The Day of the Donald (22 page)

“I
f I show up with your casket in tow, the president will probably revoke my Medal of Honor,” the man outside the stall said. His voice was like gravel. “But it’s your choice, amigo. I get paid by the pound.”

“The president?” Jimmie said. “You mean President Trump?”

“Goddamn right I mean President Trump. He’s our boss—the commander in chief. And we have orders to bag your sorry ass. Open the door.”

Jimmie unlocked the door and opened it a crack. The man he was talking to was dressed in camo from head to toe. Jimmie recognized the soldier’s rifle as an FN SCAR (Special Operations Forces Combat Assault Rifle, an acronym he knew from his days playing the original
Human Hiroshima
on Xbox—er, his roommate’s days of playing video games).

“Who’s ‘we’?” Jimmie asked.

“You’re James Bernwood?” the soldier asked, ignoring his question.

Jimmie eyed the man’s hands cradling the rifle. He nodded in the affirmative.

“I’m Sergeant Spencer Paul,” the soldier said. “And we’re SEAL Team Sixty-Nine.”

“
The
Spencer Paul?” Jimmie asked. “The Human Hiroshima?”

“If you’re asking if I’m the Spencer Paul who personally shot and killed one thousand seventy-two enemy combatants—the most confirmed kills in US military history—and who was the subject of the Bill O’Reilly book
Killing Everybody
, then yes.”

Jimmie heard more footsteps. Three figures trotted from the fog to form a semicircle around Jimmie’s stall with the celebrated Navy SEAL. “The perimeter is secure, sir,” one of the other soldiers, a tough-as-buffalo-jerky-sounding woman, said. “Is this the baggage?”

“Baggage confirmed,” Paul said, nodding.

Jimmie stepped out of the stall. The restroom was torn apart. It reminded him of his off-campus apartment senior year.

Immediately, all four soldiers pointed their weapons at Jimmie. A wet, warm feeling spread underneath his butt. He may have pissed himself. It wouldn’t have been the first time, but it would have been the first time he’d done so while sober.

“What’s that in your hand?” Paul shouted.

Jimmie raised his hands. “It’s just a recording—”

“Set it on the ground.”

He set it on the floor so that they could inspect it. Paul fired a single shot through it, causing Jimmie’s heart to skip a beat. While it was practically worthless, it was all Jimmie had.

“Let’s secure the LZ and get the hell out of here,” Paul said.

“There’s a woman being held captive,” Jimmie said. “On the third floor, I think.”

Paul nodded to the other soldiers, who filed out of the restroom. Paul waited behind with Jimmie, who wondered if kills
on US soil counted toward Spencer Paul’s astounding total. Probably not, he guessed.

Still, what had happened here today wasn’t going to be swept under a rug. Covering up an apparent murder at the White House was one thing; covering up the brutal assassination of two former presidential candidates—one of whom, as the first lady, was supposed to still be under Secret Service protection—was beyond comprehension.

Jimmie had been wrong when he thought Trump was untouchable as far as scandal went. This had all happened in the middle of the day. With families around, even. And according to Spencer Paul, the order for the assault had come directly from the president himself.

Trump’s political career was over. The recorder (or what was left of it) lying on the tile hardly mattered now, if it ever did in the first place.

A cheer erupted from outside in the hallway, and President Trump entered the restroom. It seemed that his political career wasn’t over quite yet.

S
pencer Paul saluted the commander in chief, who returned with an awkward wave of the hand. Trump still hadn’t quite gotten the hang of being a politician. He was constantly fist-bumping hands raised for high fives and slapping babies instead of kissing them. The whole “politicians kissing babies” thing had never sat right with Jimmie, though, so he forgave Trump for that one.

Trump peeked into the stalls and frowned. “Jesus, you SEALs don’t play around.”

“No, sir, we do not,” Paul said.

“Christie’s on his way over here to clean this up,” Trump said. Then, to Jimmie, he added, “The country thanks you for your help unveiling the plot against the presidency. Shame it had to go down like this on a perfectly fine holiday weekend, but I suppose cutting my trip to Mar-a-Lago short was worth it to extinguish a domestic terror threat. As I’m sure you understand, Jimmie, we’ll need to keep all of this top secret. Not a word to anyone—even your mother.”

“My mother’s dead.”

“Then that should make it easy not to tell her.”

“Did they find Cat?” Jimmie blurted.

“The reporter?” Trump said. He looked to Paul, who radioed the other SEALs for an update.

“The baggage has been located,” the celebrity SEAL said. “We’re taking her to the nearest hospital as a precaution. She’s in shock, but she otherwise appears to be unharmed.”

Jimmie was glad to hear that. He wished the SEALs would stop referring to people they rescued as “baggage,” but it was probably a better term than what they called them when they weren’t in the room.

“What about the people out there?” Jimmie said. “There was a military operation on American soil. In broad daylight. People had to have taken pictures. They had to have heard the gunshots—”

“All part of a demonstration at the International Spy Museum,” Trump said. “As far as any of the turdfaces know, there were no live rounds fired during the exhibition. They do interactive stuff like this all the time around here. The kids love it.”

Trump stumbled over the broken recorder and kicked it out of the way. He seemed rather pleased with the mayhem. “And if anyone finds out what really happened . . . I signed an executive order last night classifying these SJW clowns as domestic terrorists. I’m keeping America safe.”

You’re keeping
you
safe
, Jimmie thought.

Instead of saying what was on his mind, though, he said, “Emma was murdered last night.”

“I heard. You did an excellent job with the plumbing work,” Trump said. “When I told you we had a leak, I had no idea you would find it so quickly. Can’t believe she slipped under my radar. That’s what a nice set of gams will do to a guy! England almost had us by the balls there. And today—well, you’ve certainly gone above and beyond my expectations, Jimmie. Rooting out a spy
and
leading these blue-cap-wearing bozos straight to us? You deserve a reward.”

Trump pulled out a business card. “Use this at the Watergate hotel spa for fifteen percent off anything,” the president said. “My treat.”

Trump took a step, then turned back to Jimmie. “Stick with me, kid, and you’ll go places. Just saying, there’s going to be an opening soon for governor of Wales. Think about it.”

Trump slapped Spencer Paul on the back, and the two men walked out together, laughing. Jimmie shook his head and dropped the card.

Trump was coming unhinged—if he’d ever been hinged in the first place. Putin’s death hadn’t tamed his bravado. Congress was going to come around any day now. With the leaders of the resistance movement and who knew how many of their foot soldiers out of the way, there was no one standing between the president and his insane thirst for war with the United Kingdom.

No one but Jimmie Bernwood.

Bill Clinton burst into the restroom with a flurry of energy. “You guys need to check out this shirt I got at the gift . . . shop . . .” His voice trailed off as he surveyed the destruction, wide-eyed. The shirt he was wearing read “DENY EVERYTHING.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. President,” Jimmie said. “Your wife . . .”

Bill caught his breath and poked his head into the stall where Hillary lay. Or what was left of her. He turned quickly away from the gruesome scene. A single tear streaked down his rosy cheek. Bill pulled Jimmie in for a hug. They’d never met before, but how could you say no to a grieving man?

“Hug your loved ones tonight,” Bill said. “Life is precious.”

Jimmie promised him he would.

Bill wiped the tear away. “Say, do you know how late that Bond girls exhibit is open upstairs?”

O
n Jimmie’s way out of the museum, he saw Cat being helped into the back of an ambulance. She brushed the paramedics away and gave Jimmie a quick hug.

“What the hell did you get us into?” she whispered, thankfully ignoring his wet pants. “You said this had to do with Lester, and then I’m kidnapped by a bunch of activists wearing Cubs hats, and they’re telling me you have some tapes . . . ?”

His eyes darted from rooftop to rooftop. He knew that he was on thin ice—that this thing wasn’t over. While the president pretended that Jimmie had “led them” to Emma and the SJWs, they both knew that was a lie. If he said the wrong thing, was the
Killing Everybody
hero standing by to take him out?

“I don’t have the tapes,” he told Cat.

“What?” she said.

“They were destroyed in the shootout.”

“You made copies, though.”

He shook his head.

Her eyes widened. “So this was all for nothing—is that what you’re saying?”

“It’s not for nothing. I saved you.”

“The SEALs saved me.”

He said, “Well, I was just
about
to save you, when SEAL Team Sixty-Nine kicked in the door and started blowing holes in everything. I wish I’d had the tapes still, but your life is what’s important.”

“Why did you get me involved in this?”

“I thought you’d want to know what happened to Lester. I thought you’d want some closure,” he said.

“Bullshit. There was something in it for you. Let me guess: You needed somewhere to publish whatever was on that recorder’s hard drive, right? And now it’s gone forever because you were too stupid to make a copy.”

“You’re calling
me
stupid? You—”

He paused. He’d never mentioned the recorder to her. The SJWs hadn’t known it was a recorder either—everyone thought the interviews were recorded on cassette tapes. The only ones who knew about the recorder other than Jimmie and the Trumps were Lester and Emma . . . and Lester and Emma were both dead. Had the president enlisted Cat to suss out leaks too? Was he just playing them against each other?

“You . . . you’re right,” Jimmie said. “I’m stupid. A big dummy.”

Cat folded her arms. “You finally admit it. Now are you going to explain what’s going on? Give me a clue. You said this had to do with Lester . . .”

He decided to gamble.

“I know who killed him.”

She was silent for a moment. Then she said, “He killed himself.”

Jackpot. For somebody who hadn’t known her ex-boyfriend was even dead, she seemed to have a very specific idea of how he died. And a very
suspicious
specific idea, at that.

Suddenly, Jimmie’s whole world seemed to be crashing down around him. Lewandowski wasn’t the last of the suspects in Lester’s murder—Cat had just added herself to Jimmie’s list. He couldn’t believe how blind he’d been. He’d been so focused on those who’d had rooftop access that he’d overlooked the obvious: The killer didn’t need a badge. Not if Lester had taken them up there. Was Cat the shadow he’d been searching for?

“I’ll explain everything,” Jimmie said, loud and clear enough for snooping ears to pick up. “But not here. It’s not safe. Meet me tomorrow night at nine. The Lincoln Memorial.”

“Right out in the open. How is that any safer than on a street corner? Maybe we should meet somewhere more out of the way. Like . . . your room at the Watergate?”

She gazed up at him. Even after an eighteen-hour kidnapping ordeal, she could still mesmerize him with those big, bold eyes. This time, however, he wasn’t buying what she was selling.

“It’s been compromised,” Jimmie said. “See you tomorrow. Oh, and another thing? Try to be a doll and not get kidnapped this time.”

She swung a hand at him, but he grabbed her wrist before she could slap him across the face.

“Still an asshole,” she muttered, struggling free.

To the casual observer, Jimmie’s comment about getting kidnapped would have sounded like an impossibly cruel thing to say. But he’d said it to provoke a reaction out of her, and damned if she hadn’t responded as expected.

Besides, Jimmie wasn’t expecting casual observers to overhear him. He was expecting trained ears to be listening in to their conversation. Not only was he expecting it, but he was counting on it. Sometimes, to catch a rat, you had to use a Cat as bait.