Chapter Fifty-Seven

High Score: 1,072

“If 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.