Jennifer Government: A Novel (6 page)

“Oh, God,” Vice-President John said, stepping past him. “What are they, Disney boxer shorts? And you a Merchandising Officer.”

“You look like crap,” the other John said. They were both wearing dark suits. They had gleaming black shoes. “Hack, your
breath.”

John was already in the living room. The bedroom door was ajar, Hack saw. Violet was asleep in there. “Come here, Hack. We’ve got something to show you.”

As he passed by the bedroom door, he pulled it closed. The Johns didn’t seem to notice. Hack sat on the sofa and tugged the blanket around himself.

The other John found Hack’s remote and zapped the TV. An image of Vice-President John jumped onto the screen. “Aw, we missed the start. You kept us waiting too long, Hack.”

On the screen, John said,
“None of that takes away from the fact that this is a real tragedy. We understand that people value our products very highly—the Nike Air range, the very successful Nike Jordan label, and of course the amazing new Nike Mercurys. But to kill for a pair is wrong, and Nike will not tolerate it.”

“I still think you should have thumped the podium,” the other John said. “For effect.”

“Understatement,” John said. “That’s the key.”

“We will hunt down the killers, and we will see justice done. That’s a promise from Nike. That’s a money-back guarantee.”

“Killer close,” John said. “Pardon the pun.” He looked at Hack. “What do you think?”

“You’re going to turn me in to the Government.” There was no point going for the door. Maybe the window? Hack’s hands tightened into fists.

The Johns burst out laughing. “Hack,” the other John said, “you are one crazy kid.”

“You’re a Merc Officer,” Vice-President John said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Sometimes we forget that not everyone understands marketing like we do. Hack, what you just saw was a press release. We have no intention of hunting down the people responsible, because the people responsible are us. All right?”

Hack nodded.

“But the thing is, that was meant to be our little secret. And it’s not anymore, is it? You couldn’t keep your mouth shut.”

“I mean, Hack, if we wanted to use someone outside the company, we would have picked up the fucking phone, you know?”

“I didn’t know that,” Hack said. “You never said anything about—”

“Look, there’s no point wasting time over whose fault it is,” Vice-President John said. “Although frankly, Hack, it’s yours. All we can do now is control it. So first question: who’d you subcontract to?”

“I—the Police.”

John nodded. “Okay. A professional organization, at least. You seen their ads, John?”

“Sure. Eighty-six percent success rate.”

“Yeah,” John said. “That’s a really amazing figure.” He looked at Hack. “I’m assuming you told them this was Nike’s job.”

“Ah…”

“Don’t be coy, Hack. We know these agencies insist on knowing where the job is coming from.” “Um, okay. Yeah, I told them.”

“Fuck!” the other John said. “Hack, you dumb shit!”

“Shh,” Vice-President John said. “It’s okay, Hack. Now we’re getting somewhere. I mean, obviously none of this is good, from a big-picture point of view. Overall, it’s very fucked, a commercial-in-confidence arrangement getting spread all over the place. But on the individual level, as far as our relationship goes, Hack, I’m very pleased you’re being straight with me.” He leaned forward, so his face was almost touching Hack’s. His skin seemed uncomfortably tight, his cheekbones artificially prominent. “And since we’re sharing, I’m going to let you in on a secret. The Police didn’t do these shootings. You want to know who did?”

“Uh,” Hack said.

“The NRA. We’ve got data on six incidents, and it smells like those National Rifle clowns all the way. They think undercover is guys in black T-shirts and camouflage pants. So what does that suggest to you, Hack?”

Hack shook his head.

“It means the Police subcontracted, too.” John sighed. “Everyone wants to outsource these days. No one has any respect for core competencies. But Nike is friendly with the NRA, Hack, with us both being in the US Alliance program; if we’d wanted to subcontract, we would have chosen them ourselves. So if the job went from you to the Police to the NRA, that’s only one unsecure link in the chain, which, again, is not fantastic, but isn’t a catastrophe. What
would
be a catastrophe is if there are other links in the chain. Links we don’t know about. You follow me?”

“You want to… find out if the Police went straight to the NRA?”

“Brilliant, Einstein,” the other John said. He was watching the TV, which was replaying a scene at a Sydney Nike Town. About two hundred teenagers were storming it, clawing at each other for position. The plate-glass window shattered. The John snickered.

“That’s exactly what I want you to do,” Vice-President John said, smiling. “Now.”

“Now?”

“I’ll accompany you. John will wait here.”

“Got any snacks?” the other John said.

“Um…” Hack said, thinking about Violet. “You—why don’t you both come with me? Or, how about I’ll go talk to the Police and afterward I’ll call you—”

The other John looked up. “Don’t tell us what to do, Hack. Don’t even think about doing that.”

“I think we should go,” Vice-President John said. He wasn’t smiling anymore. “Now. I really do.”

“Hey,” somebody said. “Jen. Hey.”

She opened her eyes. Then she shut them.
Lights like angels
, she thought.
God is fluorescent
.

“Come on. Open up.”

“Ahh,” she said. “That’s my girl. Come on.”

She forced open her eyes. Calvin, her partner, was sitting by a bed. She was in the bed. The bed seemed to be in a hospital.

“The Mercedes dealer is suing us for the cost of the car you landed on, can you believe that? Forty-eight thousand bucks.”

“Did—did they get away?”

He sighed. “’Fraid so. We got screwed at the downtown Nike Town, too. And in Sydney…” Calvin scratched his nose. “Well, Ben’s fine. There were no bad guys at Ben’s Nike Town, he spent the night watching thirteen-year-olds buy sneakers. But Taylor … Taylor tagged a bad guy. Then we figure his accomplice got her.”

“Oh, no.” She tried to cover her face. Pain shot through her shoulder. “Ahh!”

“Don’t move that arm,” Calvin said. “You’re getting a sling
or something. Anyway, we’re all happy that you made it back in one piece, okay? Clearly we went into this operation with bad information.”

“My source is reliable. I know she is.”

“Um,” he said. “Not that I want to press the issue, but those stores all had more than five pairs of Mercurys.”

“I trust my source,” she said. She felt thirsty. Her whole body ached. She needed to go to the bathroom, and from the tubes coming out of her arm, it looked like she’d have to take a stand full of bags and drips with her.

“Well, we can debate that later. She called last night, by the way. Left a name, too. Hack Nike.”

“Who?”

“Beats the hell out of me. You didn’t hear about anyone called Hack when you were sniffing around Nike?”

“No.”

“Well, maybe he’s nobody,” Calvin said. “Like I say, the quality of our information to this point has not been spectacular.”

She screwed shut her eyes, trying to think.

“You know, I should come back later.” Calvin rose from his chair. “You need some rest. I’ll take care of—”

“Wait. How…how many…”

He sat again. “Fourteen dead. At least eight were contract killings, all from families of limited means. At this stage it looks like the victims were selected for low incomes. I hate to say it, but it’s going to be tough to get budget on this one.”

“What about leads?”

“We’ve got two. First, a dead bad guy, courtesy of Taylor. We’re running background on him now. Second, some stockbroker who was on the scene with a victim. He says he didn’t see anything, but we haven’t pushed him yet.”

“What about this Hack Nike?”

“Well,” Calvin said, “since your source didn’t turn out to be so reliable, I haven’t followed it up yet.”

“Get him.”

“If we get funding, sure, I’ll—”

“Now,” Jennifer said. “Get him.”

“Before budget approval? Are you sure?”

“Do I look sure?”

“You look awful,” Calvin said, and laughed.

Billy had been involved in some weird shit before, but this was right up there. The NRA had given them animal code names, so now he couldn’t even say howdy to someone without feeling like a dick. Some guys took straight to it, all, “Evening, Horse,” and, “Jackal, can that shit,” but Billy thought it was stupid. Billy was Mouse.

He’d been out in the bush for three days, sleeping in ditches. He was wearing camouflage pants and a heavy jacket over a black T-shirt and carrying a slicker. He’d used that as a pillow last night, even when it started raining. This morning his smokes were too wet to light and his arms were so stiff he could hardly lift them.

The NRA called it a war game, and it was meant to test his skills. So far it had only tested Billy’s patience. This was not skiing.

“The flag’s gotta be close now,” Grizzly said. “Gotta be
real
close.”

“We need that flag,” said Calf. She was the scariest-looking woman Billy had ever met. “I really want this job.”

“What do you mean?” Billy said. “We’re already hired, right? I thought this was just training.”

“Yeah,” Calf said. “The kind of training that costs you your job if you mess up.”

“Oh,” Billy said. “Wow.”

“Can the chatter!” Finch said, walking backward. “And stay tight!”

Billy scowled. He’d had enough of Finch, the squad leader, too. If Finch said “chain of command” again, Billy was ready to pay out.

They walked. The bush was much thicker now, almost a forest. There were weird-ass animals out here, Billy knew. Types of animals he’d never seen before. The idea spooked him.

Something moved in the scrub to their left. The squad dropped to the ground. Billy raised his paintgun. It might not stop a charging bear, or rhino, or whatever the hell they had here, but if he aimed for the eyes—

“Naw, lemme do it. You load it like this.”

Voices. Finch gestured,
Fan out
. Billy didn’t think that was such a great idea; if they snapped twigs, they’d give themselves away. He looked at Finch questioningly.

“Move,”
Finch hissed.

He sighed. He and Drake took one flank, Grizzly and Calf the other. They made ten yards before either Grizzly or Calf snapped a branch and said, “Ahh, shit!”

“
Go! Go!”
Finch shouted. “
Attack!”

Billy ran, thinking this was really generous of Finch, yelling out to let the enemy know they were coming. He leapt over a fallen tree. Drake pounded behind him.

They burst into a clearing, which had a red flag and a lot of NRA guys with red bands around their arms, and suddenly everyone was shooting paintballs. Drake caught a glob on his chest and sat down. Billy dived, rolled, and took up a position behind a tree. He globbed four enemies, fluidly shooting and reloading. Then Grizzly and Calf entered the clearing from the other side.

“Take that, asshole!” Grizzly shouted, and pumped a paint round into a man who was already sitting down.

“Behind you!” Billy yelled, but it was too late. Grizzly took one in the buttocks.

“Son of a bitch,” said Grizzly.

“Sit down, you moron,” the dead enemy said.

Calf ran for a clutch of trees that was sheltering the remaining red soldier. He fired at her once, then ran. Calf was pretty scary. Billy globbed the soldier, then walked out into the clearing.

Calf met him in the middle. “Hey, good work, Mouse. You got a good eye on you.”

“Thanks.” He eyed her pants. “Hey, Calf…I think they got you.”

“What? Aw, shit!”

“Well, well!” Finch said, arriving. “A good day for the blue team!” He walked to the flagpole and began tugging at the ropes. “I think the blue team will all find secure NRA positions.”

“You got everyone
shot,”
Billy said. “Everyone except me.”

Finch looked around. “Well, perhaps not all of us, then.”

“You asshole!” Calf said. “You let them know we were coming!”

“I did not,” Finch said. “That was your own fault, snapping branches and so forth.”

“You did, man,” one of the enemies said. “I heard someone say, ‘Go, attack!’”

“Thanks a lot, Finch! You probably cost me a job!”

“Your ineptitude in combat isn’t my fault,” Finch said. He began folding the flag, tucking one end under his chin.

Billy said, “You think you’re a real squad commander? This is a
game!
You think they’d ever put you in charge for real?”

Everyone fell silent. Finch raised his paintgun. “Shut your mouth, Mouse.”

Billy laughed. “What are you going to do? Shoot me?”

“I said stand down!”

“Give me the flag. You don’t deserve it.” He reached for it.

Finch pulled the trigger. Billy felt something sharp strike his chest. He looked down and saw a mess of blue paint on his jacket. He raised his head. Finch said nervously, “Now, Mouse—” and Billy punched him in the face.

Finch fell to the ground. Arms grabbed at Billy. He flailed wildly and connected with something soft. Someone yelled, “Ahh, my nose!” Then Billy was on the ground and a lot of angry people were holding him down.

“What’s the matter with you?”

“Get out of here,” a man said. “The NRA doesn’t need thugs like you.”

“The NRA will hear about this, Mouse,” Finch said, his voice shrill. “You can forget about your job!”

Billy looked at Calf, hoping for support. She looked at the ground. “You’d better scoot, Mouse.”

“Fine!” He scrambled to his feet. He tore off his blue armband and threw it to the ground, but no one seemed very impressed. He almost shouted,
Screw you all
, but strangled the impulse. He turned on his heel and walked away.

Twenty minutes later, he realized he didn’t have a solid grip on his bearings. The bushland looked the same in every direction. In places it was so thick he had to scramble over fallen trees and hack through bushes. The blue paint on his jacket dried to form a hard layer that chafed against his skin, and he pulled it off and hurled it at a tree. Ten minutes later his arms were attacked so violently by mosquitoes that he headed back for it.