People's Republic

by Kurt Schlichter

  But again, no alarms.

  Turnbull slowly lifted his head over the crest. The developer had cut a large flat plain into the hill, landscaped it and dug in a large swimming pool. A few empty chaise lounges lay around the edge of the water on a patio of white stone. A stairway of the same white stone lead upwards toward the house, whose southern face was dominated by a vast picture window. There were lights on inside.

  “Okay Junior, there’s a big open space and a pool. The house is up some steps and there’s someone home. We work around the side, then up. Follow me.”

  Turnbull skirted the crest, moving along the hillside slowly around to the far edge of the patio. Using the manicured bushes for concealment, he moved swiftly past the pool to the stairway. Junior came along behind.

  “Don’t shoot my sister,” Junior said. Turnbull looked down and saw he had drawn the silenced Ruger without a conscious thought.

  “I’m more concerned with security than her.”

  “You ought to be worried about her. She’ll mess you up.”

  “You just calm her down because she’s going to be freaked out when she sees us.”

  “Oh, I’m a calming presence.”

  Turnbull rolled his eyes and peeked around the corner. The lights were on inside the big window, but there did not appear to be anyone looking out into the back yard. Turnbull moved, taking the stone steps upward two at a time with Junior to his rear.

  At the top of the steps, Turnbull came around the corner onto another patio and stopped, facing a puzzled, round-faced man in a brown suit who was about to light a cigarette. Behind him was the open door to the first floor of the house. The guy had a radio on his belt and a SIG Sauer pistol. He stood there for a moment, another kind of cig dangling from his lips, his hands cupping his as-yet unflicked lighter.

  Turnbull raised the Ruger to center mass and fired two shots. The man stumbled back just a half step – he pretty clearly wore a vest under his shirt and the .22 rounds didn’t penetrate. Turnbull raised the weapon and took the headshot. That worked – a red dot appeared in the guard’s forehead and he fell over backwards.

  Junior’s Glock was out and he was covering high and to the flanks. No one was coming. Turnbull led the way inside the door as Junior knelt down to pick up the radio.

  It seemed to be some sort of living room, but with a full bar taking up the far wall. There were dark hardwood stairs that headed up. There was light but no sound other than low music – some kind of jazz. Above them was a half-wall that made up the side of the upstairs room. Turnbull looked at the ceiling, trying to see if there were moving shadows. Satisfied there were none, he waved the pistol and Junior followed, covering their rear.

  Turnbull moved up, step by step, the weapon fixed on the top of the stairwell. His breathing was slow and controlled. Up he went, one step at a time. A creak, a loud one. Turnbull froze, waiting. Junior had followed and was on the third step, and he froze too, swinging the Glock to cover the bar room they had just come through, then the half-wall above them, then back to the bar room again.

  The attack came from over the wall, and at the point in Junior’s cycle when he was covering the bar room from about half-way up the steps. Had he been covering high, he might have fired. Turnbull was almost at the top when the lamp flew down toward him. Since it was thrown blind it missed him, barely, shattering on the wall and spraying glass over them both.

  “Lou!” a woman’s voice screamed.

  Turnbull bolted up to the landing and pivoted, catching a glimpse of a wild-eyed blonde clad in blue jeans and a white t-shirt for just a moment before the heavy bookend she had hurled at him connected with his hip. The sharp pain from where the statuette’s bill hit him – the bookend was made of iron and shaped like a mallard duck – broke his concentration enough to override his instinctive response, which was to have shot her in the face a couple of times. Turnbull bit his lip and charged her, though he found his left leg dragging – it hurt like hell. Behind him, Junior was rushing up the last few steps.

  Amanda realized she was out of weapons and began looking around her to grab something else. Turnbull charged forward and she dodged, with Turnbull tripping over a low mid-century modern table in front of a sleek black leather couch. She ran out and around, skirting his grasp as Turnbull futilely reached out for her as she passed. Her attention focused on Turnbull, she had not seen Junior, who leapt into her path.

  She saw him and her expression changed from rage to shock, and Junior smiled. Then her expression returned to rage and she ran directly at him, screeching and nails out like claws.

  Junior caught Amanda by the forearms, but the momentum was too much even for such a slight woman; losing his footing on the throw rug that covered the hardwood floor, Junior went down with Amanda atop him, her hands clawing at his face as he tried to hold her back from gouging out his eyes.

  “You fucking uuuurrrfff,” she shrieked before the chokehold Turnbull gained by wrapping his right forearm around her throat snuffed it out. He pulled her back and off Junior, taking her to the floor and pinning her under his bulk.

  “Damn it, pull security!” he hissed at Junior, who shook it off and swung the Glock up to engage any more security guards who might enter the room from the stairs or from one of the halls.

  “You,” Turnbull said. “You need to calm the fuck down!”

  Amanda squirmed more and Turnbull pressed down harder. She gasped for air.

  “Hey!” Junior said.

  “Hey, you want her back? I’ll let her go and she can claw off your face if you want.”

  Then Turnbull looked down into her furious eyes and said, slowly, “If you don’t calm down I am going to calm you down and you do not want that. Are you going to be calm?”

  She made a series of unintelligible guttural noises that, had she been able to speak, probably would have been a string of words that boiled down to a series of questions regarding his mother’s chastity. But she stopped squirming.

  “Calm down,” Turnbull said again. “I know you’re a Texas woman, but go against your instincts and stop trying to hurt me.”

  She made another short, abrupt noise, then was quiet and still, her dagger eyes still fixed on him.

  “I’m going to let you talk. Don’t scream. I just want a yes or no. Okay, we took out a guard downstairs. Are there more guards? Yes or no?” Turnbull eased up on her throat.

  “Fuck you!” Turnbull pressed down and muffled most of the “you.”

  “Okay, that’s not a yes or no. I just want a yes or no. Let’s try it again.” He eased up.

  She didn’t say anything for a moment.

  “More guards. Yes or no?”

  “No,” she said. “Just the one asshole.”

  “I’m going to let you go now,” Turnbull said. “Don’t run. Don’t throw anymore shit at me. Don’t try to kill your brother again. Okay?”

  “Yeah,”

  “Okay, just be calm.” Turnbull rolled off her, and stood up. His hip hurt like hell.

  Amanda sat up and looked at Junior.

  “You stupid idiot, what the hell are you doing here?”

  “I’m here to get you out!”

  “Yeah, I guessed that. You know how dangerous this is? You know they’ll kill you when they catch you?”

  “They aren’t going to catch me.”

  “Do you have any idea whose house this is? The PBI director for the West Coast!” She stood up; there were tears on her cheeks. Junior holstered his Glock. Turnbull sat down in one of the soft, black leather chairs around the table.

  “I know that,” said Junior.

  “And you came anyway?” Amanda replied.

  “Yes,” Junior replied.

  She rushed at him again, and the hug he expected turned into a hard slap across the face.

  “You dumbass! You have to get out of here before he gets home or we’re all dead!” Now it was Junior’s turn to try and restrain her.

  Turnbull sighed and stood up. The pain in his
hip was now a dull ache, and he was losing patience.

  “Can you two knock it the hell off? We need to get out of here.”

  “Who are you?” asked Amanda, relaxing and ceasing her struggling. “Are you his assistant or something?”

  “Assistant?” sniffed Turnbull. “No, I’m the guy your daddy paid to get your dumb ass the hell out of Dodge. He’s the assistant. Now, are you coming along voluntarily or not, because if I have to tie your ass up, ball gag you and carry you out of here over my shoulder, then I need to get on with that before your boyfriend shows up with his posse.”

  “You won’t get away. Martin can’t let me go. It’d be too embarrassing. He’d do whatever he has to do to stop us. You two just need to go. Leave me here. I’ll be all right.”

  “Amanda, you have to come. It’s all falling apart out there. We’ve been out there. This whole country is on the edge and I can’t just leave you here in the middle of what’s coming,” Junior said.

  “Yeah, that,” Turnbull said. “And also, I really want my money. In fact, mostly I want my money. So if you can grab your shit, I’d like to walk out of here instead of having to shoot my way out.”

  “We’re heading to the border with Arizona,” Junior said. “We have travel passes and carbon offset vouchers for all of us. We get there, then we hike over. Kelly has done this a lot. You need shoes you can walk in over rough terrain, and you need a coat.”

  Amanda just stared, processing.

  “Amanda,” Turnbull said. “Go with your brother and pack a bag with your stuff. If you have a backpack, use that. Now, two questions. When does lover boy get home, and do you have any kind of food in your kitchen because we should probably stock up?”

  “I,” she mumbled. “I don’t know when he’ll be back. It could be in five minutes, it could be midnight, it could be tomorrow. I don’t know. His driver always calls Lou on the radio when he’s almost here. Where is Lou?”

  “Lou didn’t make it. No one ever warned him that smoking is hazardous to your health. Junior, keep listening to that handset. If he does show up while we’re still here, we need to welcome him home. How many guards does he have?”

  “Just two. Big assholes, like Lou.”

  “Weapons?”

  “Um, not the big long ones. The guns you hold in your hands.”

  “Handguns?”

  “Yes, handguns. I’ve shot guns before.”

  “Okay, what’s Martin carry?”

  “Oh,” she laughed. “Martin doesn’t carry a gun.”

  “This guy has zero redeeming qualities. Okay, you two pack and I’ll check the fridge.”

  The radio call from Arthur came in as Junior and Amanda were in the midst of packing her clothes. Junior ran down to the kitchen, where Turnbull was finishing a chicken sandwich, and said, “Hey, they’re coming.”

  They made a quick plan, and Turnbull handed the Ruger over to Junior, who slipped out the side door. Turnbull told Amanda to get in the back bedroom and keep quiet, then went to the foyer and opened the door slightly until it was ajar. Then he stepped behind it.

  The gate started to creak open with a mechanical whir, and a vehicle entered the front, followed by the gate closing. There were vehicle doors opening and closing outside; inside, Turnbull pulled back the slide on his Glock just a hair to ensure a hollow point round was seated in the chamber.

  One was.

  Footsteps. He could hear them coming, several people. The door swung in a bit, and someone stepped inside. There were two noises in rapid succession – to Turnbull, they sounded like thwacks! There were groans and rustling, and now Turnbull was moving around the door, toward the slight man with dark hair who was staring out at his two slumping thugs.

  Turnbull planted his huge hand on the man’s shoulder and forced him back against the door jamb with a thud; then he planted the Glock right between the terrified man’s eyes.

  “Welcome home, asshole,” Kelly Turnbull said.

  The man quivered. Turnbull grabbed his shoulder again and roughly pulled him inside. Outside on the doorstep, still holding the Ruger, Junior stepped over the bodies of the two dead guards and followed them into the house.

  Turnbull double-checked Rios-Parkinson for a weapon and relieved him of his cell phone, then frog marched him into the living room and threw him forward into one of the black leather seats. Behind him, through the window, lay the vast expanse of Los Angeles.

  “Sit,” Turnbull said, the Glock still pointed at the Director’s face. Junior entered the room, the Ruger still in hand.

  Rios-Parkinson stared up at them, his face flush with both anger and fear. Turnbull stared back.

  “Did you piss yourself?” he asked, noting the dark stain on the Director’s suit pants that was spreading south. “You know, it’d be almost unsporting of me to shoot you. Not that I won’t shoot your sorry ass.”

  “What do we do with him?” asked Junior.

  “I vote shoot him,” offered Turnbull. “Shoot him and get out of here.”

  “You won’t make it out,” Rios-Parkinson sputtered.

  “Oh good, piss boy speaks. You know, I got this far. I got into your house. I got you. And you’re in a poor position to influence events going forward.”

  “We know who you are,” Rios-Parkinson said. “If you surrender to me now….”

  “Just…no. Stop talking,” Turnbull said. “But I do have some questions and maybe, if you answer them right, I won’t splatter you all over your tacky modernist décor.”

  Amanda walked in, looking first at Rios-Parkinson, then at Turnbull, then back at Rios-Parkinson. The Director scowled.

  “Bitch,” he hissed.

  “Bastard,” she replied angrily, but then a smile broke across her face as she saw his lap, and she began laughing while Rios-Parkinson fumed.

  “Well, that seems to answer our willing accomplice or unwitting bait debate, right Junior? Well, I’m sensing some relationship issues here, Mr. Director, but you all can work those out by email, assuming you remain a going concern,” Turnbull said. Then he turned to Junior. “You and her finish up packing. We need to be gone.”

  They returned to her room, leaving Turnbull and Rios-Parkinson together.

  “Now that we’re alone, we can have a little chat.”

  “What do you want?” the Director asked, straightening himself in the chair.

  “For starters, I want to know how you started tracking us. No, hold on there, I can see those wheels in your head turning trying to figure out what to tell me, and I gotta tell you that I’m just not in the mood. If you waste my very limited time, I will put a round in your face, and I can tell by the smell of your used coffee that you aren’t one of those guys who’s not afraid to die. So let’s just save ourselves the hassle, cut the bullshit, and you go ahead and answer my questions.”

  “We know someone infiltrated into Nevada through Utah and killed a squad of our volunteers.”

  “Volunteers? Okay. And?”

  “Somehow you got to Los Angeles.” Turnbull noted that they had apparently not pinned that unpleasantness in Vegas on him.

  “Then?”

  “My men spotted you in town.”

  “Nope. You’re forgetting something. The hard drive. Right?”

  Rios-Parkinson looked stricken.

  “Yep, the hard drive. I figure that’s yours. I figure that if it gets out you let it slip away that you are massively fucked. Pretty much that? Well, from your expression I’m guessing I’m on the right track. Now, you didn’t just find us. You have a source, someone who narced us out to you. Who is he? Or she? Or xe. See, I spend some time over here and I start doing it too. Anyway, who was it?”

  “His name,” Rios-Parkinson said. “Is Jacob.”

  “You know, I don’t think you’re lying to me. And that’s good. Because now I can make you a proposition. It’s a good one, because you get something you really want out of it, which is me not blowing your brains out of the back of your head. Interested? Come on,
I know you are.”

  “What do you propose?”

  “Well, how about I don’t shoot you for starters. But wait, there’s more. Word doesn’t get out about the hard drive even after I get it, which as I suspect we both know I will be doing as soon as I leave here. And you also get a safety net for when this dumpster fire of a country you and your friends ruined goes all to shit, and we both know it is going to shit really quickly.”

  “I will take my chances,” Rios-Parkinson said, mustering all his remaining bravado.

  “Stop talking. You’re soft and untrained. You’re not a soldier, you’re a glorified prison guard. What do you think you guys have? A month? A year? Two, tops? This is all coming down, and what happens to guys like you when their little regimes fall apart? Well, we both know the answer. Bad things happen to people like you.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I have a friend who would be very interested in talking to you. A friend from the other side. His job is very similar to yours, except he doesn’t arrest people for speaking freely or protesting. But you and he could develop a very mutually satisfying relationship.”

  “You want me to spy for the United States, to be a traitor?”

  “Yes, absolutely. You understand me perfectly. A modern day Benedict Arnold. You know who he was, right? No? Forget it. Yes, if you will work with my friend Clay, I won’t kill you here and now.”

  “I guess I have no choice.”

  “You do have a choice, only the wrong one will be the last choice you ever make.”

  “What do I do?”

  “Well, I assume through his magic he’ll find a way to get in contact with you. Trust me, you can’t hide from him when he wants to talk to you – I’ve tried. Then you do what he tells you. As for tonight, I still need to think through the logistics, but the spoiler is that you live. I don’t shoot you.”

  Junior returned to the room alone.

  “She’s almost ready.”

  “Good,” said Turnbull. “Watch him. I gotta hit the head. Don’t shoot him either.”

  Junior pulled out the Ruger as Turnbull holstered his Glock and turned away toward the bedroom. It was down a long hallway. Amanda was zipping the day pack closed on the bed when Turnbull entered.