Preston let out a visceral scream before Michaels snatched the thumb drive out of Preston’s other hand.
“You’ll never get away with this,” Preston said.
Michaels didn’t look back, storming through the door and racing down the hallway. He heard Preston scream for the Secret Service agents to arrest the president, but it was too late. Michaels had already left the house and raced into the wooded area surrounding the Camp David cottage.
Serves the bastard right.
Michaels glanced to his left and right. He didn’t see a soul as he ventured into the forest.
CHAPTER 29
HAWK TOOK A PRONE POSITION about 200 meters away from the Camp David cottage. Wearing camouflage and nestled against the ground, he pulled out his binoculars and peered through them at the activity inside. He felt as if he’d entered into a life of voyeurism, switching back and forth between the rooms. Despite pushing the twinge of guilt down, he couldn’t deny that something was happening, the kind of something that Big Earv had referenced in describing the scene.
Hawk bounced back and forth between the various rooms in the house, catching glimpses of the people inside as they moved around. Whatever was taking place, Hawk concluded that Big Earv was right—the peaceful status quo had been long since abandoned. Secret Service agents darted around the house while Thomas Preston appeared to be in anguish.
“What the hell?” Hawk muttered to himself as he watched Preston contort his face but remain in the library.
Hawk’s field of vision drifted downward until he could see the full picture and caught the source of Preston’s anguish. A knife appeared to be buried in the back of Preston’s hand.
Preston continued screaming and crying for help.
Hawk whipped the binoculars over to the den, which had an exit leading to the back porch. Michaels eased outside and said something to the agent posted by the door. The agent dashed inside, leaving Michaels alone outside. As Hawk watched, Michaels checked over his shoulder once more and surveyed the wooded area behind the house before taking off and sprinting toward the forest.
Does he think he’s going to disappear?
Hawk smiled as he refocused his binoculars and followed Michaels’ pathway into the woods. Michaels was headed straight for Hawk.
While Hawk followed Michaels, a Secret Service agent poked his head outside and called out.
“Mr. President? Mr. President? Are you outside?” the agent asked.
Michaels didn’t even turn around, continuing to beat a path deep into the forest.
Hawk watched the agent squint as he peered into dense vegetation behind the house before shrugging and returning inside.
After another fifteen seconds, Michaels neared Hawk’s position.
* * *
MICHAELS PAUSED TO CATCH his breath. Bending over with his hands resting on his knees, he closed his eyes and tried to gather his thoughts. Left alone with the knife in his library, Michaels had time to formulate a plan, though a hasty one. Before he set it in motion, he realized it was far from perfect and would need everything to fall his way in order to survive the impending scandal. But it was better than slashing his wrist.
Michaels stood upright and scanned the woods, deciding on his next path. Before he took off running, his phone rang. Michaels pulled it out to inspect it. Anxious to answer the call, he tapped the screen and said hello.
“How’d you get this number? I never give it out,” Michaels said with a scowl.
“Seriously? That’s the first question you ask me,” a man said. Hawk recognized the voice almost immediately. It was Oliver Ackerman.
Michaels spoke in a whisper. “What do you want?”
“I think I already made that clear earlier. I want all my money back.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Michaels said. “I never took your money.”
“How come my account is empty then?”
“Maybe there was a computer glitch.”
“I called the bank. There’s nothing in there. And there’s only one person who knew about that account.”
Michaels sighed. “Apparently not—because I had nothing to do with it, unless your bank is taking you for a ride. I’ve heard those financial institutions in the Caribbean aren’t always on the up and up.”
“I called the bank and they traced the withdrawal back to your people.”
“Like I said, must’ve been a mistake. Or perhaps there’s some rogue staffer in my office doing unscrupulous things with your account. But I don’t have time to hash this over.”
“Well, you’re going to make time to put everything back as it should be or else I’m going to release proof of who the real President Conrad Michaels is.”
Michaels looked around as he spoke. “Then you’d never get your money—and I’d deny everything. Meanwhile, you’d spend the rest of your life in jail.”
“I’m sure you’re familiar with the acronym MAD—mutually assured destruction.”
Michaels chuckled. “If you make a play like that, it’ll be SAD—self-assured destruction—because I sure as hell won’t go down for anything you’ve done over there. And before you get any ideas, just remember how that whole Wikileaks scandal turned out. Nobody believes a damn thing they say anymore.”
“Put the money back in the account and this all goes away,” Ackerman said. “We’ll go our separate ways and never speak of this day again. Otherwise, you’ll never forget it and rue your stubbornness until the moment you breathe your last breath.”
“You’ll never see a dime from me again. Burn in hell, Ollie,” Michaels said before he hung up.
He shoved his phone into his pocket and felt the thumb drive. Escaping so he could regroup was a high priority, but not as important as destroying the video that could actually ruin his presidency, not to mention his entire legacy.
Michaels looked around for an appropriate spot and identified a location near the base of a tree that was shrouded by a large fern. The spot was off the beaten path and wouldn’t likely be discovered by even the most observant searchers. Michaels knelt down next to the tree and dug down a foot before hitting
