Hit (24 page)

I move to the counter. An old jewelry box holds pieces of a shirt button much like my own, careful piles of tiny components and a computer chip and wires that make no sense to me. Draped over a chair is a crisp white shirt, black tie, and black jacket, the one Alistair was wearing when I saw him at the gas station. I dig in a pocket and find the tiny headset thing with its see-through wires and a ­minuscule
gold V
. In the other pocket is a stack of cards, the same kind he tried to give to me before I freaked out. They're poorly printed, tear-apart business cards that read simply:
WANT TO FIGHT THE BANKS
? YOU'RE NOT ALONE
. And then a phone number. In the breast pocket is a full magazine for a 9mm just like mine. I want to drop it like it's a baby rattlesnake, but instead, I shove it in my back pocket.

Jesus. Alistair Meade—or whatever his name was—was a double agent. I wish I knew what happened first. Was he tapped as a Black Suit and later found reason to rebel, or was he a conspiracy theorist just praying for the chance to work for his worst enemy? Or maybe he killed one of the real Black Suits and got a robot haircut and stole the dude's uniform. But why would he be standing around at gas stations with homemade business cards when it was easy to see that Valor didn't want anyone to know what was going on?

And even if my name is on that list of possibilities, how did he recognize me?

I have more questions than answers, and I just shot the only dude around who knows the truth and will never get a chance to talk to him. I spin around, hungry for more, my heartbeat thumping in my ears in the silent trailer.

Again and again, scrawled or printed on almost every surface, I see one word. “Valor.”

This guy knew what was going on. He knew even before he put on those sunglasses. And he was trying to change things.

“Patsy? You okay? What's going on in there?” Wyatt shouts. He sounds pissed and antsy, but I'm not done in here. And now that I've seen his name on something, I don't really want him inside the trailer until I figure out a little more for myself.

“I'm just looking around,” I say. “Lots of papers. On my way out.”

I turn and trip on a cardboard box. Inside are dozens of photocopies, and I pull out the top sheet.

Attention, patriotic Americans:

You do not know it, but you no longer live in the United States of America. Our government has sold us out for the last time, thanks to our greed and lack of foresight. No, friends, we now belong to the deep pockets of Valor Savings Bank.

Their new dictatorship is called Valor Savings, and
the first step of their very hostile takeover will involve using our own children in the war against us. Using complex algorithms and the much-maligned system of certified testing, they've identified troubled teens to help cut the deadweight of useless debtors who require the most state help to produce the least bounty.

But that's not me!
you say.

Think again, friend.

Did you sign up for that Valor Savings Bank plati­num credit card? The one they advertised on TV and in every magazine? The one that had an unbelievably low rate, welcomed balance transfers, and didn't require a strict credit check? If so, you signed a waiver to forfeit your life or work as a bounty hunter. Chances are, if you have an able teen between the ages of sixteen and eighteen, they'll be working off your debt for you in exchange for your life. As always, the despots are glad to turn children into killers, to sow anarchy and fear. And you can't complain to the president because he's never been more than a figurehead. Congress has finally taken their biggest cash-out ever. The police have been assassinated, the armed forces incarcerated. We are truly on our own.

Sound like a scary movie?

It's not.

It's our country.

And we want to fight back.

They're monitoring the Internet. They're listening in on your phone calls. But they can't track your body. Join your local Citizens for Freedom group at the date, time, and place listed below to find out how you can live through the Valor regime and help take back what made our nation great:

FREEDOM.

JOIN US.

It gives a date and time at an abandoned high school, just two days from now, right before my five days are up. I fold the paper and shove it into my back pocket along with the photo of my dad with Ashley Cannon.

Just as I take a shuddering breath, a far-off noise catches my attention. A helicopter.

Shit. Valor might not know about Alistair Meade's conspiracy theories and his double-dealing, but they sure as shit know where I am right now. Whether it's the truck's GPS or my stupid button, they always knew. Second Union might know too.

“Patsy! Helicopter! Hurry your ass!” Wyatt yells from outside.

I run to check the other room before he gets too crazy waiting for me, but it's just a tidy and spare sleeping space. A small bed made
with military precision, a lamp, a stack of paperback books. A picture of Alistair Meade, younger, with a pretty girl and a tiny baby. I wonder where they are, if they're still alive. Did Valor kill them? Or was Meade a lone crackpot who left his family to pursue a conspiracy that just so happened to be real?

It's not in a frame—just lying on the table with worn corners exposed. I pick it up. On the back, in the same surprisingly exact handwriting as the folder labels, it says,
ALISTAIR, MARIE, AND ADELAIDE, FEBRUARY 2002.

I don't think he was lying to me. I don't think he has debt. I don't think he's a crackpot.

I think he knew exactly what's going on, and I only wish I had all day to search through his trailer.

But I don't want Valor or Second Union to know anything about him that they don't already, and I would bet my life that the helicopter getting louder and louder is stamped with one of their logos.

“I'm coming in,” Wyatt yells.

I shout back, “No. I'm coming out now!”

I rush to the front of the trailer and unplug the power strip that controls all three laptops. After closing and stacking them and dumping all their cords on top, I chuck them into a box and shove it out the door and into Wyatt's waiting hands. Before he can ask me what the hell I'm doing, I say, “Did you bring your lighter?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Just go put that box in the truck and get ready to run.”

“Why?”

“Do you trust me?”

He looks at me, eyes narrowed. Of course he doesn't trust me. I killed his dad.

“I shouldn't, but I kind of do,” he admits. “Just tell me what's in the trailer.”

“I will after you put those in the truck,” I say.

He hurries away with the box, and I rush back to the fridge I saw under a stack of folders. I take a Sunkist for each of us and a beer, too. Wyatt is waiting outside the door by the time I get back.

“Help me get him inside the trailer.” I pick up Alistair's feet, and Wyatt grabs him under his arms, and he's all floppy and wet, but we manage to get him inside and close the door.

The helicopter is getting louder.

“So what's going on?” he says.

“This guy's a conspiracy theorist.” I pop open the beer can. “Lighter, please.” Wyatt puts the silver rectangle in my hand and looks from it to the beer can like I'm six shades of crazy, but he doesn't stop me.

“Grab that towel out of the window, will you?” I say. I point to the open window where Alistair must've stood to shoot out our tire. Wyatt yanks it out, and I pour beer all over half of it. I light the other half with the lighter, although it takes me three tries to get the damn
thing to light. Apparently, beer isn't very flammable. Then I throw the towel through the door, aiming for a pile of paper. It catches fire with a
whoosh
. I light the carpet, too. Bright orange flames are licking up the walls when I finally close the door again.

“So why are you burning down his trailer?” Wyatt asks.

“Because I don't know if Valor knows what he knows, but I don't want them to know that I know anything.”

“So what's on the laptops?”

“I have no idea. They just seemed more portable than a thousand pounds of paper and maps and crap. If we can crack the passwords, I bet we can find out a lot more about our new government.”

“I don't know if you're crazy or crazy,” Wyatt admits. “But I think you're pretty cool.”

About that time, we realize we're standing next to a trailer that's going to explode, and we run for the mail truck in nothing like the slow motion you see in movies. Wyatt leaps into the driver's side as I land in the passenger seat, and I look at the reset red clock and realize that wherever this truck goes, they can find it. With one tire shot out, it's practically useless anyway.

“Stop. Grab your stuff and the laptops. We're abandoning ship.”

Bless his heart, he doesn't question it. We roll up the back door and start throwing all our shit out into the yard. There's not much. My backpack, my knitting bag, Jeremy's shotgun, Wyatt's backpack. On last thought, my quilt.

He jumps down with the box of laptops, and I say, “Go make sure that old truck has keys in the ignition. I bet it does. Dude knew he might have to run.”

As he jogs over, I grab one of the concrete blocks that serve as the front step of the trailer.

“Yup. Got keys. It runs,” he hollers.

“Load it up with our stuff and get ready to floor it.”

Hands shaking, ears pounding with helicopter rotors, I use the concrete block to pin down the mail truck's gas pedal, crank the key, put it in gear, and jump the hell out of the door. I trip and fall on the rough ground but scramble up and away with my heart busting and the gun slipping against my butt crack.

The mail truck barrels into the flaming trailer and catches fire, still trying to ram through and digging holes in the dirt. I run to the camper truck and jump in, and Wyatt guns it in a cloud of dust. It's clean but worn inside, anonymous and well preserved. The keys ­jangling in the ignition have a red rabbit's foot on the chain. I roll down my window and lean out to look back, and it's kind of beautiful, the trailer and mail truck ablaze in the old orchard, billowing black smoke. I hope it doesn't set the whole field of trees and grass on fire. But it's too late now. What's done is done. If Valor doesn't like the fire, they can put it out. The shadow of the helicopter sniffs the corner of the orchard, and I duck back inside the truck just as we scoot under some pine trees. Maybe they'll think we died in the truck.

I lean back, grab the handle, and take a deep breath. “That went well.”

“At least nobody shot at you this time,” Wyatt says.

“I just don't get why he was so stupid.” I open the glove box, but it's empty, aside from the registration, made out to Axel McDaniel. I wonder what his real name was. “He could have told me what was up first. You can't just grab jumpy people with guns who already want you dead.”

“No telling,” Wyatt says.

And that's when I wish I had more fully searched Alistair Meade's body for clues. He might have had more information in his back pockets. Jesus, and I just tossed his wallet away without looking past the fake IDs and the money. I didn't even check to see if he had a phone—maybe the one that would ring if you called the number on the business card he tried to give me.

I shake my head. Maybe they succeeded in making me an assassin, a cold-blooded killer. But they didn't make me a decent detective. I just did something impossibly rash and, yeah, kind of stupid. And now all the clues are on fire, including my mail truck and all my posters and my stuffed turtles. I guess I didn't really think that through. I just knew that I had to keep Valor out of that trailer and that truck away from me.

They wanted to keep me in the dark. Now, as much as possible, I'll take a gleeful turn at keeping
them
in the dark. I still have the
possibly bugged button on my wadded-up shirt, but as long as I get the next two people on the list today, I should be able to toss it by nightfall.

But, Jesus—what about the truck? They never said that I had to turn it in at the end. Was there something about it on that paper I signed without looking? Are they going to be pissed? What if they think that without the GPS, I'm going to fail? What if they go after my mom before my time is up?

It's too fucking late to worry about that now.

The truck is gone.

The best I can do is finish the last two names and hurry home to check on my mom once I've done what I promised to do. As long as I have the button on my shirt, they have to know I'm still in the game.

Repress, repress, repress.
Keep moving. Next name.

I'm not ready to think about the next person on the list, even though I know I have less than twelve hours to face her.

I can't even begin to imagine what will happen when I'm done.

The old truck bumps back onto asphalt, and my butt's glad for a smoother ride. I yawn and stretch and put my feet up on the dashboard. The gun digs into my back, and I slip it under my thigh instead. The other two are on the floorboard under my feet, and I assume the shotgun is sliding around in the truck bed. It's kind of funny how just a few short days ago, I had a healthy respect for guns.
I wasn't afraid of them, and I kind of liked shooting them with the guys after work, but I understood that they were to be transported unloaded, with the bullets locked in the glove box. That was the legal, safe way to do it. Now I'm slinging my Glock around like it's last year's fancy phone, something I need that kind of gets in my way but isn't particularly exciting.

It's lunchtime, but I'm nowhere close to hungry. I bet Wyatt is, though. Maybe he's going to get a second breakfast, since he's a bottomless pit. Or maybe he's headed back to the vet. I have no idea where we are right now, on back roads in the country. Or maybe he's going to another secret hiding spot in the wilderness, now that we can't go back to the Preserve. I try to think of what I would be doing today if I were at school. But does it even matter? After this week, after what I've done, does schoolwork even signify? Could I just go back to school like nothing happened, like I don't know what I know, my hands washed utterly clean of blood? Will I sit in a desk, pencil in hand, focusing on quizzes and tests and homework and answering questions about the week I spent at home with measles? Could I get through five minutes of US history without laughing my ass off? Do I even want something as regular as school anymore, now that I know that the future is out of my control? Precalculus seems like the dumbest thing on earth when a murderous bank runs your country.