Chapter 7: A Whistleblower's Warning
Marcia Davenport killed the engine of her sedan and let the darkness settle around her. The concrete cavern of the parking garage was nearly empty at this late hour. Only a few scattered cars sat in the pools of dim yellow light cast by flickering fluorescent bulbs. Her heart thudded in her chest as she checked the time on her phone. 11:47 PM. The whistleblower was late.
Clutching the steering wheel, Marcia scanned the rear-view mirror. No tails, she reassured herself, trying to steady her breathing. She had taken a winding route across Capitol City to be sure she wasn't followed—doubling back on side streets, switching lanes unpredictably. Still, paranoia prickled at the back of her neck. Under the new regime, even an innocent drive after dark felt illicit.
She had received the tip earlier that day on her secure messaging app: a mid-level bureaucrat from inside the administration urgently wanted to meet. Major evidence of an imminent crackdown, the message had read. They had arranged this rendezvous with minimal back-and-forth, both of them assuming their communications were likely monitored. Now, in the subterranean stillness, Marcia wondered if this was a trap. But if the source was legitimate, she couldn't afford to ignore it.
A sudden motion in her side mirror jolted her. A figure emerged from behind a pillar two levels down, walking swiftly but cautiously. Marcia's pulse quickened. It was a woman in a dark hooded jacket, face partially obscured by a baseball cap. She looked over her shoulder twice as she approached Marcia's car. Satisfied that the garage was otherwise empty, Marcia quietly stepped out of her vehicle, raising a hand slightly to show she meant no harm.
The woman flinched at the sound of the car door closing. Marcia kept her voice low and calm. "It's okay. I'm Marcia."
The whistleblower nodded quickly. Her eyes were wide with fear even in the half-light. "Thank you for coming," she whispered. She clutched a slim manila envelope to her chest as if it were her lifeline. With her other hand, she held out a small USB flash drive. It trembled between her fingers.
Marcia glanced around—empty ramps, distant drip of water—then stepped forward and gently took the offered drive, slipping it into her coat pocket. "You're safe here," Marcia lied softly. Truth was, nowhere felt safe anymore. "What's your name?"
"No names," the woman said, voice taut. "I can't stay long. They might have noticed I left."
Marcia nodded, respecting her caution. She could discern now that the woman was about her own age, early forties perhaps, wearing business-casual clothes beneath the hoodie. Likely a bureaucrat who had come straight from the office, risking everything to be here.
"Okay," Marcia agreed. "Tell me what you have."
The woman thrust the envelope forward. Marcia opened it and used her phone's screen for light. Inside were printed documents—memos, scheduling notices, pages marked confidential. One page bore a bold title: Project Lion's Den – Overview. Marcia's throat tightened as she skimmed the text. Phrases jumped out: "nationwide surveillance of subversive entities,""coordination with DSB and local law enforcement,""National Security Emergency Drill – cover for Phase One operations."
"These are plans… for a mass sweep?" Marcia whispered, incredulous. She looked up at the whistleblower. "They're going to round people up?"
The woman nodded urgently, eyes glistening. She pointed to a line on one page with a shaking finger. "They're calling it an emergency preparedness drill, but it's a smokescreen. On that day, possibly under the pretext of a terror alert, they'll move on dozens of activists and opposition figures simultaneously."
Marcia felt a chill coil in her gut. She scanned further. The document detailed a coordinated crackdown targeting "designated extremist organizers" – which, she knew, was regime doublespeak for political opponents and protest leaders. Prominent among the targets were community activists, journalists, and former officials who had criticized President Trumbull.
"Phase One… 'neutralize high-value targets; secure communications infrastructure,'" Marcia read under her breath. "This is… huge. How soon?"
The whistleblower swallowed. "There's a date," she said, barely audible. "Next week. Wednesday."
Marcia's mind raced. Just one week. In seven days, Columbia could wake up under a full-on police state with key dissidents vanished overnight. It was a reporter's dream and nightmare at once – proof of the regime's authoritarian blueprint, but nearly no time to act.
"We have to expose this," Marcia said. She started taking photos of the documents with her phone, her hands steady with adrenaline. "This Project Lion's Den… if I publish even a summary—"
"They'll know it came from inside," the woman interrupted. Her breathing was shallow, panicked. "If this leaks, they'll shut it down or worse—accelerate the plan. I had to tell someone, but I'm terrified what happens now."
Marcia gently laid a hand on the woman's arm to calm her. Through the fabric of the jacket, she felt the whistleblower trembling. "You did the right thing. We can warn people. We can prepare."
The woman shook her head fiercely. "You can't protect me. They see everything. I'm probably already a walking dead woman for knowing this."
A heaviness settled in Marcia's chest. She knew the risks whistleblowers faced under Trumbull's new government—disappearances had already been whispered about in activist circles. "Then let me help you get somewhere safe," Marcia urged. "I have contacts—"
"No." The source pulled back, glancing nervously at the ramp leading out. "I have to go. If I vanish completely, they'll suspect something. I need to act normal at work tomorrow, pretend nothing's wrong."
It sounded like a dangerous plan—pretending normalcy while harboring a secret like this. But perhaps disappearing immediately would indeed raise alarms. Marcia bit her lip. "At least go on record anonymously? If I could quote an 'insider source'—"
The woman managed a wan, desperate smile. "You think they won't figure out who? I'm one of only a handful with access to these files." She took a step back, blinking rapidly as if fighting tears. "I'm sorry. I can't. I just… I had to get this out. So someone knows."
Marcia felt an overwhelming mix of gratitude and dread. "I'll make sure it's not for nothing," she promised. "This will not disappear."
A car engine revved somewhere on an upper level. Both women froze. The whistleblower's eyes darted upward. "I have to go," she repeated, voice thin with fear.
Marcia nodded and quickly pulled out a business card, scribbling a number on the back. "Here—this is a secure line. If you need me, anytime, call. And we should meet again. Same place…" She hesitated. "Tomorrow night? I can bring help, get you protection if you change your mind."
The woman hesitated, then took the card. "I'll think about it." It was the most commitment she could offer.
Without another word, she turned and hurried back toward the stairwell at the far end of the garage, footsteps echoing. Within seconds, she disappeared into the shadows, leaving Marcia alone in the pale light.
Marcia exhaled, unaware she'd been holding her breath. She had the evidence. In her pocket and hands, she held proof of a conspiracy to eradicate political opposition under the guise of national security. Smoking gun was no overstatement. If she published it, it could blow open the regime's true intentions before they struck.
She hurried back to her driver's seat and locked the doors. Her mind was already cycling through contingency plans. Publish or hold? If she broke the story now, Trumbull's people would realize a leak occurred. They might rush the crackdown before opponents could react—or cover their tracks and deny everything, maybe calling her story "fake news." But if she stayed silent, in a week the raids would hit and she'd have failed to warn those at risk.
Marcia's instincts as a journalist screamed to publish immediately, to scream the truth from the rooftops. But this wasn't a normal expose; tipping off a dictator could mean dozens of lives destroyed in retaliation. How to sound the alarm without tipping off the oppressors?
She reached into her glove compartment and pulled out a cheap prepaid phone—one of several "burners" she kept for sensitive communications. She powered it on and glanced at the signal. No obvious sign of being compromised. Taking a deep breath, Marcia dialed a number from memory.
Karen Li answered on the second ring. "Hello?" Even one word carried the tension of these times—Karen's voice was low, cautious.
"It's Marcia," she said quietly. "Secure line. I have something big. A government source passed me proof they're planning mass arrests under cover of a security drill, possibly in the next week." She paused to let that sink in.
On the other end, Karen sucked in a breath. "Jesus… You're sure?"
"I have documents," Marcia confirmed. "It's called Project Lion's Den. They're targeting activists, opposition voices—under the guise of anti-terror sweeps."
A silence, then Karen responded with grim resolve. "We need to warn our people, quietly. If we go public, they'll just do it faster."
"I agree," Marcia said, relieved that Karen was on the same page. Karen Li—former congresswoman turned outspoken dissident—had networks across the political and activist spectrum. "But you have to be extremely careful. My source is terrified. If the regime even sniffs this leak—"
"They'll clamp down harder," Karen finished. "Understood. I'll spread word to those who absolutely need to know. Maybe a judge or two we trust, community leaders—just to be on alert. But discreetly. No emails. Face-to-face only."
"Good," Marcia said. "I'll reach out to Sofia as well." Senator Sofia Perez was one of the few opposition politicians still speaking out. She'd know who in government might listen or how to slow down a Justice Department going rogue.
"Alright. And Marcia—" Karen's voice softened. "Watch yourself. If you have those documents, you're on a very dangerous list right now."
Marcia managed a tight smile at the concern in Karen's tone. "Likewise. They haven't snagged you yet and I'd like to keep it that way."
A dry chuckle from Karen. "I'll be damned careful. Keep me posted if you learn more. I'll do the same."
They hung up. Marcia immediately dialed Sofia Perez next, leaving a coded voicemail when the Senator didn't pick up at this late hour. "Urgent development," she said into the burner phone. "The thing we were worried about—it's real and it's imminent. Use all your influence to get word to the right people. Call me on my secure line when you get this." She provided the number, then ended the call.
Her hands were shaking now that the adrenaline of the meeting was ebbing. She had just conscripted two high-profile allies into this secret, a necessary risk. Now three people—Karen, Sofia, and herself—carried knowledge that could upend the regime's plan or, if discovered, mark them for elimination.
Marcia started the car and guided it up the ramps, every shadow making her flinch. When she emerged onto the silent street above, she drove carefully into the night, eyes flicking constantly to the mirror for pursuers. The city seemed normal on the surface—streetlights, the occasional car or pedestrian—but she felt the undercurrent of fear everywhere. Something terrible is about to happen, she thought, gripping the wheel tighter. But maybe we can stop it, or at least be ready.
The next week passed in a blur of tension. Marcia worked from home mostly, feigning a bout of flu to avoid questions at the Columbian Chronicle newsroom. She spent her days poring over the Lion's Den documents, cross-checking names on the target list with her own sources. Each night, she circled back to the parking garage in hope of another meeting with her informant. Each night, the garage was deserted.
Karen reported in via coded texts that she had quietly warned a handful of people—an influential judge here, a church leader there—to be alert for unusual police activity. Sofia managed to leverage her position in the Senate to request a briefing from the Department of Justice on any "national security drills" forthcoming, though she received only bland assurances in return.
As the supposed crackdown day drew closer, Marcia's anxiety became a physical weight. She slept with one eye on the window, expecting black vans to screech up at any moment. The Chronicle was preparing a major investigative piece on civil liberties under the new administration—unrelated, but likely to anger the White House further. Marcia had hinted to her editor that something big might be brewing, but without revealing specifics. Trust was in short supply; for all she knew, the newsroom had ears loyal to Trumbull.
Finally, the night before the scheduled sweep, Marcia decided to try one last time to reach her source. She had to know if the plan was still on track or if any details changed. The woman had never called the secure line. That silence gnawed at Marcia—maybe the source was lying low, or maybe… something had happened.
She drove to the same garage at 9 PM, earlier than their first rendezvous, hoping the whistleblower might show. The place was tomb-quiet, each of her footfalls echoing as she paced by her car. Ten minutes passed, then twenty. Marcia's nerves were raw. She told herself to leave—staying in one spot too long is dangerous—but her feet wouldn't move.
At 9:30, a sound finally reached her: not footsteps, but the faint ringing of a phone from deeper in the garage. Marcia's heart leapt. It had to be the whistleblower's phone; perhaps she was here after all. "Hello?" she called softly, moving toward the sound.
The ringing stopped abruptly. Marcia rounded a concrete column and halted, dread coiling in her stomach. A navy blue compact car sat in the shadows, driver's side door flung wide open. On the ground beside the car lay a disposable coffee cup on its side, contents spilled and still steaming on the cement.
It was the whistleblower's face that flashed through Marcia's mind—the nervous eyes under that baseball cap. "Hello?" she whispered again, louder this time, her voice betraying a tremor. No response. She crept closer.
The interior light of the car revealed a few personal effects on the passenger seat—a handbag, a thin sweater—and on the driver's seat, a smartphone glowing faintly, as if a call had just been terminated. The phone's lock screen showed the time and a missed call notification. Marcia recognized the number. It was the very number she had given the whistleblower.
Panic and sorrow swirled in her chest. She gingerly picked up the phone, half expecting some agent to jump from the shadows. None did. The device was still warm, the screen now dark. She placed it back exactly as it had been.
There was no blood, no obvious signs of struggle, but the silence was ominous. The whistleblower was gone. Taken.
Marcia's mouth went dry. A "disappearance"—the very thing everyone had feared, now starkly real before her. She forced herself to think. If they had grabbed the source, they might have surveillance on the site. Perhaps they were watching now.
Every instinct screamed at Marcia to get out. But she made herself do one thing first: she pulled out her own phone and snapped a quick photo of the scene—the open door, the abandoned phone, the spilled coffee—evidence of what had transpired here. Then she backed away, footsteps light and quick, and slipped behind a column out of direct line of sight. Listening. No sound but the distant hum of the city above.
With a deep breath, she darted to her car, started it, and left the garage at a normal pace, resisting the urge to floor it. As she drove into the night, fury and fear warred within her. They had silenced the whistleblower. How long had they known? Had the source been under watch even before she reached out?
More chillingly: Did they know about me? If the secret police—likely Director Caleb Tyler's infamous Domestic Security Bureau—had caught wind of the leak, they would certainly try to trace it. The thought that Tyler's agents might be coming for her next sent a bolt of ice down Marcia's spine.
She tightened her grip on the wheel, mind racing. The crackdown could begin any time now; the regime wouldn't wait for the scheduled date if they suspected their cover was blown. It could be tomorrow. Hell, it could be tonight. And with the source gone, Marcia's advantage in forewarning others was nearly spent.
As she merged onto an empty boulevard, city lights streaking past, Marcia made a silent vow. They won't get me that easily. She would not return to her apartment—that would be the first place they'd look. She had a go-bag at the Chronicle's office and another at her sister's house in the suburbs. One way or another, by sunrise she'd slip out of sight, go underground if she had to.
First, though, she had to warn Karen and Sofia that the hammer was about to fall, faster than expected. Pressing the pedal, Marcia sped through the sleeping capital, the whistleblower's last words echoing in her memory: "They see everything."
Now the proof was inescapable. The regime had seen her, too, or would soon enough. The night's silence felt loaded with threat. As she vanished down the road, Marcia could almost feel the invisible eyes of the state tracking her—and the countdown to the crackdown ticking to zero.
Chapter 8: The Day of the Sweep
Karen Li tiptoed around a wobbly card table, glancing at the anxious faces gathered in the dim basement. The air smelled of burnt coffee and damp concrete. It wasn't much of a "headquarters," just the back room of a shuttered community center, but it was safe enough for tonight's clandestine meeting. A single phone on the table buzzed every few minutes with incoming texts—updates from allies across the country.
Around Karen, a half-dozen activists and former officials murmured in low voices. Daniel Wu, a civil liberties lawyer, was tapping notes into his tablet. Beside him, Maria Alvarez, once an aide to former President Monroe, nervously crumpled a napkin in her fist. They were all here to plan a response to Trumbull's mounting abuses, but the atmosphere was heavy with dread. Everyone knew the risks of gathering like this.
Karen herself had organized this meeting, yet her stomach had been in knots all night. As a former congresswoman ousted for defying Trumbull, she'd embraced a life in the resistance. But seeing her compatriots' worried eyes, she felt the weight of responsibility keenly. Please, just let us get through tonight unseen, she silently prayed.
She was mid-sentence—"…we have networks ready to document any mass arrests if they happen, but we need people on standby in every city…"—when Daniel's phone buzzed again, then again, and again in rapid succession. He frowned and unlocked it. Karen paused, watching his face blanch.
"What is it?" she asked, heart thumping.
Daniel looked up. "I'm getting reports… something's happening. Now. Arrests—lots of them."
The room went still, the only sound the distant hum of the building's boiler. Karen grabbed her own phone and saw a new encrypted message: "They're here. Multiple cities. Be careful." Her blood ran cold.
"Everyone, we need to leave. Now," Karen ordered. There was no time to verify details. If the crackdown had begun earlier than anticipated, staying together was dangerous. "Plan Delta," she added, invoking the group's pre-arranged escape protocol.
Chairs scraped as people jumped up. Maria cursed under her breath, stuffing papers into her purse. Daniel hastily closed his laptop. Karen snatched a baseball cap from the table and pulled it low over her dark hair. They moved quickly to the back exit that opened into an alley.
As Karen ushered them out, a distant siren wailed through the night. Coincidence or not, it spurred her on. She split off from the group, each member taking a different route as planned. "Stay safe," she whispered urgently, squeezing Maria's hand before the younger woman darted down a side street. Daniel nodded at Karen and disappeared around a corner.
Karen hurried down the alley, heading for a narrow passage that led to a parallel street. Her heart hammered against her ribs. The night air was cool on her face, but she was sweating. She forced herself to recall the safehouse location—six blocks north, two east. A church safehouse where a sympathetic pastor would hide her.
Just then, headlights swept across the alley mouth ahead. Karen shrank back into the shadow of a dumpster as an unmarked van screeched to a halt on the cross street. The van's rear doors flung open and two men in dark tactical gear jumped out.
On the opposite end of the alley, one of Karen's colleagues—a man named Rich who'd been in the meeting—was sprinting away. Too late. The operatives caught up to him in seconds. Karen clamped a hand over her mouth as Rich struggled, his shout cut off by a swift strike to his gut. They dragged him toward the van.
Karen's mind screamed to intervene, but she was unarmed and exposing herself would doom them both. She inched further behind the dumpster, praying she'd remain unseen. In the dim light, she caught Rich's gaze for one agonizing moment as he was shoved into the vehicle. His eyes widened, pleading. Then the doors slammed and the van sped off, red tail lights bleeding into darkness.
She stayed frozen for a half-minute that felt like an eternity, until the sound of the engine faded. Trembling with anger and grief, Karen forced herself to move. Rich was gone—one more friend disappeared into Trumbull's night. She bit down on the inside of her cheek, choking back frustrated tears. There would be time to mourn later. If she didn't reach safety, his fate would be hers.
Karen slipped out of her hiding spot and jogged down the silent side street, keeping to the darkest edges. In the distance, sirens multiplied, one after another, across the city.
The crackdown had begun.
Sofia Perez stood at the center of a small town hall auditorium, her voice echoing to a couple hundred constituents. She had been in the middle of a fiery sentence: "We cannot let fear silence our voices or our values—" when a commotion at the back of the hall cut her off.
The double doors burst open. Men in black uniforms swarmed in, weapons visible at their belts. Some wore the insignia of the National Security Police—Trumbull's newly formed domestic force. Gasps rippled through the audience. A few attendees instinctively raised their hands, unsure what was happening.
Sofia's stomach lurched. She recognized the lead officer from a contentious hearing months ago. He scanned the room with a stony expression and barked, "This event is over. Clear the premises immediately."
Murmurs of confusion and fear rose. "On whose authority?" Sofia demanded, stepping down from the stage. Her heart was drumming but she projected the full force of her senatorial presence. "You have no right to—"
Before she could finish, two officers in tactical gear waded into the crowd toward a cluster of young activists near the front. "Hey, you can't—!" one of the activists shouted, but he was quickly wrestled to the ground. A woman cried out as another officer seized a protest organizer by the arm.
"Stop this!" Sofia yelled. She moved toward the officers, fury and panic igniting inside her. This is what we warned of, she thought. And now it was unfolding before her eyes.
One officer stepped into her path. "Ma'am, for your safety, you need to back up," he said, feigning politeness but with an unmistakable threat under the words.
"I'm a Senator of the Republic of Columbia," Sofia snapped, not budging. "These people are exercising their First Amendment rights. On what grounds are you detaining them?"
He didn't answer. Over his shoulder, Sofia watched a young protester—couldn't be older than twenty—being handcuffed and hauled toward the door, terror in his eyes. She recognized him; he'd introduced himself before the event as a volunteer with a local human rights group. Now he looked at her, silently pleading for help she couldn't give.
Rage and helplessness churned in Sofia's chest. The officer in front of her held out an envelope. "Senator Perez, this is for you."
She snatched it from his hand. It was a subpoena, courtesy of the Department of Justice, ordering her to appear at a closed hearing regarding "potential subversive ties" of her staff. The absurdity might have made her laugh under different circumstances. Now it only fueled her anger. "This is harassment," she said, voice trembling with indignation.
"Ma'am, for your safety," the officer repeated, gesturing toward the exit as if she were the one causing trouble.
Around the hall, people were being forced out of their seats and towards the exits. A middle-aged organizer protested and received a rifle butt to his shoulder for his trouble. Sofia caught him before he fell, steadying the man even as an officer moved to push them along.
She realized with a sinking heart that even her status offered no protection to those who had come to hear her. If she made one wrong move, the officers might arrest her too—or worse, use force on these civilians. Gritting her teeth, Sofia raised her hands to signal compliance. "Everyone, please go," she called out, her voice cracking. "Let's disperse calmly."
The crowd, disillusioned and frightened, obeyed as the officers herded them out. Sofia was one of the last to be escorted from the hall. She cast one final look over her shoulder at the emptying room—posters about community action torn down, chairs overturned—and felt a deep well of resolve mix with despair. They can shut us down tonight, she vowed silently, but they will not silence me forever.
From a cafe across the street, Marcia Davenport watched federal agents in dark windbreakers sweep into the Columbian Chronicle's lobby. Even at this late hour, they moved with practiced efficiency, flashing a warrant at the security guard and fanning out through the newsroom. Marcia's chest constricted in anger and sorrow; she had worked in that newsroom for a decade, and now it was being violated under the guise of law.
She had seen this coming. All afternoon, cryptic memos had circulated from the Attorney General's office about "seditious material" in the press. At Marcia's urging, the Chronicle's editor-in-chief had told most staff to work remotely tonight, ostensibly due to a "network outage." Only a skeleton crew of two interns and the security guard remained on-site—not enough to put up any resistance.
Through the cafe's window, Marcia watched the agents rifle through desks and computer stations. One of them carried a sealed evidence box labeled with the Chronicle's name. They were going to seize files, hard drives—anything they could get their hands on to disrupt the paper's investigations.
Marcia's hand tightened around the strap of her messenger bag, which contained her laptop, notebooks, and the precious whistleblower files. She felt a hollow ache; this was her second home being torn apart. But at least her colleagues were safe for now.
An agent appeared to shout an order, and the interns—pale and wide-eyed—were corralled into a corner. Marcia recognized one, a kid fresh out of college who idolized investigative journalists. He looked terrified. She could only imagine what lies the agents were spewing—accusations of treason, perhaps, for daring to report truth.
She had seen enough. There was no more she could do here without sacrificing her own freedom. Pulling a baseball cap low to obscure her face, Marcia slipped out of the cafe and into the night. The city street was eerily quiet save for the distant wail of sirens. Clutching her go-bag, she set off on foot down an alley.
Every step took her further from her normal life—job, apartment, daily routine—and deeper into the unknown. She had a safehouse in mind: a motel on the outskirts where a trusted friend had rented a room under a false name. By dawn, she would be effectively underground, another fugitive journalist in Trumbull's Columbia.
As she walked, Marcia allowed herself one glance back toward the Chronicle's building. Through the glass front, she could see agents yanking down the framed front page that announced Monroe's election victory in 2020—a sentimental keepsake in the lobby. They tossed it aside carelessly. Marcia's throat tightened. Democracy, tossed aside just as carelessly, she thought.
Squaring her shoulders, she disappeared into the shadows. The Chronicle would have to endure without her for now. She had a larger mission: to keep reporting the truth, from exile or darkness if need be.
Felix Archer straightened his tie with sweaty fingers as the studio's countdown clock ticked down the final seconds. "...3…2…1…" The red camera light blinked on. Live.
"Good evening," he began, his baritone voice steady out of long habit. "We interrupt our scheduled program for an urgent national security announcement."
The teleprompter's script glowed in front of him, but Felix's eyes flicked to the papers just handed to him by the producer. 200 arrested… 20 cities… The scale made his skin go cold. This was it—the operation Hall and Tyler had hinted at in pressers about "extremist threats." He swallowed the bitter taste rising in his throat.
He continued, voice neutral. "Federal authorities have conducted a series of coordinated raids this evening across the nation. According to the Department of Justice, these operations have successfully netted dozens of suspects affiliated with extremist and subversive organizations." The words tasted like ash.
A video feed rolled on the screen above his shoulder—stock footage of SWAT teams in dark uniforms, then a clip of President Trumbull at a podium from some past address. Felix read on obediently. "Government officials are calling this a 'sweep for public safety', aimed at thwarting what they describe as an imminent threat from radical agitators. Early reports indicate over 200 arrests in twenty cities, from Capitol City to the West Coast." He could hear his own voice, calm and authoritative, as if it belonged to someone else.
In his earpiece, a director murmured, "Keep it upbeat." Felix's jaw tightened imperceptibly. Upbeat, as if this were cause for celebration. He forced a hint of patriotic gravitas into his tone. "The President is expected to address the nation shortly, praising the operation as a necessary step to restore law and order."
He stumbled over the next line—just a fraction of a second's hesitation that only those who knew him might catch. The copy spoke of "dangerous elements removed from our communities." Felix's mind flashed to the journalists and activists he knew, people he strongly suspected were among those targeted tonight. People who were far from dangerous criminals.
He steadied himself and finished the segment: "NNN has correspondents standing by in several cities. We'll bring you updates as details emerge on this major security sweep."
The red light went off. The studio cut to a commercial break. Felix exhaled shakily, his hands trembling just out of frame. On the surface, it had been a smooth broadcast—professional, composed. But inside, Felix felt physically ill. He tore off his earpiece and sat back in his chair as techs swarmed the desk to prepare for the next segment.
His producer gave him a thumbs-up through the glass. "Good job," her lips mouthed. Felix forced a tight smile in return. Good job. Congratulating him for parroting propaganda while the republic burned.
He realized he'd almost choked on air when reading the number of arrests. Two hundred. Two hundred lives upended in the blink of an eye, probably more by the time the night was done. And he had delivered it like news of a weather front.
Felix turned away from the busy control room. In the polished blackness of the studio camera lens, he caught a distorted reflection of himself—a suited, clean-cut newsman. A fraud, he thought bitterly. For years he had prided himself on being an objective messenger. Now he was complicit, the friendly face of a regime rounding up its critics.
He took a long breath. This is the night democracy dies, he thought. And I just gave its eulogy.
In her study, Justice Margaret Greene pressed a phone to her ear with one hand and with the other refreshed a news website on her tablet. The power at her home had flickered twice in the last hour as thunderstorms rolled beyond the hills, but so far she was still online. And now the news alerts were coming fast and furious: Mass Arrests in Overnight Raids, Opposition Figures Detained under Emergency Orders.
"This is beyond anything we feared," she spoke into the phone, her normally composed voice shaking. She was in her mid-sixties, and in that moment felt every one of those years. As the senior Justice on Columbia's High Court, Margaret Greene had seen attacks on civil liberties in her time—but nothing like this brazen midnight purge.
On the other end of the line was her colleague, Associate Justice Howard Tam. He had answered groggily at first, woken by her call, but now he too was fully alert. "Margaret, I'm looking at it now," he said. "They're saying these people were coordinating terrorist plots. Do we have any proof that's nonsense?"
"You and I both know what this is," Greene replied, rubbing her temple. Through her window, she could see distant flashes of lightning. "They're rounding up dissidents. Pretext or not, it's extrajudicial and unconstitutional."
She had already been on the phone with two federal judges from lower courts. One had tearfully recounted how agents hauled away her neighbor, a community organizer, without a warrant shown. There were rumors habeas corpus was effectively suspended tonight by secret executive order. This was a constitutional nightmare.
"We have to do something," Greene insisted. "A stay, an injunction—something to halt this until there's judicial review."
Tam sighed. He was a cautious moderate, averse to dramatic action. "What can we do at 11 PM, without a formal petition? The government hasn't acknowledged anything officially to us. For all we know, they'll claim it's under existing warrants."
Greene closed her eyes, steadying herself. Tam's reticence frustrated her, but she understood. The High Court typically waited for cases to come through proper channels. But these were not typical times. "We can't just wait," she said firmly. "I'm going to call an emergency teleconference with whoever I can get—Justice Sandoval, maybe Leung. We need to send a message to the Attorney General at least, demand a briefing on what grounds these arrests were made."
There was a pause, then Tam agreed quietly. "Alright. Set it up. I'll join."
Within fifteen minutes, Justice Greene had three of the nine High Court justices on a secure video call—just enough to draft a quick statement. It wasn't an official court order, but it was something. They crafted language demanding that the Justice Department provide by morning a list of all detainees and the charges or evidence against them, citing concerns about due process.
"It's weak, I know," Greene said to her colleagues as they finalized the memo. She felt a hollowness in her stomach. This was far less than what she wanted—a nationwide injunction on the arrests—but they all knew a more aggressive move might be swatted down by the Court's conservative majority at dawn. At least this action was within her authority as Chief Justice to request information on unusual federal actions.
Sandoval, the most liberal of them, shook his head in dismay on the video feed. "At least it's a marker in the sand. History will show we didn't stay silent." His tone was grim.
After the call ended and the statement was sent to the Attorney General's secure fax line, Greene remained in her chair, staring at the rain now spattering against the window. The grandfather clock in the corner struck midnight. In her decades on the bench she had never felt so viscerally the fragility of the rule of law.
Suddenly, the lights flickered and went out, plunging the room into darkness. The hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen silenced; the gentle whir of her laptop died. The power was gone—not a flicker this time but a full outage.
Greene's breath caught. The storm... most likely the storm, she told herself. But a seed of doubt took root. What if it wasn't nature? What if someone intended to remind her how easily even a Justice's home could be cast into darkness?
Hands trembling slightly, she found the drawer of her desk and pulled out a flashlight. She clicked it on, the beam illuminating the framed family photos on her wall and the shelves of legal texts.
She moved to the window and peered out. The entire neighborhood was dark, save for a few bobbing beams of flashlights from puzzled residents stepping onto porches. Likely just the storm, she reassured herself again. And yet, as a bolt of lightning cracked across the sky, she flinched.
Returning to her desk, Justice Greene sank into her chair and folded her hands. On the desk lay a copy of the Constitution she kept always within reach, its pages well-worn. She pulled it close and ran a finger over the cover, finding strange comfort in its presence.
"We tried," she whispered into the emptiness. It didn't feel like enough. She wondered if the statement they sent would do any good—or if it would simply put a target on her back. Trumbull's televised tirades against "activist judges" echoed in her memory. If he discovered she had attempted to interfere tonight, his wrath would be aimed squarely at her.
Sitting alone in the dark, Justice Margaret Greene realized that for the first time in her career, she was truly afraid. Afraid not just for the country or the law, but for her own safety. The thought was sobering.
She straightened her back and lifted her chin, a habit from years on the bench. If they come for me, so be it, she thought. She would not abandon her duty out of fear.
Even so, as the night stretched on, Greene remained awake by the window, the unspoken question ever-present in her mind: When dawn comes, what kind of country will Columbia be?
Chapter 9: Fallout and Firmament
Elaine Buchanan strode down the White House corridor toward the Oval Office, a stack of reports clutched to her chest. It was barely 7 AM, but the West Wing was already humming. News of the overnight sweeps had broken just hours ago, and Columbia was waking up to shock and fear. Inside, however, the regime's inner circle was almost celebratory.
Elaine paused outside the Oval's door. She drew a calming breath, smoothing her blazer. Last night's events had kept her awake, staring at the ceiling in her official residence's bedroom. Now she had to present a composed face, burying any qualms deep under her practiced Chief-of-Staff professionalism.
She entered the Oval Office to find President Trumbull in an exuberant mood. He was standing by the desk, animatedly recounting something to Colonel Marcus Hall, who leaned against a credenza with arms folded, a satisfied half-smile on his face. Attorney General Holt was there too, along with a few key advisors. The moment Trumbull saw Elaine, he grinned broadly.
"Elaine! Have you read these numbers?" Trumbull boomed, waving a piece of paper. "A beautiful success last night. Beautiful." His face was flushed with triumph. "Two hundred traitors in custody. Not a single casualty on our side. Couldn't have gone better if I dreamed it."
Elaine forced a tight smile and nodded. "Quite an operation, Mr. President." She moved to the cluster of aides and principals. The Oval's air smelled faintly of Trumbull's breakfast coffee, the scent oddly normal amid such a grim morning.
Marcus Hall's eyes flicked to Elaine. His gaze had a keen edge, as if gauging her reaction. Elaine held up the reports in her hand. "Initial summaries from the agencies, sir," she said, offering them to Trumbull.
He snatched them eagerly. As he skimmed the top sheet, Elaine stole a glance at Marcus's copy on the table. It was a list of names of those detained. She recognized many — prominent activists, professors, even a couple of former low-level officials from the previous administration. Her stomach tightened when her eyes landed on one name: Dr. Ellen Cho. Elaine felt a pang of dismay. Ellen was an old college friend, a quiet civic advocate now being branded a subversive.
She quickly averted her eyes from the list, hoping no one noticed her reaction. Trumbull slapped the paper with the back of his hand. "This will put the fear of God into the rest of them," he said, triumphant. "They thought they could undermine us from the shadows. Now they know we'll root them out."
"Yes, sir," Marcus agreed. "Our teams reported minimal resistance. A few small fry tried to hide or run, but we planned for that." He sounded almost proud, like a hunter boasting about a successful hunt. "All primary targets are in custody, except a handful we're tracking."
Elaine kept her face neutral as she listened. Inside, she felt a sickly mixture of relief and dread. Relief that the night had passed with no violent street battles—her logistical mind had feared far worse bloodshed. Dread at the scope of what they had done: so many lives upended, families awakened by armed men, Columbia's democracy gutted under the cover of darkness.
Trumbull tossed the report onto his desk. "We need to control the narrative immediately. Felix did fine on NNN, but I want visuals. Marcus, can we get footage of the contraband? Weapons, documents, whatever you found."
Marcus gave a curt nod. "We've already distributed selected images to the media pool—stockpiles of cash, some firearms we confiscated." Elaine suspected many of those items were ordinary possessions stretched into sinister props.
AG Holt chimed in, adjusting his glasses. "We'll also have a DOJ press conference by midday, sir. We'll emphasize how this operation foiled a coordinated terrorist conspiracy."
"Good, good," Trumbull said, then snapped his fingers. "And what about confessions? Surely some of those punks are already singing."
Elaine interjected softly, "Sir, it's very early. They were just detained last night. We might not have—"
Trumbull waved her off. "I bet a few will talk. If not, persuade them. I want at least one or two of these people on camera admitting their plots by tomorrow. We'll air it on NNN in prime time." His eyes gleamed at the prospect.
Marcus and Holt exchanged a glance. "We have interrogations underway," Holt said carefully. "We'll select cooperative detainees to make statements."
Elaine felt a sour taste in her mouth. She could imagine what "cooperative" entailed. Coerced, scripted confessions to justify this purge. The President's plan was to cement the public narrative quickly: these weren't just opposition members, they were dangerous conspirators.
As talk turned to scheduling the President's address for that evening, Elaine mustered the courage to voice a minor suggestion. "Mr. President, perhaps as a show of good faith, we could quietly review a few of the detainees who might have been swept up by mistake." Her voice was calm, diplomatic. "If there are any harmless individuals, releasing one or two could—"
Trumbull's head snapped toward her. "Mistake?" he cut in sharply. The merriment drained from his face, replaced by a cold glare. "Elaine, are you questioning the operation's accuracy?"
Her stomach flipped. "No, sir. Of course not. I only mean—"
"You mean you want to go soft." Trumbull's tone was acid. The other aides shifted uncomfortably; Marcus's jaw set hard. "This is the problem with some people—they lose their nerve the moment tough action is taken."
Elaine felt Marcus's eyes on her, a warning in his stare. Heat crept up her neck. "My concern is optics, sir," she tried to clarify, voice subdued. "If we show a little mercy—"
"Mercy is for the weak," Trumbull barked. "These people are traitors. I won't have some bleeding heart gesture undermine what we achieved." He stabbed a finger on his desk for emphasis. "Understood?"
It took all of Elaine's composure not to flinch. She lowered her eyes in deference. "Understood, Mr. President."
An awkward silence fell. Trumbull huffed, then returned his attention to Holt and Marcus, resuming the strategizing as if Elaine had vanished from the room. Marcus shot her a sidelong look that was equal parts caution and reproach. Elaine nodded subtly—message received. She pressed her lips together and stepped back, folding into the background.
As the meeting wound down, Trumbull clapped Marcus on the shoulder. "Excellent work, everyone. Marcus, give your teams my thanks. AG, I'll see you at the briefing later." With that, Trumbull grabbed his jacket and headed out; he had a photo op scheduled, Elaine recalled, at a police union gathering. The optics of that timing made her want to cringe—a victory lap.
Elaine collected the scattered papers from the Oval table. Her hands shook slightly, though she hoped no one saw. She had been chastised before, but something about the President's glare today unsettled her deeply. I can't show hesitation again, she warned herself. Not if she wanted to remain in this inner sanctum of power. She'd sold her soul to be here—now she had to keep it together.
As she exited into the hallway, she skimmed the detainee list once more. Dr. Ellen Cho's name stared back at her, along with dozens of others who didn't belong on any terrorist roster. Elaine's chest tightened. For a split second, she allowed herself to remember Ellen's warm laugh at a college reunion years ago, how Ellen had congratulated Elaine on her political success.
Now Ellen was in some cell, terrified, branded an enemy of the state. Because of Elaine's boss. Because of Elaine's own complicity.
She forced the thought away. There's no room for sentiment, she scolded herself internally. This was the path she'd chosen. Steeling her face into an unreadable mask, Elaine marched on. There was work to do—press releases to craft, officials to strong-arm, and her own conscience to silence.
Capitol Hill that afternoon was a cauldron of whispers and nerves. Senator Larry Rhodes closed the door to the private Senate Leadership lounge, where a handful of senior lawmakers gathered in secrecy. Outside, flashes of cameras were visible through the tall windows as reporters swarmed, hungry for any statement about the overnight events.
Rhodes straightened his tie and faced the small group: two National Party committee chairs and the Minority Leader from the Democratic Union. The latter, Senator Ortega, spoke first, her tone sharp. "Larry, you can't seriously expect us to pretend nothing happened. Dozens of our colleagues' staff and constituents were hauled away like criminals last night. The Senate must address this."
Murmurs of agreement came from one of the National senators—an older man who looked decidedly uncomfortable. Rhodes raised his hands placatingly. He was in his mid-fifties, with thinning hair and a perpetual frown that had deepened in the last twelve hours. "We are addressing it," he said. "I've spoken with the Attorney General. He's agreed to brief select Senate leaders in a closed session."
"Closed session?" Ortega echoed incredulously. "This needs public scrutiny, not a classified chat behind closed doors."
Rhodes set his jaw. He had expected outrage from the opposition, but he couldn't allow it to gain traction. "National security operations often involve sensitive intel," he replied, a practiced justification. "We don't want to compromise ongoing efforts by airing everything publicly. The priority is to get information, not provide a spectacle."
One of the committee chairs—a Trumbull loyalist—nodded vigorously. "Absolutely. We can't have a circus that undermines public confidence during a security crisis."
Ortega's eyes flashed. "Public confidence? Larry, the public is terrified. They woke up to a de facto martial law scenario. We owe them answers, not cover-ups."
Rhodes felt a pulse of irritation. He had known Ortega for years; she was principled to a fault, and normally he respected that. But today was not normal. Today he needed compliance. "Senator," he said curtly, "the briefing with AG Holt is scheduled for this evening. We'll hear the justifications directly. Until then, I advise patience. We must avoid knee-jerk reactions that could inflame the situation."
The room fell into tense silence. Ortega shook her head in disgust. She stood. "While you coddle the Administration with patience, ordinary people are being terrorized by their own government." With that, she walked out, slamming the ornate door behind her.
Rhodes closed his eyes for a moment, fatigue and guilt pressing on him. When he opened them, he found the senior National Party senators studying him. One cleared his throat. "Larry," the man said in a low voice, "off the record... this is insane. We can't go along with this forever."
Rhodes felt a flicker of something like panic in his chest—was dissent spreading in his own ranks? He fixed the senator with a hard stare. "We will do what's necessary to maintain stability," he replied, each word measured. "This country has been through hell with riots and division. President Trumbull is restoring order. You saw the same briefings I did about threats. We're lucky he acted decisively."
The other man looked down, chastened or unconvinced, it was hard to tell. Rhodes realized his hand was trembling; he clenched it into a fist at his side. "We're done here," he muttered, and left the lounge.
In the corridor, he nodded tersely to aides. He needed a moment alone. Ducking into his personal office, Rhodes shut the door and braced his hands against his desk. His heart was thudding too fast. The truth was, he hadn't seen any real evidence of looming terrorist plots. Holt's classified briefings had been vague at best. Deep down, Rhodes knew Ortega was right: this was a purge, not a protection measure.
How did we get here? he wondered, not for the first time. He had stood by Trumbull through every escalation, rationalizing each erosion of norms as politics as usual or necessary security. Now, overnight, their government had crossed into open authoritarianism. And still, here he was, making excuses for it.
A distant chant reached his ears and Rhodes moved to the window. Down on the Capitol steps, perhaps a hundred people had gathered with signs—protesters. They were shouting slogans he couldn't make out from the glass, but he caught glimpses of words like "freedom" and "justice" on their placards.
Before he could even contemplate their bravery, a line of riot police advanced on the group. In seconds, chaos erupted. He saw scuffles as armed officers shoved the crowd back. One man was slammed to the ground, his sign—"Where are the disappeared?"—clattering away. The protesters were no match; they scattered in all directions, some tackled and handcuffed.
Rhodes's mouth went dry. He pulled the curtain closed with a sharp tug, shutting out the scene. He stood there in the dim office, cloth held in his clenched fingers.
He felt ill. The colleague's words echoed: we can't go along with this forever. Perhaps not forever, Rhodes thought grimly, but for now he saw no way out. To defy Trumbull openly would be political suicide and likely much worse. If he resigned in protest, someone more extreme would replace him and rubber-stamp even harsher measures. At least by staying, he told himself, he might temper the regime's excesses, however slightly.
That's what he told himself, anyway.
Rhodes released the curtain and slumped into his leather chair. On his desk sat a framed photo of him and Trumbull on Inauguration Day. He turned it face-down.
Outside his office, through the thick doors, he heard the muffled din of anxious staffers and ringing phones. Columbia was in upheaval, and he was one of the few who could have raised an alarm. Instead, he had muzzled the Senate and stifled debate, all in the name of stability.
"Too late now," he whispered to no one. He straightened his tie again with shaking hands, preparing to head back out and face the reporters with carefully crafted platitudes. His reflection in the dark computer screen caught his eye—he looked ashen, older than his years.
Larry Rhodes took a long breath and stood, donning his mask of authority once more. The fight had gone out of him for today. He would march forward and do what was asked, convincing himself one more time it was for the greater good.
After all, the Rubicon had been crossed. There was no turning back without being swept away in the current.
Chapter 10: Courtroom Confrontation
The day after the sweeps, Justice Margaret Greene sat in her High Court chambers, a thin emergency petition trembling slightly in her hands. The sun was setting outside, casting long shadows over the ornate carpet. Greene's reading glasses perched on her nose as she scanned the document for a third time, weighing every word.
It was a petition for a writ of habeas corpus, filed just hours ago by a civil liberties lawyer on behalf of a detained professor. The man had been snatched in the sweep and held incommunicado. The petition pleaded for the High Court to intervene, to order the government to show cause for the arrest or release the detainee. It landed on Greene's desk as the Chief Justice's prerogative to handle urgent individual matters.
She pressed her lips together, heart heavy. Last night she and a few colleagues had sent a pointed inquiry to the Attorney General about the raids, demanding the legal basis. The response that came that morning was a perfunctory letter citing "national security" and little else. Now this petition forced the issue. The question before her: Would the judiciary stand up, however meekly, against the executive's onslaught, or would it stay silent?
Greene rose from her leather chair and paced to the tall bookshelf lined with decades of legal tomes. On her wall hung portraits of revered jurists. Their painted eyes seemed to watch her now. She remembered how one of her predecessors had once said, "The Court's silence in times of crisis can signal the death of liberty." Was this such a time?
She picked up the phone to call a colleague. Justice Alan Mills answered after a few rings. Mills was a pragmatic centrist on the Court, one who often counseled caution. Greene briefed him on the petition and her inclination to act. As expected, Mills urged restraint. "Margaret, we have to be careful," he said, voice hushed as if someone might overhear. "The Court's legitimacy rests on not appearing partisan. If we leap in now… some will claim we're obstructing national security."
Greene pinched the bridge of her nose. "So we do nothing while they trample habeas corpus?" she replied, a bit more sharply than intended. She thanked Mills and ended the call.
Next she phoned Justice Priya Chaudhury, a fellow liberal voice on the bench. Chaudhury's response was the opposite. "If we don't intervene here, why do we even exist?" Chaudhury said heatedly. "This is Korematsu all over again—detentions without due process. We can't repeat that mistake. History won't forgive us."
After hanging up, Greene stood for a long moment in the center of her office, petition in hand. Mills's warning and Chaudhury's plea dueled in her mind. She thought of infamous wartime rulings where courts had bowed to executive fearmongering, and how later generations looked back in shame. She also thought of more recent years, when small acts of judicial courage had at least slowed the erosion of rights.
Resolved, she returned to her desk and buzzed her clerk. "Tim, please draft an order for my review," she said, her voice firm. "We will grant a temporary stay on Professor Kanter's detention and require the Justice Department to submit a brief justifying his arrest within 48 hours."
Her young clerk's eyes widened—such an order, even narrow, was a bold step. "Right away, Chief," he said. As he rushed off to prepare the language, Greene looked again at the petition's cover page. The case caption glared up at her: Kanter v. Columbia. It felt momentous, like the opening salvo of a coming battle between branches of government.
An hour later, Greene read the draft order. It was measured, almost timid in its phrasing, but it did the essential: it commanded the government to produce the detainee in federal court and show legal cause for holding him. She edited a few lines to soften any accusatory tone, aiming to present it as a routine judicial review rather than a direct rebuke. She knew the power of optics; she didn't want to hand Trumbull ammunition to paint the Court as his enemy—though she suspected he would regardless.
With a deep breath, she signed the order. It was done. A copy would be sent immediately to the Justice Department. They had two days to comply.
As dusk turned to evening, Margaret Greene felt a cautious sense of righteousness. It was a small stand, but it was something— a signal that the rule of law still flickered, however faintly.
That hope lasted only a few hours.
Later that night, at home, Justice Greene sat in her living room with the television on low volume. Felix Archer was interviewing President Trumbull live on NNN. Greene watched intently, a cup of untouched chamomile tea in her hands. She had anticipated that Trumbull might react publicly to her order; indeed, he had likely been informed of it by his Attorney General the moment it was filed.
On screen, Felix's expression was carefully neutral as he posed a question about the legality of the sweeps. "Mr. President, some have raised concerns about due process regarding last night's operations. What is your response?"
Trumbull's jaw tightened—a telltale sign of his irritation. "I'll tell you this," he said, leaning forward. "Certain judges seem to think they know better than our security agencies. They're playing with fire, jeopardizing national security on a technicality."
Greene's grip on her teacup tightened. Certain judges—the reference was clear.
The President continued, words flowing with barely restrained anger. "We have a nation to protect. If the judiciary is stuck in the past, unwilling to adapt to the threats we face, then perhaps we need to take a hard look at reforming those institutions. We can't afford obstruction from any branch of government when lives are on the line."
Felix nodded along, voice calm as ever. "You're referring to the temporary stay issued this evening by Chief Justice Greene?"
Trumbull didn't use her name, but he bared his teeth in a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I'm not getting into specifics," he said, which was an answer in itself. "I'll just say, I will not allow anyone to weaken the security of Columbia. Not politicians, not the media, and not anybody else. We'll take whatever measures necessary to keep our people safe."
Greene's heart pounded. That was an open threat—a threat directed at the independence of the courts. Reforming the judiciary? She imagined he had in mind court-packing, or pushing her aside somehow. It was unprecedented rhetoric from a Columbia president, an authoritarian drumbeat on national TV.
Her phone buzzed on the coffee table, startling her. She set down her tea and answered. It was her clerk, Tim, sounding anxious. "Chief, the Attorney General just filed an emergency appeal to Justice Clarence for a stay of your order… and, um, Justice Clarence granted it."
Greene shut her eyes. Justice Clarence was Trumbull's most recently appointed ally on the High Court—a junior justice, but one who had jurisdiction over emergency matters from the lower circuit where the petition originated. Apparently he had wasted no time.
"I see," Greene said quietly. She thanked her clerk and hung up.
She felt a hollowness in her chest. The detainee would remain in custody; her order was essentially nullified within hours of being issued. Clarence hadn't even consulted her or the full Court, choosing to act unilaterally in deference to the administration's claims of urgency.
On the television, the interview ended and switched to a panel of pundits. Greene muted it. She sat in silence, the blue glow of the screen flickering across her face. Never had she felt so quickly and thoroughly slapped down.
She thought of calling Justice Chaudhury or even Mills again, but what was there to say? The Court's internal divide was clear—and Trumbull's allies had the upper hand.
A swirl of emotions churned within her: anger at Clarence for his cowardice, frustration at her own limited power, and a creeping fear for the future. If the President was willing to openly threaten "reforms" and her own colleagues were willing to undercut her at the first opportunity, how long could she realistically hold the line?
Margaret Greene rose and went to her study, where the Constitution lay on her desk from the night before. She ran her fingers over its cover as she had less than 24 hours earlier. Now it felt more like a relic than a living document.
In that quiet moment, Greene acknowledged to herself something she wouldn't yet say aloud: the judiciary had been put on notice. They were expected to fall in line, or else. And if they did fall in line—if she fell in line—what justice could the people of Columbia hope for?
Her thoughts wandered to her late husband's portrait on the shelf. He had been a federal judge too, a steadfast believer in the rule of law. "What would you do, John?" she murmured. Resign in protest? Stay and fight a losing battle?
There was no easy answer. Greene squared her shoulders. Come morning, she would return to the High Court and carry on as best she could. Perhaps that meant measured resistance, or perhaps simply preserving what little integrity the institution had left.
But tonight, in the privacy of her home, she allowed herself a rare moment of despair. A thin line had been drawn—she had dared to push back, and the regime had pushed harder. The message was unmistakable: even the highest court in the land was not beyond the reach of Victor Trumbull's fury.
Justice Greene extinguished the lights and sat alone in the darkness for a long while, bracing herself for whatever would come next.
Chapter 11: Closing Ranks
Colonel Marcus Hall surveyed the faces around the conference table with a rare note of satisfaction. It was the morning after the crackdown, and in a secure sub-basement of the Domestic Security Bureau headquarters, the architects of the operation were debriefing. Monitors on the walls showed live feeds from around the country: quiet city streets under increased patrol, a map with blinking dots indicating detainee transport locations. All signs of a mission accomplished.
Marcus cleared his throat. "Ladies and gentlemen," he began, folding his hands on the table, "last night was a success. Textbook."
A murmur of agreement circled the room. Caleb Tyler—Director of the DSB—leaned back in his chair, a self-satisfied smirk on his face. Various heads of security agencies, along with a couple of military liaisons, nodded wearily. Many had been up all night, but the adrenaline of victory still coursed through them.
"Our units hit 100% of primary targets," Marcus continued. "Coordination between federal and local teams was strong. Any initial hiccups?"
"Just one or two small fires," Director Tyler replied. He flipped open a notebook. "In Capital District, a lawyer filed an immediate injunction for his client." Tyler's thin lips twitched in annoyance. "High Court got involved. But Justice Clarence took care of it." A few around the table chuckled dryly. Everyone knew Clarence was a friend to the administration.
Marcus frowned slightly. He had heard something about the Chief Justice's attempted stay. "Next time, let's anticipate that," he said. "We don't want judges meddling in real time. Consider not publicizing arrests until after detainees are relocated, or explore routing them through military jurisdiction where civilian courts have limited reach." His tone was matter-of-fact. These were procedural adjustments for future operations. The men and women around him absorbed it in stride; this was the new normal.
"Understood," Tyler agreed. "Loose ends will be tightened."
"Good," Marcus said. He tapped a folder in front of him. "Now, onto our remaining persons of interest." He gestured to an analyst at the far end, who changed the screen to display a list of names and photos—people who, for one reason or another, hadn't been scooped up in the initial sweep.
Marcus stood and walked over to the screen. He pointed to one photo: Karen Li's stern, familiar face from a public event. "Karen Li," he said. "High profile dissident, former Congresswoman. We held off on her. Too prominent to grab without fallout." He glanced back at Tyler. "We proceed with surveillance instead. 24/7. I want to know everyone she meets, everywhere she goes. If she's part of rebuilding any resistance network, we'll map it out and then take it down in one blow."
Tyler gave a thin, wolfish smile. "Already in motion, Colonel. We've got eyes on her house and tail teams rotating shifts."
Marcus nodded, satisfied. Karen Li would remain as bait for now—she'd unknowingly lead them to other stragglers. He shifted his finger to the next picture: a grainy image of Marcia Davenport, cropped from a press scrum. The veteran reporter's eyes were captured mid-blink, making her look uncharacteristically vulnerable. "Davenport," Marcus said flatly. "She slipped through our net last night. Her office was raided but she wasn't there."
One of Tyler's deputies spoke up. "She went underground. We think she anticipated the raid. Her apartment's empty, cell phone inactive. But she won't get far."
Marcus's jaw tightened. Marcia had long been a thorn in the administration's side. "We'll flush her out," he said. "Use her contacts. Any remaining Chronicle staff or known associates—lean on them. Feed false info if needed to draw her into the open. Perhaps a rumor about a colleague hurt or a source needing help. Davenport's journalistic instincts are a weakness we can exploit."
He allowed himself a small, cold smile. "We have momentum now. The opposition is fractured and scared. It's time to hunt the ones who think they can hide."
Around the table, a few smirks and nods met his declaration. The mood had shifted from defensive to predatory.
Marcus resumed his seat. "Finally, loyalty," he said, flipping to another page in his notes. "The President wants assurance that everyone in this room—and in your chains of command—remains fully committed. If you have anyone on your teams who hesitated last night or expressed reservations, flag them."
A silence followed, each person glancing about to gauge the others. They all understood: this was a purge not just of known dissidents but of unreliable elements within. Heads nodded slowly.
Satisfied, Marcus closed the meeting. "Good work. Stay sharp. We're just getting started."
As the officials dispersed, Marcus lingered, looking once more at the surveillance map on the screen. Tiny beacons showed the country under a watchful grid. He felt a fierce pride. In his career as a military officer, he'd always believed in pre-emptive action against threats. Now he was applying that doctrine on domestic soil—and it was working.
He picked up a secure phone and dialed a number. When Elaine Buchanan answered on the other end, Marcus gave a concise report: the roundup aftermath was being handled, loose ends addressed, no cause for concern. Elaine thanked him and hung up briskly. Marcus could imagine her in the White House, spinning the media and soothing whatever international partners needed reassurance today.
Marcus allowed himself a rare moment to breathe. Last night, he had won a significant battle for Trumbull's new order. And he intended to win many more before this was over.
In the Oval Office's private study, Elaine Buchanan sat opposite President Trumbull with a notebook on her lap. The late afternoon light slanted through bulletproof windows as they reviewed cabinet appointments and upcoming policy rollouts. It was supposed to be routine business, yet Elaine could feel an undercurrent crackling in the air.
Trumbull was ebullient from victory, but also restless, like a lion that had tasted blood and was already hungry for more. He riffled through a stack of papers—departmental loyalty assessments Elaine had compiled—and tossed one after the other on the desk.
"This one," he said, pointing at a Defense Department official's name highlighted in yellow. "Not sure about him. He hedged when I asked if he'd support extraordinary measures. I want a close eye on him."
Elaine nodded and made a note. "Understood. I'll have his background re-vetted and monitored."
Trumbull grunted approval, then abruptly stood and began pacing the length of the study. Elaine sensed something on his mind beyond the printed page.
Sure enough, Trumbull spoke up, seemingly out of the blue. "Elaine, do you know what one of my aides asked me today? He asked if I felt vindicated." He chuckled. "Vindicated—imagine that. As if I ever had doubt."
Elaine offered a polite smile. "It's been quite a 24 hours, sir. Many of us feel… validated that the plan worked."
He stopped pacing and looked at her, his expression oddly intense. "This isn't just about validation. It's about securing the future. My future and the country's future—same thing, in the end."
Elaine felt a slight chill at his words. "Of course, sir. Stability moving forward is key."
Trumbull stepped closer, lowering his voice as if imparting a secret. "Stability, yes. We achieved a major step. But there will be more threats, more chaos-makers. We have to think long term. 2028, for instance."
Elaine's pen hovered above the notebook. 2028: the next scheduled presidential election. Still three years away, an eternity in politics—yet here he was.
"What about 2028, Mr. President?" she asked carefully.
Trumbull resumed pacing, eyes on the framed map of Columbia on the wall. "I won't let this country fall back into the hands of traitors and weaklings. Not in 2028, not ever. If things are still dicey, we may need to postpone that election. Or cancel it. Who knows?"
He said it almost breezily, but Elaine's heart skipped. Even for Trumbull, it was a brazen notion to voice aloud. Postpone the election? Indefinitely? She fought to keep her face neutral.
"Sir," she said slowly, "I believe by then the nation may stabilize enough that—"
He turned to face her sharply. "Enough that what? That I can risk it all on an election that can be sabotaged by my enemies? No. I won't be a fool twice." The reference to his 2020 loss hung in the air. Bitterness flitted across his features.
Elaine set her notebook down. "Of course, contingency plans can be explored… if circumstances warrant," she conceded carefully. She chose her next words gingerly. "It's just, making such plans public too early might alarm even our allies. Perhaps it's best kept internal for now."
Trumbull studied her, and for a heartbeat Elaine worried she'd overstepped again. But he gave a thin smile. "Naturally. I'm not announcing anything. But I want you to start thinking along those lines. Quietly, with Marcus's help maybe. Scenarios where national emergency could justify, say, extending my term for continuity."
Elaine felt a flush in her cheeks—disbelief mixed with a strange resignation. This was how far he intended to go. She had suspected, but hearing it confirmed still jolted her. "I'll consider what measures would be required," she replied, her voice betraying nothing.
"Good." Trumbull came back around to the chair and sank into it, his energy shifting again. He smiled, almost warmly. "You've done well, Elaine. We both have. Four years ago, they thought I was finished. And now?" He gestured grandly around him. "Now I hold all the cards."
Elaine forced a genuine-looking smile to mirror his. "Yes, Mr. President. You've outmaneuvered them all."
Yet inside, a hollow feeling grew. She remembered 2021, when she'd helped pack up this very office as Trumbull begrudgingly left after his first defeat. The chaos, the bitterness. Now, improbably, he was back, and the Oval was his realm once more. And here she was, orchestrating his iron grip on power.
Trumbull leaned forward, placing his hand briefly on her forearm. The contact was unexpected; it almost felt like camaraderie. "Daily loyalty reports, Elaine," he said softly. "I want them on my desk every morning. And any hint of disloyalty from any quarter, you bring it to me immediately. I don't care how minor."
Elaine met his gaze. "I will, sir."
He patted her arm, then stood. "That's all for now. I have to make a few calls."
Taking the cue, Elaine gathered her notebook and rose. "Good night, Mr. President."
As she walked out of the study, her mind was racing. Postpone the election. Daily loyalty purges. The transformation was accelerating. She had pledged to serve him, to be the steady hand guiding his agenda, believing she could temper the extremes. But with each passing day, she felt more like an enabler of unbridled tyranny.
She paused in the empty hallway and allowed herself a single, shuddering exhale. Then she straightened her blazer, composed her face, and moved on. Her choice was made long ago—she would see this through, come what may.
Felix Archer swirled the whiskey in his glass, watching the amber liquid catch the bar's low light. Across from him sat Thomas Levy, an old friend from Felix's early journalism days. But tonight Thomas wasn't the confident investigative reporter Felix remembered—he was an exile in the making.
"They yanked my accreditation this morning," Thomas was saying quietly. He kept glancing over his shoulder. The downtown hotel bar was nearly empty, but caution had become second nature. "My editor says I'm being investigated for 'seditious activity.' It's nonsense—retaliation for my last article, obviously."
Felix nodded, lips pressed thin. Thomas had written a piece last month critical of rising authoritarianism. Felix had anchored a segment denouncing that very piece as alarmist. Now here they were.
"What will you do?" Felix asked, though he already knew. A packed suitcase sat at Thomas's feet.
"I'm flying to Toronto in a few hours," Thomas said. "An old mentor lined up a position at an online outlet there. It's basically exile, but at least I can keep writing." He tried to smile, but it faltered. "Columbia's not safe for people like me. Not anymore."
Felix felt a pang of guilt. People like Thomas—truth-tellers—were being driven out. And people like Felix remained, speaking lines fed to them. He took a sip of whiskey, its burn not as harsh as the shame creeping into his gut.
Thomas studied him for a moment. "You know, Felix, we never thought you'd end up the regime's mouthpiece. Back in the day, you had some fire."
Felix bristled reflexively. "I report the news, Thomas. I can't control the facts."
Thomas raised an eyebrow. "Can't control which facts you highlight, which narratives you push?"
Felix opened his mouth to retort, but nothing came. He set his glass down, unable to meet Thomas's gaze.
His friend sighed. "Look, I'm not here to judge you. I know it's complicated. You've got a family to think of, a career…" He lowered his voice. "Just… be careful. The water's boiling slowly, but it's boiling. Don't let them cook you alive in it."
Felix felt a flush creeping up his neck. "I'll be fine. I keep my head down."
"That's what worries me," Thomas said softly. He placed a hand on Felix's shoulder. "History remembers what we choose to do in times like these. Or what we choose not to do."
Felix forced a grin he didn't feel. "And what's history going to say about you? Cutting and running?"
Thomas's expression hardened, then he gave a sad smile. "Maybe it'll say I had the sense to fight another day, from a place I could actually speak freely."
Felix bit back a reply. Instead, he clinked his glass against Thomas's. "Safe travels, Tom."
They parted with a quick, tight hug. Felix watched his friend leave the bar, the door swinging shut with a finality that made his chest ache. Then he downed the rest of his whiskey and ordered another—just one more before heading home.
Later that night, Felix sat alone in his apartment's study, the glow of his laptop screen illuminating his face. He had opened an email draft he'd been writing on and off for weeks—a letter to his younger sister abroad. In it, he had poured out his conflicted feelings about the regime, lines of truth he couldn't say on air. He scrolled through the paragraphs: complaints about propaganda, fears about where the country was headed, half-formed apologies for being complicit.
His finger hovered over the keyboard. After the evening with Thomas, this letter felt like a liability. If the security bureau ever raided his devices, these words could ruin him. Maybe even endanger his sister if they thought she was involved.
Felix's eyes burned with unshed tears of frustration as he began selecting all the text. With a hollow resolve, he pressed delete. The words vanished, leaving a blank white screen. He emptied the trash folder, ensuring the letter was unrecoverable.
Next, he opened a folder of personal notes—little observations he'd jotted down over the past months about inconsistencies in official statements, about his private doubts. He deleted those too, one by one. Each deletion felt like erasing a piece of himself.
When he was done, Felix closed the laptop and gazed around his quiet apartment. The walls seemed to press inward with suffocating emptiness. He realized he had never felt so utterly alone.
He had power, in a sense—the power to shape public perception on the nightly news. But he lacked the courage to use it for anything beyond parroting the government line. And now he had even silenced his own private dissent.
Felix recalled Thomas's parting words. History remembers what we choose to do. He wondered bleakly what it would remember of him. A man who stood by and read the lies, night after night, because it was comfortable, because he was afraid to lose what little he had.
On his desk, his phone buzzed with a text: a producer reminding him of tomorrow's early broadcast meeting. Felix turned the phone face-down.
He rose and looked out the window. The city skyline was dark, punctuated by the occasional red flash of a security drone. In that moment, Felix made a promise only to himself: to survive. Maybe, he told himself, survival was a form of resistance too—living to see a day when he might atone for all this.
But deep down, as he returned to his empty bed, Felix Archer knew that was just another comfortable lie. The truth was, he had closed ranks with the rest of them. Fear had sealed his lips, and now he was as much a prisoner of this "new normal" as those behind bars.