Minnesota. The shores of Lake Minnetonka.
November 8th, Midterm Election Day. 10:15 AM.
The wind howling outside carried the damp, biting chill of Lake Superior, slamming violently against the bulletproof glass.
Alex Cargill jerked awake on the Italian leather sofa, his dress shirt soaked in cold sweat. He gasped for air, his heart hammering against his ribs like a redlined engine. His hand instinctively flew to his waist—grasping at air. The Glock 19 that had seen him through the blood and mud of his exile wasn't there.
His vision sharpened. He wasn't in that rotting, bullet-riddled safe house on the Canadian border. He was in the main study of the Cargill family estate on Lake Minnetonka. The oil portrait of the family patriarch hung stoically on the wall; the fire in the hearth crackled with warmth.
His phone screen lit up, displaying a line of text that burned his retinas:
November 8, 202X, 10:15 AM.
"Damn it..." Alex stared at the screen, his knuckles turning white as his grip tightened.
The memories rushed back like a tsunami. Four hours from now. 2:15 PM. The day history would christen "Bloody Tuesday." His cousin James—the family's golden boy, the first in line for the throne—would be publicly executed by federal agents at the Minnetonka High School polling station.
Then came the nightmare cascade: The White House declaring Minnesota in a state of "insurrection." The invocation of the Patriot Act. The freezing of over $600 billion in overseas assets belonging to Cargill and UnitedHealth. The family, treated like fatted calves, slaughtered and carved up by Wall Street and Washington. And Alex, leading the remnants of his family like rats in the dark, eventually freezing to death on a trek to Winnipeg.
Alex closed his eyes and inhaled sharply, forcing his heart rate down to sixty beats per minute.
As the family's Chief of Security and a former Delta Force officer, every instinct screamed at him to run downstairs, grab James, and drag him onto the private jet to Zurich.
But he didn't move.
He stood and walked to the window. Down on the manicured lawn, makeup artists were fussing over James. The young heir looked radiant, ready to rally support for the family-backed gubernatorial candidate.
"I can't run," Alex whispered to the glass, a flicker of pain in his eyes instantly replaced by cold, steel resolve. "If you don't die today, they'll just crash your jet tomorrow, or poison your coffee. Washington has already sharpened its knives. They want meat."
If he dragged James away now, he wouldn't save him; he would only confirm the narrative of guilt. The family would lose the moral high ground, and with it, the justification for war.
In this cruel game of chess, for the Cargill dynasty to survive, it required a martyr.
"I'm sorry," Alex murmured to his own reflection, a confession from a demon. "But I will make the entire federal government your funeral pyre."
He turned, locked the heavy oak door, ripped the landline cord from the wall, and pulled a satellite-encrypted phone from a hidden compartment in the bookshelf.
He had less than four hours until hell descended. He was going to use them to tear the sky down.
10:30 AM.
Alex made the first call.
"This is Alex. Put me through to Andrew Witty."
The secretary on the other end gave a polite deflection. "Mr. Cargill, the CEO is preparing for the afternoon board meeting..."
"Tell him if he doesn't want $120 billion in UnitedHealth's liquidity to turn into confetti in an hour, he needs to pick up the phone." Alex's voice was colder than a Minnesota winter.
Five seconds later, the line clicked. "Alex? What's going on?"
"Listen to me, Andrew. Don't ask sources, don't ask why." Alex spoke fast, every word a hammer blow. "The White House has put us on the 'Harvest List.' If you still trust the century of credit behind the Cargill name, initiate the Doomsday Protocol immediately."
"Are you joking? That requires a board vote..."
"There is no time for a board vote!" Alex roared, a lion backed into a corner. "At 2:00 PM, the Treasury is cutting the SWIFT lines for every major Minnesota corporation. You need to convert every dollar on the books into crypto, Swiss Francs, and gold immediately. Transfer everything to the offshore trusts in Singapore and Zurich. You have three hours."
Silence stretched on the line. Andrew Witty didn't get to be CEO of UnitedHealth by being slow. He heard the finality in Alex's voice—the tone of a man who had walked through a field of corpses.
"...Understood," Andrew's voice trembled slightly. "If you're wrong, I go to prison tomorrow."
"If I'm wrong, I'll give you the entire Cargill empire. If I'm right, tomorrow you'll be the Treasury Secretary of the New America."
11:00 AM.
Alex dialed the second number. Camp Ripley, north of Little Falls.
The receiver was picked up by Colonel Anderson, commander of the 133rd Airlift Wing. An old brother-in-arms from Afghanistan, and a long-time "beneficiary" of Cargill philanthropy.
"Old friend. Up for a hunt?" Alex asked.
"Alex? It's Election Day. We're on stand-down."
"I'm not talking about deer." Alex stared at the map of Minnesota on the wall, his eyes locking on Interstate 35. "I need you to activate the North Star contingency. Immediately."
Anderson paused. "North Star? That's a total mobilization plan designed for a Canadian invasion scenario. I need the Governor's signature."
"The signature will be on your desk at 2:30 PM. But your birds need to move now." Alex's voice dropped to a sinister growl. "Live ammo, Colonel. Have the 148th Fighter Wing load their F-16s with air-to-ground ordnance. And fly those two C-130 Hercules over Minnetonka. Set the flight plan to 'low-altitude observation'."
"Live ammo? Alex, what the hell are you doing? That's treason."
"No, Colonel." Alex looked out at the gray sky. "Someone is coming to our home to burn, loot, and kill. We are exercising self-defense. Remember: ten minutes after the first shot makes the news, I want every entry point into Minneapolis sealed."
Alex hung up. He removed the SIM card, snapped it in half, and tossed it into the fireplace.
The flames devoured the chip. The board was set.
1:45 PM. Outside Minnetonka High School.
A convoy of black, armored Cadillacs rolled slowly through the fallen leaves.
Inside the cabin, the silence was heavy. James Cargill adjusted his expensive Hermès tie, looking nervous.
"Do you think I have a shot?" James asked innocently, watching the campaign flags flutter along the road. "If our candidate loses, the state tax rate could hit 45%."
Alex sat opposite him, his hand gripping a black tactical briefcase. He looked at that young, clean, idealistic face, and a wave of indescribable sorrow washed over him.
You're worried about tax rates, and they are coming for your life.
"We're going to win," Alex said softly, a final farewell to a man already walking among the dead. "No matter what happens, remember: you are a Cargill. Stand tall. Always."
James gave his cousin a strange look and laughed. "What's with you today? You sound like my late father. Relax, Alex. It's just a vote, not a war."
Alex didn't smile. He turned his head to the window.
The convoy pulled into the high school lot. It was packed with luxury cars; well-dressed, affluent citizens were queuing up. It was a picture of orderly, upper-class American society.
But to Alex's eyes, it was a mass grave.
His earpiece crackled. It was his forward scout. "Boss, we have movement. Three black trucks, no markings, coming in the back gate. Occupants are heavy. This isn't PD."
Here we go.
2:05 PM.
The gunfire started earlier than predicted. And it was loud.
"EVERYONE ON THE GROUND! FEDERAL AGENTS! ICE!"
Accompanied by the amplified roar, the three trucks smashed through the glass doors of the gymnasium. Dozens of operators in full tactical gear, brandishing AR-15s, flooded the room like a wolf pack.
"We have reports of massive voter fraud involving illegal immigrants at this station! We are seizing all ballot boxes! Lethal force is authorized against resistors!"
Screams tore through the elegant atmosphere. The wealthy elite scattered in panic.
"This is unconstitutional! You have no right!" A local judge stepped forward to argue, only to be pistol-whipped across the face, blood instantly masking his features.
James froze. He had never seen violence like this. But that ingrained sense of elite responsibility drove him to make the fatal mistake—instead of retreating, he stepped forward, trying to shield the injured judge.
"Stop! I am James Cargill! I want to speak to your commander..."
"Get back!" Alex screamed, eyes wide, lunging forward.
But he knew. He was too late.
In the chaos, a masked agent smirked beneath his visor. This wasn't a raid. It was a hit.
The agent raised his rifle. He didn't even bother to aim down the sights. He just pulled the trigger.
BANG.
Time crystallized.
Alex watched the 5.56mm round spiral through the air, tearing through the space between them, and punch precisely through James's carotid artery.
Blood erupted like a red geyser, splashing violently against a "VOTE" sign nearby—a gruesome contrast.
James collapsed, his eyes wide with disbelief. He fell into Alex's arms, his hands weakly grasping at Alex's lapels. His lips moved, trying to form words, but only bloody froth spilled out.
Around them, camera flashes went off like strobes. The media assets Alex had planted faithfully captured the image that would shatter the nation: The uncrowned King of Minnesota, butchered by federal agents.
2:10 PM.
James's hand went limp.
Alex knelt in the pool of blood. He didn't cry. He didn't scream.
He looked up. His eyes no longer held anything human. They were abysses.
The ICE commander marched over, leveling his muzzle at Alex's forehead. He spoke with supreme arrogance. "Move. We're seizing the body as evidence. We suspect he was harboring lists of illegal aliens."
Alex stood up slowly. He didn't even look at the gun.
He pressed the red button on his comms unit. His voice was so calm it made the air turn frigid.
"Do it."
BOOM—!!!
The roar of engines drowned out the wailing crowd.
Two massive C-130 Hercules transports swooped down like birds of prey, screaming over the gymnasium roof at such a low altitude the jet wash tore the awnings off the building. The stars and stripes on the wings had been painted over with a bright red "North Star."
Simultaneously, the doors of several "news vans" parked around the perimeter flew open. Private military contractors poured out, racking the slides on mounted M2 heavy machine guns, locking onto the federal agents.
The ICE commander's face went pale. "You... are you insane? This is treason!"
"Treason?"
Alex pulled a document from his inside pocket—prepared in the car, bearing the Governor's shaky digital signature.
He slapped the blood-stained paper against the commander's ballistic vest.
"Pursuant to the 10th Amendment of the Constitution, and Minnesota's newly signed Emergency Order 32," Alex's voice boomed through the media microphones, broadcasting to every living room in America.
"As of this moment, federal law is void in Minnesota."
He moved—a blur of motion. He ripped the rifle from the commander's hands and kicked the man's knee backward, snapping the joint.
Over the commander's agonizing screams, Alex planted his boot on the man's head. He looked into the cameras, flanked by the approaching armor of the National Guard.
Alex smiled, a terrifying expression that sent a chill through the White House situation room.
"From now on, this is the New America. Get the hell off our land."