"What's wrong with it?"
"Three stories."
"Ah."
* * *
Notes—Colonel Hunter
"Shaw?" I said.
Dr. Shaw called me as expected after a session with Corinne; we spoke once a week, at least.
"Corinne is withdrawn."
"Are you surprised? She has PTSD. And panic attacks," I pointed out. Shaw and I had the same conversation every two months or so.
"She says she has bruises from Krav Maga lessons."
"Everybody gets bruises in Krav Maga. If she learns how to put an elbow in somebody's ribs, it'll be worth it."
"Need I remind you that she's not military?"
"Nobody needs to remind me of that." I couldn't keep the bitterness from my voice.
"I hope you don't belittle her like that when you see her."
"I have better sense than that. I like Corinne—as a civilian."
"But she'd never make it in the military. Is that what you're saying?"
"It doesn't take a genius to know that. A lot of people aren't suited for it. Corinne is one of them. Do you think I'll mistreat her because of it?"
"I know how the others feel about her. I treat them, too, remember?"
"Yeah. I remember. Are you telling me that the Five are schoolyard bullies?"
"I wouldn't classify three of them as bullies—just indifferent or superior in their attitudes. The other two are definite bullies."
"How the hell do you pull that shit out of them? Seems to me it would be wiser to keep their mouths shut." I was getting angry, and that wouldn't do. I had more research to go through and Shaw was interrupting.
"They don't consider that sensitive information. These were elite soldiers before they volunteered. Inevitably, they'd see Corinne as the weakest one in the pecking order."
"Do they have hearts, or are they just machines, now?" I snapped. Yeah, Corinne has been a sore spot for me for more than six years. I'm teased regularly by the other handlers. It pisses me off. They have Dobermans, while I have a toy poodle.
"This isn't a competition, August. I try to tell the others that—that Corinne didn't choose to compete, as they did. It never sinks in."
"You got that right," I muttered.
"Colonel?" James was back.
"Hold on a minute," I said, putting a hand over the receiver. "What is it, James?" He'd never interrupt unless it was important.
"Word just came in. NCIS found evidence that Hugh Lawrence murdered General Edwards. They found the gun in his belongings. He obviously didn't have time to get rid of it."
"What the fuck?" I exploded. It wasn't any secret that Lawrence and Edwards didn't like each other, but what the hell was Lawrence thinking? I went cold for a moment. "Let me call you back," I said to Shaw before dropping the receiver in its cradle and staring at my assistant. "This is what Corinne saw. What she meant in the transfer Maye picked up. Maye says she heard Corinne thinking murdering, filthy bastard. Get me everything you can on Hugh's death," I demanded. "Start a file."
"Right away, sir." James left my office in a rush to collect the required information.
* * *
There's a small restaurant on the Mansion's first floor. It's open until eight every day and serves breakfast, lunch and dinner to those who get tired of cafeteria food. That's where I'd asked Jeff to meet with me. The cafeteria is on the third floor, and their fries are always soggy.
"Rumor has it that Lawrence wanted Edwards out of the way so he could control the Program." Jeff Chambers, Maye Canton's handler, stuffed a French fry in his mouth.
"When did that rumor start?" I asked. James hears everything, then reports it to me. He hadn't reported this.
"It started when they found the gun that killed Edwards in Lawrence's sock drawer. Standard investigation—the President wasn't satisfied with the preliminary cause of death. Lawrence was a health nut."
"I know that," I said. I'd ordered coffee while Jeff got a burger and fries. The burger disappeared in roughly four bites. The fries looked to last only slightly longer.
I couldn't begin to say how thankful I was that Edwards had been a hands-off Director. Well, lazy might be a better term, but I didn't want to emphasize that. I preferred to make my own decisions, and Edwards didn't care as long as no laws were broken.
"How's your poodle?" Jeff grinned. Maye was considered a pit-bull. I had the pampered show dog, in his opinion.
"Corinne is fine. Just went through the move."
"Has it been that long? Damn," Jeff chewed another French fry. "Any ideas on Edwards' replacement?"
"None. The President will weigh in, and it'll likely be her replacement for Secretary of Defense."
"You think so?"
"Yeah. I think so."
"We could get a pool started. My money's on Cutter."
"Cutter's an asshole," I said. "Wouldn't want to see that happen. Can you imagine what he'll say when he's briefed on the Program?"
"The work of the devil?" Jeff grinned.
"That's mild to what I was thinking," I said.
* * *
Corinne
While they scrutinize everything else I buy, examining it for equipment, plans or information on an attempt to overthrow the government, they barely glance at my purchases for office supplies.
I wandered down the aisles in the local office-supply warehouse, dumping pens, binder clips, folders, staples and anything else I wanted into a basket.
Some women buy shoes.
I buy office supplies.
Just in case a pair of boots might be considered contraband or a cover-up.
The taxpayers foot the bills for the Five. I pay my own way whenever possible. I wanted to hire an assistant. August put the kibosh on that.
I had an editor and two attorneys already, with all business handled by e-mail or phone. That was hard enough to push through, and they don't do my filing. I do that, along with the housework, cooking and laundry. Sometimes, I dream about a big house or condo on the beach. I don't live in one because they don't want me to get that far away from them, and not because I can't afford it.
When I'd lived next to Max and Eric, I had somebody to talk to about books. Eric was a huge fan. Max didn't like to read that much but he always read mine after Eric was finished with them.
Eric frequently asked questions and requested spoilers. I seldom gave anything that might ruin an upcoming novel if the information got out. Poor Eric—I'd never see him again, and that was sad.
* * *
Notes—Colonel Hunter
"This was the worst possible time for Edwards to be killed," Brigadier General Safer said. "We have a situation."
The meeting was called in minutes, and came as a surprise to the Five and their handlers. Safer was Edwards' Second-in-Command and knew all about the Program. He didn't want the top spot, however; he was ready to retire in six months.
We knew what situation meant—it meant somebody important was dying, and the drug was being considered.
"Who?" Jeff asked.
"Recognize the name Ilya Kuznetsov?"
"The Blacksmith?" I almost couldn't breathe. That's what Kuznetsov meant, and it was easier to use Blacksmith as his code name. "He has to be nearly eighty," I sputtered. In his day, he'd been the best spy Russia had. Nobody had heard of him for twenty years. Most of us suspected he was already dead.
"Eighty-one," Safer acknowledged. "He came to us a week ago, dying of cancer. Offered us sensitive information in exchange for medical treatment. He's been in a Russian prison for the past six years. Had to call in a favor from an old friend to get out—they wanted him dead."
"Why?" Becker asked. Becker was talented, just not the sharpest tool in the shed. After all, he'd chosen his new first name from a tennis player's last. All Five had aliases. Corinne, too, but I'd never been given her old name. That was a buried secret.
"Because he knows too much," Maye snapped at Becker.
"So they're considering him," Jef
f shook his head. "How's that supposed to work?"
"If he survives, he'll be watched. If he doesn't cooperate, he's gone."
"Sounds dangerous," Kevin observed.
"Think you can't take down an old Russian?" Ken teased.
Those two—Kevin and Ken, used to be identical twins. They look nothing alike, now. It was a test—to see if twins could survive. Kevin was given the drug, first. When he survived it, Ken was brought in.
Three other sets of twins didn't make it—all in the name of science.
"Stop worrying about the Russian. I hear he's angry enough with his country to do whatever it takes to make them pay. Regardless, we'll watch him carefully. This, of course, is assuming he makes it in the first place. You know the odds. We want information. Never forget that," Safer said.
"When?" I asked. The drug took two weeks to work—if it were going to work. If the Blacksmith survived, we'd get a new resident—and a new handler—in a few weeks. I had things to do in between. One of those things involved a trip to the Oval Office.
"Tonight," Safer replied. "His health is failing, even with the best treatment."
"Have they chosen a handler?" Jeff asked. His was a good question, and one that would prove important to all of us.
"Three are under consideration. I'll let you know how things proceed. Dismissed," Safer gruffed.
* * *
"Did you see how quick he left? He didn't want any of us to know who's under consideration," Jeff growled. This time, we'd met in the cafeteria with the other three handlers.
"I think we're jumping the gun," Vance pointed out. "He'll die. Face it—six out of one-hundred-and-one? Not good odds. Stop worrying. Our little kingdom is safe."
"If he makes it, he'd better not step out of line," Gene muttered. Gene was Becker's handler, and as close to being a thug as any of us might get. I figured Becker was one of Dr. Shaw's schoolyard bullies, and Gene did nothing to discourage him.
"All conjecture at this point," Preston leaned back in his chair with a sigh. "If the drug is given tonight, we'll know in two days whether we have something to worry about."
Preston, Nick's handler, was something of a fatalist. Probably for the best, since Nick was called the Hound for a reason. He was right, though. If the body started showing signs of change, we'd have to open a new suite of rooms.
* * *
Corinne
Yes, they read everything, including the Sarah Fox books as I write them. Nothing I do is private. It's the price I pay for living outside the Mansion. Sometimes I get messages from James, August's assistant. He's a big fan and usually acts as a beta reader of sorts. It makes me laugh at the irony of it all.
Hey, Cori, his message began. I'm a little upset with you. Why did you kill off Hector? I know he was a bad guy, but he had a great sense of humor.
Bigger, funnier bad guy coming, I typed. Nastier, too. Hector was a minor baddie—admit it, lol.
You mean Hector's boss is gonna go, too?
No. Hector's boss is getting a boss. Does that make sense?
I guess. When are you writing that?
Near the end. A lot of things have to happen between now and then, I replied. Keep your shirt on; I still don't have all my stuff unpacked.
Shirt still on but getting itchy, James informed me.
Right. TMI. Don't they make a cream for that?
There's only one thing that'll cure this itch, and it's the rest of this book, he said.
Uh-huh. Maybe I'll take a year off from writing.
Nooooo! At least give me a name.
Okay. West (short for Weston) Alvarez.
That's gonna keep me up tonight. Is he related to?
Yep. Back to work. It's not five, yet.
Are you still writing?
If I can stop answering nosy messages, lmao.
All right, already. Bye, Cori.
Bye, James.
I didn't fool myself—James might be considered a friend, but I had no doubt where his loyalties lay. If asked, he'd shoot me without a second thought and cry over my novels later.
* * *
Notes, Colonel Hunter
"The President will see you, now, Colonel."
It had taken exactly four hours to get an appointment with the President when I called a second time. She was taking an interest in every part of the Program, looked like. Since General Edwards' death, it had likely been on her mind often. Hugh Lawrence likely wanted Edwards' job, so the Program was responsible for jealousy and murder.
"Madam President," I nodded respectfully to her. She extended her hand and we shook. "Colonel, have a seat," she gestured toward a guest chair in the Oval Office. I waited for her to sit behind the desk, first.
"I understand you have some concerns?" she asked immediately. I noticed she was toying with a gold pen on her desk instead of looking at me. Not a good sign.
"Not concerns exactly," I said. "Just curiosity, mostly, and I wanted to bring my findings to you, first." I wasn't about to point out that I didn't trust the Joint Chiefs at all, and they wouldn't listen, anyway.
"What do you have?" She looked at me then, her curiosity getting the better of her.
"I have this file," I laid it on her desk.
"That's a file on Hugh Lawrence." She'd lowered her eyes just long enough to catch the name on the folder before coming back to me.
"That's true, ma'am. His death coincides with this." I pulled the flash drive from my pocket and laid it on the President's desk.
* * *
"I don't want to alarm her or raise suspicion," the President said as she walked me toward the door. "Just tell her that I want all of them together, in case there's an emergency. It's my decision, after all, and nobody else's. Make sure she knows nothing of this," she handed the file back to me. "If this theory has any merit, I want to know about it."
"Yes, Madam President. How quickly do you want her at the Mansion?"
"Tonight."
"I'll make arrangements immediately."
* * *
Corinne
"Is this because I wrote lmao in a message?" I asked when August Hunter and the movers stalked into my new house. "What will the neighbors think?"
"Corinne, the President asked me to bring you in. She's still spooked about Edwards' death, and she guards this secret better than they guard Fort Knox."
"Great," I hunched my shoulders.
"Don't worry—just pack your laptop. These guys will take care of everything else."
"That's what worries me," I pointed out. "I just had my desktop hooked up," I added petulantly.
"Cori, we already have everything on it. Your book is safe."
"That's what worries me," I repeated. "What about the Five? Won't they take umbrage?"
"I only use my umbrage when it rains."
"Very funny. It's too late for that, Colonel. I don't know where you got that joke, but you really ought to give it back."
"Corinne, see reason," he turned dark eyes on me. "The President ordered this, and I can't refuse that order. I'll do my best to see that the Five leave you alone. I have a suite waiting on the third floor—they're on the fourth. You have a kitchen—they don't. I'll have somebody run errands for you, and I'll even request an assistant. I can't guarantee that the expense will be approved, but I promise I'll ask."
"But I'll still be just as trapped."
"I'll ask James to make himself available if you really need to go out. You'll have another guard with you, but that ought to be enough. Don't have a panic attack," he held up a hand. Yes, my breathing had gone rough and labored.
"Too late," I wheezed.
* * *
Notes—Colonel Hunter
"What did you think would happen?" Dr. Shaw snapped. I'd called him first thing after the medics arrived. Corinne ended up riding to the Mansion in the back of a military ambulance.
"She was held hostage by terrorists. Couldn't escape. Remember, I suggested that she be allowed outside the walls in the first place,"
Shaw continued. "This isn't good for her; you know that. At least keep the bullies away from her."
"I'll do what I can." If Shaw meant to hand me a verbal beating, he was doing a good job of it. The bullies, as he put it, could find a way to get to her, no matter how closely she was watched.
"How goes it with the new one?" Shaw had heard about the Blacksmith.
"No change, yet," I reported. "But it's only been twenty-four hours. After forty-eight, we'll have a better idea."
"Not sure how I feel about it," he said.
"I know."
* * *
Corinne
Everybody at the Mansion knew of my arrival.
They also knew of my method of arrival.
It was the wimpiest way anybody could get there—by ambulance.
I imagined the Five staring through fourth-floor windows as I was unloaded on a stretcher, protesting the whole time that I could walk.
I would have—if they'd let me.
They didn't. I was wheeled straight to the elevator on the first floor, and then driven into my suite on the third floor. The only thing I was thankful for was that the cafeteria lay on the opposite end of the Mansion, next to the gym and workout facility.
Two suites near mine were unoccupied, and I was grateful. I needed quiet to write, not the sounds of constant foot traffic outside my door. As it was, I figured I'd have enough people knocking on my door for official reasons, and that made me nervous.
The first knock came ten minutes after I was deposited in my new suite—one of the nurses from the Mansion's med-unit stood outside my door, a syringe in her hand and orders to give me a sedative.
"I don't want that," I said, backing away as she strode purposely into my room.
"I have orders from Dr. Shaw to give it to you."
"Then I owe Dr. Shaw a kick in the ass."
"You can give me a hip voluntarily, or I can call someone to hold you down."
"You enjoy this, don't you?" I wanted to take another step back but didn't. A second panic attack threatened, and that would be disastrous.
"It's my job. Turn around." She waved a packet containing an alcohol wipe in her free hand—the one not holding the syringe—indicating that I ought to turn and drop trou. I turned and dropped trou.
"Now, the bedroom's this way," she took my elbow after jabbing me with the needle. "You'll have your furniture and personal things tomorrow. Tonight, you get military bedding."
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