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.
Finally, the people had stumbled from the underground darkness into daylight to take stock of the devastation and number their losses, of which there were many.
The attack had destroyed several buildings. Only a wall or a caved-in roof remained in the rubble. Tresses Hair Salon. The bank. Patsy’s Pizza.
The elementary school was so riddled with holes, it looked like a Swiss cheese sculpture.
Roads bitten to hell. Chunks of concrete and drywall everywhere.
Winter Haven’s precious electricity gone—maybe for good.
Eleven townspeople dead. Four gravely injured.
Quinn knew their names, but the impact of their loss barely registered.
The only person who mattered was Gran.
Quinn rode her bike home with rubbery legs that didn’t belong to her, every movement rote and mechanical.
Her clothes were filthy. Stiff with dried blood. Her skin caked in dust, dirt, and soot. Red flakes beneath her fingernails.
Her numb hands unlocked the front door, fingers fumbling with the key a half-dozen times.
Hannah hadn’t wanted her to go home alone. But she got busy helping everybody else. Slipping away was easy. As easy as it had been when she’d snuck to the warehouse.
Quinn felt no sense of satisfaction. She felt nothing but the Gran-sized hole in her chest.
Inside the house, dust motes spiraled through the shafts of sunlight bathing the wood floors and worn furniture in warm bright light.
The house was chilly; the flames in the woodstove reduced to ashes.
Five cats rushed her with aggrieved yowls, winding around her ankles, gazing up at her with doleful feline expressions. Even Hel, Ruler of the Underworld, who seldom left her perch atop the fridge.
The stench of cat piss assaulted her nostrils. The cats had been inside since yesterday morning. No food, no kitty litter. They’d held it as long as they could, then used the back doormat in the kitchen.
Quinn set her rifle on the kitchen table and refilled their water bowls from a jug sitting on the counter. Hel and Valkyrie squeezed in first, with Loki not far behind.
She threw the soiled mat outside and left the door cracked open so the cats could do their business and find breakfast.