Not only that—he’d consolidate more power and influence than any politician in the Midwest.
Lauren Eubanks, the Secretary of State, had remained behind to whisper in Governor Duffield’s ear and undermine the General at every turn. She disliked him, distrusted his sage advice, and resented his rapid rise to power as the Governor’s trusted military advisor.
A plain woman with a stern, suspicious demeanor, Lauren Eubanks was intelligent and competent. Unusual for a politician, or a woman.
The General hated her.
She was also the next in line of succession if something unfortunate were to happen to the current governor of Michigan, Henry Duffield. A fact never far from the General’s mind—or plans.
He’d left his assistant, Osborne—a sniveling, obsequious little man—behind for a singular purpose.
He’d make his move soon, when the time was right.
Politics was a game of chess: sacrificing pawns, obfuscating with the bishop while invading with the rook for checkmate.
He was the General. The epitome of the behind-the-scenes shadow, the string-puller, the puppet master.
One of his contractors jogged up to him. It was Tyrone Gibbs, one of his best men, the one he’d sent to retrieve Sutter.
In his mid-thirties, he was trim but muscled, not an ounce of fat on him. Loyal, capable, and a talented sharpshooter. Blotches of blood spattered his wrinkled uniform; his brown skin was sheened with sweat beneath a layer of soot and dirt.
Gibbs saluted. “Sir.”
“Status report,” the General barked.
“The nihilist group were untrained, though well-armed. We had them in hand. And then—”
“What the hell happened?”
The tendons on Gibbs’ thick neck stood out like cables. He looked like he wanted to strangle someone. “We had to abort.”
The General’s lip curled in disdain. “You failed?”
Gibbs didn’t answer, but the impotent anger flashing in his dark eyes told the story.
Rage flared through the General, sharp and hot. “Where are the others?”
“Sir, I’m the only one.”
“The only what?”
The man scowled like it hurt him to say it. “The only survivor.”
The General scoffed. “That’s impossible.”
“Sir, a secondary force interfered. A spec ops soldier, it had to be. Had to be someone with considerable combat experience. He was good. Really good. We were focused on servicing our targets, and this guy took advantage of our tunnel vision. He took us by surprise. And he had help. They ambushed us outside Vortex Headquarters. I lost five men in sixty seconds.”
The General glowered at him. “Unacceptable.”
This spec ops soldier couldn’t be the same one Sutter had warned him of: the man who’d murdered the General’s daughter.
But perhaps it was.
It made a terrible sense. How many super soldier vigilantes could be running around Southwest Michigan?
He glared over Gibbs’ shoulder. “Where the hell is Sutter?”
“Dead, sir.”
The General blinked, taken aback. That wasn’t the response he wanted to hear. He needed Sutter for intel on these Fall Creek hooligans. It was the only reason he hadn’t ordered his men to eliminate Sutter, too.
“I found him laid out beside a dumpster. Stripped of his weapons and stabbed repeatedly with a small knife.”
“The work of this spec ops soldier?”
“I doubt it, sir. It didn’t have the mark of a professional.”
The General shook his head, seething. “Damn it!”
His nephew should’ve been better, done better. He’d carried his mother’s name—a weakened bloodline. The General’s brother never had good taste in women; the caliber of his son reflected that deficiency.
With considerable effort, the General regained control of himself. It served no purpose to allow his men to see his frustration.
They needed a strong, competent leader. Emotion was a tell. A weakness. It drained your power and gave your enemies intel and influence.
He smoothed his expression and dipped his chin at Gibbs. “What took you so long to return? You look like you got run over by a Mack truck.”
“The transport ran out of gas forty miles out. Couldn’t find more to scavenge, as the locals had already emptied the vehicles. It took me awhile, but I obtained a bike and rode the rest of the way, sir.”
“Get some rest. We depart in eight hours.” He shaped his features into a sympathetic expression and placed a hand on Gibbs’ shoulder. “That soldier that murdered our people? He’s from Fall Creek. We’ll make damn sure they pay for it.”
Gibbs saluted. “Yes, sir!”
As the man left to grab some grub, the General returned to the folding table and studied the map, tracing potential routes. He was about eighty miles from Fall Creek. Less than a day’s drive by vehicle, even with the wrecked roads.
He tapped his finger at a location in St. Joseph, on Lake Michigan. A hotel located a few blocks from the beach, in the heart of downtown.
He’d always loved the ocean. The Great Lakes were an acceptable second.
The General gestured at one of his bodyguards, a man named Tyler Redding. A big burly guy with acne scars, a misshapen nose, and a chip on his shoulder jogged over. “Sir.”
“Command and control will be here, at the Boulevard Inn. We’re not going in blind. Clear it and the surrounding two blocks, then send scouts to report back to me. We leave at 0700 hours.”
“Sir.” The soldier saluted before marching off.
This time tomorrow, they’d be unloading at the hotel.
Departure couldn’t come fast enough.
Though he wouldn’t roll into town without anticipating resistance. Whoever these people were, they’d defeated Sutter’s militia and his own daughter.
That was surprising—and disconcerting.
But they were no army. If he were fighting in an actual war, the General would’ve had his troops take twenty buildings in town to disperse into smaller elements to guard against air raid attacks.
But he wasn’t, so he didn’t bother.