“Don’t move,” a man said.
Michaels froze.
“That’s right. Stay right there,” the man said.
“You’re never going to get away with this,” Michaels said. “You do realize there’s a Secret Service detail following me everywhere.”
“But they can’t see you here, you cheating bastard, because you decided to toss a ball onto the ground,” the man said as he held a ball out in front of Michaels. “Here’s your ball, you piece of shit.”
Michaels turned around slowly and came face to face with Oliver Ackerman.
“Is this really necessary?” Michaels asked.
“You tell me,” Ackerman said as he ducked down. “I’m not the one who stripped my bank account clean.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You stole all my money, you asshole, and I’m going to make you pay if you don’t return it.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Michaels said as he looked down at his ball.
“If you draw your detail’s attention, I’ll fill you full of bullet holes. Consider this mutual assured destruction.”
“Okay, okay. Just calm down.”
“Is everything all right, Mr. President?” one of the Secret Service agents asked.
“Just fine,” Michaels said. “Now stop making me nervous so I can hit this ball.”
Ackerman crouched low in the shadows in an effort to remain hidden.
“Just what exactly do you want?” Michaels asked.
“I want my money back,” Ackerman said. “I’ve been doing everything just as you asked and then all of a sudden, my account is zeroed out.”
“I can assure you that I had nothing to do with this.”
“Are you sure?” Ackerman asked. “I’m not inclined to believe you based on your past history.”
“I swear to god that I’m telling you the truth.”
Ackerman jammed his gun farther into Michaels’ back. “After all I did for you—I can’t believe you would treat me like this.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I can assure you that I’ve never ordered anyone to take any money from your account. You’re one of my most loyal men. Why would I do that?”
“I know you’re feeling the heat and you’re just trying to tidy up some loose ends. I’m not going to be a loose end or a footnote in your tattered legacy, I can promise you that much.”
“Oliver, just calm down.”
“No, I won’t just calm down. You’ve got four hours to restore all the money to my account or I’m going public with the truth. And consider this our last working agreement.”
“Sir,” one of the Secret Service agents called, “are you sure you’re all right?”
“Never better,” Michaels said as he glanced up at the man and then back down at his ball.
Michaels looked over his shoulder. Ackerman had retreated into the woods and was nowhere to be seen.
Michaels swung hard and topped the ball. He watched it roll a few feet before coming to rest on a root.
“Son of a bitch,” Michaels muttered.
And he wasn’t talking about his muffed shot.
CHAPTER 26
AFTER HIS MORNING GOLF OUTING, President Michaels settled into a chair in the library at his Camp David cottage and cracked open the latest memoir to rocket up all the bestselling charts. “Common Valor” was a book about by a man named John Sellers, an assassin in the Marines who ditched the military after eight years to go start schools for girls in Afghanistan. Michaels flipped the pages, rolling his eyes at Sellers’ depiction of military life as well as his empathy toward the plight of the Afghanis.
More like “Common Bullshit” if you ask me.
Michaels slammed the book shut and tossed it on the coffee table in front of him. He sunk in his chair and stared out at the vivid array of fall colors on display outside. The shuffling of feet in the hallway arrested his attention, and he sat up and looked to see who was there.
“Still mulling over that decision to go for it on fourteen instead of laying up in front of the water?” David Kriegel asked.
“If I had to do it over again, I’d still go for it,” Michaels said. “You know I live my life without regret.”
Kriegel took a deep breath and exhaled slowly as he eased into a chair next to Michaels.
“You might want to reconsider that statement,” Kriegel said.
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about the hell you’re about to go through.”
Michaels furrowed his brow. “I’m lost here, David. Are you referring to something that I should know about?”
“The U.S. attorney general is here to speak with you—and I don’t think you’re going to like what he has to say.”
Michaels looked toward the doorway and saw Thomas Preston standing solemnly with his briefcase in hand.
“What are you doing here?” Michaels asked.
Kriegel stood up and strode toward the exit. “I’ll leave you two alone to discuss things.”
Preston stepped inside and pulled the door shut behind him. After setting his briefcase down on the coffee table, Preston occupied the seat Kriegel had been sitting in. For nearly the last four years, Preston had been cleaning house as it pertained to all the corruption in Washington. Bankers, lobbyists, senators, federal judges—no one was beyond Preston’s reach. And while the purge had been painful at times for Michaels, he chalked up the loss of friends and allies to the cost of doing business. He concluded that if all these people who claimed to be his friend were skirting the rules and backstabbing confidantes, it would only be a matter of time before they did the same thing to him. Preston had done exactly what Michaels wanted: Washington was no longer a network consisting solely of crooked individuals sticking their fingers in the collective pie. A few miscreants still remained in the shadows, but given enough time, Preston would eventually flush them out or simply shut them down.
“Who is it this time?” Michaels asked.
Preston opened his briefcase and retrieved a file folder.
“I need you to read this,” Preston said.
“No problem,” Michaels said as
