Chapter 684 - 322: Please Live On
Leo Wallace opened his eyes.
His vision was a little blurry.
A white ceiling, white sheets, and the smell of disinfectant in the air.
He wiggled his fingers.
Still there.
He tried to move his left arm, and a sharp pain made him gasp.
"Don’t move."
Ethan’s voice sounded by his ear.
The chief of staff looked even more haggard than Leo, who was the one lying in the bed. His eyes were sunken, and his stubble was a mess.
"The doctor said the bullet went through muscle tissue. It barely missed the bone. You need to rest."
Leo didn’t say anything.
He just stared at the ceiling light.
Just then, a hushed argument could be heard from outside the hospital room door.
A man with a Washington accent said, "Is Mayor Wallace awake? I must see him at once."
Frank’s gruff voice immediately followed. "The doctor said he needs to rest. I don’t care who you are, you can’t go in right now."
"This is a request from the White House, sir," the man replied forcefully. "We have an urgent matter to discuss with the Mayor."
Listening to the conversation outside, Leo immediately guessed what was happening.
"Ethan, tell Frank to let him in," Leo said.
Ethan went to the door and brought in a stern-faced Special Service Bureau agent dressed in a black suit.
He was carrying a black briefcase with the golden White House seal embossed on it.
The agent walked to the bedside, opened the case, and took out a red secure phone.
He placed the phone on the nightstand and connected the encrypted line.
"Mayor Wallace." The agent’s voice was flat. "This is a direct line to the West Wing of the White House. Chief of Staff Stern is on the line."
Ethan glanced at Leo, preparing to give them some privacy.
Leo shook his head, signaling for him to stay.
Then, he reached out with his right hand and picked up the receiver.
"This is Wallace."
A hurried breath came from the other end of the line.
"Leo."
David Stern’s voice came through.
The White House’s great steward sounded full of anxiety.
"Thank God, you’re awake."
Stern spoke quickly.
"The President asked me to convey his sympathies. He was watching the live news coverage from his office and was shocked and angered by what happened to you. He has already ordered the Department of Justice and the FBI to conduct a full investigation. If someone was truly behind this, they will be severely punished."
"Thank the President for me," Leo replied coolly.
"Leo, you’re a hero to all of America right now."
Stern continued, his tone growing more fervent.
"All of America is watching you. You might not know this yet, but the photo of you giving a speech after being shot has gone viral worldwide. CNN, Fox, even Al Jazeera are all playing it on a loop."
"You don’t just represent Pittsburgh anymore. You now represent a certain American spirit."
"Unyielding, resilient, willing to shed blood for your beliefs."
Stern paused, as if gathering his words.
"The President greatly admires that kind of spirit."
Leo didn’t respond.
He knew these pretty platitudes were just a preamble.
’Washington’s crocodiles never shed tears of sympathy; they only get excited at the smell of blood.’
Hearing Leo’s silence, Stern finally stopped beating around the bush.
"Listen, Leo. Let’s be frank."
Stern’s voice lowered, laced with a sense of urgency.
"This is an election year."
"The President’s re-election campaign officially kicks off next month, and the current polling data is delicate. The situation in the swing states is extremely tight, especially in Pennsylvania."
"We need you."
Stern laid his cards on the table.
"You’re the key to Pennsylvania. Your influence in the Rust Belt is unparalleled. We need you on stage with us. We need your public endorsement."
"The President’s campaign team has already designed a whole strategy. We’ll use that photo of you, bleeding but still standing, in the President’s campaign ads."
"We’ve even worked out the copy: ’This is the nation we protect. This is the courage we need.’"
"We want to make you a symbol for the Democratic Party."
"Just give us the nod, and all the party’s resources will be at your disposal. Your political future will be incredibly bright."
Listening to the phone call, Leo felt a strange sense of clarity as the anesthetic hadn’t fully worn off yet.
Right before he was shot, it was this same Stern who had coldly told him over the phone that "the White House doesn’t get involved in commercial disputes," and even tacitly approved of the pharmaceutical giants’ joint blockade against him.
Now, because he had bled, because he had become a hero, the winds had changed.
They wanted to turn his spilled blood into political capital.
Leo understood this logic all too well.
He was useful to them now, but that usefulness had an expiration date.
Once the election dust settled and the White House had secured its power, all the old scores—his attempts at building an independent kingdom, his challenges to the financial order—would be laid out on the table, with interest.
Besides, his current allegiances were completely out of line.
He was getting cozy with the people from the Energy Association.
Those tycoons were the Republican Party’s biggest donors, obstacles the Democratic Party was determined to remove.
Leo’s prior success in getting Republican mayors to switch sides was proof of his terrifying ability to manipulate the minds of voters.
The White House was scared to death of him now.
They had originally hoped the pharmaceutical giants could cut out the problem that was Leo. At the very least, they hoped the giants would suppress him, allowing the White House to swoop in like a savior.
But they never expected that blade to create a saint.
If this saint were to turn to the Republican Party now, the Democratic Party’s chances of winning Pennsylvania would instantly drop to zero.