“You seem pretty upset about it.”
“Well, if you had ever had a Double Double animal style then you might understand,” Turnbull said. “You know, I lived here as a kid. I grew up here. I remember it. I mean, it was not like when my dad was a kid here in the 1960s and ‘70s. California was really the Promised Land back then. Plenty of jobs, roads, and dams. People were flocking here because of the opportunities. Reagan was the governor. Reagan, if you can believe it. My dad told me about it. Dad was pissed off too, because by the time I came along that was all over and California was headed downhill. The Democrats took over and the state went hard blue. All the regular people like my family were getting squeezed. The middle class, the normal people who made it a great place, they started leaving before the Split was even an idea in anyone’s head. What was left were rich liberals in San Francisco and the Westside of LA, and then the poor people who either got welfare or cleaned their mansions everywhere else.”
“So, pretty much like today,” Junior said.
“Yeah, this didn’t just happen. This has been happening. They just built walls around the rich people to make it official.”
“So what are we going to do about food since In-N-Out is not an option? Because I need some food.”
“Yeah, I’m not entirely sure when we will get another chance to eat if this all works out right. This time tomorrow, by sunset, we ought to be making the crossing into Arizona.”
“With Amanda.”
“Like I said, ought to. Plans just don’t survive contact with the enemy. So let’s do our best not to contact the enemy. We get her, we get the hard drive, we get the hell out of town and go back over.”
“And maybe we won’t even have to kill anyone else.”
“Nah, trust me. In this business you always end up killing someone.”
They stopped at a busy diner down Wilshire near Beverly Hills, something called “Hep Katz.” Inside there were lots of young adults enjoying the blue take on Fifties cuisine, but there were no nostalgic photos of kids bopping in poodle skirts and pompadours. Instead, the menu, in a box right above the listing of different cheeseburgers, explained that, “The 1950s were a time of incredible racism, sexism, and homophobia that Hep Katz in no way condones. Instead, Hep Katz dedicates this climate-sensitive fare as a tribute to the men, women, non-binary, and gender unspecified individuals who struggled to escape the pitiless oppression inflicted upon them by the United States of America.”
“I think I lost my appetite,” Turnbull muttered. “No, wait, I’m having a vanilla shake.”
“Is that racist?” asked Junior after checking to ensure their blue shirted dining facilitator was not nearby.
“Everything’s racist. You should know that by now. And cisnormative too. Maybe you should order a corn dog. You know, expand your horizons.”
“We can’t be out of here soon enough.”
Turnbull was still scanning the menu. “Hey, real coffee. Things are looking up.”
They dug into their food, eating it all – burgers, plates of fries, shakes, and coffee too. Both ex-soldiers understood instinctively the old truism that when you could eat, you ate. You never knew when you would get another opportunity to do so. The dining facilitator barely said a word to them and did not even ask for ration coupons. Apparently, the shared sacrifice of the masses was not shared by their masters.
It was dark when they emerged. People were coming out and there were cars on the roads – not in the numbers of the past, but certainly orders of magnitude more than outside the Sector’s walls. It was Friday night, and while out there the PRNA burned, the residents of the Westside Sector were preparing to fiddle.
“Any check points getting up there?” Junior asked.
“I don’t know,” Turnbull answered. “I would have liked to have scouted the route and the target first. The Thomas Guide tells us where the street is, but doesn’t show us the layout like a satellite map off the web would.”
“We could risk going online and getting one.”
“That’s just asking for their cyber spooks to catch us. Then they’ll know where we’re going.”
“They might anyway.”
“Yeah, that’s why we’ll recon it first. But they’ve gotta have some security there anyway. Your sister’s boyfriend is the PBI director.”
“He’s not her boyfriend.”
“Whatever he is, she hasn’t made this easy for us.”
There was a checkpoint inside Beverly Hills manned by a pair of bored uniformed PBI officers, one of whom held up his palm.
“I’ll kill mine, you kill yours,” Turnbull said casually as he eased to a stop.
“If we have to,” Junior said.
“Yeah, just don’t hesitate. If we have to.”
But the PBI officer was satisfied with only a glance at their IDs and their privilege levels, and he waved them past.
“See,” said Junior. “You didn’t have to hurt anyone.”
“Betcha we have to take them out on the way down.”
“You know, Turnbull, I think you go looking for trouble.”
“Trust me, I don’t have to look for it. Remember how you came to me?”
They stopped on a quiet residential street at the base of the hills and did a final map recon, poring over the key page of the Thomas Guide. It looked like they could park one street over and approach from the rear. What it would look like in real life could well be something entirely different, but for now it seemed like a solid 70% solution.
The Lexus took on the hill with ease, but it was a bit outclassed by the newer Mercedes-Benzes and BMWs that abounded there. Below them, Los Angeles reached out to the horizon, with blocks of bright lights illuminating the various security sectors. Otherwise, the rest of Los Angeles was in the midst of the evening brownout. Except for a few flickering lights here and there, the majority of the city was dark and inscrutable.
They parked on the side of the narrow road next to a whitewashed wall surrounding a lot that backed up against the hillside. It was in a blind spot where none of the other residences along the street had a direct view of it. Junior got out and tried to pull himself up for a look over. He could not get a solid grip on the top and ended up standing on the trunk, peering over as Turnbull provided security.
“What do you see?”
“The house is empty, I’m pretty sure. No one’s taking care of it. The lawn is dead. We should check it out.”
Turnbull nodded and Junior jumped down.
“Change,” Turnbull said. He started to take off his suit. Junior did so as well, but Turnbull told him to wait. One guy changes, the other guy pulls security. He’d learned that lesson the hard way a decade ago in Indian Country.
“Do we want the M4s?” Junior asked, pulling on his final boot.
“If we need the M4s then we’re not going in. I’m taking the Ruger, though.” Turnbull already had the silenced pistol in his pocket. He came around the Lexus and cupped his hands for Junior. This time Junior got a grip on the edge and pulled himself up, then he reached back and pulled Turnbull over.
They jumped down onto a patch of dirt where the grass had been back when someone was there to water it. Brown shrubs lined the side of the dark house, a rambling ranch style that probably went for several million dollars back when individuals could still freely buy and sell real estate.
“The windows aren’t broken,” Junior observed.
“Either they have a lot of security or they don’t need security,” Turnbull said. “Let’s go, around back.”
They moved quickly but quietly, now communicating by hand gestures and nods. At the rear of the property bordering the target lot there was another wall, only this one was about three feet high. They could see only the roof of the house further up the hill. They would need to scramble up an embankment to get there.