Chapter 12: The Rubicon Crossed
A cold drizzle fell as Karen Li stepped off the city bus, pulling her scarf a little higher to cover the lower half of her face. It had been two weeks since the night of the sweeps, and Karen had become used to moving like a ghost through her own city. Tonight she wore no trace of her former self: hair tucked under a plain knit cap, eyes hidden behind large glasses, clothes baggy and nondescript. Just another middle-aged woman that no one would look at twice.
She walked with measured purpose through a once-busy downtown plaza. At this hour it was almost deserted. Many Columbians no longer ventured out after dark unless they had to. Those who did moved briskly, heads down, as if afraid any gathering might be deemed an unlawful assembly. Karen noted two National Guard soldiers stationed at the subway entrance, rifles slung casually as they chatted under the awning to avoid the rain. A year ago, such a sight would have been startling. Now it was part of the backdrop of daily life.
Karen's destination was a modest brownstone church at the end of the block. The windows glowed with warm light, and she could see a silhouette moving inside. She entered through a side door as arranged. The smell of candle wax and old wood greeted her.
"Good evening, Ms. Li," whispered Reverend Walker, a kindly man in his seventies who emerged from the sacristy. He was one of the few who knew her true identity here. The church had become a quiet node in the underground network helping dissidents.
Karen smiled and shook the rain from her cap. "Evening, Reverend."
He ushered her downstairs to a small fellowship hall. In one corner, a shortwave radio set and antenna were rigged atop a table—one of Karen's lifelines to uncensored information. In another corner, a pot of stew simmered on a portable burner, the simple scent of carrots and potatoes reminding her how hungry she was.
As she ladled a bowl for herself, the reverend adjusted the radio. Static crackled, then a faint voice came through, mid-broadcast. "...the President addressed the nation today, declaring a new holiday—'Victory over Chaos Day'—to commemorate the success of security forces in quelling what he termed 'an attempted insurgency.'"
Karen carried her soup over to the radio, listening intently. The broadcast was coming from abroad—she recognized the British accent of the commentator on Radio Commonwealth, a foreign station that dared to air truths Columbian media would not.
The commentator continued, "President Trumbull insisted that 'the rule of law has been restored' after the removal of what he called dangerous subversives. He praised the public's cooperation and suggested that extraordinary measures, including postponing elections if necessary, would remain on the table to maintain order."
Karen exchanged a glance with Reverend Walker. His lips tightened, but he said nothing as he sorted some donated clothes. The broadcast moved on to analysis and interviews. A new voice came on—a woman speaking with measured, precise calm. Karen's eyes widened with recognition.
"This is an anonymous report from within Columbia," the woman said. "Since the crackdown, reports of secret detentions and abuses have emerged..."
It had to be Marcia Davenport. Karen felt a swell of hope. She hadn't heard from Marcia since that hurried phone call two weeks ago, but she'd suspected Columbia's most dogged journalist would find a way to get the truth out. And here it was: Marcia's words, carried on a shortwave frequency bouncing from God-knows-where, telling the world about midnight arrests, media blackouts, and families desperate for news of their loved ones.
Karen closed her eyes briefly, letting the truth wash over her like a balm. It was dangerous for Marcia to continue, but also vital. We're still fighting, Karen thought. Even in exile or hiding, they were finding ways.
As Marcia's report wrapped up, the host thanked her and noted that for safety, the journalist's identity remained confidential. Karen silently sent her friend strength.
The broadcast shifted to another topic: "In other news, sources close to the Columbia High Court indicate that Chief Justice Margaret Greene may announce an early retirement, citing health concerns. Insiders believe the recent confrontations with the Trumbull administration have taken a toll on the septuagenarian Justice. Critics fear her departure would give President Trumbull an opportunity to further solidify control by appointing a loyal successor."
Karen frowned and murmured, "No...not Justice Greene." She remembered meeting Justice Greene once at a public lecture. The woman had projected such quiet resolve. But Karen also understood the pressure bearing down on the judge. They're whittling away every check and balance, she thought. If Greene left, the High Court would almost certainly become a rubber stamp.
The reverend gently turned down the radio volume as static overtook the signal. "How much more can she do alone?" he said softly, having overheard. "I wouldn't blame her for stepping aside. She's fought hard."
Karen hugged her arms to herself, feeling a sudden weariness. "I know," she said. "It's just... if even she gives up, who's left in there with any courage?"
Reverend Walker rested a hand on her shoulder. "Courage can be found in unexpected places, Ms. Li. Perhaps even among those who seem to be going along. Time will tell."
Karen mustered a small smile. The reverend had been a quiet pillar of strength, offering refuge and wisdom without judgment. He was right—no one could predict where the next act of bravery might spark. Perhaps Felix Archer would refuse to read a lie on air one day, or a general would stand up to an unlawful order. Perhaps Justice Greene would find reason to stay after all.
For now, though, it truly felt like a new normal had settled over Columbia: a sullen, tense quiet in which open resistance had been smothered.
Karen finished her soup and thanked the reverend. He showed her to a back room furnished with a cot and a few blankets. It wasn't much, but it was safe. Before retiring, Karen double-checked the burner phone that only a few trusted allies had the number for. No new messages. That was likely good—it meant none of her contacts were in immediate peril she hadn't heard about.
She sat on the cot and allowed herself a moment to process the day. In just a short span, her country had transformed. Neighbors eyed each other warily now; every third person seemed to work for some security agency or informant network. Protests had evaporated; people were too frightened of being whisked away. Some actually appeared relieved, accepting the regime's narrative that harsh measures had brought "peace." Peace at gunpoint, Karen thought bitterly.
From her bag, she pulled a small notepad and began to jot down a list—names of colleagues still free, resources they might tap, ideas for quietly spreading information. It was a modest form of resistance, but it gave her purpose.
As she wrote, distant sirens wailed briefly and then fell silent. Karen paused and looked at the shadows dancing on the wall from the candlelight. We're down, but not out, she told herself. I'm still here, Marcia's still fighting, others will be, too. If Justice Greene could hold on, if they all could hold on, maybe the darkness wouldn't be permanent.
Above all, Karen thought of the people depending on her—those too afraid to speak or who'd lost their voice in the chaos. She would be their voice as long as she had breath.
Clutching a pen in one hand and a small wooden cross pendant the reverend had given her in the other, Karen made a quiet vow: The fight isn't over. We haven't surrendered.
A week later, under a crisp blue sky far removed from candlelit safe houses and secret broadcasts, Elaine Buchanan stood just behind President Trumbull on the tarmac of Fort Salazar. The concrete expanse of the military base had been transformed into a stage for the regime's victory tour.
Lined up in neat rows were hundreds of troops—handpicked for loyalty—snapping smart salutes as Trumbull walked past. Behind them stood civilian employees of the newly "restructured" agencies, their faces eager and obedient. From giant speakers, a martial anthem blared triumphantly.
Elaine walked a half-step behind the President, observing the scene with a mix of awe and unease. It was officially "Victory over Chaos Day." In the span of weeks, they had gone from scrambling to consolidate power to enshrining their dominance in a national celebration.
Trumbull paused before a particularly young National Guard private, barely twenty by the looks of him. The private's face shone with adulation and pride. Trumbull returned the salute and clapped the young man on the shoulder, beaming for the cameras. A cheer went up from the assembled crowd of officials and press.
Elaine found her gaze drifting. Columbian flags flapped in the breeze alongside new banners emblazoned with the eagle-and-fist emblem of the "National Stability Initiative." Soldiers, bureaucrats, and ministers—all firmly under Trumbull's control—stood as one, applauding their leader. The visual was striking: a portrait of a regime at its zenith.
As Trumbull stepped up to a microphone to deliver yet another self-congratulatory address, Elaine allowed herself to reflect. She remembered the chaotic morning in January 2021 when they'd escorted a sullen Trumbull out of the White House after his election loss. She recalled how small and furious he had looked then, slumped in the back of the armored car as protesters jeered from beyond barricades.
Now that memory felt like a scene from another lifetime. Elaine glanced at Trumbull's profile as he basked in the adoration of the crowd. He looked larger than life in the bright daylight, chin lifted confidently, arms outstretched in a statesman's pose. The journey from that low point to this moment had been as improbable as it was ruthless.
Her eyes moved to the teleprompter text she'd helped craft, now scrolling up for his speech: phrases about unity, security, renewal—words carefully chosen to paper over the iron fist with patriotic velvet. He began to speak in his booming, reassuring tone, thanking those who had "saved the Republic from chaos" and promising a new era of safety and prosperity.
The crowd dutifully applauded at the right intervals. Elaine joined in, a polite smile on her face, mindful of cameras catching every reaction. Outwardly, everything was as it should be in their new order.
Yet, as she observed Trumbull more closely, Elaine noted something in his eyes—a restlessness. Even as he declared victory, even as thousands across the country celebrated this new holiday in orchestrated rallies, he did not look content. In the subtle tightening of his jaw between smiles, in the quick dart of his eyes over the crowd as if searching for dissent, Elaine saw it: the insatiable need that drove him.
He had nearly absolute power now—Congress cowed, courts subdued, media tamed—and still, Victor Trumbull seemed uneasy. Perhaps it was the flicker of paranoia she'd long recognized in him, the fear that someone, somewhere might yet challenge him. Or perhaps absolute power had only sharpened his appetite for more; what "more" meant, Elaine could hardly imagine.
She kept her expression neutral, but a thought chilled her: if even this triumph did not satisfy him, what next steps might he consider? Already he had mused about cancelling elections, purging the unfaithful. Would he ever feel truly secure?
The speech ended to roaring applause. Trumbull waved, flashing a broad grin. From the outside, he was the picture of a confident strongman at the height of his reign. Elaine dutifully handed him a pen for the ceremonial signing of the "Victory Day" proclamation and joined in the clapping dignitaries.
As fighter jets streaked overhead in a celebratory flyover, Elaine swallowed the hard lump in her throat. Outwardly, Columbia's Rubicon had been crossed—democracy was a remnant, the dictatorship entrenched. There was no going back in the foreseeable future.
But inwardly, in quiet places far from this parade ground, she knew embers of resistance still glowed. Karen Li was out there, carrying on the fight in secret. Marcia Davenport's words were finding their way to the world. Justice Greene's conscience was troubled, perhaps not yet spent. Even Felix Archer, she suspected, was wrestling with demons behind his polished news anchor smile.
Elaine looked again at Trumbull as he soaked in the adulation, and she thought of those faint embers. They were small, yes—nearly extinguished in the winds of tyranny. But if ever they caught flame, it would be because the man before her pushed too far, wanted too much.
For now, Act I of this dark saga drew to a close with a tableau of power firmly seized. Elaine Buchanan joined the crowd's ovation, playing her part. Yet deep inside, she felt only a taut, uneasy tension, as if standing on the edge of something even more perilous to come.
Above, the final fighter jet roared past. Trumbull raised a triumphant fist to the sky. The cameras captured the moment, freezing it in time: the dictator basking in glory, his loyal orchestrator at his side, and a nation's fate hanging in the balance between fear and the faintest hope.
Act II – The Tightening Noose (2027–2028)
Chapter 13: Two Years Later – A New Normal
Daniel Wu walked briskly down Constitution Avenue through the heart of Capitol City, shoulders hunched against a damp spring morning. Above him loomed a giant billboard draped over the facade of a high-rise: President Victor Trumbull's grinning face five stories tall, emblazoned with the slogan "Strong and Safe – Two Years of Victory." Daniel averted his eyes and kept moving. In the two years since Trumbull's return to power, these towering propaganda murals had become part of the skyline. Armed police in black militarized gear now stood on nearly every corner. As Daniel passed one intersection, he heard the whir of a surveillance drone overhead; it hovered like a mechanical wasp, watching the thin crowds below. Morning commuters walked with heads down and hurried steps, instinctively avoiding the gaze of the patrolmen and cameras.
Daniel adjusted the strap of his briefcase over his shoulder. Inside were files for today's trial—a trial he already knew was a foregone conclusion. He had agreed to assist the defense team out of principle, but the outcome would be decided by politics, not justice. Approaching the courthouse, he joined a queue of subdued citizens funneling through a security checkpoint flanked by armed DSB guards. A young officer glared at Daniel's ID a second longer than necessary before waving him through the metal detector. Daniel exhaled slowly. Even entering a courthouse now felt like passing through a military checkpoint in a war zone.
Inside, the atmosphere was heavy with tension. The grand rotunda of the Federal District Court—normally an open public space—was lined with stern-faced officers in tactical vests. Daniel paused a moment to steady himself beneath the marble dome. He remembered practicing law in this very building years ago, when one could still assume a fair hearing. That era felt impossibly distant. Now portraits of Trumbull hung where once the Columbian Constitution had been proudly displayed. He forced himself onward to the courtroom.
The trial was already in progress by the time Daniel slipped into his seat at the defense table. Across the aisle at the prosecutors' table sat two of Attorney General Cassandra Holt's most aggressive deputies, their expressions taut with confidence. Between them, wearing a dignified gray suit and an expression of calm defiance, was the defendant: David Ellsworth, a former senator and one of Trumbull's loudest public critics. Ellsworth had been arrested months prior on charges of treason. The regime accused him of nothing less than plotting to overthrow the government—a "coup plot" built on absurd, fabricated evidence. Yet here he was, hands clasped atop the table, refusing to be cowed.
Daniel gave the older man a respectful nod, and Senator Ellsworth managed a faint, reassuring smile in return. Taking his seat, Daniel became aware of the spectators in the gallery behind them. Most were press or regime officials; ordinary citizens had learned to avoid these show trials. At the back, however, he spotted a familiar face: Justice Andrea Greene, seated inconspicuously among the observers. The Chief Justice's lips were pressed in a thin line, her eyes intent behind her glasses. She had no official role here—this was a lower court proceeding under a Trumbull-appointed judge—but even she seemed determined to witness what passed for justice today.
On the bench, Judge Harold Keswick cleared his throat. "The defense may proceed with cross-examination," he announced. Daniel's colleague, lead defense attorney Marjorie Kim, stood and approached the witness stand. The current witness was a nervous young man—an Ellsworth staffer turned informant—who had testified on direct that the senator held "secret meetings" to discuss removing Trumbull from office. It was clear to everyone the testimony was coerced; the witness's voice trembled, and he avoided looking at Ellsworth.
"Mr. Allen," Marjorie began gently, "you stated that Senator Ellsworth discussed plans for a coup. Did he ever use that word, coup, in your presence?"
The witness swallowed. "He…he said 'we have to take our country back' and that 'all options were on the table.' I—I took that to mean potentially violent options." The rehearsed line came out wooden.
Marjorie pressed, "Did he ever explicitly say he would use violence, or that he wanted to overthrow the government by force?"
Before the witness could answer, the prosecutor leapt up. "Objection, Your Honor! Asked and answered. The witness already testified to his impressions."
Judge Keswick barely waited. "Sustained." Of course, Daniel thought. Every small attempt to erode the prosecution's shaky case met instant obstruction. Marjorie tried another tack. "Mr. Allen, are you aware that Senator Ellsworth has publicly advocated peaceful protest against unlawful policies? Could it be you misunderstood his words that day?"
The prosecutor was on his feet again. "Objection—speculation."
"Sustained," the judge barked, scowling at Marjorie. She opened her mouth to protest, but thought better of it. With a sympathetic nod toward the witness, she said, "No further questions." Daniel could see the frustration in her eyes as she returned to the defense table.
Now it was Daniel's turn. He rose to cross-examine another key witness: a government forensic analyst who claimed to have uncovered "coded messages" in Ellsworth's emails, allegedly detailing the coup plan. It was preposterous—Daniel's team had a credible expert ready to testify the analysis was junk science—but Judge Keswick had ruled their expert inadmissible. Still, Daniel had to try.
He walked to the stand and faced the analyst, a middle-aged man with the smug look of a career bureaucrat who had found favor with the regime. "Mr. Donahue," Daniel began, "you testified that in Senator Ellsworth's emails, phrases like 'the time has come' were code words implying a call to arms. Is that right?"
The analyst nodded. "In context, yes. Our Threat Analysis Unit determined those phrases matched known insurgent rhetoric."
"And this determination," Daniel said, pacing slowly, "was made under the Department of Justice directive supervised by Attorney General Holt, correct?"
Donahue shifted. "All our work is under the DOJ's purview, yes."
Daniel offered a thin smile. "Mr. Donahue, are you aware that Senator Ellsworth is a published author of political essays? That phrase, 'the time has come,' appears in one of his public op-eds from years ago—about campaign finance reform."
The analyst blinked. Daniel pressed on, voice steady but rising. "In fact, isn't it true that your so-called code words are ordinary political language taken out of context?" He picked up a thick binder of Ellsworth's writings that they'd entered into evidence. "Not once in these writings does the senator advocate violence. Did your 'Threat Analysis Unit' consider that before concluding he orchestrated a coup?"
The prosecutor stood again. "Objection! Badgering the witness, and beyond the scope."
Judge Keswick's patience ran out. "Sustained. Mr. Wu, move on or I'll end this cross-examination."
A flare of anger ignited in Daniel's chest at the judge's blatant hostility. But he caught Justice Greene's eyes in the back—warning him to stay composed. He drew a slow breath and flipped to a new page in his notes. Even as he continued with a few more measured questions, Daniel knew it was futile. The judiciary had been cowed into submission; judges like Keswick owed their loyalty to Trumbull, not the law.
At last, the prosecution rested its case, and the judge called a short recess before closing arguments. A low murmur filled the courtroom as people stretched their legs. Daniel felt a heavy weight settle in his stomach. They hadn't even been allowed to call their own witnesses to refute the absurd charges. The outcome—guilty of treason—was virtually assured.
Behind him, he heard one of the reporters speaking into a camera. "...a clear victory for Columbia today as the traitor Ellsworth's web of lies is exposed..." Daniel recognized the sonorous baritone of Felix Archer, the National News Network's star anchor. Felix was providing on-scene coverage for state media. As always, his tone dripped with righteous certainty, perfectly parroting the regime's narrative.
Daniel risked a glance over his shoulder. Felix Archer stood near the aisle with a microphone, his impeccable navy suit and swept silver-flecked hair giving him a gravitas that many Columbians trusted. "…sources say foreign actors might have been involved in this conspiracy," Felix intoned to the camera, "underscoring how dangerous Senator Ellsworth's plot truly was. Columbia is safer today thanks to President Trumbull's vigilance."
Daniel's jaw tightened. Safer, he thought bitterly. If this was safety, it was the safety of a prison yard. He shared a grim look with Marjorie, who simply shook her head. They both knew Felix Archer didn't believe half the propaganda he spouted—Marjorie had gone to journalism school with Felix years ago, before he sold his soul for a primetime slot. But here he was, a polished mouthpiece for tyranny.
The recess was nearly over. As Daniel turned back toward the defense table, he heard Felix wrap up his segment: "—a verdict is expected by this afternoon. Back to you in the studio." There was a brief pause, then Felix's on-air persona slipped. In a much lower voice, laced with disgust, he muttered to the cameraman beside him, "God, this is grotesque."
Daniel froze. The cameraman's eyes widened at Felix's candor, and he hurried to pack up equipment as if he hadn't heard. But Felix's face was momentarily unguarded, etched with genuine revulsion. He caught Daniel looking at him. For a split second, the two men locked eyes across the courtroom. Felix quickly turned away, but that fleeting moment spoke volumes. Even the regime's chief propagandist found this charade appalling.
Before Daniel could fully process it, the judge's gavel cracked sharply. Everyone retook their seats, and the bailiffs closed the doors. Felix was gone—likely off to file another report from outside. Justice Greene slipped back into the last row, face impassive but hands clasped tightly in her lap. The proceeding resumed for closing arguments.
The prosecution thundered about treason and security. The defense's summation, delivered by Marjorie, was a courageous if futile appeal to reason: "Dissent is not a crime," she implored the judge. "Patriotism can take the form of criticism. Senator Ellsworth sought to preserve our democracy, not destroy it." Judge Keswick listened with a scowl.
As expected, his verdict was swift and harsh. That afternoon, under the looming seal of the Republic of Columbia, Keswick pronounced David Ellsworth guilty on all counts of treason and conspiracy. A gasp came from a few onlookers. Ellsworth himself closed his eyes briefly, perhaps in prayer or resignation. Daniel's heart pounded with a mix of anger and despair as the judge moved directly to sentencing: life imprisonment in a federal penitentiary. No consideration, no delay. It was done.
The guards moved in to escort Senator Ellsworth out. Before they could silence him, the white-haired man turned to address the courtroom. In a clarion voice that momentarily overpowered the commotion, he called out: "Columbians, do not forget what we once were—"
"Remove the prisoner!" Judge Keswick shouted over him. Ellsworth tried to continue: "—We will be free aga—" But one guard yanked away the microphone and two others dragged Ellsworth toward the side door. His final words were cut off, yet the echo of them lingered in the air like a challenge. In the back, Justice Greene had risen halfway to her feet, eyes glistening at the sight of a former Senator being hauled away like a common criminal.
Daniel felt a sting of tears in his own eyes that he quickly blinked away. Fear and fury warred within him. All around, the courtroom erupted into motion. The prosecutors shook hands, triumphant. The judge exited swiftly. Reporters barked questions at Daniel and Marjorie about appeals, but uniformed officers kept them at bay. It was chaos.
In the midst of it, Justice Greene turned and slipped out a side exit, disappearing into the courthouse halls. Daniel gathered his files with trembling hands. As he left the courtroom, he realized with a hollow feeling that this proceeding had never really been about proving guilt—only about making an example. A clear message had been sent: even a high-profile intellectual or former lawmaker could be branded traitor and destroyed. No one who spoke against Trumbull was safe.
Out in the corridor, the marble floors rang with hurried footsteps. Two bailiffs marched past Daniel, escorting a sobbing woman—one of Ellsworth's family members—away from reporters. Daniel stood for a moment under the cold fluorescent lights, struggling to catch his breath. He told himself he had to stay calm. To think. There would be work to do—appeals to file, international human rights groups to notify—though he knew those efforts would likely be quashed. Still, he had to try.
Lost in these thoughts, Daniel nearly collided with a tall figure rounding the corner. It was Justice Greene. Up close, Andrea Greene looked every bit the distinguished Chief Justice—iron-gray hair in a neat bun, a string of pearls at her collar—but Daniel saw fatigue etched in the lines of her face. She offered a polite nod of recognition; Daniel had argued in her courtroom before. He hesitated, unsure what to say. I'm sorry seemed inadequate.
Before either could speak, a young man brushed between them, deliberately bumping Justice Greene's arm. "Pardon me," he mumbled, not meeting her eyes as he hurried on. Daniel shot the man a annoyed look. Something fluttered to the floor where Greene stood.
Justice Greene glanced down. A folded slip of paper lay at her feet. The man who'd dropped it had already merged into a passing group and vanished. Frowning, Greene bent and retrieved the note. Daniel caught a glimpse of neat, blocky handwriting. He pretended not to stare, but he was curious—and worried. Anonymous notes in a courthouse could be anything these days, none of it good.
Justice Greene unfolded the paper cautiously. Her eyes moved behind her glasses as she read the single line written there. Daniel saw her expression change—first a flicker of surprise, then a deep, pensive furrow. Whatever the message was, it struck a chord.
Greene's lips parted as if she might say something to Daniel, but then she seemed to think better of it. She refolded the note with a trembling hand and tucked it into her coat pocket. "Take care, Mr. Wu," she said quietly, a formal kindness that did not conceal the tremor in her voice. "There are still appeals to be made." It wasn't clear if she was trying to encourage him or herself.
Before Daniel could reply, Justice Greene strode away down the hall, back straight, heels clicking smartly on the marble. In moments she was gone around another corner. Daniel stood there a moment, feeling more alone than ever. He wondered what had been written on that note—he'd only caught a couple of words upside-down. Rewrite the law… needs you… It didn't make much sense out of context, but Greene's haunted look spoke volumes.
Finally, he turned and headed for the exit. Outside, the afternoon sky was overcast and spitting a cold drizzle. Daniel pulled up his collar. Across the plaza, a large digital billboard flickered with the National News Network's coverage. Felix Archer's face filled the screen now, gravely announcing Senator Ellsworth's conviction as a triumph of justice. Daniel's stomach turned. He knew by evening every channel would be running the same footage of Ellsworth being led away, overlaid with warnings about traitors in our midst.
Two years of this "new normal" had changed Columbia beyond recognition. Dissent was formally criminalized; fear was the law of the land. Many of Daniel's friends and colleagues had been silenced, driven into exile or hiding. The rest learned to keep their heads down, just like the pedestrians hurrying past on the street behind him. Yet as Daniel left the courthouse under the watchful eye of patrolling soldiers, he held onto one stubborn hope: if people like Andrea Greene and even Felix Archer still felt the wrongness of this, perhaps all was not lost. Perhaps, beneath the regime's oppressive calm, embers of resistance still glowed.
High above, the massive billboard of Trumbull beamed down triumphantly, declaring "Two Years of Victory." But Daniel promised himself this dark epoch was not Columbia's new forever. It was only the dangerous silence before a storm.
Chapter 14: Resistance in Exile
A cold rain lashed against the windows of a small meeting hall in Toronto, but inside, Karen Li felt only the heat of determination. She stood at the head of a scarred wooden table, papers and maps spread before her, and surveyed the handful of people gathered in that cramped, dimly lit room. They were all Columbian exiles of one kind or another, brought together by desperation and hope. This was the heart of the resistance-in-exile.
"Thank you for coming," Karen said, her voice low but steady. She did not need to raise it; everyone leaned in to hear every word. In the two years since she'd fled Columbia, Karen's demeanor had transformed from that of a hunted opposition leader to a capable underground organizer. There were streaks of gray now at her temples, though she was only in her late 30s, and faint shadows of exhaustion under her eyes. But those eyes burned bright with purpose.
Around the table, heads nodded. Marcia Davenport's representative, a bespectacled middle-aged man named Peter Vaughn, adjusted a radio transmitter in front of him. Peter had been an editor at Marcia's newspaper until the regime shut it down; now he managed the paper's rebirth online from Canadian soil. Next to him sat Elena Alvarez, a former senior aide to ex-President Adam Monroe. She had narrowly escaped arrest in 2025 and had been working out of Europe to rally diplomatic pressure against Trumbull. At Karen's right was Nadia Kamal, a human rights advocate with an international watchdog group, whose presence brought credibility and contacts to their cause. And joining via secure video link, projected on a laptop screen at the far end of the table, was Sofia Perez—once a firebrand Columbia senator, now living in an undisclosed location after an attempt to detain her last year. Her face on the screen was taut with controlled anger; a faint scar on her forehead was visible, a souvenir from the day regime thugs tried to run her car off the road.
Karen drew a breath and began the meeting. "We have a lot to cover. The situation back home continues to deteriorate, but so do Trumbull's relations with the rest of the world. That gives us an opening." She gestured to Elena, the former Monroe aide. "Elena's been coordinating with friendly governments. Could you update us?"
Elena straightened in her chair. She spoke with the smooth cadence of a practiced diplomat. "Over the past six months, I've met quietly with officials from Canada, the UK, Germany, and a few others. There's growing support for targeted sanctions against Trumbull's inner circle." She glanced at Nadia from the NGO, who gave a confirming nod. "The European Union is appalled by the political persecutions. They're discussing freezing assets of regime leaders and restricting Columbian officials' travel."
"Talk is good," Sofia's voice crackled from the laptop, "but we need action. What's the timeline, Elena? Trumbull's crimes pile up by the day."
Elena sighed. "Diplomacy is slow, Sofia. But there's progress. A resolution condemning Columbia's human rights abuses is on the agenda at the United Nations next month, thanks in part to Nadia's efforts."
Nadia Kamal chimed in, her British accent crisp. "We're also pushing to get independent observers into Columbia—though so far the regime refuses. Still, the more international spotlight, the better. We have to keep Columbia's crisis in the headlines worldwide."
Karen nodded appreciatively. "Speaking of headlines—Peter, how are we doing on getting information into Columbia?"
Peter Vaughn leaned forward, adjusting his glasses. Despite the weight he'd gained and the pallor of exile life indoors, his passion for truth-telling was undimmed. "We've set up a mirror site for the Free Columbia Tribune on international servers. People back home access it through VPNs, though it's cat-and-mouse with regime censors. We get new articles out daily—Marcia sends dispatches when she can, and our network of citizen journalists still in Columbia smuggle out reports."
He tapped the portable radio transmitter on the table. "The bigger impact lately is from Radio Free Columbia. We broadcast an hour each night on shortwave. Testimonials from victims of the regime, updates on resistance efforts, readings from banned books—whatever we can jam into sixty minutes. The signal's patchy, but folks are finding ways to listen in secret. Marcia often hosts it when she's in a safe spot; her voice has become something of a lifeline to those back home."
A faint smile touched Karen's lips. Marcia Davenport remained in Columbia, slipping through the cracks to report the truth. It was risky as hell, but Marcia insisted on being the eyes and ears on the ground. "I caught last week's transmission," Karen said. "Marcia interviewed a former judge who fled after refusing to jail protesters. Powerful stuff." Her smile faded. "Which is why the regime is trying so hard to shut it down."
Nadia frowned. "Yes. We have evidence Trumbull's State Department is pressuring foreign governments to yank the licenses of any outlet helping us. And…there's more." She exchanged a look with Karen. This part was sensitive.
Karen picked up the thread. "We've heard rumors—and more than rumors—that Trumbull has started targeting dissidents abroad." Her voice hardened. "Two months ago, one of our people in London—Michael Chan, a former student protest leader—was nearly killed when a van 'accidentally' struck him on the sidewalk. He survived, barely, but the police there quietly indicated it looked like a professional hit attempt."
A chill passed over the room. Peter ran a hand through his thinning hair. "We're not even safe outside Columbia," he murmured.
"No, we're not," Karen agreed solemnly. "We have to assume the regime might try kidnappings or worse. That means we all watch our backs. No routines, use secure communications, have emergency plans." Everyone nodded gravely; they knew the stakes.
On the laptop screen, Sofia Perez spoke up. "They'd love to silence us. But ironically, their overreach is causing more dissent at home too."
Karen motioned for Sofia to continue. "What are you hearing from inside?"
Sofia's face lit with a fierce pride. "Students. Workers. Even some local officials—people are pushing back in little ways. Last month, students at Columbia State University held a flash protest about the death of a classmate in police custody. It was small and broken up fast, but it happened despite everything. There are labor strikes in a couple of factories over wage theft by Trumbull cronies. And the underground literature…you'd be amazed. Karen, those pamphlets your team helped smuggle in, summarizing civil disobedience tactics—they're circulating. Quietly, but they are."
Hearing this, Karen felt a cautious hope swell in her chest. The regime's propaganda insisted the nation was docile and loyal, but beneath that veneer, discontent was alive. "That's encouraging," she said softly. She looked around the table, meeting each person's eyes. "But we have to be smart. These early sparks are easily extinguished. If we encourage people to rise up too soon, Trumbull will crush them." Her voice caught slightly, recalling the countless political prisoners and martyrs already claimed by the dictatorship.
Elena folded her hands. "So what's our strategy? We can't just wait forever."
Karen inhaled and stepped back to the table, where a map of Columbia lay marked with notes. Red circles indicated key cities, government centers, media hubs. "2028," she said firmly. "That's when Trumbull's term is supposed to end. The next general election. The regime has been ambiguous, but legally it's scheduled for November 2028. That's our horizon. Everything we do builds toward that."
Peter pursed his lips. "You think there will actually be an election? He'll never allow a fair one."
"Perhaps not," Karen conceded, "but that uncertainty is exactly what we can exploit. We prepare for multiple scenarios. If there is an election, we ensure there is an opposition candidate ready to challenge him—unified, prepared, and with international support. Possibly President Monroe in exile, or another consensus figure." She gave Elena a nod; the former Monroe aide was already working channels with her old boss. "If the regime instead cancels or rigs the election, that becomes a breaking point. We use it to galvanize mass protests and international intervention. But it has to be when people are ready, when the injustice is unmistakable."
Sofia chimed in, voice passionate: "So we're talking a nationwide civil disobedience campaign? General strikes, millions in the streets?"
"Exactly," Karen said. "But not prematurely. We need proof to show the world—and to convince Columbians on the fence—that Trumbull's government is entirely illegitimate." Her eyes flicked to Nadia and Peter. "That means documenting every crime, every corruption, and getting that info out at the right moment. We're compiling dossiers—on the political prisoners, on regime torture, on illegal deals. When the time comes, we'll leak it wide: to the global press, on Radio Free Columbia, via leaflets dropped from the sky if we have to."
Peter grinned at the image of scattering truth from the clouds. "We can coordinate with sympathetic media overseas. They can broadcast special reports into Columbia if we jam the signals right."
Elena added, "And I know a few people in high places. If things erupt, maybe even peacekeepers or mediators could be arranged—though that's hopeful thinking."
Nadia interlaced her fingers thoughtfully. "What about financing? Movements need resources."
Karen had anticipated that. "We've quietly set up a fund through some friendly foundations. It's small, but enough for secure phones, printing pamphlets, helping key people to safety, that sort of thing. And some of our friends in the tech sector have provided tools for evading surveillance."
She took a moment, looking at each of them—these few brave souls in a faraway room, plotting to reclaim their country. "This is dangerous work," she said, voice softening. "The fact that we're all here, or on this call, means we can't be with our families, in our homes. The regime labels us traitors, says we 'fled to avoid justice.'" Karen's jaw tightened; state media dragged her name through the mud constantly. "But we know the truth. We are patriots—fighting to restore the democracy that was stolen."
Sofia raised her chin on the screen. "Hear, hear."
Karen allowed herself a small smile. "We keep the faith alive however we can. Through broadcasts of truth, through lobbying and sanctions, through underground networks. We'll be ready when the moment is right."
Peter cleared his throat, gesturing to the radio setup. "Actually, speaking of broadcasts—Marcia wanted me to pass along that tonight's Radio Free Columbia will feature a message of hope. A kind of coded poem that urges people not to give up. She thought it'd be good to lead into the anniversary of the Constitution next week."
Karen's heart pinched at the thought of Marcia, still in hiding back home, whispering words of hope into a microphone that only a few thousand daring listeners might hear. But those few thousand could multiply. "Tell her to stay safe," Karen said. "We need her voice."
A round of determined agreement went up. The rain drummed harder outside, wind rattling the windowpanes. But inside that little room, the air hummed with resolve. These exiles and allies, scattered though they were, had built a lifeline to their home. The regime was relentless, but they were resourceful. The world was beginning to notice Trumbull's tyranny, and inside Columbia, brave citizens were beginning to stir.
As the meeting wound down, Karen finalized action items—Elena would continue pressing foreign governments, Nadia would rally more NGOs, Peter and Marcia would expand the media outreach, Sofia would covertly connect with disaffected student groups and unions back home. Each person had a role in this quiet choreography of resistance.
At the end, before they parted, Karen lifted a tin mug filled with lukewarm tea. "To Columbia," she said quietly, raising it in a toast.
"To Columbia," the others echoed, lifting their own makeshift toasts—a coffee cup, a bottled water, on Sofia's screen a clenched fist.
"To the day we go home," Karen added, voice thick with emotion. They all shared that longing—for the soil of their homeland, for the familiar streets now patrolled by soldiers, for loved ones left behind. The room fell silent except for the patter of rain.
Karen bowed her head, just for a moment, imagining that future day. It felt distant, almost fanciful, but as real in her mind as the scars on her soul. Trumbull's noose was tightening around Columbia—but she and her friends were busy weaving a knife to cut through it. Until the time was right, they would remain in the shadows, stoking the flame of hope and waiting for the spark that would set their country free again.
Chapter 15: Cracks in the Regime
Elaine Buchanan stared at the red digital numbers on her office phone as yet another call blinked onto hold. It was barely 9 AM and already her desk in the West Wing was a battlefield of urgent memos, blinking message lights, and half-drained coffee cups. Two years into the Trumbull administration, Elaine's typical day had become an endless effort to prop up a government lurching under its own oppressive weight.
She massaged her temple with one hand while scanning the latest incident report on her laptop. Overnight, a student protest at Columbia State University had turned deadly. Campus police and DSB agents had cracked down on a group of a few dozen students chanting for academic freedom. The "disturbance" was quashed, but not before three students were shot and dozens injured. Now international media was picking up the story, and even some National Party donors were quietly voicing dismay. This was the third such flare-up in as many weeks. Damn it, Elaine thought, we're drawing too much negative attention.
Her phone buzzed again. The bright voice of an aide came through: "Ms. Buchanan, Felix Archer on Line 2 for the talking points regarding the campus incident."
"Tell him I'll email in five," Elaine replied curtly. She didn't have five minutes—Felix was slated to go on NNN at the top of the hour to spin the campus story—but Elaine needed to gather her thoughts. She opened a draft statement she'd been crafting. "Tragic isolated incident provoked by radical agitators…President Trumbull deeply saddened…outside influences corrupting our youth…" She grimaced at her own words. But Felix would dutifully recite them on air, and many would believe it.
"Email sent," she muttered to herself after firing off the final draft to Felix. She took a gulp of cold coffee. It burned her empty stomach, twisting it with nausea. For a moment, Elaine closed her eyes and recalled her time as Trumbull's Chief of Staff during his first term years ago. She had been ruthless then too, but back then, it was gamesmanship within the old bounds. Now, those bounds were gone—and Elaine was effectively managing an authoritarian regime's day-to-day repression. How did I become this? a small voice in her head dared to ask. She silenced it. Rationalization had become her lifeline: if not her steering this ship, someone worse (like Marcus Hall) would run it aground entirely.
A sharp knock at her open door made her jump. Colonel Marcus Hall leaned in, his crisp uniform impeccable as ever. "Elaine, Cabinet Room in ten. The President wants to discuss the econ briefing." His tone was neutral, but Elaine didn't miss the glint in Hall's eye—he was always pleased when there was trouble to exploit.
"Of course," Elaine replied. "I'll be right there." As Marcus disappeared down the hallway, Elaine hastily gathered a folder of economic reports. This was another headache: National Party donors and business leaders were restless. She had spoken to two major donors on the phone last night, enduring their complaints about declining foreign investment and dysfunctional supply chains. Columbia's economy, while not collapsed, was straining under the weight of corruption and fledgling international sanctions. The donors warned that if Trumbull's policies didn't stabilize things, even his loyal business base might waver.
Elaine had typed up a memo urging a few modest course corrections: easing the more draconian internet censorship that was crippling tech commerce, appointing a credible financial advisor to reassure investors, and curbing the blatant cronyism in federal contracts. But she knew Trumbull bristled at any suggestion that his approach was flawed. Presenting this would be like walking into a lions' den wearing a steak necklace.
Moments later, in the Cabinet Room, President Trumbull was already mid-rant when Elaine slipped in. She took her seat beside the Secretary of the Treasury, who shot her a sympathetic glance. At the head of the long polished table, Trumbull slapped a sheet of paper with the flat of his hand. "This is garbage," he snarled. "Economic growth down to 1%? Who writes these fake reports?" His face was flushed a splotchy red, his combed-back hair quivering with each jabbing motion.
Across from him, Marcus Hall sat with arms folded, observing like a hawk, and at Trumbull's other side Attorney General Holt pursed her lips in smug agreement with the President. The rest of the Cabinet members looked down at their folders, unwilling to draw fire.
Elaine cleared her throat gently. "Mr. President, if I may—there are some real challenges we need to address to get those numbers up." She spoke in her smoothest, most placating tone. "Nothing we can't manage, but we might consider adjusting a few policies to boost confidence."
Trumbull narrowed his eyes at her. "Adjust policies? Which policies, Elaine?" He almost spat her name. Here we go, she thought.
She kept her voice level. "For example, sir, the comprehensive internet restrictions. I understand the security intent, but businesses are complaining it slows commerce and scares off tech investment. Perhaps we refine it to allow essential traffic—"
Trumbull's palm slammed the table. Everyone jumped. "You're buying that crap? That's straight from the liberal economists and Silicon Valley snakes!" He leaned forward, fixing Elaine with a glare. "Weak, Elaine. You're getting weak. Infected by the swamp talk."
Elaine felt heat rise to her cheeks. "Sir, I'm merely conveying what our own data shows—"
He cut her off. "Our people are safer without that filth online. You think I care if some tech bros are upset? Columbia doesn't need them. We have our steel, our coal, real industries." He scoffed and tossed the report aside. "Next you'll be saying we should let the press run wild again to 'boost confidence'."
A few of the Cabinet secretaries chuckled nervously at the President's jab. Elaine forced a tight smile. "Of course not, Mr. President. But about foreign investors—some friendly nations are holding back trade deals. Perhaps if we signal stability—"
Trumbull's face somehow reddened further. "Stability? I am the stability!" His fist hit the table again. "Those foreigners will come crawling when they need our military contracts and our markets. We don't beg, understand? I will not appease anyone just to make a spreadsheet look nicer."
Elaine's heart thudded. She could sense she was dangerously close to provoking a full tirade, or worse, his lasting suspicion. She lowered her eyes deferentially. "Understood, sir. I have absolute faith in your leadership." The lie came out smoothly; it was one she'd told so many times it almost felt true in the moment.
Trumbull grunted, seemingly mollified by her quick capitulation. But a spark of distrust lingered in his expression. He turned his attention to the Treasury Secretary. "You—explain again why I'm hearing talk of a recession. You've got one minute." The hapless secretary stumbled to summarize factors, his words tumbling over themselves.
Elaine tuned it out momentarily, breathing slowly to release the adrenaline from her confrontation. In her peripheral vision, Marcus Hall gave her a thin smile that sent a chill down her spine. Marcus enjoyed seeing others put in their place; worse, he had a knack for whispering poison in Trumbull's ear when he sensed someone's loyalty wavering.
Trumbull ended the Cabinet meeting abruptly with a decree: "I want a loyalty audit of every top official. If anyone isn't 100% on board with our agenda, I want them gone. Understood?" A chorus of yes-sirs answered. Elaine nodded dutifully, stomach sinking. A loyalty audit meant witch hunts through private communications, interrogations by DSB agents—morale would plunge even lower.
As people shuffled out, Trumbull barked, "Elaine, Marcus, stay a minute." The last stragglers departed, closing the heavy door behind them. Trumbull paced at the head of the table like a restless tiger. "Elaine, I keep hearing rumors about weak links. Some in my Cabinet, even my VP…people saying they're not 'enthusiastic' enough." He sneered the word. "If you have something to report, now's the time."
Elaine kept her face neutral, though her pulse quickened. Vice President Tom Rivers had indeed grown quieter and more withdrawn in recent months, avoiding some of Trumbull's more outrageous public statements. And the Treasury Secretary had confided to Elaine his worries about policy. But if she admitted that, she'd be handing them to Marcus's chopping block—and likely accelerating a crisis. She chose her words carefully. "Sir, I think all your team is committed to your vision. People have personal styles—some are less vocal, but they are working hard for your agenda."
Trumbull studied her, his expression unreadable. Marcus Hall cleared his throat. "Mr. President, if I may—sometimes quieter ones are the ones to watch. We wouldn't want a snake hiding in the garden." He gave Elaine a sideways glance. "I can initiate the loyalty audit discreetly, see what shakes out. Perhaps start with background checks, communications monitoring."
Trumbull pointed at Marcus approvingly. "Do it. And let's line up replacements for anyone even hesitating in their loyalty. I'm done with second-guessers." His gaze flicked back to Elaine. "That includes Cabinet and maybe beyond…some Senators too. I hear Larry Rhodes has been making noise."
Elaine felt a pang of alarm. Senator Lawrence Rhodes was one of the few remaining National Party moderates with any integrity. He chaired the Senate Judiciary and had subtly pushed back on some extreme bills. If Trumbull was turning on Rhodes…that could tear the party apart. "Rhodes is a longtime ally, sir," Elaine said gently. "He's been loyal—"
"Has he?" Trumbull snapped. "We'll see. Everyone faces the audit, Elaine. Everyone." He stepped closer, and though he was not a tall man, in that moment he loomed over her. His voice dropped to a menacing whisper. "I built this team. I can break it. I want total commitment. Not 90%. Not even 99. Understand?"
Elaine's mouth was dry. "Yes, Mr. President. Total commitment." She forced herself to meet his eye. He searched her face a beat longer, then nodded curtly.
"Good. Now get back to work." Without waiting for reply, Trumbull stalked out a side door toward the Oval Office.
Marcus lingered, a satisfied look on his face. "I'll handle the audit details, Elaine. Don't you worry," he said, faux-amiable. It felt like a veiled threat. With that, he turned on his heel and left.
Once alone in the Cabinet Room, Elaine let out a shaky breath. Her blouse clung to her back with cold sweat. That had been too close. For the first time, she wondered if she was on the list of those to be audited. Surely her loyalty was beyond question—hadn't she orchestrated countless crackdowns, spun every lie with a smile? And yet, Trumbull's paranoia spared no one.
By evening, the White House had quieted. Elaine's heels clicked on marble as she made her way out a side entrance used by staff. The gray spring day had given way to a misty night. She'd spent the afternoon firefighting: drafting reassuring emails to donors about the economy ("temporary downturn, strategic refocus"), and quietly cautioning the Vice President's chief aide to have Rivers be more visibly supportive in upcoming events ("the President values enthusiasm"). It was exhausting work, patching holes in a dam that was starting to crack under pressure.
Elaine pulled her coat tight and descended the stone steps to the staff parking lot. A few security lights cast long shadows across the cars. She walked not to her own vehicle but toward the far corner of the lot, where a dark sedan idled. Senator Rhodes sat at the wheel, alone.
Rhodes leaned over to push open the passenger door. Elaine slipped in and shut it quickly, glancing around. The lot was nearly empty. Still, this rendezvous made her pulse quicken with paranoia.
"Evening," Rhodes said softly. He was a gaunt man in his 60s with iron-gray hair and a perpetually furrowed brow. Up close, Elaine noted he looked more tired than the last time she saw him—dark circles under his eyes, worry lines deeper. He wore no tie, just a dress shirt open at the collar. This was an off-the-record meeting, if ever there was one.
"Larry," Elaine greeted, attempting a cordial tone. "Thanks for coming."
Rhodes gave a weary chuckle. "Hardly could refuse when the President's Chief of Staff asks to 'catch up privately.'" He studied her in the dim light. "So, how are things in the palace guard?"
Elaine sighed. "Dicey. That's why I wanted to see you—informally. There are…concerns about loyalty within the ranks."
Rhodes snorted. "Translation: Victor's on a tear about traitors under the bed again?"
She almost smiled at his candor. "He's considering a Cabinet shake-up. Maybe more. Your name came up, Larry. I'm worried he's viewing you as an enemy."
Rhodes drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. "I've bent over backward to maintain a working relationship with that man. I swallow my objections daily. But apparently even a hint of independent thought makes me suspect." His jaw tightened. "For God's sake, I put out that statement praising his 'national strength' after the Monroe inquiry, even though it killed me to sign it."
Elaine remembered—Rhodes had publicly backed the President in several controversial votes, albeit tepidly. But Trumbull's appetite for adoration was insatiable. "He doesn't trust anyone who isn't a sycophant," she said quietly.
Rhodes turned to her, eyes searching. "Elaine, level with me. Is he…is he stable? You see him every day. Because from outside, it looks like he's spiraling deeper into vindictiveness."
Elaine hesitated. Even here, she had to be careful. But this was Rhodes—one of the few who might actually act to check Trumbull, if any means remained. "Off the record?" she asked.
"Off the record," Rhodes agreed.
She chose her words slowly. "He's…growing more erratic. There are days he's obsessing over minor slights, or ordering harebrained schemes we have to gently deflect. Marcus Hall and Cassandra Holt egg on his worst instincts. They feed his suspicions that everyone's out to get him."
Rhodes sighed heavily and looked out the windshield. "In the Senate, I hear whispers. Some of my colleagues in the National Party come to me in private, you know. They say, 'Larry, this is getting out of hand, what can we do?' They're scared. We all are, frankly. But no one moves openly. The party line holds—for now."
Elaine lowered her voice. "Is there any realistic way to rein him in? Could a bloc in the Senate refuse to pass some of these extreme measures? Quietly signal we won't go along?"
Rhodes gave a bitter chuckle. "One would hope. But you saw how the National Renewal Act sailed through last year. Even I voted for that abomination—suspending several civil liberties—because opposing it would've been political suicide and frankly dangerous. We've ceded so much ground out of fear and party loyalty." He shook his head. "I'll be honest: a few of us have murmured about finding a constitutional mechanism to restrain him—clarifying term limits, maybe insisting on the 2028 election no matter what. But without broad support, it's a non-starter."
Elaine's heart sank. She had been hoping Rhodes might present some plan, even a faint one. Instead, he sounded as trapped as she felt. "He's not satisfied with total control," she murmured. "He wants total adoration."
Rhodes turned to her, a sad smile on his lips. "That's exactly it. It's like living under a sun that demands you worship it while it burns you." He paused. "What about you, Elaine? You've been his right hand from the start. How long can you keep this up?"
A lump caught in her throat. She hadn't expected the question, and certainly not the concern behind it. "I… I made my choices. I'll see them through," she answered, a bit too quickly. To cover the crack in her voice, she added, "Better I stay, keep things from going completely off the rails. If I leave, someone far worse will take my place, and trust me, there are worse."
Rhodes studied her silently. Elaine felt exposed; she wondered if he could see the guilt and doubt she carefully kept buried day after day.
He reached over and briefly touched her hand. "For what it's worth, I know you tried to warn us—years ago, after 2021. You told me once in confidence that he'd never bow to the law if he got back in. I should have heeded that more." Rhodes' voice was thick with regret.
Elaine recalled that conversation. She had been half-drunk at a private gathering, lamenting to Rhodes that their party was selling its soul to a would-be tyrant. Yet here she was, chief architect of that tyranny. "I appreciate that," she whispered. "But I'm as complicit as anyone, maybe more. History won't be kind to me, Larry." She mustered a tight smile. "Assuming we have honest history books again someday."
Rhodes squeezed her hand and released it. "Stay safe, Elaine. I fear there's worse to come. If something ever does break—if an opportunity arises to act—" He trailed off, choosing his words carefully. "You might find more allies than you think, even among those currently silent."
Elaine nodded, understanding. "And you, Senator…watch yourself. Marcus Hall is sniffing around everywhere. I wouldn't be shocked if they have you under surveillance."
Rhodes's eyes flashed. "They probably do. I've caught a whiff of it—unfamiliar car near my house at odd hours, that sort of thing. Comes with the territory now." He sighed, looking suddenly old. "I should get you back before anyone wonders."
Elaine agreed. It wouldn't do for the Chief of Staff to be seen lingering on White House grounds with a known moderate like Rhodes at night. She opened the door to step out. "Thank you, Larry. This talk… helped."
He managed a wry smile. "One way or another, Elaine, we'll get our country back. Let's just hope we're both around to see it."
She shut the car door and watched as Rhodes drove off slowly, his taillights disappearing into the foggy darkness. A profound loneliness enveloped Elaine as she walked to her own car. In the distance, the White House's silhouette stood aglow, seeming both majestic and malevolent under the floodlights. That building now housed a man who trusted no one—not even those closest to him—and whose demands for absolute loyalty would sooner or later consume them all.
As Elaine slid into the driver's seat of her vehicle, she noticed something unusual: a white van parked across the street, engine running, no obvious markings. It hadn't been there earlier. She paused, key in the ignition, and felt the hairs on her neck rise. In that instant, a faint crackle came over her car radio—static, then silence. Perhaps just interference… or perhaps someone listening. Watching.
Elaine forced herself to breathe normally. She started the car and pulled out, doing her best not to look at the van. Out of the corner of her eye, she thought she saw the silhouette of a person in the driver's seat, maybe speaking into a device. It could be anything—delivery truck, security patrol. Or it could be Caleb Tyler's men, surveilling a meeting between two potential "weak links."
As she drove through the puddle-strewn streets of Capitol City, Elaine's mind churned. No one is truly safe inside the regime anymore. Not high-ranking senators, not the Chief of Staff, perhaps not even Trumbull himself from the demons he'd unleashed. Ambition and fear were fracturing the inner circle bit by bit. Elaine had the stark realization that the dictatorship she helped create was devouring itself from within. The cracks were there: hairline fractures now, which might someday splinter wide—if they could survive long enough to see it.