HEART OF GOLD | CORIOLANUS SNOW

𝘾𝙃𝘼𝙋𝙏𝙀𝙍 71

Midnight.

It was all Coriolanus could think about: That it was going to be midnight. That it was midnight. That it was past midnight.

The overlarge angular digits, gleaming red on the War Room's clock, were taunting him, changing ever so regularly and regardlessly. Relentlessly. Defiantly. As if mocking his inability to control time.

Finally, after four agonizing hours, the situation had been sufficiently contained that he and his splitting head could leave. They would have had him stay the night, but Coriolanus insisted on reporting back to the Capitol post-haste to debrief the president. It was part of his job as acting Commander-in-Chief.

He should have been elated. The field marshal was dead. The general had succumbed to his injuries on the helicopter on the way to the hospital. The attack had cleared Coriolanus's path in one fell swoop while keeping his hands perfectly clean. But his fury, a rage that pulsed through his veins stronger with every beat of his heart, had overshadowed everything.

Surveillance had not picked up the plane because it had been one of their own. As if that wasn't insulting enough, it had been one of those supposedly guarding the skies tonight. It had not been hijacked. It had not malfunctioned. It had deliberately targeted the gymnasium.

Air traffic control had not detected anything suspicious until it veered too close to the complex. By then, it was unresponsive. Alarms were sounded, literally and figuratively, but it was too little too late. Although patrol munitions would be insignificant in a battlefield by volume, it was still enough explosives to decimate the entire overground compound, let alone a part of it.

A considerable amount had been unleashed before an anti-aircraft missile destroyed its right wing and engine. Based on its trajectory, the plane ought to have crashed on the tarmac, but somehow, the flaming vessel swerved toward the burning building, diving nose first into the wreckage—a last hurrah to ensure its obliteration was worthwhile. Its radio had been revived briefly before going truly and forever silent. In attempt to decipher something beyond the surface, they had played it back over and over, the manic words repeated as though by a jabberjay at the Hanging Tree.

"See you in hell, Plato."

Plato Lyme, the mayor of District 2. The dead mayor of District 2.

Enemies were never in short supply for those in power, but everyone seemed convinced the incursion had been orchestrated by the local mafia, whom the deceased had been trying to undermine since assuming office last July. Coriolanus found it all a bit flashy for a crime syndicate whose ultimate goals could only be achieved if they remained out of the limelight. It seemed too straightforward an answer, too obvious—like a trap. Anyone could have been using the mob as a smokescreen to cover their tracks. Even that final message, delivered with such intention moreover, could have been planted to mislead them. Coriolanus was certain his misgivings weren't unwarranted, but in a world of finite resources, he had to allocate his wisely.

What he could realistically act upon was the voice. The distinctly female voice that was still bugging him, not just because it rekindled his hatred for birds, but because it was so blatantly wrong. Both crew on that plane had been male officers—and not just any male officer. The rogue pilot had been the captain of the squad. It explained the delayed response; none of the other gunners had been inclined to shoot their leader. Their leader who had vigilantly communicated with them throughout the night. Their leader who had brought an unauthorized person onboard unnoticed because he was the one charged with inspecting all the crafts. Their leader who had been identified as the culprit for drugging his bona fide partner and locking him in his bunk.

They still had no clue who the woman was. Interrogations of the sentry team had not yielded much information about the pilot that wasn't available from his file: twenty-eight years of age; a native; unattached; no living relatives; top of his class; flawless record. Polygraph tests had verified multiple statements attesting to the absence of any social life he might have had outside the base, despite all the evidence to the contrary.