Urban Plundering: I Corrupted The System!

The sun cast long shadows over the fields. The horses moved in steady rhythm, but the conversation carried a weight that made the air feel thick.

She exhaled. "Okay. Who's next grandpa?" Truth be told, being the youngest Wilder, this was her first time knowing more about the other four families than just knowing their names and a few basic.

The old man adjusted his grip on the reins, his smirk shifting into something colder. "The Beaumonts."

Her brow furrowed. "The old-money Beaumonts."

He chuckled, but there was no humor in it. "Oh, kiddo. They are old money. But more than that? They are war."

Her stomach twisted. "What does that even mean?"

The old man let out a breath, long and slow, like he was measuring his words before letting them escape. "The Beaumonts," he mused. "Now that's a name you don't say lightly."

Her brow furrowed. "How so?"

He glanced at her. "You ever wonder who really runs America?"

She blinked. "…The government?"

His laughter was dry. "The government? Kid, presidents come and go. Congress flips every few years. But the Beaumonts? They don't have terms. They don't get voted in or out. They own the system."

Her grip tightened. "Like—lobbyists?"

"Oh, sweetheart." He shook his head. "Lobbyists work for men like the Beaumonts. You know those billion-dollar defense contracts? Those wars that seem to pop up out of nowhere? The emergency powers presidents declare?" He leaned in. "That's the Beaumonts."

Her stomach twisted.

He tilted his head toward the horizon. "See that land beyond the Wilder estate from the back with an army guarding it? It belongs to them. Not on paper, not in the news, but in reality." His voice dropped. "And so does everything else tied to the U.S. military." The old man didn't scare her to tell her the truth purpose of that army beyond their backyard.

"The Beaumonts were the real deal when it came to biotech, pharmaceuticals, private armies, weapons & war tech but their power was beyond that."

She went rigid. "…Like?"

"The Pentagon. The White House. The goddamn military-industrial complex." He turned to her, sharp and unreadable. "The Beaumonts don't work with them. They own them."

She exhaled. "That's—"

"Insane?" He let out a low chuckle. "That's America."

"They're the ones who decide who America fights. They don't just supply the weapons, they design the war itself—from the soldiers, to the strategy, to the new tech being tested on battlefields before the public even knows it exists."

"That's insane."

"That's power." He exhaled. "Every major war since World War II? The Beaumonts were behind it. They build the armies. Fund the research. Own the biotech labs creating the next generation of super-soldiers. And when people think the military's making its own decisions?" His smirk was grim. "The Pentagon doesn't move without their approval."

Her pulse picked up. "So they control the U.S. military?"

"They are the U.S. military." His voice was low. "Every general, every admiral, every so-called 'independent' intelligence director? Handpicked. Groomed. Approved. If they don't fall in line, they disappear. No one climbs the ranks unless the Beaumonts let them."

She inhaled sharply. "So th leaders are just puppets, grandpa?"

"More or less... the presidents, the senators, the think tanks—they don't make decisions. They get handed decisions. The Pentagon, the CIA, the NSA? Just arms of a beast they don't even realize they serve." His smirk returned. "And America? America is just the hammer they swing."

Her throat was dry. "…So, what? They're the real rulers of the U.S.?"

"The real rulers of the world." His gaze turned distant. "Because here's the thing, kid. The U.S. might be considered the most powerful country on the planet, but the Beaumonts are more powerful than the U.S. itself"

Her fingers twitched against the reins. "That's—"

"Think about it." He spread his hands. "What happens when a president crosses the military-industrial complex? When a leader tries to cut defense spending? Tries to actually end wars?"

She swallowed. "They—"

"They get buried." His voice was almost gentle. "JFK tried. And the Beaumonts sent the Morellos to him. Not because they couldn't just take him out but because they wanted to create another narrative for the public to believe, then Eisenhower warned about it on his way out. The rest?" He chuckled. "The rest learned real quick who actually runs things."

She felt a shiver crawl up her spine.

"The world still thinks the Cold War ended," he mused. "That was cute. Because the truth? The Cold War never ended. The battlefield just changed. It's a second world order now. And who do you think stands at the center?"

Her mind reeled. "The Beaumonts."

His grin stretched. "Now you're getting it."

Silence hung between them. Then—

She paled. "…Oh. So the government holds no power at all and it's all in the hands of a single family?"

"Yes , a single family that sit in private meetings with the Joint Chiefs. They have handshake deals with the White House before the next election cycle even starts. Hell, some of their people don't even pretend to be civilians anymore." His voice dropped. "

"And when America goes to war?" She exhaled sharply.

His smirk was razor-sharp. "The Beaumonts had the contracts signed a decade before."

"The Pentagon?" He clicked his tongue. "That's their playground. The White House?" He made a dismissive gesture. "Just a pretty mask. But the hand that moves the pieces? That's the Beaumonts."

She shook her head. "That's—that's fucking terrifying."

He gave her a slow nod. "Good. That means you're getting it."

Silence stretched between them.

The Beaumonts aren't just warlords—they're the architects of modern warfare. They don't just fund private armies. They own them. Blackwater? A Beaumont project. Every major PMC? Beaumont-backed. Every "classified" war? Fought with their weapons, their tech, their soldiers.

They are the unseen hand of the U.S. military—beyond the Pentagon, beyond the White House. When presidents change, when policies shift, the Beaumonts remain. Because they are not politicians. They are war itself.

Every drone strike, every military coup, every experimental bioweapon? Tested, funded, and deployed by the Beaumonts. They don't start wars for profit. War itself is their empire.

And the best part? When history looks back at a war, a revolution, an assassination—the blame never falls on them. The government takes responsibility. The generals take the heat. The presidents answer to the people.

But the Beaumonts? They're already planning the next war.

She leaned forward, eyes sharp. "So… if all of us are this powerful, why don't we just, I dunno… kill each other?"

The old man burst into laughter. Loud. Full. Unhinged.

"Oh, kiddo." He wiped his eyes, shaking his head. "We've been trying."

She froze.

"…You're joking."

He just grinned. Wide. Sharp. Amused.

And across the field, her father sighed. Again.