Jennifer Government: A Novel (12 page)

Buy’s eyebrows rose. “At Chadstone?”

“They peeled me off the top of a Mercedes.”

His eyes widened. Then he laughed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t recognize you. You are…much improved.”

She looked down, a little flustered. “It’s a pretty fucking strange coincidence, you giving Hayley money to buy the shoes she was killed for, don’t you think?”

She regretted the words immediately. Buy’s face fell. “I wish more than anything I had never met her.”

Calvin said, “Did you see any of the assailants that night?”

“No.”

“Anyone who looked suspicious? At all?”

“No.”

Silence.

“So, the only suspicious thing you saw that night was yourself. Is that right?”

“I suppose so.”

Calvin looked at her. She nodded. “All right,” he said. “Then we’re done. For now.”

Jennifer stood. Buy was staring at the tabletop. On impulse, she sat again. “Hey,” she said.

He looked up.

“I understand how you feel.” He said nothing. She slid her card across the table to him. “If there’s anything else, call me. All right?”

He nodded wordlessly, looking at the card.

She touched his hand across the table. Then they left, passing through the lobby and exiting to bright sunshine. The door wheezed pneumatically behind them.

“Goddamn, Jennifer Government,” Calvin said finally. “There may be hope for you yet.”

“Oh, shut up,” she said. “Let’s go talk to Pearson.”

Billy NRA’s plan was very simple: the second he could, he was going to run like hell. The longer this charade continued, the more fucked-up things were getting.

The inside of the plane had not seats but benches and straps, and when they were in the air, instead of getting peanuts and Cokes with too much ice they were given Vektor R4 assault rifles. It was the heaviest gun Billy had ever held. That somebody thought he might need it scared the crap out of him.

They landed somewhere rural and piled out of the plane and into the back of two Ryder rental trucks. More benches and straps. There was some chatter, none of it making much sense, and Billy stared at his black boots. He was starting to think he’d be better off if he was still lost in the bush.

The truck idled for two hours, then took off with such a start that Billy fell into the guy next to him. “Sorry,” Billy said, and the guy said, “You’re right, buddy.” But Billy was not right. He was not right at all.

The squad leader pulled himself to his feet. “We are now at T minus two minutes! Our primary objective when we reach the target is to maintain a safe operating perimeter, inside of which Team B will operate! Is this clear?”

“Yes, sir!” the men shouted. Billy didn’t shout anything, but the word “perimeter” was the most interesting thing he had heard all day.

The truck slowed, then stopped. The leader cracked open the doors and peered out while everybody else sat tight, fingering their Vektors. It was becoming clear to Billy there was going to be some fairly serious law-breaking going on here.

“Go, go, go!” the leader said, and threw open the doors.

Billy immediately saw two things: first, they were on a leafy,
reasonably urban street, and second, someone was about to have a very bad traffic accident. The car was a late-model Ford, and the second Ryder truck plowed into it, catching its rear. The Ford made two full, smoking-tire revolutions, then bent itself around a telephone pole.

“Move!” someone yelled, and Billy realized he was gaping like an idiot. Some of the NRA soldiers were running toward the wrecked car, keeping low, as if they expected the guy inside to jump out with guns blazing. Two others were carrying something from the second Ryder truck, something like the jaws of life. The largest group of soldiers were dragging metal barriers across the south side of the road. Billy started jogging north.

“Hey, you! South side, south side!”

“I’ll cover the north!” he yelled back. “Just gonna check it out!”

He heard footsteps behind him. He put on a burst of speed, but with the Vektor it was like trying to run with a motorcycle around his neck. A soldier grabbed his arm. He was a young guy, like Billy, but without the terror. “What’s the matter? South side, man!”

“Dude, I really have to go,” Billy said. “No offense, but—”

Behind him, the jaws of life screeched. Billy jumped. NRA guys were tearing into the Ford, or what was left of it. For the first time, Billy noticed a Police insignia on its side. He saw someone moving inside it.

“Yallam’s going to hear about this. Now get your ass back to the perimeter!”

“Look, this is all a big mistake,” he said, and then there were shots and Billy hit the deck. He raised his head. The young soldier was looking down at him contemptuously. The NRA soldiers were jogging away from the smashed Ford, holstering weapons. Billy realized they’d just accomplished their mission. He felt sick.

“Hostiles from the south! Hostiles inbound!”

“Come on! They need us!” The young soldier ran back toward the line of soldiers.

“No thanks,” Billy said. He got to his feet. “See you later, man.”

Three dark blue cars crested the hill. They were fast and low and had some kind of rotary cannon set into their hoods: he vaguely recollected seeing them in the Police TV advertisements. The NRA soldiers opened fire. Then the Police car cannons clamored and suddenly there were bullets everywhere, bouncing off the cars, chewing up the road, and passing much too close to Billy’s body.

“Fuck, fuck!” one of the jaws-of-life guys yelled. He was running to the second Ryder, which struck Billy as a good idea, too. He jumped into the back of it with the jaws guy and two other sweaty NRA soldiers. Inside, bullets like a hailstorm beat against the truck’s side, creating alarming indentations. Someone up front revved the engine and the vehicle lunged forward.

“Team A, come back, come back,” the jaws guy said into his radio.

“Team A’s gone, man,” a soldier said. “Those cop cars! They annihilated us!”

“They can’t get past the blockade,” the jaws guy said. “They’ll have to go around, do a full block. We’ve got maybe ninety seconds to lose them.”

Billy decided he was going to stick close to the jaws guy. This dude knew what he was doing. The truck bounced and lurched. Billy clutched at the strap. Then he felt them slowing.

The jaws guy said, “What’s going on?”

“Don’t ask me,” Billy said, but the man was talking to his radio. The radio said something like:
Crrsshuvfss ssahvunt
.

“Right,” the jaws guy said. He looked at the rest of them. “Okay. Now we have a problem.”

“It’s a good deal,” Calvin said, overtaking a Chrysler. “It’s not like I actually spend more. I buy what I would have anyway, but from US Alliance companies.”

“Mmm,” Jennifer said.

“You buy your computer from IBM, your gas from Shell, use AT&T for calls… soon you’re getting gift vouchers, for like, fifty bucks. And if you buy a car—”

“I don’t like loyalty programs.”

“Well, you could go with Team Advantage,” Calvin said. “But US Alliance has twice as many companies that are number one in their industry.”

“What is that, from their brochure?”

The car radio said: “Field Agents Jennifer and Calvin, please identify your position.”

She picked up. “Downtown, King and Flinders.”

“Proceed to corner Chapel and Inkerman streets, St. Kilda. Crime in progress, extreme caution advised.”

“That’s where we’re going. What’s the situation?”

“Distress call from the Police. One Senior Sergeant Pearson Police is under attack. Instigators may be NRA.”

“Fuck!” She dropped the radio. “Go!”

Calvin gunned the engine, weaving through traffic. She flicked on the siren and they roared down St. Kilda Road. “We shouldn’t have stopped to talk to that stockbroker.”

“Inkerman Street is, what, the—”

“Two more blocks,” she said. “See where that Ryder truck came from?”

“Yep.” He slowed and killed the siren.

The truck passed them, heading in the opposite direction. Its
front had sustained some damage, she saw: the grille was smashed in. She frowned. “Turn around.”

“What?”

“Let’s pull over that truck.”

“For what, being in an accident?”

“Just do it.” He swung the wheel. She chewed her lip. The truck had been through more than a traffic accident: its side looked speckled and pocked. “Are our lights working?”

“Yep.”

“So why aren’t they stopping?”

“Don’t know. I’ll go around front, cut them off.”

“Yeah, okay,” she said, and the truck’s rear door opened.

“Oh, shit,” Calvin said.

She saw men in camouflage pants and black T-shirts. Calvin dragged the wheel left. Bullets thudded into the car. She heard a tire blow. The steering wheel jumped through Calvin’s hands. White palings from a picket fence bounced off the windshield and then she caught a glimpse of a thick tree.

After a while, she realized that Calvin was talking on the radio. She fumbled at her belt.

“Jen. You okay?”

She found the latch and tumbled out of the car. Her head felt thick and heavy. She looked around and saw a tree in the middle of their car’s hood. She walked unsteadily toward the road.

“Backup’s on the way, Jen! We wait here!”

She stopped in the middle of the road.

Calvin came after her. “Jen, come sit down. You’re bleeding.”

She touched her forehead. Her fingers came away red and sticky. That meant clotting. “You think they got Pearson?”

“I guess so.”

A white Taurus crested the rise. Jennifer held out her ID until it stopped. The driver was a young man, unshaven. His eyes flicked nervously. “Yeah?”

“I want to commandeer your vehicle for Government business. We pay three hundred dollars per hour of use, plus any necessary repairs. Also, you have the satisfaction of knowing you’ve helped prevent crime in your community.”

“Three hundred up front?”

“No,” Jennifer said. “Sorry, I don’t carry large amounts of cash with me on the off chance I’ll need to commandeer somebody’s car.”

“Jen,” Calvin said. “Please, let’s not blow our budget on this.”

“No, wait,” the kid said, getting out. “Okay, sure. Three hundred an hour?”

“Right,” she said. “Calvin, will you take this person’s details?”

“Jen! You can’t even drive!”

He was almost right: she could hardly drive. But the car was an automatic, and she could use her bad arm to hold the wheel, if not turn it. Jennifer stomped on the accelerator.

She figured the NRA would be putting as much distance between themselves and the scene as possible, but they’d avoid the freeways, which had choke points. That pretty much left Dandenong Road, and she felt confident guessing they’d head out of the city, not into it. She accelerated through the traffic.

Within a minute, she spotted the truck. She moved up behind it and waited until they got onto a straight stretch of road. Then she wound down the window, held the steering wheel with her knees, and leaned out with her .45.

The driver must have seen her: he swerved before she’d squeezed off a shot. If he’d braked, she would have been screwed, would have slammed right into him. But he tried to zigzag, and since Ryder rental trucks weren’t the most maneuverable vehicles in the world, she was able to take out three tires, one after the other. The truck ran up the sidewalk and burst through a storefront.

Jennifer sailed past and started a U-turn. Her bad shoulder made it harder than she’d anticipated, and by the time she’d swung around, NRA guys were spilling out of the truck.

She hit the brakes and ducked, and the windshield imploded. Bullets chewed through the driver’s seat, filling the car with a snowstorm of yellow foam. She squeezed down among the pedals, then poked her pistol over the dash and fired randomly. The gunfire stopped. She grabbed at the rearview mirror, popping it free, and clutched it to her chest, breathing hard.

It was still quiet. She raised the mirror and swung it around. There were three NRA guys by the truck… and one running low, toward the car. She dropped the mirror, picked up the pistol, and fired three shots. A man yelled out. She raised her eyebrows. Back to mirror: one NRA guy, crawling away and clutching his leg. “Hot damn,” she said.

The gunfire started again, peppering her car. Jennifer found the radio and got Government agents en route, then settled into a regular exchange of fire that she hoped would keep everybody entertained. The important thing was to fire often enough so they could all feel comfortable that they were engaged in a pitched gun battle and not feel the need to do anything overly tactical, like advance on her.

When she heard cars, she raised the mirror again. A line of black Cadillac SUVs was stopping by the wrecked Ryder truck. Doors opened and closed. “Where’s my backup?” she yelled at the radio. “They’re getting away!”

“ETA four minutes, Field Agent.” Jennifer dropped it in disgust. When she heard the cars start to move away, she yanked open the door and fell out onto the road.

It was already too late. She lined up the wheels of the last car and fired again and again. She hit the road twice, blew in its rear windshield, and popped open its trunk, which would have been an amazing shot if that’s what she was trying to accomplish. But it wasn’t.
“Shit!”

Something moved to her right. She turned. A man was sprinting down an alley: she saw camouflage pants and a heavy rifle.

“Freeze! This is the Government!”

He kept running. She aimed above his head and fired.

He dove into the asphalt so hard that she thought she’d accidentally clocked him. But she jogged over and he was alive. He was covering his head with his hands.

“Please, don’t shoot!”

She executed an academy-approved arm twist that finished up with her knees in his back and her gun against his head. “You kill any girls last Friday? Visit any Nike Town stores? You good friends with John Nike?”

“I’m not with them! I swear, I’m not with them!”

“We’ll see about that,” she said.