ago. I look younger than my listed age—by at least four years. People would be shocked to learn that I'm actually seventy-three, but that would be giving away secrets. Unless I wanted them on my doorstep the next day, that secret would remain a secret.

  "Will you call us?"

  "Absolutely." Lie.

  "How long will you live in France?"

  "Until I finish the book. I'll be back after that." Another lie.

  Eric and Max thought I was renting a house in a small village in France, so I could soak up local culture and write a mystery. They thought my furniture was going into storage until my return, and that I was renting my house out in the interim. Big lie.

  The house was never mine—they'd purchased it for me. They couldn't help themselves—control was their thing. Who knows what would happen to the house—perhaps someone else they were content to watch from a distance might have it for five years.

  "What if the cookie recipe doesn't turn out right?" Eric frowned. He'd been eating my oatmeal cookies for five years. I'd sent him the recipe the night before in an e-mail.

  "It will, if you follow the directions. Stop worrying, all right?"

  "That's the last of it, ma'am," one of the movers came to me with a clipboard in his hand. "Sign here." He tapped the bottom of a paper filled with legal garbage that nobody in their right mind would ever want to read.

  I signed and handed the clipboard back, my hand shaking. That's another thing that Eric and Max don't know.

  I have PTSD. And GAD. I take medication for it, and hide it quite well on most days. Why do I have those things?

  That's the stuff nightmares are made of.

  * * *

  "Corinne, you're welcome to redecorate. Major changes have to be approved."

  "So a sunroom to grow marijuana is out of the question?" I blinked at Colonel August Hunter as he led me through my new home. He was my contact. Handler. Whatever.

  Can a seventy-three-year-old say whatever and get away with it?

  If you look twenty-three, with long, black hair, fair skin and gray eyes, you can get away with a lot. August grimaced at my joke. Of all the people belonging to the hive-mind-collective of them, he was one of the least offensive.

  August was tall, straight-spined, black, late-forties and a former Marine. Handsome, too, but I didn't want to point that out. He'd officially given up his job with the armed forces to join the collective of them. Shortly after that, he'd been assigned to me.

  I was a problem for him, but he accepted the job with long-suffering patience if not good humor. The best course of action for me, therefore, is to fly under the radar and make his job as easy as possible. My warped sense of humor gets the best of me at times, but that's all.

  Everything else ends up in my books.

  "You can stay at a hotel tonight; your belongings won't arrive until tomorrow," August pointed out.

  I didn't make any observations on how I was only moving from Arlington, Virginia to Silver
Spring, Maryland, roughly a distance of fifteen miles. It took me barely half an hour to drive to my new address.

  I also didn't add that taking that long to replace the bugs they'd installed on my furniture and appliances was amateurish.

  August probably knew that I knew about the bugs. I knew that he knew that I knew. We never discussed it; that would place implication and blame. Paperwork would ensue. Probably another move.

  I—and the bugs—would stay in Silver Spring. "Do you know the neighbors?" I asked.

  "A file will be delivered tomorrow, with your things."

  "Those poor people." I lifted a slat in wood blinds to stare at the house next door. It, like mine, was a narrow townhouse with three floors. I hate stairs. Yes, I look and feel young, but carrying laundry from the top to the bottom floor and then back again is still a chore, and getting from the top floor to the bottom floor to answer the door and explain to the salesperson there what No Soliciting actually means is downright annoying.

  "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.

  Maye is one of the talented ones. She hears thoughts. That talent has saved many lives.

  "Maye?" I blinked at her in surprise. Her handler, Jeff Chambers, wasn't with her.

  "I got a transfer," she began, her green eyes filled with concern while unruly red hair clouded about her face. Maye was an alias. Her old name no longer fits her appearance, but that's how Cloud Dust works. She'd been Asian, before. Still spoke fluent Japanese. Strange? Yes.

  Transfer meant she'd picked something up. If she knew the person, she'd recognized the mental voice as well. "What's that? Has Captain Chambers been notified?"

  "I wanted to talk to you first," Maye said. "The transfer came from Corinne."

  * * *

  "We have to be sure before we take this to anybody else," I snapped.

  "Of course, Colonel," Corporal James Draper replied. James is my assistant. He knows about the Program. Enough, actually, that he has quarters at the Mansion, where the Five are housed.

  The recordings from the past two days had to be played back—nobody bothered to listen to Corinne's recordings unless requested. I hadn't asked; Corinne deserved some privacy. Three hours later, James handed a flash drive to me. "Images and sound, Colonel," he said. "She said, so sorry you're going to die unexpectedly, dude, before she turned off the television."

  "And the next morning, Hugh is discovered dead of a heart attack." I shook my head. "James, this is what I want you to do—call the Oval Office. See if you can get an appointment for me to meet with the President. I think we found what Corinne can do—looks like she may be able to see a death coming. I'm not sure what to make of the transfer Maye captured, so we'll table that for now."

  "Seeing a death ahead of time—that would be pretty handy to know," James breathed. "I'll
call the Oval Office right away."

  * * *

  Corinne

  Wednesdays, I have a standing appointment with my department-assigned shrink. I've been seeing him for six years. He gets pissy every time I refuse to tell him what happened.

  He knows I was held hostage for six days.

  He knows all the others are dead. He's not sure how I survived. I'm not going to tell him.

  He also wants to know what happened—and how and when all the other hostages died. He knows I almost died, too.

  Well, that's not exactly true. I did die. August Hunter was correct when he said I hadn't had a choice. I was flat-lining when they gave me the drug, and couldn't make an informed choice. Now, they wanted names and answers.

  So far, I hadn't given them anything they could use.

  I had my reasons.

  "How did your first Krav Maga lesson go?" Doctor Shaw asked. The hive-mind-collective at work again—what one knows, they all know.

  "I spent most of the night on the floor, begging for mercy," I sighed. "I have bruises."

  "Corinne, Colonel Hunter would prefer that you were able to protect yourself. This isn't retribution for imagined wrongdoing."

  "I didn't suggest otherwise."

  "I'd like to see you try to make this work. Build up your strength."

  Like everybody else in the Program, Doctor Shaw was military. Army, actually. A Lieutenant Colonel. I leaned my head against the soft leather of the chair I sat on and closed my eyes.

  I wasn't military. Everybody in the Program thought I was weak and ineffective. In some ways, I was. "Corinne, there's no need to feel inferior," Doctor Shaw said.

  True. There's no need to feel inferior, when everyone, overtly or not, reminds you of the truth of it almost daily. What did they care that I'd sold a few million books and had a truckload of money in the bank?

  I couldn't spend much of it, or travel, or do anything others with money might do—that would draw attention.

  No attention. Dr. Shaw would be furious if I drew attention. Colonel August Hunter would be furious if I drew attention. I sighed.

  "What?" Dr. Shaw lifted a hopeful eyebrow.

  "Nothing." I waved off his question.

  "Do you like your new house?"

  "It's okay."