Forging America: My Campaign Manager is Roosevelt

Chapter 367 - 174: Leader (3)

Glass shattered, sending shards flying everywhere.

The screams and curses instantly rose an octave. The crowd began to surge forward, and the police line looked as if it were about to collapse.

This was the very predicament Ron Smith had deliberately engineered.

In the Mayor’s Office on the second floor of City Hall.

Ron Smith stood in the gap between the curtains, watching the raging crowd below.

A long column of ash clung to the cigarette between his fingers.

His secretary cowered behind the door, trembling. "Mayor, the back door is ready. The car’s in the alley, and the chief of police is advising that you evacuate immediately..."

"Evacuate?"

Smith turned, threw the cigarette to the floor, and viciously crushed it out with the toe of his shoe.

"Evacuate where? Home? They’ll tear my house down too."

"And besides, why should I run?"

Smith straightened his suit.

"Get me a megaphone."

Smith said to his secretary.

"I’m going out."

The secretary’s eyes widened in terror. "Mayor, it’s too dangerous! They’re at the height of their anger..."

"That’s the whole point. It has to be while they’re furious."

Smith snatched several documents from his desk—the ammunition he had prepared overnight.

"Only when they’re this angry will they be willing to listen to the craziest explanation."

Smith pushed open the door and strode out.

He strode directly toward the main entrance of City Hall.

As the great doors slowly swung open, the uproar in the square ceased for a fleeting moment.

It was followed by an even more violent eruption of noise.

"He’s out!"

"Get that bastard!"

Some tried to charge the police line, forcing officers to brandish their batons and push them back.

Smith stood on the shards of broken glass.

The wind whipped his hair about, but he stood ramrod straight.

He raised the megaphone and flipped the switch.

A shriek of feedback pierced the eardrums of the crowd.

"Go on and smash it!"

Smith’s first words were a roar.

His voice was louder, more filled with rage, than the roars of the thousands before him.

"Keep smashing! Tear this building down! Go ahead and beat me to death right here!"

"If this can make money magically appear, if this can replenish your pensions, then I, Ron Smith, will personally twist off my own head and let you kick it around like a soccer ball!"

The crowd was stunned by this unorthodox display of aggression.

They had expected the Mayor to apologize, to flee, or even to get on his knees and beg for mercy.

But they never imagined he would be more belligerent than the mob itself.

A retired old worker in the front row, still clutching half a brick, stared blankly at the red-faced, furious Mayor on the steps.

"Ron, don’t you try to act tough with us!" the old worker shouted. "We worked our entire lives! That’s money we earned! You say it’s gone, just like that? Where did the money go? Did you pocket it?"

"Pocket it?"

Smith gave a bitter laugh.

"If I could pocket that much money, I’d be sunbathing on a beach in Hawaii right now! Would I be standing here letting you all throw bricks at me?"

Smith brandished the documents in his hand.

"You want to know where the money went? Want to know why pensions and salaries can’t be paid?"

"Fine. I’ll tell you."

"Open your eyes and look at this!"

He held up several printed email screenshots for everyone to see.

Though they were too far away for anyone to read the text, the bright red seal and the letterhead logo were strikingly conspicuous.

That was the official seal of the Pittsburgh City Government.

"This is the letter of intent for a purchase I signed with the Mayor of Pittsburgh, Leo Wallace, last week!"

Smith bellowed.

"Thirty million US Dollars! A full thirty million!"

"Wallace is building a port in Pittsburgh! He needs steel, he needs equipment, he needs every last screw produced in our Erie Factory!"

"If this contract goes through, our factory can reopen, our tax revenue will recover, the workers will get paid, and money will flow into the pension accounts!"

A low murmur of discussion rippled through the crowd.

They had all heard rumors about the massive construction projects going on in Pittsburgh.

"That young mayor, Leo Wallace."

Smith’s tone grew complex.

"I don’t like him. He’s one of the Democrats, a radical."

"But I have to admit, he’s a Democrat who’s willing to do business."

"He’s holding the checkbook. He’s got the money ready to go! It’s just sitting in a bank account in Pittsburgh! He even sent me an urgent email, pushing us for the shipment!"

"That’s cold, hard cash! That’s the money that can save Erie City!"

"Then why isn’t it here?!" someone in the crowd yelled. "If the money’s there, why don’t we have it?"

Smith lowered the documents in his hand.

His expression turned to one of extreme anguish.

He raised his hand, pointing toward the south.

That was the direction of Harrisburg, and of Washington.

"An excellent question."

"Why?"

"Because someone is blocking it!"

Smith’s voice echoed across the square.

"It wasn’t Leo Wallace. And it wasn’t me who rejected this money."

"The person blocking this life-saving money... is one of our own!"

"It’s the big shot in Washington we’ve always trusted, the one we voted for!"

The crowd below fell silent.

An ominous feeling spread through the air.

Smith took a deep breath and uttered the name.

"Senator Russell Warren."

The moment the name was spoken, the square erupted in an uproar.

"Impossible! Senator Warren is one of our own!"

"He’s with the Republican Party! Why would he screw us over?"

Shouts of disbelief rose from all sides.

Smith sneered.

"Yes, he’s a Republican, and so are we. And that’s exactly why I find this so chilling!"