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“One of the best thrillers I have read this year. The plot is intelligent and will keep you hooked from the beginning. The author did a superb job creating a set of characters who are fully developed and very much enjoyable. I can hardly wait for the sequel.”--Books and Movie Reviews, Roberto Mattos (re Any Means Necessary)PRESIDENT ELECT is book #5 in the bestselling Luke Stone thriller series, which begins with ANY MEANS NECESSARY (book #1), a free download with over 500 five star reviews!When China threatens to bankrupt the U.S. by calling in its debt, Americans are desperate for radical change. President Susan Hopkins, running for re-election, is floored as she watches the returns come in. Her rival—a madman senator from West Virginia who ran on the promise to nuke China’s islands out of the South China Sea—has, inconceivably, won.President Hopkins, though, knows she cannot yield power. To do so would be to spark World War III. She needs to prove the election was stolen, and to stop the looming war with China. With no one left to turn to, she summons Luke Stone, the former head of an elite FBI para-military team. The stakes could not be higher as she commands him to save America from its greatest threat: its own President Elect.Yet as one shocking twist follows another, it may, even for Luke Stone, be too late.A political thriller with non-stop action, dramatic international settings and heart-pounding suspense, PRESIDENT ELECT is book #5 in the bestselling and critically-acclaimed Luke Stone series, an explosive new series that will leave you turning pages late into the night. “Thriller writing at its best. Thriller enthusiasts who relish the precise execution of an international thriller, but who seek the psychological depth and believability of a protagonist who simultaneously fields professional and personal life challenges, will find this a gripping story that's hard to put down.”--Midwest Book Review, Diane Donovan (regarding Any Means Necessary)Book #6 in the Luke Stone series—OUR SACRED HONOR—is now also available.
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P R E S I D E N T E L E C T
(A LUKE STONE THRILLER—BOOK 5)
J A C K M A R S
Jack Mars is author of the bestselling LUKE STONE thriller series, which include the suspense thrillers ANY MEANS NECESSARY (book #1), OATH OF OFFICE (book #2), SITUATION ROOM (book #3), OPPOSE ANY FOE (book #4), PRESIDENT ELECT (book #5), and OUR SACRED HONOR (book #6).
Jack loves to hear from you, so please feel free to visit www.Jackmarsauthor.com to join the email list, receive a free book, receive free giveaways, connect on Facebook and Twitter, and stay in touch!
Copyright © 2017 by Jack Mars. All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the author. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Jacket image Copyright Keith Lamond, used under license from Shutterstock.com.
BOOKS BY JACK MARS
LUKE STONE THRILLER SERIES
ANY MEANS NECESSARY (Book #1)
OATH OF OFFICE (Book #2)
SITUATION ROOM (Book #3)
OPPOSE ANY FOE (Book #4)
PRESIDENT ELECT (Book #5)
Listen to the LUKE STONE THRILLER series in audio book format!
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY NINE
CHAPTER FORTY ONE
CHAPTER FORTY TWO
CHAPTER FORTY THREE
CHAPTER FORTY FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY SIX
CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN
“Death is softer by far than tyranny.”
2:35 a.m. Eastern Standard Time
Near the Tidal Basin—Washington DC
“Okay,” the man said, his breath drifting away in plumes of white. “What are we doing here?”
It was late, and the night was chilly with a light rain falling.
The man’s name was Patrick Norman, and he was talking to himself. He was an investigator, a man accustomed to spending long periods of time alone. Talking to himself was part of the job.
He stood on the concrete path along the water’s edge. There was no one else around. A moment ago, what looked like a homeless man had been sprawled under some newspapers on a bench about fifty yards away. Now that man was gone, and the newspapers were all over the wet ground.
From where Norman was, he could see the Lincoln Memorial far to his right. Directly in front of him and across the tidal basin was the dome of the Jefferson Memorial, lit up in shimmering blue and green. Lights glinted on the water.
Norman had been in this line of work a long time, and these were the kinds of meetings he relished. Late at night, in a secluded place, with someone who was hiding their identity—risky, but this exact type of thing had paid off for him in the past. If it hadn’t, he wouldn’t be here now.
A man slowly walked along the path toward him. The man was tall, wearing a long raincoat and a wide-brimmed hat pulled down over his face. Norman watched the man approach.
Suddenly, there was movement behind him. Norman turned, and two more men were there. One of them was the homeless man from before. He was black, in ripped workpants and a heavy winter parka. The parka was wet and stained and dirty. The man’s hair stood up in odd tufts and curls on the very top of his head. The second man was just another nondescript nobody in a raincoat and hat. He had a bushy black mustache—if Norman had to describe him later that was the best he was going to do. He was too startled at the moment to absorb a lot of details.
“Can I help you gentlemen?” Norman said.
“Mr. Norman,” the tall man said from behind him. The man had a very deep voice. “I think I’m the one you want to speak with.”
Norman felt his shoulders sag. They were playing a game. If these men wanted to hurt him, they probably would have already done so. That relieved him a little—these were government people. Spooks. Spies. Intelligence operatives, they would probably call themselves. That also annoyed him a little. There was no mysterious source with information for him. These guys had dragged him out here in the middle of a rainy night to tell him… what?
They were wasting his time.
Norman turned around again to face the man. “And you are?”
The man shrugged. A smile showed just below the shadow from his hat. “It doesn’t matter who I am. It matters who I work for. And I can tell you my bosses are not pleased with the caliber of your work.”
“I’m the best there is,” Norman said. He said it without hesitating. He said it because he believed it. Much was open for debate. But one thing that was never called into question was the quality of the job he did.
“That’s what they believed, too, when they hired you. I think you’ll agree they’ve been patient. They’ve been paying you for a year with no results. But suddenly, all this time has passed, and it’s very late in the game. They’re forced to go in another direction, one they had hoped not to take. The election is five days from now.”
Norman shook his head. He raised his hands, palms upward, at his sides. “What can I tell you? They wanted me to find evidence of corruption, and I looked. There isn’t any. She may be many things, but corrupt isn’t one of them. She has no ties to her husband’s business interests, formal or informal. Her husband no longer even manages the day-to-day affairs of his company, and the company has no government contracts, here or anywhere else. All of her premarital assets are managed in a blind trust, with no input from her—a measure she took when she first won a seat in the Senate fifteen years ago. There’s no evidence of pay-offs of any kind, not even a hint or a rumor.”
“So you failed to find anything?” the man said.
Norman nodded. “I failed to—”
“You failed, in other words.”
A flicker of light appeared inside Norman’s mind, something he hadn’t considered because it had never been asked of him before.
“They wanted me to find something,” he said. “Whether it was there or not.”
The men around him said nothing.
“If that was the case, why didn’t they just tell me so from the beginning? I would have told them to stuff it, and we never would have had this misunderstanding. If you want to invent bad news, don’t hire an investigator. Hire a publicist.”
The man just stared at him. His silence, and the silence of his two henchmen, was unnerving. Norman felt his heart begin to pick up the pace. His body trembled the slightest amount.
“Are you afraid, Mr. Norman?”
“Of you? Not a chance.”
The man glanced at the two men behind Norman. They grabbed Norman without a word, each putting a painful armbar move on him, one on either side. They wrenched his arms backward behind his back and forced him to his knees. The wet grass instantly soaked through his pant legs.
“Hey!” he shouted. “Hey!”
Shouting was an old escape technique he had learned in a self-defense class many years before. It had come in handy a couple of times. When under attack, scream as loud as you possibly can. It startles the attacker, and often brings people running. No one expects it because regular people rarely raise their voices. Most victims never do. It was a painful truth—many people in this world had been mugged or raped or murdered because they were too polite to scream.
Norman gathered his air for the loudest shriek of his lifetime.
The man wrenched Norman’s head upward by the hair and stuffed a rag in his mouth. It was a big rag, wet and dirty with oil or gasoline or some other noxious substance, and the man rammed it in there deep. It took the man several violent thrusts to push it all the way in. Norman couldn’t believe how deep it went, and how it filled his entire mouth. His jaws opened as wide as they would go.
He couldn’t force the rag back out. The foul smell of it, the taste, made Norman gag. His throat worked. If he vomited, he was going to choke to death.
“Guh!” Norman said. “Guh!”
The man slapped Norman across the side of his head.
“Shut up!” he hissed.
The man’s hat had fallen from his head. Now Norman could see his fierce and dangerous blue eyes. They were eyes without pity. They were also without anger. Or humor. They betrayed no emotion of any kind. From inside his coat, he pulled a black gun. A second later, he pulled out a long silencer. Slowly, carefully, in no rush at all, he screwed the silencer onto the barrel of the gun.
“Do you know,” he said, “what this gun will sound like when it goes off?”
“Guh!” Norman said. His whole body shook uncontrollably. His nervous system had gone haywire—so many messages flooding it at once, trying to move through the infrastructure, that he was frozen in place. All he could do was shake.
For the first time, Norman noticed that the man was wearing black leather gloves.
“It will sound like someone coughed. That’s the way I usually think of it. Someone coughed, one time, and tried to do it quietly so as not to disturb anyone else.”
The man pressed the gun to the left side of Norman’s head.
“Good night, Mr. Norman. I’m sorry you didn’t get the job done.”
* * *
The man gazed down at what remained of Patrick Norman, former independent investigator. He had been a tall, thin man wearing a gray trench coat with a blue suit underneath. His head was ruined, the right side blown out in a large exit wound. Blood was pooling around the head on the wet grass and running onto the path. If the rain kept up, the blood would probably just wash away.
But the body?
The man handed the gun to one of his assistants, the one who had pretended to be homeless earlier this evening. The homeless man, also wearing gloves, crouched by the body and pressed the gun into the right palm of the dead man. Meticulously, he pressed each one of Norman’s fingers onto the gun in various places. He dropped the gun about six inches from the body.
Then he stood and shook his head in sadness.
“A pity,” he said in a Londoner accent. “Another suicide. I suppose he found his work stressful. So many setbacks. So many disappointments.”
“Will the police believe it?”
The Englishman offered a ghost of a smile.
“Not a chance.”
3:17 a.m. Alaska Time (7:17 a.m. Eastern Standard Time)
Slopes of Mount Denali
Denali National Park, Alaska
Luke Stone did not move at all.
He crouched perfectly still on a rooftop, behind a low stairwell outbuilding made of slapped together cement. The night was warm and heavy—hot enough that the sweat had soaked through his clothes. He breathed deeply, his nostrils flaring, but he did not make a sound. His heart beat inside his chest, slow but hard, like a fist pounding rhythmically on a door.
Boom-BOOM. Boom-BOOM. Boom-BOOM.
He peered around the corner of the outbuilding. Across the way, two bearded men waited with automatic rifles on their shoulders. They stood at the building’s parapet, watching the harbor below them. They chatted quietly, laughing about something. One of them lit up a cigarette. Luke reached to his leg and slipped the serrated hunting knife away from the tape holding it to his calf.
As Luke watched, big Ed Newsam appeared, coming into view from the right, walking almost casually.
The big man approached the guards. Now they spotted him. Spotting Ed Newsam was an alarming proposition. Ed put his empty hands in the air, but continued to walk toward them. One of the men growled something in Arabic.
Luke burst around the edge, knife in hand. One second gone. He raced toward the men, his heavy footfalls crunching on the gravel roof. Three seconds, four.
The men heard him, turned to look.
Now Ed attacked, grabbing the closest man by the head, twisting it viciously to the right.
Luke hit his man chest high, knocking him to the rooftop. He landed on top and plunged his knife hard into the man’s breastplate. It punched through on the first try. He clamped a hand over the man’s mouth, feeling the bristles of the man’s beard. He stabbed again and again, in and out, fast, like the piston of a machine.
The man struggled and squirmed, tried to push Luke off, but Luke slapped his hands away and kept jabbing. The knife made a liquid sound each time it penetrated.
The man’s arms drifted down to his sides. His eyes were open, and he was still alive, but the fight had left him.
Finish. Finish it now.
Luke tilted the man’s head up, free hand pressed hard against his mouth again, and swiped the serrated blade across the man’s throat. A jet of blood pulsed out.
Luke kept his hand pressed against the mouth until the man was gone. He stared up at the black night sky, letting the life quietly ebb from his opponent.
“Look at your man,” Ed’s voice said. “Look!”
“I don’t want to,” Luke said. He just kept staring up at the sky, the great sweep of the Milky Way galaxy filling his vision. Millions of stars were visible. It was… he had no words for it. Beautiful was the only thing that came to mind. He wanted to gaze at those stars forever. He knew what he would see if he looked down—he had looked too many times already.
“You have to look, man,” Ed said softly. “It’s your job to look.”
Luke shook his head. “No.”
But there was no choice. He cast a glance at the body beneath him. The black beard of the jihadi was gone. The rugged face was replaced by the pretty features of a woman. The curly black hair was now long and soft and light brown.
Luke was covering the woman’s mouth with his hands. Her dead blue eyes stared at him, unseeing—the eyes of his wife, Becca.
Ed whispered now. “You did it, man. You killed her good.”
Luke snapped awake.
He sat bolt upright in the deep darkness, his heart hammering in his chest. He was nude, and his body was soaked in sweat. His hair was a long, matted tangle. His blond beard was as thick as that of any Islamic holy warrior. With his hair and his beard, and his weathered skin, he could easily pass for a homeless man.
He was wrapped in a mummy sleeping bag—rated for extreme cold, twenty degrees below zero. Outside his small tent, the wind howled—the tent’s skirt flapped madly, a sound so loud he could barely hear the wind itself. He was alone above 16,000 feet on the western slope of Denali, and the mountain was already deep into its winter. A snowstorm had blown in two days ago, and hadn’t stopped blowing.
He hadn’t had a fire since the storm came in. He hadn’t left the tent except to urinate in forty hours. He was 4,000 feet below the summit, and it looked like he wasn’t going to make it there. Some people might say he wasn’t going to make it anywhere.
He had come up here woefully unprepared—he realized that now. He had brought enough water for four days—it had run out two days ago. He was eating snow and ice for water at this point. That was okay. Worse was food. He had brought a stack of dried meals-ready-to-eat. They were mostly gone now. When the storm came, he had started rationing the food. He was eating less than half the daily calories he needed—luckily, he had barely moved in two days, and was conserving energy.
He hadn’t bothered to bring a camp stove. He didn’t have a radio, so he had no idea what the weather report was. He had choppered in with a private pilot, and hadn’t filed an itinerary with the park service. No one had any idea he was out here but the pilot, and he had told the guy he would call him when he was done.
“Am I trying to kill myself?” he said out loud. He was startled by the sound of his own voice.
He knew the answer. No. Not necessarily. If it happened, okay, but he was not actively trying to die. You might say he was daring it to happen, taking foolish risks, and had been doing so ever since Becca died.
He wanted to live. He just wanted to be better at it. If he couldn’t do that…
He was a failure as a husband. He was a failure as a father. His career was over at forty-one years of age—he had walked away from government work two years ago and hadn’t looked for anything else. He hadn’t checked his bank accounts in a while, but it was reasonable to assume that he was almost out of money. About the only thing he’d ever been any good at was surviving in harsh and unforgiving environments. And killing—he was good at that, too. Otherwise, he had been a total, abject failure.
He could die on this mountain, but the prospect of it held no terror for him.
He was blank, empty… numb.
“Gotta start thinking of a way out of here,” he said, but he was just making conversation—he could leave, or not. It would be an okay place to die, and an easy thing to do. All he had to do was… nothing. Eventually—soon—he would run out of food. Drinking snowmelt wouldn’t sustain him for long. He would become gradually weaker, until it was impossible for him to make it back down the mountain by himself. He would starve. At some point, he would drift off to sleep and never wake up.
How to decide? How to decide?
Abruptly, he shouted, unaware he was going to do it until he did.
“Give me a sign! Show me what to do!”
Just then, his phone did something it hadn’t done in a long time—it rang. The sound made him jump, and his heart skipped a beat. The ringer was on as loud as it would go. The ring tone was a rock song that his son, Gunner, had put on the phone two years before. Luke had never changed it. More than not changing it, he had kept it on purpose. He cherished that song as the last link between them.
He looked at the phone. It reminded him of a living thing, a poisonous viper—you had to be careful how you handled it. He picked it up, glanced at the number, and answered it.
The sound was garbled. Naturally, the thick tent was blocking the satellite signal. He was going to have to go outside to take this call—not a cheerful thought.
“I have to call you back!” he shouted into the handset.
Even moving quickly, it took several minutes to assemble the layers of clothes he needed and get dressed. It was too cold outside to do it halfway. He unzipped the tent, crawled through the tiny foyer, and pushed out into the weather. The wind and the stinging ice hit his face at once. He’d better make this quick.
He hung a beacon lamp on the tent frame and stumbled away from the noise of the flapping material into deep snow. He carried a powerful flashlight with him, turning back every few feet to mark the location of his camp. There were no lights out here, and visibility was about twenty yards. Snow and ice swirled around him.
He pressed the button to make the call and brought the phone inside the hood of his parka. He stood like a statue, listening to the beeps as the phone shook hands with the satellite and the call tried to go through.
“Stone?” a deep male voice said.
“Hold for the President of the United States.”
It was a short wait.
“Luke?” a female voice said.
“Madam President,” Luke shouted. He couldn’t help but smile when he did. “It’s been a long time.”
“Much too long,” Susan Hopkins said.
“To what do I owe this honor?”
“I’ve got trouble,” she said. “I need you to come in.”
Luke thought about that for a moment. “Uh, I’m a long way from anywhere right now. It’s going to be a little hard to—”
“Doesn’t matter,” she said. “Wherever you are, I’ll send a plane. Or a helicopter. Whatever you need.”
“A big friendly Saint Bernard would be good for starters,” Luke said. “With one of those little whiskey kegs around his neck.”
“Done. He’ll bring you a sandwich too, in case you’re hungry.”
Luke nearly laughed. “Hungry is one way to describe it. And when I’m done eating, I really will need that chopper.”
“Also done. Before we hang up, I’ll give you to someone who can take your coordinates and send someone out to get you. We go the extra mile around here. We believe in door-to-door service.”
Luke had to admit he felt a quick flash of relief. Just moments before he had seen no way off this mountain, no second chance at life. Now, he had one. He hadn’t known before whether he’d wanted to die or live—but now he knew for sure. He could tell by the quickening of his blood when she mentioned a way out of here. Intellectually, he still didn’t know, but viscerally, his body told him.
He wanted to live.
Despite all the hell he’d been through, somehow, he wanted to live.
“What’s going on?” Luke said.
She hesitated, and her voice shook the smallest amount. He could hear it even through the wind whipping around him. “Yesterday was Election Day.”
Luke considered that. He had been off the grid for so long, he had no idea what the date was. Somewhere far away, in another world, people still campaigned for office. The wheels of government ground on. There were policies to argue about and important decisions to be made. There was media coverage, and talking heads shouting at each other. He hadn’t thought about any of these things in some time. In fact, he had almost forgotten they existed.
A long pause passed between them.
“Luke,” Susan said. “I lost the election.”
8:03 a.m. Eastern Standard Time
The Oval Office
The White House, Washington DC
“That evil bastard,” someone in the room said. “He stole it, plain and simple.”
Susan Hopkins stood in the middle of the office and stared at the large flat-panel TV on the wall. She was still numb, almost in shock. Although she watched intently, she was having trouble forming clear thoughts. It was too much to process.
She was very aware of the suit she wore. It was dark blue with a white dress shirt. There was something uncomfortable about it. Once upon a time, it had fit well—in fact, had been tailored to fit her perfectly—but it was clear today that her body was changing. Now the suit hung wrong. The shoulders of the jacket were too loose, the slacks were too tight. Her bra straps pinched the flesh of her back.
Too much late-night food. Too little sleep. Too little exercise.
She sighed heavily. The job was killing her anyway.
Yesterday at this same time, just after the polls opened, she was among the first people in the United States to cast her vote. She had come out of the booth with a big smile on her face and a fist in the air—an image that had been caught by the TV cameras and photographers, and had gone viral all day long. She had ridden a wave of optimism into Election Day, and the polls yesterday morning pegged her support at more than sixty percent of likely voters—a possible landslide in the making.
As she watched, her opponent, Jefferson Monroe, took the podium at his headquarters in Wheeling, West Virginia. Although it was eight in the morning, a crowd of campaign workers and supporters were still there. Everywhere the cameras panned in the crowd were tall, red, white, and blue, Abraham Lincoln–style hats—they had somehow become the emblem of Monroe’s campaign. That, and the aggressive signs that had become his campaign’s war cry: AMERICA IS OURS!
Ours? What did that mean? As opposed to who? Who else would it belong to?
It seemed clear: minorities, non-Christians, gay people… you name it. In particular, it was clear it meant Chinese immigrants to America, as well as Chinese-Americans. Just weeks before, the Chinese had threatened to call in their debt and potentially bankrupt the US. This, indeed, had allowed Monroe to ride a wave of Chinese fear in the final days of his election. Monroe thrived on fear—Chinese fear in particular. According to Monroe, these people were acting as a secret cat’s paw for the imperialist ambitions of the government in Beijing, and the Chinese oligarchs who were buying up vast swaths of American real estate and business interests. According to Monroe, if we didn’t get tough, the Chinese would take over America.
His people ate it up.
Jefferson Monroe’s archenemies, and the enemies of his supporters, were the Chinese. The Chinese were America’s great nemesis, and the airhead former fashion model in the White House either didn’t have the eyes to see it, or was a bought and sold Chinese collaborator.
Monroe himself stared out at the crowd with his deep-set, steely eyes. He was seventy-four years old, white-haired, with a lined and weathered face—a face that seemed much older than its years. Judging by his face alone, he could have been a hundred years old, or a thousand. But he was tall, and stood erect. By all accounts he slept three or four hours a night, and that was all he needed.
He wore a freshly starched white dress shirt open at the throat with no tie—another signature of his. He was a billionaire, or close to it, but he was a man of the people, by God! A man who had come from nothing. Dirt poor, from the mountains of West Virginia. A man who, despite his newfound wealth, despised the rich all his life. A man who, more than anything, despised the liberals, especially Northeasterners, and New Yorkers in particular. No fancy pants, Washington, DC insider suit and power tie for him. He somehow managed to conveniently overlook that he himself was the ultimate Washington insider, that he had spent twenty-four years in the United States Senate.
Susan supposed there was some modicum of truth to his affect. He’d had a hardscrabble upbringing in Appalachia—that was common knowledge. And he had clawed his way up and out from there. But he was no friend of the common man, or woman. To orchestrate his climb, he had always, from his earliest days—aligned himself with the most backward elements in American society. He had been a Pinkerton thug as a young man, attacking striking coal miners with clubs and ax handles. He had spent his entire career in the back pocket of the major coal interests, always fighting for less regulation, less workplace safety, and fewer workers’ rights. And he had been rewarded handsomely for his efforts.
“I told you,” he said into the microphone.
The crowd erupted into raucous cheers.
Monroe tamped it down with a hand. “I told you we were going to take America back.” The cheering started again. “You and me!” Monroe shouted. “We did it!”
Now the cheering changed, gradually morphing into a chant, one with which Susan was all too familiar. It had a funny awkward sort of cadence, this chant, like a waltz, or some kind of call-and-response.
“AMERICA! IS OURS! AMERICA! IS OURS! AMERICA! IS OURS!”
It went on and on. The sound of it made Susan sick to her stomach. At least they hadn’t started in on the “Kick Her Out!” chants that had become popular for a while. The first time she had heard it, it nearly brought her to tears. She knew a lot of the people involved were probably just showboating. But at least some of these lunatics really did want to hang her, supposedly because she was a traitor in league with the Chinese. The thought of it left a hollow place inside of her.
“No more empty factories!” Monroe shouted. Now it was his turn to raise a triumphant fist in the air. “No more crime-ridden cities! No more human filth! No more Chinese betrayals!”
“NO MORE!” the crowd answered in unison, another of their favorite chants. “NO MORE! NO MORE! NO MORE!”
Kurt Kimball, crisp, alert, big and strong as always, with a perfectly bald head, stepped in front of the TV and used the remote control to mute the sound.
It was as if a spell had been broken. Suddenly Susan was completely aware of her surroundings again. She was here in the sitting area of the Oval Office with Kurt, his close aide Amy, Kat Lopez, Secretary of Defense Haley Lawrence, and a few others. These were some of Susan’s most trusted advisors.
On a closed-circuit video monitor, Susan’s Vice President, Marybeth Horning, was attending. After the Mount Weather disaster, security protocols had changed. Marybeth and Susan were never supposed to be in the same place at the same time. And that was a shame.
Marybeth was a hero of Susan’s. She was the ultra-liberal former senator from Rhode Island who had lectured at Brown University for more than two decades. She seemed mousy and frail, with a bob of gray hair and round-rimmed granny glasses.
But looks, in this case, were deceiving. She was also a thunderous firebrand for workers’ rights, women’s rights, the rights of gay people, and the environment. She was the mastermind of the successful healthcare initiative Susan’s administration had launched. Marybeth was at once an unassuming genius, a student of history, and a vicious political infighter with sharp elbows.
Another sad thing: Marybeth lived in Susan’s old house on the grounds of the Naval Observatory. The house was one of Susan’s favorite places on Earth. It would be nice to go there once in a while.
“This is a problem,” Kurt Kimball said, gesturing at the silent TV.
Susan nearly laughed. “Kurt, I’ve always admired your gift for understatement.”
Jefferson Monroe had made a campaign promise—a promise!—that he would go to Congress and seek a Declaration of War against China on his first official day in office. In fact, and most people had trouble taking this seriously, he had implied that the American military’s first move would be tactical nuclear strikes against China’s artificial islands in the South China Sea. He had also promised that he would erect security walls around Chinatowns in New York, Boston, San Francisco, and Los Angeles. He said he would demand the Canadians do the same in Vancouver and Calgary.
The Canadians, quite naturally, had balked at the idea.
“The country has gone insane,” Kurt said. “And Monroe is expected to call for your concession speech again, Susan.”
Kat Lopez shook her head. As Susan’s chief-of-staff, Kat had matured and come into her own these past couple of years. She had also aged about ten years. When she came in, she had been a surreally beautiful and youthful thirty-seven—now she looked every minute of thirty-nine, and then some. Lines had appeared on her face, gray was invading the jet black of her hair.
“I advise you not to do that, Susan,” she said. “We have evidence of widespread minority voter suppression in five Southern states. We have the suspicion of outright polling machine fraud in Ohio, Pennsylvania, and Michigan. The counts are still too close to call in many places—just because the TV stations have called these states for him, doesn’t mean we have to. We can make this thing drag out for weeks, if not months.”
“And cause a presidential succession crisis,” Kurt said.
“We can weather it,” Kat said. “We’ve seen worse. The inauguration isn’t until January twentieth. If it takes that long, so be it. It buys us time. If there was fraud, our analysts will discover it. If there was voter suppression like we think, there will be lawsuits. In the meantime, we’re still governing.”
“I’m with Kat on this,” Marybeth chimed in through the monitor. “I say we fight until we drop.”
Susan looked at Haley Lawrence. He was tall and heavyset, with unkempt blond hair. His suit was so wrinkled it was almost as if he had passed out in it. He looked like he had just awoken ten minutes ago from a fitful sleep full of nightmares. Except for their shared height, he and Kurt Kimball were near opposites in appearance.
“Haley, you’re the only Republican in this room,” Susan said. “Monroe’s in your party. I want your thoughts on this before I decide anything.”
Lawrence took a long moment before answering. “I don’t think that Jefferson Monroe is really a Republican. His ideas are far more radical than conservative. He surrounds himself with gangs of young thugs. He spent the past year appealing to the most backward and basest notions of angry and resentful people. He is a danger to world peace, the social order, and the very ideals that this country was founded upon.”
Haley took a long breath. “I would hate to see him and his ilk occupy this office and this building, even if it turns out that he really did win. If I were you, I would obstruct him as long as possible.”
Susan nodded. It was what she wanted to hear. It was time to gear up for battle. “All right. I won’t concede. We’re not going anywhere.”
Kurt Kimball raised a hand. “Susan, I’ll go along with whatever you want to do, as long as you realize the potential consequences of these actions.”
He began to tick them off on his fingers, in what seemed like no particular order, as if he were ready to describe each one as it occurred to him.
“By not voluntarily surrendering the seat, you are breaking with a two-century tradition. You will be called a traitor, a usurper, a would-be dictator, and probably worse. You will be breaking the law, and you could eventually be brought up on charges. If no evidence of election fraud arises, then you will look vain and foolish. You could hurt your place in the history books—at this moment, you have a sterling legacy.”
Now Susan raised her hand.
“Kurt, I understand the consequences,” she said, and took a deep breath.
“And I say bring them on.”
4:15 p.m. Eastern Standard Time
Mount Carmel Cemetery
A single red rose, just cut, lay on the brown grass. Luke stared at the name and the epitaph carved into the gleaming black marble.
REBECCA ST. JOHN
To Live, to Laugh, to Love
The bleak overcast day was already fading and night was coming on. He felt a shiver go through him. He was overtired from the long trip back east. He was also clean-shaven, with short hair—no longer protected from the chill by his shaggy mane. He looked away from the stone and stared out at the cemetery, row upon row of gravestones covering rolling hillsides in a quiet part of suburban DC.
He gazed up at the gunmetal sky. When they married, Becca had taken his last name. Apparently, she had chosen to go to her grave under her maiden name. That burned him, all the way deep inside. Their rupture had been complete. He almost shook his fist at the sky, at Becca, wherever she might be now.
Did he hate her? No. But she made him very, very angry. She had blamed him for everything that went wrong in their marriage, right up to and including her own death from cancer.
On the cemetery road, just down the hill and about a hundred yards away, a sleek black limousine pulled up in front of Luke’s nondescript rental sedan. As he watched, a chauffeur in black jacket and cap opened the back door of the limo.
Two figures emerged. One was young and male, growing tall like his father. The boy wore jeans, sneakers, a dress shirt, and a windbreaker jacket. The other figure was old and female, stooped a bit, wearing a long heavy wool coat against the damp autumn air. Luke didn’t have to guess who they were—he already knew.
Luke had cheated. Of course he had. Fifteen minutes ago, he had been tailing that same limousine. When he guessed where it was going, he decided to beat it here. The two people working their way slowly up the footpath now, arm in arm, were Audrey, Becca’s seventy-two-year-old mother, and Gunner, Luke and Becca’s thirteen-year-old son.
Luke looked away for a moment as they approached, scanning the horizon as though something interested him out there. When he turned back again, they were nearly here. He watched them come. Audrey moved slowly, carefully studying her own feet as they touched the ground—she seemed older than her years. Gunner stepped awkwardly along with her, supporting her. The slow pace seemed like it would make him lose his balance—he was like a young colt trapped in a stall, all frustrated energy, desperate to unleash his own speed and power.
Gunner stared quizzically at Luke, but only for a few seconds. It had been nearly two years since last they’d met—an immense amount of time at the boy’s age—and for a brief moment, it was clear he didn’t know who Luke was. His face darkened when he realized he was staring at his own father. Then he looked at the ground.
Audrey knew who Luke was right away.
“Can we help you?” she said before they even reached the grave marker.
“You can’t,” Luke said. Audrey and her husband, Lance, had never accepted him as their son-in-law. They had been a toxic influence on his marriage since well before he and Becca exchanged their vows. Luke had nothing to say to Audrey.
“What are you doing here, Dad?” Gunner said. His voice was deeper now. His throat had the cleft of an Adam’s apple—that hadn’t been there before.
“I was called here by the President. But I wanted to see you first.”
“Your President lost,” Audrey said. “She’s holed up inside the White House like a lunatic, refusing to admit defeat. I always knew there was something suspect about her. Now it’s on full display for the world to see. Was she hoping to become Emperor?”
Luke looked at Audrey, taking his time, soaking her in. She had deep-set eyes with irises so dark, they seemed almost black. She had a sharp nose, like a beak. Her shoulders were hunched, and her hands were impossibly frail. She reminded him of a bird—a crow, or maybe a vulture. A carrion eater, in any case.
“She lost,” Audrey said again. “She needs to get over it and prepare to hand over power to the winner.”
“Gunner?” Luke said, ignoring Audrey now. “Can we talk?”
“I told Rebecca in no uncertain terms not to marry you. I told her it would end in disaster. But I never could have imagined that it would come to this.”
“Gunner?” Luke repeated, but now the boy was looking away. Luke saw a tear slide down Gunner’s face. The kid swallowed hard.
“I just want to apologize.”
The words came out wrong. An apology? That wouldn’t nearly cut it. Luke knew that. It was going to take a lot more than an apology to set this situation right again, if that was even possible. He wanted to tell Gunner that. He wanted to tell him he would do anything, everything, if only he would let him back into his life.
He had made a terrible mistake. He would spend the rest of his life on this. He would fix it.
Gunner looked at him, openly crying now. The tears streamed down his face. “I don’t want to talk to you.” He shook his head. “I don’t want to see you. I just want to forget about you, don’t you understand?”
Luke nodded. “Okay. Okay, I can respect that. But know that I love you and I’m always open to hearing from you. Do you still have my number? You can call me if you change your mind.”
“I don’t have your number,” Gunner said. “And I won’t change my mind.”
Luke nodded again. “In that case, I’ll leave you alone.”
Audrey’s voice followed Luke down the path. “That sounds like a good idea,” she said. “Leave the boy alone.” Then she laughed, a mad cackle that would have sounded almost like a coughing fit if Luke didn’t know better.
“Leave us alone with our dead.”
Luke made it to his car, put it in gear, and was almost to the cemetery gates before he started crying himself.
4:57 p.m. Eastern Standard Time
No one remembered who Bubba was.
The small tavern had sat there on a street corner in the southeast end of Chester, near the river, since sometime after World War II. Ten different people had owned it at one time or another, and it had always been called Bubba’s, as far as anyone knew. But no one knew why.
“I guess she’s going to throw in the towel,” one man at the bar said.
“About time,” said another.
Marc Reeves was working the stick today. Marc was an old-timer, sixty-seven years of age. He had poured beer at this bar, off and on, for the past twenty-five years, outlasting three owners in the process. He had watched the whole town go down the tubes right from this bar. In a city where damn near everything was boarded up or about to be, Bubba’s was a success story. Even so, nobody kept it for long.
The place broke even—that was the problem. It didn’t lose money, it didn’t make money. You were better off working there, or drinking there, than owning it. At least you got something for your trouble.
There was a big old box color TV set mounted on an iron rod behind the bar. This time of the afternoon, the place had four or five daytime drinkers lined up along the rail, wasting their Social Security checks and whatever was left of their livers. Usually the television was set to whatever game happened to be on. Today was different, though. Today the President was holding her first press conference since she lost the election.
Marc had been skeptical of her when she first came into office, especially considering the circumstances, but she had grown on him. He thought she had done a pretty good job, all in all. She, and the country, had weathered a lot of storms. So he had done something yesterday that he rarely did—he had voted for her. He hadn’t stepped inside a polling place in twelve years before that.
Not everyone agreed with his decision.
“I like the new guy,” a fat man along the rail said. Everybody called him Skipper. He’d probably never been on a boat in his life. “What has Susan Hopkins ever done for Chester, Pennsylvania? That’s what I want to know. Anyway, it’s about time somebody put a stop to all these Chinamen flooding the country.”
“And bring back our jobs while you’re at it,” a man named Steve-O said. Steve-O was so thin he was like one of those man-like pipe cleaner sculptures. He came in here and drank beer and bourbon every single day. Marc had never seen Steve-O eat even a bite of food. He seemed to survive on alcohol alone.
Marc was drying pint glasses that had just come out of the washer. “Steve-O, you’ve been on disability for twenty years.”
“I don’t mean bring my job back,” Steve-O said.
A few people laughed.
On the TV, an empty podium appeared. It was flanked by American flags.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” a hushed voice said, “the President of the United States.”
Susan Hopkins walked onto the stage from the right. She wore a tan pantsuit, her hair in a short blonde bob. Beautiful. Marc remembered her from her modeling days, in particular a certain Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue from twenty-five years ago. He had been middle-aged then, married with kids. There was something heartbreaking about her photo shoot—she was ethereal, unattainable, from another world. He didn’t have the words for what she was. And if anything, she looked even better now—more down to Earth, more mature. Marc liked a woman with a little mileage on her.
“Take it off, baby!” Steve-O said, eliciting some giggles from the others.
Marc had served Steve-O six shots and six beers in the past couple of hours. He’d say Steve-O was visibly intoxicated by now. And he was starting to pluck Marc’s nerves. “You’re about to get cut off, Steve-O.”
Steve-O looked at him. “What?”
“Shut up or go home. That’s what I’m saying.”
Marc turned back to the TV screen. Hopkins still hadn’t said anything yet. She seemed to be choking back some emotion. This was it, then. She was going to concede the election. She had seemed popular, but in the end she had been a one-term President—and not even a full term.
“My fellow Americans,” she said.
The bar was silent. The room where she spoke was almost silent—Marc could hear the whirr and click of cameras taking photos.
“I’m going to keep my remarks brief. This was a hard-fought campaign between two very different visions of America. One vision is of optimism, understanding, and pride for what we’ve accomplished as a nation. The other is a dark vision of anger, despair, resentment, and even paranoia. It sees our nation as a ruined landscape, which can only be saved by the efforts of one man. And it promises violence—violence against our most important trading partner, as well as violence against our own communities, our neighbors, and our friends.
“I’m sure you know which vision I embrace. I cannot accept a worldview based on racism, prejudice, and mistrust. And yet, despite my misgivings, under normal circumstances my task now would be to congratulate the apparent victor in this race, and welcome the President-elect, graciously preparing for the peaceful transfer of power that is a hallmark of our democracy.”
She paused. “But these are not normal circumstances.”
Marc stood up straight. He felt a tingle along his spine. He looked along the bar at the men lined up. Every single one of them was glued to the television now. Every one of them was suddenly alert, like animals before an approaching thunderstorm. What was she saying?
“My campaign has discovered evidence of Election Day irregularities in at least five states, including voter suppression, but also including outright tampering with and potential hacking of election machinery. We have reason to believe that the election was stolen, not just from our campaign, but from the American people. We have already contacted the FBI and the Justice Department about our concerns, and we look forward to a full, impartial investigation. Until such an investigation is completed—however long it takes—I cannot and will not recognize the results of this election, and I will continue to perform the duties of the President of the United States, carrying out my oath to protect and uphold the Constitution. Thank you.”
On the TV, President Hopkins moved to the right and off screen. There was a babble of voices as reporters shouted, competing with each other for her attention. Flashbulbs popped. The TV station switched to a different camera, one focused on the President as she was hustled out a side door behind a sea of very large Secret Service agents. She hadn’t taken a single question.
“What does that mean?” Steve-O said. “Can she do that?”
No one said a word.
Marc just kept drying pint glasses. He didn’t know the answer to that himself.
5:48 p.m. Eastern Standard Time
The Willard Intercontinental Hotel, Washington DC
“Are we a nation of laws?” the man shouted into the telephone.
He sat with his feet up on his wide desk of polished oak, gazing out the floor-to-ceiling window at the lights of the Capitol. It was dark out—the sun set early this time of year.
“That’s what I want to know. Because if we are a nation of laws, then that woman, the current occupant of the White House, needs to start packing her bags. She lost, and Jefferson Monroe won. Jefferson Monroe is the President-elect of the United States. And come inauguration day, if the current occupant is not out, we are going to evict her, like the sheriff evicting a deadbeat tenant.”
For a few seconds, the man paused, listening to the reporter on the other end of the line.
“Oh yeah, you can quote me. Print every word of it.”
He hung up the phone and slid it onto the desk. He checked his watch and breathed deeply. He had been on the phones with reporters for nearly an hour, ever since Susan Hopkins had run off the stage and darted out of the room at the end of her silly press conference.
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