“You tried to buy illegal gas back there.”
“He offered it to me. I turned him down.”
“You calling him a liar?”
“I’m just telling you what happened.”
“You think you can come out here and do whatever you want? You think you’re special? I don’t give a fuck about your PL. You’re no fucking 7. I know you bought this shit. You think you can buy everything? And who the fuck is this little bitch with you? Your butt boy?”
“I’m just trying to drive home, okay?”
“Get the fuck out of the car.” From the corner of his eye, over the terrified kid, Turnbull could see the cop’s smiling partner cup his earphone. Turnbull could make out a few words – “about sixty seconds to your 20, over.”
One minute. All right. So now it’s going to go how it’s going to go.
“I’m getting out,” Turnbull said.
“Hurry up,” said the cop, never having been taught, or not remembering, to stand back and put some space in between himself and the suspect.
Turnbull shut his eyes for a moment, ran through his plan, and then opened the door slowly, pushing it all the way out. The cop stepped back just a bit, but not far enough. Turnbull stood up to his full 6’3” height deliberately and smoothly, doing nothing to spook them until his left hand shot back, grabbed the cop’s utility belt and pulled the stunned thug forward and around into the “V” between the door and the body of the Ford. As Turnbull drove his full weight into the pseudo-cop to pin him, he drew the Glock with his right hand and swung it into the passenger compartment. It roared twice inside the car, the hollow point rounds streaking over the kid and into the chest plate of the other pseudo-cop’s body armor. The pseudo-cop staggered back and fell, the 9 mm bullets pounding his chest plate like sledgehammers.
Turnbull pivoted and brought the pistol out and up under the pinned one’s chin. The pinned one felt it and knew he was screwed, but his self-critique ended a half-second later as Turnbull put a round up through his jaw, tongue, and soft palette into his brain. The pseudo-cop sagged and collapsed like a bag of warm, wet meat.
Turnbull’s ear rang as he moved around the back of the Ford to the sidewalk – the tinnitus blurred the kid’s terrified howling. The other cop was lying on his back and twitching like a roach, waving his arms and legs as he tried to catch his breath instead of drawing his own weapon. Turnbull casually killed him with two rounds to the face, then turned and opened the passenger-side’s rear door.
Thirty seconds. Replacing the Glock in its holster, he unzipped the duffle bag, pulling out the modified M4, leaving its suppressor in the bag. He wanted noise. There was a Magpul mag in already, and a parallel mounted spare – you could see both were full of 5.56mm rounds through the smoky plastic.
Forty seconds. People were watching now up and down the street, but Turnbull’s focus lay elsewhere. He walked back into the road past the idling cruiser with the black carbine in his right hand, yanking back the charging handle with his left. He let it go, slamming a 5.56 mm round into the chamber. Locked and loaded.
Using his thumb, through pure muscle memory, he set the selector switch to “Auto.”
Fifty seconds. The back-up cruiser appeared ten seconds early, rounding the corner expecting to assist on an easy score. From their angle, the scene before them was unclear – that lump on the street by the Ford was merely a lump and would be for a few more seconds until it came into focus.
But they didn’t have a few more seconds. Turnbull shouldered the carbine and fired a long burst – seven or eight shots – into the driver’s side of the car. The roar was horrendous; he wanted it loud to disorient his targets and to discourage others from intervention. Golden brass spurt from the ejection port like a fountain, and white geysers of pulverized glass danced across the blues’ windshield. He could see shadowy jerking and thrashing inside the passenger compartment.
The cruiser wobbled and pulled right, toward the curb. Turnbull unleashed another burst, this time on the passenger side. Another string of craters erupted across the windshield in front of the passenger. The cruiser went up on the curb and slammed into a telephone pole. Turnbull fired two more long but controlled bursts as he approached, weapon high, and then he squeezed off a third burst. It was cut short as the weapon ran dry. Without pause or even a glance, he dropped the mag from the well using the thumb button, reinserted the loaded mag clamped to its side, and hit the bolt release. The bolt slammed a fresh round into the chamber.
By then he had reached the brutalized, smoking cruiser, his weapon high and ready. The blue cop in the passenger seat was bloody, but still gasping and trying to sit up. Turnbull put a burst in his head and then another in his partner’s. Then he turned back to the Ford as onlookers ran and shouted.
All Turnbull heard was ringing.
Tossing the carbine in the back seat, he got behind the wheel and turned on the ignition. The kid was crying; his ears were still roaring from the two rounds Turnbull had fired inside the passenger compartment.
Time to move. Every PSF thug on the Westside would be inbound when word broke that four of their own were down. That might just clear his path out of town.
It was not far to the freeway, and from there to home. Turnbull pulled out in traffic, and in his mirror saw the locals already scavenging the bodies.
“You killed them, you killed them!” the kid was screaming. Turnbull hit the gas and the Ford accelerated.
“Stop talking,” he said, but the kid couldn’t hear him.
2.
From the 97th floor of the Lone Star Tower, you could see Dallas sprawling out in every direction all the way out to the horizon and beyond. The city was a living thing, humming, alive, with people on the sidewalks and cars filling the streets and freeways. To the north, the New Capitol complex was gleaming in the sunlight. The New White House lay a mile away at the other end of the Mall. This was the nerve center of the United States of America, version 2.0.
Turnbull did not feel much more at ease here than on the other side. But then, no one was trying to kill him here, so there was that.
Still, he openly carried a Kimber 1911 .45 for his long trip into town. Security took his phone downstairs, but made no attempt to disarm him. You don’t mess with a man’s weapons in the USA. That’s how fistfights and civil wars start.
He could feel the heat outside radiating through the windows; the air conditioning was cranked. Turnbull sipped his coffee and took a seat at the conference table, back to the window and, as always, facing the door.
This had better not be a waste of his time.
The door opened and Turnbull recognized the first guy to walk in – George V. Ryan, looking every bit like the kingmaker he was. Tall, handsome, probably 55ish. Usually when you saw him he was on TV standing behind the President. His suit probably cost as much as Turnbull’s ranch.
The next guy was a young man, good shape, probably recent military judging by the hair and his general demeanor. There it was, the red star pin on his jacket’s lapel – he’d earned his citizenship with military service. The young man looked a little like Ryan – probably his son.
And a third man entered, smaller, wearing a cryptic smile, looking like he knew things you didn’t. Turnbull knew him well, and it figured he’d be wrapped up in this somehow.
“Hello, Clay,” Turnbull said. Clay Deeds nodded and took a seat across the table.
“Hi, Kelly. You look good for a guy everyone on the other side is looking for.”
“Oh really? Now why is that?” “Somebody waxed four People’s Security Force thugs in LA last week. My sources tell me not one of them even got a shot off.”
“Probably militant climate change deniers. Those guys are super bad news.”
“Clearly. That was you, wasn’t it?”
“Me? Of course not. No way,” he replied. “So, do they have my name?”
“No. Just a vague description and a blurry security camera photo of some big scary guy. But you
’ll be happy to know you’ve inspired a whole new round of internal security arrests. Apparently you’re not a loner. Apparently, you’re part of some giant conspiracy to undermine the legitimacy of the People’s Republic.”
“I try to make a difference. But like I said, I totally don’t remember anything like that. Now, why did you interrupt my recuperation and drag me into town today?”
“You’re always charming, Kelly. Let me introduce Mr. George Ryan. The George Ryan. He’s got a proposition you need to hear.”
Ryan stepped forward while Turnbull stood, and they firmly shook hands. Turnbull sat back down. Ryan stood for an awkward moment, assessing his guest.
“You know me, correct?”
“I know of you. I know you’re rich and you’re powerful and you have really nice offices near the top of the tallest building in North America. I don’t know why I’m here, though I am enjoying this coffee and the view.”
“Well, Mr. Turnbull, you are correct that I am rich and powerful and that these are nice offices, and I’ll take your word on my secretary’s coffee, but none of that really means anything to me right now. I have a problem, and Mr. Deeds tells me you are the only man who might be able to solve it for me.”
“Clay says a lot of things. You need to watch what Clay says. He’s a spook and sometimes you can’t be absolutely sure whose side he’s on.”
Clay simply smiled. “Just to be clear, I’m on the United States’ side. You might not always see that at the time, but in the long run that’s my side.”
“Uh huh,” replied Turnbull.
Ryan went on. “Mr. Deeds tells me you were Army. Afghanistan before the Split. Other places. You helped grab Ft. Hood during the Crisis. Fought in Southern Illinois and Indiana, Indian Country, behind the lines, organizing and leading guerillas. Other places.”
“I did my part.”
“You were part of Operation Megiddo.”
“I don’t know anything about that,” Turnbull said, glancing toward Clay with a frown. “That would be totally classified and anyway, I read that the Israelis took out the Iranian nukes all by themselves. Your researchers shouldn’t believe everything they read on the internet.”
“Of course,” said Ryan, continuing. “Now, you grew up in California, so you know it well. After the Split, you made a lot of runs back over the line before you left government service – well, official government service – and started doing runs on your own. You cross over and bring people out for money.”
“Well, we all have to eat. And I’m not an office kind of guy.”
“No, you are most definitely not an office guy, Mr. Turnbull. I’ve just scratched the surface on your record. You’re quite impressive. You are also clearly the best at extracting individuals trapped inside the People’s Republic and now I need you to use that skill for me. Right now. In the next 48 hours.”
“Go back in right now? See, that conflicts with my calendar. I have a lot of nothing scheduled in my immediate future.”
“It has to be now.”
“Mr. Ryan, I just came out less than a week ago. You just heard Clay mention that they’re looking for me. I survive doing this work by not pushing my luck. Don’t go in or out the same way twice, and put in a little time between runs.”
“We don’t have time to delay, Mr. Turnbull. Tell me, what was it like over there this last run of yours?”
“It was a mess and getting worse. Less food, less fuel, more cops. People were angry. It’s falling apart. The whole house of cards is collapsing.”
“Yes. We’ve been expecting this for years. The People’s Republic is imploding, Mr. Turnbull. While we in the US doubled down on what made America great, they doubled down on the blue state socialism that split the country apart. And exactly what we knew would happen is happening. It’s a police state that functions only to keep the elite separate from the consequences of its policies. They are out of money, and they are out of excuses for their people. All they have left are scapegoats. It’s going to get very, very ugly, very, very soon.”
“It is. And I don’t want to be caught in the middle of it when it all goes to hell.”
“My daughter Amanda is over there, Mr. Turnbull. In the middle of a coming chaos we can barely imagine.”
“How did that happen?”
“She defected.”
“She did not defect!” interrupted the young man. “She’s just confused.”
“Mr. Turnbull, this is my son George Junior. His twin sister is Amanda. They were close. George chose to do his military service after college. Amanda went to UT in Austin then stayed for grad school. Unfortunately, not all of the progressives picked-up and headed to a coast after the Split. Some stayed here, especially at universities, and they are like a cancer. They spread their lies and some people, like Amanda, get taken in. She decided that all this, all this prosperity and freedom, is immoral. She believed the People’s Republic was some kind of paradise. So she left. As you know, we don’t keep anyone in. We keep them out. She and some friends crossed over a year ago and we had no idea what happened to her until my sources started telling me she was appearing in PR propaganda.”
“Got a picture?”
“What?”
“A picture of Amanda. I think I might have seen one of her billboards.”
Ryan produced his smartphone and found a photo of a pretty blonde girl on a horse.
“Yeah, that’s her. Must have been a real coup for them, having the daughter of a guy like you willing to shit on her own country. I didn’t hear about it here.”
“I’m not proud of her, I assure you, Mr. Turnbull. Since there’s no real direct communication between the two halves of the country any more, it was fairly easy to use my influence to make sure this did not get out into the media. But, regardless, she is still my daughter and I love her and I want you to go in and get her and bring her back home to me.”
“Well, how do you know she even wants to come back?”
“I don’t, not for sure.”
“She wants to come home. I know it,” George Junior said, impatient. “She got confused. I just need to talk to her. She’ll see the light, and I’ll get her to come back with us.”
“Wait one, who exactly is this ‘us’ he’s talking about? I work alone. The ‘by myself’ brand of ‘alone.’ Remember the loner part that’s no doubt part of the psych profile Clay there must have given you? That’s me. A loner. Ergo, alone.”
“You need to take George Junior with you. Like I said, he’s close to Amanda. He can talk sense into her. He can get her to come home. If you try it by yourself, there’s no way she would cooperate. She might even hurt you.”
“She seems scary. But I don’t need to carry an amateur. My ruck’s full enough.”
“George knows how to handle himself. He’s a Blood Citizen.”
“Congratulations on getting yourself shot, kid. Helluva way to earn the right to vote. Now, before we continue, let’s not get ahead of ourselves here, because we seem to be operating under the unspoken premise that I am willing to go back in a week after I came out, while they’re looking for me, and go extract a defector who probably doesn’t even want to be extracted. And that is a false premise.”
“There’s no one else who can do this. I need you, Mr. Turnbull.”
“I appreciate that, Mr. Ryan, but I need me too, preferably not swinging from some rope off a crane as a spy.”
“Money is not an issue, Mr. Turnbull.”
“Well, it is for me. What kind of money are we talking about?”
“Five hundred thousand.”
“Not enough.”
“A million.”
“Still not enough.”
“Mr. Turnbull, I’ve talked to some of your previous employers. You’ve never gotten more than $500,000 for an extraction.”
“I’ve also never been asked to do a job by a billionaire. Mr. Ryan, I’m a capitalist and if I was doing this job – if – I would charge what the market would bear. And I
think it would bear, say, $5 million.”
“Would you do it for $5 million?”
“I would sure think about doing it for $5 million. See, that would pretty much set me up to retire and I could stop going back and risking my ass to solve other people’s problems.”
“Mr. Turnbull, I’ll pay you $5 million to do it.”
“One in advance.”
“Agreed. But there are conditions. You will take George Junior with you. And if you do not recover her relatively intact, you forfeit the remaining four million.”
“’Relatively intact.’ Okay. But I have conditions too. First, I take Junior here to the range tomorrow and decide whether I’m willing to have him tag along. If I do, Junior understands that the chain of command is me, then him. He does what I say, when I say it, how I say it gets done.”
“Agreed.”
“I want to hear Junior say it. Junior, do you understand?”
“Yeah, I understand chain of command. I was a lieutenant.”
“Oh good, a lieutenant. That’s reassuring. I guess I’ll be handling the map and compass. And speaking of equipment, I’m going to have a shopping list and some of the stuff Clay here is going to have to provide. Which brings me to another thing that’s been gnawing at me. Why is there a spook here?”
“I’m just here to assist. This is a private transaction. The government is not involved, of course.”
“Oh, of course not.”
“We’ll chat after you and Mr. Ryan are finished.”
“Uh huh. Naturally.”
Ryan sat down across from Turnbull.
“You’ll do it?”
“If you meet my conditions, and if your spy friend here can get me what I need. And if what he tells me doesn’t lead me to think that I’m not coming back relatively intact.”
“Thank you, Mr. Turnbull. I’ll have my people start making the arrangements.”
“Okay. And Junior – tomorrow, my ranch, nine a.m.”
George Junior nodded. His father rose out of the chair and George Junior followed him to the door.
People's Republic Page 3