New York City was dead.
Usually, the city hummed. The vibration of the subway, the rattle of trucks, the distant wail of sirens—it was the heartbeat of the capital of the world.
Tonight, there was only wind.
Jason stood at the floor-to-ceiling window of the 26 Broadway penthouse. He pressed his hand against the glass. It was freezing. Frost had formed on the inside.
Below him, Manhattan was a canyon of shadows. No streetlights. No office windows glowing.
Just the flickering orange dots of trash can fires on the street corners.
"Temperature is twelve degrees," O'Malley said from the doorway. He was wearing his overcoat indoors. His breath puffed out in a white cloud.
"Status of the blockade?" Jason asked, not turning around.
"Effective. Too effective. The rail yards in Jersey are locked down. No coal is crossing the Hudson. The gas stations are dry. The power plants have about six hours of reserve fuel left before the grid fails completely."
Jason nodded. "Good. Let them freeze for one night. By morning, the strike will break. People don't march when their toes are turning black."
"I don't know, boss," O'Malley said, stepping closer. "They aren't going home."
Jason turned. "What?"
"I have boys on the ground. The strikers... they're breaking into construction sites. Stealing lumber. Burning it in the middle of Fifth Avenue. And the regular folks? They aren't hiding. They're joining them."
O'Malley hesitated.
"They're huddling together, boss. Sarah's 'social distancing' order? It backfired. The cold is forcing them to pack into the subway stations like sardines. If the Flu is there, it's having a field day."
Jason felt a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature.
He had tried to use the cold as a scalpel to cut out the strike. Instead, he had created a pressure cooker.
"Get me the Mayor," Jason said.
"Phones are down," O'Malley replied. "Lines froze. Or were cut. We're isolated."
The heavy oak doors to the office banged open.
John D. Rockefeller Jr. stumbled in.
He looked ridiculous. He was wearing three wool coats, a scarf wrapped around his head like a bandage, and thick gloves. His nose was red. He was shivering violently.
"Turn it on," Junior chattered. "Turn it back on, Ezra."
Jason leaned against his desk. He crossed his arms.
"Cold, Junior?"
"People are dying!" Junior screamed, his voice cracking. "The orphanages have no heat. The hospitals are boiling water over wood fires. You are killing them!"
"I'm not killing anyone," Jason said calmly. "The strike is killing them. Adolf is killing them. I'm just accelerating the timeline."
He picked up a silver lighter from his desk. He flicked it. The flame danced, small and yellow.
"You wanted to cleanse me, Junior? You wanted to burn me down with that photo?"
Jason snapped the lighter shut.
"Give me the negative. Give me the affidavit. And I make the call to open the rail yards."
Junior stared at him. His eyes were wet with tears of rage and humiliation.
"You are the Devil," Junior whispered.
"I'm a businessman. And this is a negotiation."
Junior reached into his innermost coat. With trembling hands, he pulled out a small black envelope. He threw it on the desk.
"Take it," Junior sobbed. "Just stop the suffering."
Jason opened the envelope. He checked the negative against the light. It was genuine. The photo of him and Gates. The evidence that could send him to the electric chair.
He held the lighter to the corner of the film. It flared up, melting into a glob of toxic-smelling plastic. He dropped it into the ashtray.
"Done," Jason said.
He picked up the hardline phone—the private company line that ran underground directly to the Jersey terminals.
"O'Malley, get on the other line. Tell the boys to open the gates. Send the coal trains."
Jason waited.
Silence.
"O'Malley?"
O'Malley was holding the receiver to his ear. His face had gone pale. Even in the dim light, Jason could see the fear.
"Boss," O'Malley whispered. "They aren't picking up."
"Try the secondary line."
"I did. Dead air."
Suddenly, the phone in O'Malley's hand crackled. A voice came through, loud enough for Jason to hear from across the room. It wasn't one of O'Malley's men.
It was a rough voice. Drunk. Angry.
"This line is property of the People's Committee now."
Click.
Jason stared at the phone.
"The rail workers," Jason realized. "They didn't just stop working."
"They joined the strike," O'Malley said, putting the phone down slowly. "They seized the trains, boss. We can't send the coal. They have it."
Jason looked at the burnt plastic in the ashtray.
He had burned the blackmail. He had won the negotiation.
But he had lost the war.
"The embargo," Jason said, his voice hollow. "It isn't artificial anymore. It's real."
"I have to see it," Jason said.
"It's suicide," Alta said. She had entered the room quietly, wearing a fur coat over her evening gown. She held a pearl-handled pistol in her hand. "The streets are a war zone."
"If I don't see what's happening, I can't fix it," Jason snapped.
He grabbed his heavy coat. "O'Malley, you drive. Take the armored Packard. It has the reserve tank."
Ten minutes later, they were skidding through the frozen streets of Lower Manhattan.
The city looked post-apocalyptic. Abandoned cars littered Broadway, covered in frost. Storefront windows were smashed, looted for anything burnable—chairs, shelves, books.
They reached Times Square.
O'Malley slammed on the brakes.
"Mother of God," O'Malley whispered.
Times Square was glowing.
A massive bonfire burned in the center of the intersection. It was fueled by furniture, crates, and what looked like a carriage.
Surrounding the fire were thousands of people.
On one side, the strikers. Men in flat caps, holding pipes and wrenches.
On the other side, the police line.
But they weren't fighting.
Jason watched through the bulletproof glass as a Police Captain—a man Jason had bribed at the Policeman's Ball last year—stepped forward.
The Captain took off his badge. It glinted in the firelight.
He threw it into the flames.
A cheer went up from the crowd. Not a cheer of victory, but of solidarity.
The Captain reached out. A striker handed him a bottle of whiskey. The Captain took a swig and passed it to his lieutenant.
"The cops haven't been paid in three weeks," Jason murmured. "Because I froze the city accounts to squeeze the mayor."
He watched as the police officers lowered their batons. They turned around. They weren't facing the mob anymore. They were part of it.
They were facing South. Toward Wall Street.
"It's a mutiny," O'Malley said. "The Blue Wall just collapsed."
In real history, the NYPD had been the hammer that crushed the Red Scare. They were loyal to the dollar.
But Jason had removed the dollar. He had removed the heat. He had reduced everyone—cop and criminal—to shivering animals huddling around a fire.
And in that cold, they found a common enemy.
The man with the heat.
Jason saw a figure climb onto the roof of a stalled trolley car near the fire.
Adolf Hitler.
He looked tiny against the backdrop of the inferno. But when he raised his hand, the chaotic sea of thousands went silent.
Adolf pointed South.
He didn't need to speak. Everyone knew the destination.
The mob began to move. A slow, dark river of anger flowing down Seventh Avenue.
"Turn around," Jason ordered, his voice tight. "Get us back to the building. Now."
"Boss, they're blocking the road!"
"Drive on the sidewalk! Go!"
The Packard roared, jumping the curb. The tires spun on the ice, then caught traction.
As they sped away, Jason looked back.
The fire in Times Square was growing. And the army marching behind it was armed with police-issue revolvers.
He hadn't just broken history. He had armed it.