Page 42 of Red Fury
“How long will we be gone?” I ask.
“Couple of hours, at most. The rest of the detail can handle things here. Peterson’s good at his job, and we’ve got plenty of coverage. Williams is here as an extra set of eyes and ears. We’re good.” Webb’s tone suggests the decision has already been made. “Besides, this Kozlov meeting could be exactly the kind of thing you need to see. Learn how these high-level negotiations work. There could be room for you to grow with us at Sentinel. I was impressed with your resume and have been equally impressed with your work so far. There could be further opportunities with us in the very near future.”
Opportunities? I want to ask him to expand but I instinctively know that he isn’t going to give me anything. Not yet, anyway.
“Great, sir. Whatever you need.”
“Good man.” Webb slaps me on the shoulder. “Let me just check in with Thompson, make sure the shift coverage is sorted, then we’ll head out.”
As Webb walks away to coordinate with the team, I steal one more look at the conference room doors. Whatever Shadow learns in there could be crucial for both our people. I just have to hope that when push comes to shove, she’ll remember that we’re supposed to be working together.
Even if I’m starting to doubt whether I’d do the same in her position.
The thought sits heavy in my chest as I follow Webb toward the hotel exit, my dragon restless and unhappy about leaving Shadow behind. But orders are orders, and I’ve got my own intelligence to gather.
I just pray to all the scales and claws that whatever arms this Roman Kozlov is selling to the government aren’t intended for use against us dragons.
The thought makes my blood run cold as we step back out into the sweltering Chicago heat.
Shadow
Dr. Henley adjusts her glasses and clicks to the final slide of her presentation. “In conclusion, traditional biological threats such as anthrax, smallpox, and weaponized influenza strains remain our primary concern from a preparedness standpoint. Our stockpiles of vaccines and antidotes are adequate, though I recommend increasing production capacity by fifteen percent over the next fiscal year.”
I try to keep my expression neutral as disappointment crashes over me. Three hours. Three fucking hours of listening to discussions about threats I could have read about in any medical journal. This isn’t the intelligence breakthrough I was hoping for. This is a bunch of bullshit as far as our species is concerned. I only pray that we are on the agenda somewhere. The topics up for discussion are so vague that I couldn’t say either way.
Around the polished conference table, the other delegates nod with varying degrees of interest. General Delport, a sharp-eyed female in her forties with more stars on her uniform than I can count, takes careful notes.
Defense Secretary Michael Torres – a stocky man who’s been checking his phone every ten minutes – finally looks up from his device.
“Dr. Henley,” Defense Secretary Torres says, “what’s your assessment of containment protocols should we face a biological attack on American soil? Specifically, how quickly can we isolate affected populations?”
“Depending on the pathogen and initial exposure radius, we’re looking at a twelve-to-seventy-two-hour window for effective quarantine measures,” Henley replies. “The CDC has protocols in place, but implementation speed varies dramatically based on local infrastructure and cooperation.”
“Thank you.” Torres makes a note on his iPad. “That’s all from me.”
Presidential Chief of Staff David Kellerman, a thin man in an expensive suit who’s been silent for most of the meeting, leans forward. “And what about international cooperation? If a biological threat crosses borders?”
I force myself to take detailed notes, though my dragon is restless. This is all standard information. Nothing here suggests any specific plans regarding dragons or enhanced security protocols targeting our islands.
“Thank you, Dr. Henley,” Harrison says from his position at the head of the table. “Your insights have been invaluable. Can we save any further questions for the Q&A at the end of the day?”
Dr. Henley begins gathering her materials, and General Delport rises from her chair. Her steel-gray eyes sweep the room, landing on each person present.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” she announces, her voice cutting through the low murmur of conversation, “what we’re about to discuss falls under the highest classification levels. This is need-to-know intelligence pertaining to national security threats that require immediate and decisive action.”
My pulse quickens. This is it. This is what I’ve been waiting for.
“Dr. Henley, thank you for your presentation. You’re dismissed.” Delport’s tone is polite but firm. “Mr. Davidson, Ms. West from the CDC, Agent Rodriguez from the FBI – your services are no longer required for this portion of the meeting.”
The dismissed individuals begin filing out, but Delport isn’t finished.
“All security personnel and support staff will also need to step outside. This discussion is classified at the highest levels.”
My heart stops. She’s looking directly at me.
No. No, no, no.
Crap!
