by Max Barry
He was maybe twenty feet away. He had a pistol pointed at her. There was nothing she could do.
He fired, and it was like being hit by a car. Her feet went out from under her. As she fell, the fluorescent lights twisted and swirled above her. She had time to think: The lights look like angels. Then she landed on the roof of a Mercedes, catching the car with her spine. Its windshield blew out. The car rocked wildly. She blinked. She could still blink.
After a while, some faces appeared above her. “Get her down,” someone said, and someone else said, “No, don’t move her.”
“Honey?” a woman said. “I’ll call help for you. What’s your name?”
“Government.” Her tongue felt like a bloated, broken sausage. All she could taste was blood. “Jennifer Government.”
10 American Express
Buy hadn’t meant to hang around. He was happy with himself; now he was going to go home and sleep. But he hesitated at one of the Mercedes, attracting the attention of the dealer and becoming ensnared in a sales pitch, and so was still there to hear the shots.
He dropped to a crouch, aware that everyone around him was doing the same, and craned his neck upward. Gunfire broke out again: an automatic weapon. He heard screaming, glass breaking.
Buy and the dealer crawled toward the cars, seeking cover. The mall fell silent. It was eerie, so many people being so quiet. Then after a minute they started to emerge. Buy got to his feet.
The dealer wrung his hands. “Excitement.”
“I think I’m going to take a look,” Buy said.
“You should leave it to mall security,” the dealer said.
“I know first aid.” Not many people did; there was too much risk of being sued. Buy caught the escalator up. On the fourth floor, there were a lot of teenagers standing around, dazed; some were cowering inside shops. Glass sparkled outside the Barnes & Noble and a line of jagged holes in the floor marked a path toward Toys “R” Us. On the ground outside the Nike Town, a girl was bleeding to death. He said, “Hayley?”
Her neck was exposed. He ran to her, tore off his jacket, and tried to staunch the flow of blood. Her eyes rolled. “Someone call an ambulance!” he roared. “Does someone have—”
“I have a cellphone,” a kid said, handing it to him. Buy dialed 911 and tucked it under his ear. Hayley was looking at him; he realized she wanted him to take her hand. He squeezed it tightly.
“Nine-eleven Emergency, how can I help you?”
“I need an ambulance. Quickly, a girl has been shot at the Chadstone Wal-Mart mall.”
“Certainly, sir. Can you tell me the girl’s name?”
“Hayley. Hayley something. Please, come straight away.”
“Sir, I need to know if the victim is part of our register,” the operator said. “If she’s one of our clients, we’ll be there within a few minutes. Otherwise I’m happy to recommend—”
“I need an ambulance!” he shouted, and it was only when water splashed on his hand that he realized he had started to cry. “I’ll pay for it, I don’t care, just come!”
“Do you have a credit card, sir?”
“Yes! Send someone now!”
“As soon as I confirm your ability to pay, sir. This will only take a few seconds.”
He looked at the faces around him. “Someone help her. Help her!” The kid who had loaned Buy his cellular knelt down and held the jacket over the wound. A girl began stroking Hayley’s hair. Buy dragged his wallet out from his back pocket and retrieved his credit card. Hayley’s eyes were fixed on him. I promise, he told her. I promise. “I have American Express—”
“That’s fine, sir. Could you read your card number to me, please?”
“Nine seven one four, oh three—”
Two shots rang out from somewhere below them, close. The people around him shrieked and fled; only the kid stayed, crouching lower.
“—six six—”
People were screaming. Something hit the ground—or one of the Mercedes?—with a deafening boom.
“Sir? Are you there? I didn’t catch the number, sir.” “Nine seven—”
The kid put his hand over Buy’s. “Mister…I don’t think it matters.”
Hayley was no longer looking at him. Her eyes were turned upward, at the Nike Town sign, at the fluorescent lights. Her face was white.
“Oh, no,” Buy said. “No, please.”
“Sir?” the operator said. “Can you please repeat your credit card number for me, sir? Sir? Are you there? Sir? Sir?”
11 Hack
They came for him at eleven o’clock the following night. Hack was in front of the television. He had AOL Time Warner, 182 channels, and four including CNN-A were running nonstop on the Mercury killings. He sat on the floor, wrapped in a blanket, and flicked from one channel to another. He’d been doing it for thirty hours.
That’s one theory, Mary. But one thing’s for sure: there are fourteen confirmed dead, and nobody’s—
Some Nike Town stores are now closed, but many remain open, despite the obvious risk. With demand for Mercurys running at fever pitch—
The words flowed around him. He couldn’t hear anything except the number fourteen.
The security buzzer sounded, startling him. He got up and walked to the kitchen. “Hello?”
“It’s John. Can I come up?”
“Who?”
He heard laughter. “He said, ‘Who?’” John said. “Come on, Hack, don’t mess with us. This is a shitty neighborhood.”
Hack froze. “John Nike?”
“You subcontracted, didn’t you, Hack? You passed on the job. I guess we didn’t make ourselves clear. And that’s really our fault. I blame myself, and John here, he feels terrible. Don’t you, John?”
A second voice. “Let’s talk about it, Hack. Open the door.”
“This isn’t a good time.”
There was a pause. Then, much clearer: “Hack, you little shit, open the door.”
He pushed the security button and heard it sound downstairs. He took a step away from the intercom and stared at it. He hoped he wasn’t making another big mistake.
When the Johns knocked on his front door, he unlocked it with trembling fingers. The door swung open. The sudden light from the hallway dazzled him. He shielded his eyes and lost his grip on the blanket.
“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 Jo
hn 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.”
12 Jennifer
“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.
13 Billy
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.