Jimmie limped over to Cat, who was just waking up. Sure, she’d planned to kill him. But she’d been acting on Trump’s orders. At least that’s what he told himself as he cut her free.
She fell into his arms. Her eyes fluttered open.
“I tried to kill you,” she said.
“You weren’t going to do it. I could tell all along, you weren’t going to go through with it.”
“I was, though. I had no reservations about-”
Jimmie placed a finger on her lips. “Shhhhh. You’ve been hit in the head pretty hard. Definitely a concussion. You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“I was choked out,” she said. “I never hit my head. I-”
“See? You don’t even remember it. We’d better get you an MRI. Do you have a phone on you? I’ll call the hospital-”
“You can use my helicopter,” Trump interrupted. He was staggering toward them with Fiorina’s bloody machete in one hand. “Except we won’t be going to the hospital. I’ll be taking you both to the morgue.”
Chapter Sixty-Six
Great America
Jimmie lowered Cat to the ground and stood guard in front of her. He waved the switchblade at Trump.
“Mine’s bigger,” the president said, pointing the blood-smeared tip of the machete at Jimmie, who had to admit that he was right. Trump had a full foot-long on him. But there was more to sword fighting than size. He hoped.
“Your janitor is dead,” Jimmie said. “How do you expect to clean all this up?”
“I could just drop a bomb on this whole area. Wipe away the evidence with the push of a button. Wipe away DC with the push of a button.”
“A nuke.”
“It’s actually not a button, did you know that?” Trump said. “All this talk in the campaign from people saying, ‘Do we really want Trump’s finger on the button?’ And it’s not a button! There are codes, there’s a key. No button.”
“You wouldn’t do it.”
Trump shook his head. “Not in a million years. But it’s a nice thought. I prefer to keep my hands clean of dirty business like this… but you knew that I couldn’t help myself from getting personally involved. Especially with the stakes. I had Corey tail you on Friday, when you left to see your ex. Using a microphone hidden in a salt shaker, he was able to listen to your entire conversation. He made a game-time decision to cut Emma from the game.
“Then he followed you back to the White House,” Trump continued, “and you’ll never guess what kind of trouble he saw you get up to.”
Jimmie gulped.
“It was then that I decided you were a nuisance. I told the Navy SEALs I wanted you dead or alive. I specifically said, If he accidentally gets shot in the face, it wouldn’t be any sweat off my sack. I show up at the museum, and there you are-still standing! Who knew that the Human Hiroshima had a code of honor? I left SEAL Team Sixty-Nine at home tonight. Some things are too big to trust others to do. If you want something done right…”
“You do it yourself,” Jimmie finished. “Rule twelve, right?”
The switchblade trembled in Jimmie’s hand as he backed up. He felt cold stone with his other palm. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Cat crawling toward the gun that Trump had dropped. Was she going to use it on Trump… or on Jimmie? He would have to take his chances. And to do that, he was going to need to keep Trump talking.
“If you wouldn’t drop a nuke on your own country,” Jimmie said, stalling, “I’m going to guess you wouldn’t risk starting World War III with the UK.”
“You know, we kicked their ass twice-once in seventeen-whatever, then again in eighteen-whatever. It wouldn’t be too hard to do it again. Usually, if you set up a best-of-three series and win the first two, you scrap the third one. Internal polling suggests the American people are all for it, though. But don’t worry: I’m not going to war with England. I’m going to buy them out. It’s a merger.”
“The British people would never go for that.”
Trump nodded. “Hence the threat of war. That’s why they call it a hostile takeover. The queen won’t get her bony ass off the throne. She’s sitting on a gold mine of cash and jewels, which certain members of the royal family can’t wait to get their hands on.”
“Prince Charles?”
“That pussy? Puh-lease. Think further down the line, Jimmie,” Trump said. “We’re moving our ships into place as we speak. Before any shots are fired, England is going to wave the white flag. Great Britain and America are going to become one united country again: Great America. I’m going to be president still, of course. The Brits can keep their silly royal family. However, my first act will be to force the queen to hand her crown over… to Kate.”
“Kate Middleton?”
Trump nodded. “We struck a deal. The prime minister and Parliament are in her pocket. The whole country loves her and her royal spawn. We ran into a minor snag with Hillary and Jeb!’s rebel alliance. Kate found out from British intelligence, who must have gotten word of it from Emma. Kate got cold feet-she said she’d call the deal off if I didn’t clean up my own house. A hard body who plays hardball. I like her. Got a coupla kids, but she’s a solid ten.”
Jimmie shook his head. “Great America. That’s what you meant by making America great again?”
“We’re reshaping the world, Jimmie,” Trump said. “Great America is going to be top dog. With England back in the fold, we’re going to get a piece of that European economy-which will be incredibly strong, once we sell off Greece to the Palestinians. Putin was going to bite off a piece of the European Union from the other side… but with him out of the way, Russia’s no longer a player. If anyone wants to take us on for the title of biggest, baddest superpower, go for it. It’d be like showing up to a gun fight with a knife.”
“Or a knife fight with a gun,” Cat said, shooting the machete out of Trump’s hand. It clattered to the ground several yards away. “Put your tiny hands above your head, Mr. President.”
“Or what? You’re going to shoot me?” Trump said, advancing toward her. “I was right about you illegals-just a bunch of murderers and-”
Another shot rang out, echoing through the monument’s halls. At first, Jimmie thought she had missed Trump entirely. Then he noticed the tufts of wispy blond hair floating to the ground like cherry blossom leaves. She’d blown a hole the size of a fist in his famously unflappable mane. Trump held his palms out, desperately trying to catch the clumps of hair as they fell. He dropped to his hands and knees and began frantically scooping the rest into a pile.
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Bigger Than Jesus
“This is going to make quite the story,” Cat said, watching Trump crying and rocking on the ground. “Too bad we’re never going to be able to tell anybody.”
“He thinks he’s God,” Jimmie said. “But he’s just a man. A small man.”
“I’ve got hands bigger than Jesus,” Trump said from his knees. A river of golden tears streamed down his face. “Bigger than John Lennon. Bigger than Justin Bieber-”
“Don’t say the Lord Bieber’s name in vain,” Jimmie snapped. Then to Cat, “Are you really an undocumented migrant?”
She stared daggers at him.
“Okay, okay-just asking,” he said. “We can’t let Trump get away with this. His plan to make America even greater needs to be exposed. Even if we can’t tie him directly to any of the murders, he was about to kill us both.”
“He was about to kill you. I think he would’ve let me go.”
Jimmie said, “Sure. Whatever. My point is, there’s enough evidence here to put him away for a long time.”