Chapter Twenty-One
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CREEL LAWSON CHECKED his appearance in the mirror hanging on a wall in his office.
He still wore his camouflage shirt and pants, but they were clean now.
He sneered at the plain white armband on his left arm.
“They should have come up with a better way to identify Governor Giamano’s militia,” he scoffed.
Pushing his sleeve back, he admired the swastika on his wrist. Everyone in his circle had the same tattoo, including his woman and their teenage sons.
Only thirty-six, he’d knocked his girlfriend up when they were both eighteen.
He’d always wanted a big family, but four of his kids had been raptured.
Now he only had two boys to follow in his footsteps.
He checked his watch to see it was time for his meeting with the governor. “Giamano’s not going to be in charge for much longer,” Creel murmured as he strode over to the door. “I’ll be the one sitting behind that huge desk soon,” he added.
Ivy Roche’s door was closed when he walked past it. He didn’t see it crack open as he knocked on Oliver’s door. No one answered, so Mr. Lawson entered the office. Oliver was gazing out the window with a vacant expression. “Sir?” he said to get the Italian-American’s attention.
“Hmm?” the politician said, sounding dazed. He swiveled his chair around and smiled in surprise. “Mr. Lawson!” he said. “Did we have an appointment?” Oliver’s hair was unwashed and he hadn’t combed it. His usual slick appearance had slipped. He was wearing the same suit that he’d worn yesterday.
“Yes, sir,” Creel said, closing the door and crossing to sit on one of the visitors’ chairs. “You wanted to discuss moving some of our militants out to the farms and factories,” he said. It was actually Creel’s idea, but the governor had seemed amenable to it.
“Tell me the details again,” Governor Giamano requested, sitting back in his oversized black leather chair. He steepled his fingers and fixed his gaze on the new guard.
“As I said before, sir, Manhattan will soon become the heart of America,” the prepper said earnestly. “We’ll need only the best people to police the streets and maintain order. People we can trust,” he added meaningfully.
Oliver nodded wisely, but his eyes were blank. “And who can we trust, Mr. Lawson?” he asked.
“People like us, sir,” Creel said with a grin. “People with the right genes, I guess you could say.”
The governor frowned slightly. “What sort of genes are you talking about?” he asked in confusion.
“White people, sir,” the prepper said baldly. “We’re a genetically superior race and we should be the ones running things.”
Oliver’s frown deepened in disapproval. “I’m sure Xathan would disagree with that opinion,” he said. “Rahab trusts his advisor. He’s very intelligent. Everyone knows that.”
Creel smirked and checked his watch again.
“Accidents happen, Governor. Xathan might not be around for much longer. Besides, you don’t need Rahab or his biker gang now that you’ve got me and my people to back you up.
We outnumber them by thousands. Say the word and I’ll start working on a plan to get rid of them all. ”
The politician nodded again, but Mr. Lawson had the feeling his words weren’t really getting through to him. “It would be nice to get rid of Rahab and his freaks,” Oliver said in a dreamy tone. “But not yet. We still need them.”
Creel managed not to scowl at having his wishes denied, or at least delayed.
Getting rid of his rivals could wait, but he was determined to have his way on the more important topic.
“I was thinking we can start transitioning people of color out to guard the farms and factories soon, sir,” Creel said.
“Do I have your permission to get the ball rolling?”
“Of course,” the governor agreed, waving his hand vaguely. “I need people I can trust to keep Manhattan safe. There are a lot of bad people out there now, you know.”
“I know, sir,” Mr. Lawson said, eyeing the politician with a slight frown. “Are you feeling well, sir?” he asked.
Governor Giamano’s gaze sharpened and he seemed to gather his focus. “I’m fine,” Oliver snapped. “I just have a headache,” he said defensively.
Creel knew he was lying, but he let it slide. “I’ll get started on your plans, sir,” he said, then rose and strode over to the door.
Waiting until his lackey was gone, Oliver put his hands over his face.
“What’s happening to me?” he moaned quietly.
His mind had been fuzzy for the past few weeks, if not months.
It was hard to think clearly and impossible to keep track of details.
Ivy had to remind him of his schedule constantly.
His fears that he had a tumor growing in his brain were never far from his mind.
Something was wrong, but he didn’t know what it was.
“This is Rahab’s fault,” he said sulkily, dropping his hands to his desk. “Everything was fine before he came along. Now I feel like I’m losing control of this city and my own mind.”
Sex no longer interested him. He only ate when his receptionist brought food to him.
Every night when he went home to his new apartment on 5th Avenue, he sat alone, staring at the blank TV.
Sometimes, he forgot to go to bed and sat on the couch in a stupefied state all night long.
It had happened again last night, in fact.
He looked down to see his suit was badly wrinkled.
He smelled like he hadn’t showered in days.
Racked with despair, Governor Giamano didn’t know what to do. He knew he wouldn’t make it out in the wilds on his own. He was city born and bred and he was used to luxury rather than hardship.
“I’ll die if I step down from my position and leave Manhattan,” he said, eyes misting at the thought of becoming a nobody. “I’m supposed to become the president of this country. It’s my destiny!”
He let out a small sob, then reined in his emotions. Ivy Roche could enter at any time with a mug of coffee. He didn’t want her to see him crying like a child.
Standing up, he crossed to his private bathroom and winced at his slovenly reflection.
“You’re a mess, Oliver Giamano,” he said in disgust. He took a comb out of a drawer in the vanity and tidied his hair.
Then he sprayed himself with deodorant. Thinking back, he tried to pinpoint when his mind had gone haywire.
“It always happens whenever I have a meeting with Rahab or Xathan and I disagree with their plans,” he said with a frown.
He’d long suspected the pair had the ability to alter his mind.
It seemed his hunch was right. They were using some kind of hypnosis on him to get him to go along with their schemes.
He’d never trusted Rahab or his crew. Maybe Creel Lawson was right and they should get rid of the Soldiers of Chaos sooner rather than later.
Oliver returned to his desk, deciding to just go along with whatever his allies said whenever he had a meeting with them.
He needed to preserve his intelligence so he could plot to get rid of all of the bikers.
It needed to happen in one fell swoop so he wouldn’t suffer too many casualties on his side.
Ivy Roche was adept at spying on her boss and his lackeys by now. She’d crept up to the door and had listened to his meeting with Creel Lawson. “He’s planning something bad,” she murmured beneath her breath when she heard the prepper’s comments about Xathan.
Hurrying back to her desk when she heard the meeting wrapping up, she picked up the walky-talky Xathan had given her.
She clicked the speaker button like he’d taught her.
“Yes?” his deep, smooth voice asked when he responded.
They used their own channel to communicate on now.
She knew to wait for him to acknowledge her, just in case he had unexpected visitors.
“It’s me, Xathan,” she whispered, forgetting no one else contacted him on this channel. “I just overheard Creel Lawson mention your name while he was in a meeting with Oliver. He said something about accidents happen and you might not be around for much longer.”
“I see,” Xathan said in a thoughtful tone. “Thank you for the warning, Ms. Roche.”
“You’re welcome,” she said, warmth flushing through her that he hadn’t dismissed her warning.
She put the walky-talky down and hoped he would watch his back.
So far, their arrangement was proving to be far more pleasurable than she’d ever hoped.
She didn’t want to lose her protector and her position.
If she was demoted, she would probably end up in one of the whorehouses, servicing the horny militants against her will.