“You can’t speak to me like that! I’m the—”
“I know exactly who you are. Now let me tell you who I am. I am the man who will regain control of this region instead of cowering in the capital, reacting to crisis after crisis. I am the one who’s going to rule this state, not you. You pathetic miserable worm.”
“How dare you—”
“I will not resign tomorrow or any day. In fact, very soon I’ll be sitting in your chair. I’ll have your job. And I’ll be doing a hell of a lot better at it.”
“You can’t,” the governor sputtered. “You have no authority—”
“But I will. It’s unfortunate that you chose not to trust me. I planned to oust Eubanks first, not you. But you’ve forced my hand. It’s a pity. Things would be easier with you functioning as governor, but we make our own choices. And must live with them.” He paused. “Or not.”
He imagined Governor Duffield standing in the center of his plush office, holding the empty decanter in one hand, staring in growing suspicion and horror at the two melting ice cubes at the bottom of the glass.
Osborne would be in his customary position by the door, not sitting but standing, hands clasped in front of him, his face expressionless as he examined the governor for the first signs.
“How are you feeling, Henry?” the General asked.
A long beat of silence.
“What did you do to me?”
“How’s your throat? Do you feel a bit of a burn? You’re probably feeling nauseous right about now. Some bad stomach cramps. Am I correct?”
A soft clink registered through the phone. Probably the glass slipping from the governor’s fingers and thudding against carpet.
“What did you do to me!”
“Only what I had to do,” the General said smoothly, trying and failing to hide the smile in his voice. “You’re the one who drove me to it. In a way, you’ve brought this upon yourself. If only you’d trusted me. None of this would be happening.”
“I feel…sick.”
“What you are experiencing is acute arsenic poisoning. It is colorless, odorless, and tasteless, which means you would not have noticed it in your drink. I hope you enjoyed every drop of that cognac. While that particular bottle cost me dearly, I consider the after-effects absolutely priceless.”
“You—you—” Henry Duffield croaked.
Another dull thud sounded. Duffield falling to his knees, leaning forward, hunching as wrenching pain seized his stomach.
“You’re experiencing severe gastrointestinal distress, as if someone has sawed through your guts with a dull knife and is now pulling out your entrails, hand over hand. Next comes acute respiratory distress syndrome as your circulatory system collapses, followed by cardiac arrhythmia and an agonizing death within a few hours.”
The governor’s desperate gasps filled his ear.
The General found the harsh rasping sounds incredibly satisfying. He gazed at the smooth peaceful water and wished he could have been present in person.
“You are probably thinking—but can no longer say—that I won’t get away with this. The thing is, I will. Few autopsies are taking place right now. The Collapse has strained local, state, and federal resources beyond the breaking point. You understand. There are some benefits to a nationwide—nay, worldwide—crisis.
“It will appear that you had a heart attack. For those who are aware of your unhealthy addictions, this will not come as a surprise. In fact, a stash of these pills will be discovered in your desk drawer.”
Rattling, choking gasps escaped the sat phone speaker. The governor moaned.
The General smiled.
By the time the Secretary of State was sworn in as the new governor of Michigan, he would have made his move.
The General had back-channel contacts. Friends in high places. The FBI. The CIA. The executive branch. He would get back into their good graces.
In the end, this little blip would be intentionally forgotten, smoothed over, erased from the official narrative. Like governments had chosen to ignore similar atrocities throughout time.
As the Michigan governor’s breath rattled from his lungs, the General hung up the sat phone and returned his attention to the task at hand.
Duffield was out of the way. Fall Creek was within his grasp.
The loss of the Black Hawk was painful and infuriating, but it had done its work. At this point, the townspeople would be turning on each other, consumed by terror and infighting, on the verge of panicked surrender.
His soldiers were hungry. Supplies were low. It didn’t matter. They would fight when the General told them to fight. Even with the ordnance and transportation Liam Coleman had destroyed, they had enough.
Five hundred soldiers. Enough bullets for every citizen in Fall Creek.
Except for his granddaughter. He had big plans for her, just as he’d had big plans for Rosamond. He’d molded her in his own image, but she’d hated him.
He’d never understood why. They were the same. The same ambition, the same thirst for domination. The same bloodline. Iron strength flowing in their veins. Power. Superiority.
Whatever had failed in Rosamond wouldn’t fail again. He would make sure of it.
This child would be different. She would take his name. She would be his own. The woman who gave birth to her would mean nothing.
The girl would be a Sinclair, through and through.
It would take time, but she would outlive him, she would carry on his legacy and see that his name—their name—lived on. No one would remember a dead governor. They would remember the Sinclairs.
This was how dynasties began.
46
Quinn
Day One Hundred and Fourteen
The attack was over.
It didn’t feel like it. Nothing would be the same again.
The townspeople remained in the bomb shelter overnight. Shell-shocked and numb.
Though Liam and Bishop had eliminated the Black Hawk, they were too frightened to leave, even after the security teams assured them no secondary attack was imminent.