Chapter 4: Everything to Lose

I pick up a little red flag and stick it on the map: “For now, the only way to survive is to move the capital to Dallas.”

“Move south to Dallas?” John’s eyes widen, then he quietly moves the flag: “Here is Dallas.”

Ahem, not important.

I wipe imaginary sweat, saying that America has no usable troops left, the populists will soon take DC, if we don’t move, we’re toast. Only by moving south and saving ourselves can we hope to fight back later.

“But the Cabinet won’t agree.” John stares at the flag, hesitant.

I nod, then shake my head. “Cabinet members indeed won’t agree, but this is life and death—why wait for their consent?”

[It’s not your first time ignoring advice, why listen now?]

[Cabinet members won’t leave, because even if the populists take the White House, they need them to govern, and they’ll still have high positions.]

[But if you don’t leave, you’re done.]

“Fine! Then we’ll move.” John sighs, then changes his tone. His stern face now full of resolve.

[The stubborn mule actually listened?]

I’m a bit surprised, testing: leaving DC won’t be easy.

John suddenly clenches his fists, annoyed: “What’s so hard? I’m the President—wherever I am is the capital.”

I chuckle, counting on my fingers: to bypass the Cabinet and force the move, we can only rely on ourselves—moving needs moving costs, is there money in the Treasury? Is there money in the White House budget? With your big family, can you go to Dallas alone? You’ll need troops to escort you. Raising a usable force takes money. I list it all, do a quick calculation.

John’s face falls: “Moving south costs so much?”

I nod, for safety, you have to spend.

[If you don’t pay, who will risk their life for you?]

John’s face darkens: “I really have failed as President.”

Here we go again. Everyone knows, no need to repeat it. I nod.

[The Cabinet is waiting to cut a deal; it doesn’t matter who they serve.]

[The generals won’t obey orders to help, oh, General Grant will come, but he’ll surrender soon.]

[Without money, you can’t move; unless you have my dad’s ability to save millions by being cheap.]

John’s face suddenly changes: “Life without money is hard... why not just confiscate your family’s property for emergency funds.”

I nod, confiscation is a good idea. Hmm. Wait. Confiscate my family?

I immediately look up, pitiful: “Mr. President! No, John! How can you confiscate my family? My immunity order is still fresh! You can’t go back on your word!”

John pats my shoulder, his face showing rare cunning, as if relieved: “I only said not to arrest you, not not to confiscate your property. We’re family, your money is my money. Consider it a loan; in the future... I’ll repay you well.”

This doesn’t sound like John, sounds more like me.

I wail, trying to salvage: my dad is so poor he eats instant noodles every day, where do we have money?

[The DC elite are richer. The populists took billions from them; if you have guts, confiscate theirs.]

[Sigh, can’t—if you do it now, the Cabinet will turn on you. Only do it after we’ve left.]

John’s eyes flicker, thinking for a while, finally looking at me: “If your family has no money, how did you buy a custom pin-up handkerchief for a hundred bucks?”

I stare.

[Damn, a fellow enthusiast? John, so you’re not proper either.]

John grits his teeth: “I’m definitely confiscating your family.”

No matter how I try to dodge, my family is still cleaned out. John doesn’t trust others, so he comes in person. Not afraid of losing face. Heh. Box after box of cash and jewelry is carried out, my heart aching. My penny-pinching dad, Richard Mason, is already slumped on the ground, clutching his vintage Michigan mug like it was a life raft.

Just as he finishes, thunder cracks, as if aimed at me. What did I do?

I slump to the ground, crawl to my dad, hugging his leg and howling: “Yeah, which jerk told the President we have money? How can I be a slacker now? Boo hoo!”

“Slacker my ass! From now on, you eat ramen with me! If you dare go to the clubs, I’ll break your legs!” My dad roars, punching my chest.

John doesn’t intervene, just watches box after box of cash, smiling.

Appreciate the donation, Dad. I’ll make sure it goes to a good cause—like not getting us all shot.

John leaves with the loot, smiling. The house is empty, like a tornado passed through. My dad cries harder. I get beat harder.

[John! You big-browed, big-eyed, you’ve learned to be bad!]

Soon, Chief of Staff brings an order. I’m appointed Deputy Director of Homeland Security, becoming its number two—

As for number one, Director Langley, my boss, for some reason has fallen out of favor and is now just a figurehead. Meaning, now the famous secret police of America, I call the shots.

Three million gone, and for what? A badge and a job title. I should’ve just bought a food truck and driven to Texas.