SCOTT JOHNSON GATHERED WITH HIS SENIOR LEADERSHIP TEAM BEHIND locked doors in the Solara bunkroom. The décor in here was bright and the furniture comfortable. One of the advantages of staffing the Annex 24/7 was the ability to take care of their own. The Hilltop Manor always bought more furniture than their immediate needs dictated, placing their extras in a climate-controlled storage building in an obscure corner of the property. The first thing Scott noticed about the administrative protocols of the Hilltop Manor was their terrible inventory-control systems. While the politician asshats made do with military surplus, the Solara team lounged in five-star–hotel surplus.

A fully stocked bar dominated one corner of the bunkroom, complete with multiple liter-size bottles of each employee’s favorite booze—again, compliments of the hotel. They’d had to build the bar on their own, but that wasn’t that big a deal when the granite and stainless steel came to them free of charge.

Scott sat in a forest green leather lounge chair in front of the masonry faux fireplace that glowed with an electric heating insert. The bunkroom’s proximity to the climate control systems kept the place way too cold in the summertime and way too hot in the winter, because theirs was the first air to be snatched from the distribution vents.

Garand “Bugsy” Bug-something sat on the pool table, his legs dangling over the side, while Billy St. James and Roy Heath perched in the high-seat observation chairs next to the pool table.

“I can’t believe that this shit is actually happening,” St. James said.

“Which shit is that?” Scott asked. “The end of the world, or the fact that members of Congress are kindergartners?”

They all laughed.

St. James said, “Mostly the first, but a lot of the second.”

Scott drilled in on Roy Heath. “Glendale asked me about Oliver Mulroney.”

Heath shifted in his seat. “I’m sorry, Mr. Johnson. How the hell was I supposed to know he was going to take a dump right then? You told me to get rid of the body, so I thought I had my window of opportunity.”

“You should have checked the hallway first,” Scott said. “At the very least, you should have checked the video feeds.”

Heath looked stumped for words. “All I can do is apologize again.”

“And be more careful in the future.”

Bugsy asked, “What did you tell him? The president, I mean.”

St. James chuckled. “I wouldn’t get too comfortable calling him that yet.”

“Well, we can’t call him Speaker anymore,” Heath said. “Angela Fortnight already slimed into that role.”

“Five bucks she finds a way to make herself president,” St. James said. “Did you see how pissed she was when she stormed out of the speech? I rolled tape on her meeting with her conference while Glendale was speaking. Want to hear it?”

“Not now,” Scott said. “Not yet, anyway. What was the gist?”