Chapter Nine

You’re Fired

Sweat beaded on Jimmie’s forehead and behind his ears. He hadn’t even been aware that he had sweat glands back there.

The Secret Service agent made no motion to pull a gun out, however. He simply stood there, hands clasped together. “Where would you like me to shoot him, sir? I could aim for the torso—put a bullet right through his stomach and then wait for him to bleed to death on the floor of the elevator.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Trump said. “People need to use the elevator. Do it in the hallway.”

“On this carpet?” the Secret Service agent said.

Trump looked down at his feet, and so did Jimmie. The bright-red carpet had a golden pattern woven into it. It looked brand new, like it had just been laid down this morning.

Emma stepped out of the elevator. Jimmie had been so caught up in his own drama, he’d forgotten she was still standing behind him.

She loosened the president’s tie. Trump watched her work, a frown still plastered on his face.

“The first lady would not be happy if you ruined this carpet,” Emma said. “Can you afford a fifth divorce?”

“Fourth divorce,” Trump said. “My fourth marriage was annulled, remember?”

Emma used the tie to wipe off Trump’s suit. “Regardless, you don’t want to shoot your new ghostwriter. He wasn’t an easy get. And after what happened with the last one . . .”

Trump now eyed Jimmie through the elevator door, which was closing again. Trump held out his hand, and Jimmie cautiously shook it.

“I wasn’t shaking your hand,” Trump said as the elevator door slid back open. “I don’t need to catch whatever third-world Zima virus you picked up down in Mexico. I have a country to run.”

The hallway beyond them was empty, unlike the rest of the White House, which was buzzing with activity. There was a single set of double doors at the end of the corridor. The Boardroom.

“Would you still like me to kill him, sir?” the Secret Service agent asked.

“That won’t be necessary,” Trump said. “Just shoot him in the kneecaps.”

The Secret Service agent reached a hand inside his jacket. Before he could pull his handgun out, Trump held up a hand to call him off.

“I’m kidding,” Trump said. “Jesus Christ, you guys take everything so seriously.”

The agent produced a pack of Mentos from his jacket. “I wasn’t reaching for my gun. We’re not authorized to shoot anybody unless they’re a direct threat to your well-being. And this guy . . . well, look at him.”

“You’d take a bullet for me,” Trump said.

“Without a second thought.”

“You’d jump on a live grenade.”

“Of course, sir.”

“But you won’t shoot somebody when I tell you to?” Trump turned to Emma. “Can I fire this guy? Can I fire the entire Secret Service and replace them with my own security detail? Is that a thing I can do?”

“We’ve been over this before,” she said. “Not only are they authorized to protect you, but they are also compelled to by law. According to Title 18, Section 3056, neither you nor the vice president may decline their protection.”

Trump snorted. He turned to Jimmie, who still hadn’t spoken a word in the presence of his new boss. “Not only is she beautiful, but she’s brilliant as shit,” Trump said. “You ever watch the Miss Universe pageant?”

“Can’t say that I have,” Jimmie said.

It was, perhaps, not the right thing to say after what he’d just done. But Trump just laughed and shook his head. “Nobody watches TV anymore, do they? For the longest time, I kept that dying medium alive with The Apprentice. But nowadays, it’s all about steaming this, steaming that.”

“Streaming,” Emma said, gently correcting him.

“You know what I mean,” Trump said.

Emma turned to the Secret Service agent. “Page Chris Christie and have him send someone to clean this mess up.” She handed him Trump’s tie. “And do something with this.”

“So is that how it’s going to be?” the agent said, angrily snatching the tie from her. “This job keeps getting better and better. You know, we’re not even supposed to hold the president’s coat. We’re not supposed to—”

Trump cut him off. “Be careful, or I will find a way to fire you—all of you men in black. By God, I will find a way.” Trump paused. “And grow some fucking eyebrows.”

“Well,” Emma said, “if you will excuse us, Mr. President, we need to get to the Boardroom.”

Trump snorted. “I was just on the way there myself but had to head back up to the Oval Office to pick up my comb. Let the Security Council know I’ll be a few minutes late, would you?”

“It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. President,” Jimmie said as Emma whisked him away.

“Wish I could say the same about you,” Trump called out after them.

When they were well out of earshot, Emma tore into Jimmie.

“What the bloody hell was that all about? You made me look like a bloody fool. Why didn’t you apologize?” she hissed. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“I heard he didn’t like it when people apologize,” Jimmie said. “That he sees it as a sign of weakness. He’s never apologized in his life.”

Emma paused in front of the double doors. “If, in the future, you throw up on somebody—especially if it’s the president of the United States of America—you apologize.”

She swiped her badge and waited for the light to go green. While he had never paid much attention to politics, he’d done some reading online to prepare for his first day on the job. The former Situation Room was the brainchild of John F. Kennedy. Although Trump had rechristened it the “Boardroom,” this was the same room where Bush had given the orders to invade Iraq. Where Obama had orchestrated SEAL Team Six’s assassination of bin Laden. Where Bill Clinton had probably gotten a handy or two.

Emma held the door open, and Jimmie stepped into the darkened room. Somehow, they’d beat Lewandowski down here. Jimmie ran his hand along the wall to the right. “Is there a light switch in—”

“SURPRISE!!!”