Nation of Enemies

by H. A. Raynes

  “So you need Hudson’s national reach.”

  “We won’t be successful if we don’t have a partner in this.”

  “You mentioned that this could be lucrative.”

  “That’s something we can discuss. Donor recipients may pay to receive their MedIDs. But I’m not in this for the money.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “Again, more for me.” Hudson pours himself another drink.

  “Does that mean you’ll consider it?” He leans forward slightly in his chair.

  Hudson sips his scotch and examines the amber liquid. Finally he sets down the glass. “I’m sure it hasn’t slipped your mind that this is treason?”

  “Not for a minute.”

  “What’s in it for you? What’s worth risking your family, your career, your future?”

  “The MedID was supposed to help put an end to the war. To root out terrorists while strengthening citizens. But the violence hasn’t stopped. ­People are angry, whether they want civil liberties restored or a theocracy or the end to government, period. They’re desperate and unpredictable and we can’t go outside without wondering if we’ll make it home that night. For ten years I’ve gone along. Done as I was told. I scanned MedIDs and didn’t allow myself to think about the consequences. But what I write on those records has lifelong, rippling effects. It changes lives, families. It’s not what I signed up for. I’ve been perpetuating a system that I don’t believe in. It’s gone too far.”

  “What’s to keep us from getting caught?”

  “The administration’s focused on the presidential race and the war. They’re short on manpower and funds, so eventually they might catch on to a MedID black market, but for now we’re under the radar. As for staff, we’ll need to vet them carefully. Our donors will all be deceased and their families will either be none the wiser or else they’ll be active participants. And the MedID recipients aren’t interested in exposing us. They’re interested in their futures.”

  Hudson sighs, stares at the closed office door. Finally he looks back at Cole.

  “I live in black and white, Dr. Fitzgerald. Life and death. These MedID numbers—­like them or not—­are black and white. They are, quite literally, who we are. So you can fight the MedID. You can fight the government—­whoever’s in office—­Hensley will be the victor this year, no doubt. But families around this country count on Hudson’s to bring them peace in this time of war. I won’t gamble my family and my responsibilities in the name of some idyllic yesteryear. As I recall, it wasn’t so idyllic.”

  He doesn’t disagree. But he wants to get Hudson to see the future, not the past, or the present. There’s only one argument left. “Your family. What if you needed to get them out? There’s your wife. And you have a stepson, is that right?”

  “It won’t come to that,” Hudson says. “Whatever our fate, it’s right here. It just matters that we’re together.”

  “But don’t you want the option? If we’re partners, we can arrange it.” It’s his Hail Mary. “A new one for you would ensure you can travel anywhere with your family.”

  “How do you know my number?” Steven’s nervous tic kicks in and he shakes his head, his hand brushing his stiffly sprayed hair back as though it’s getting in his eyes.

  “You’ve been a patient at Mass General. It was easy enough.” Cole envisions the ocean horizon line from the terminal in London, remembers acutely the devastation of being turned away. “We all deserve options.”

  Hudson sinks back into his chair. His voice carries the unmistakable tone of defeat. “We’re comfortable, Dr. Fitzgerald. It’s not a perfect life but it’s what we have.”

  Silence. Clearly there’s nothing left to say. Anxiety replaces Cole’s adrenaline. Has he just ruined his family’s future? Gambled their safety on this man, all for nothing?

  “You certainly don’t owe me anything.” Cole runs his hands over his pants, wiping away sweat. “But I’d like to ask that you forget we ever had this meeting.”

  “Consider it forgotten.” Hudson stands and extends a hand. “Good luck.”

  “To us all.” They shake hands.

  Crestfallen, Cole returns to his car. He sits with his hands on the wheel, staring out the windshield. Another line of cars has parked. Mourners dressed in black exit cars and swarm the entrance of Hudson’s. It had been the perfect plan, all the pieces would have fit just so. He can’t tell his partner Karen Riley just yet. He needs to have a backup plan. He remembers the text from Lily. What r u doing? I don’t know, he thinks. I just don’t know.

  Chapter 30

  VICTORY WILL BE OURS. Though he knows it’s the truth, Charles would never speak it aloud. Pride goeth before a fall. Sitting in BASIA Headquarters Command Center, his chest swells as he watches the security cameras. A stream of men and women funnel into the warehouse, faithful souls, eager to fight in this Holy War. They will help him rebuild and unite the country under God, as it was intended from the beginning. Militia applicants doubled in the past ­couple weeks since the State House attack. It also brought in additional donations from followers, which will propel their mission to the next level.

  “Five minutes, sir.” Henry’s voice startles him.

  Charles traces his thumb along his tattooed palm. “Systems ready?”

  “Yes, sir. Encrypted video feeds to twenty-­three states tonight.”

  “Fantastic.” He whirls his chair around to face his bodyguard. “How’s the family?”

  “Fine, thank you.”

  Henry’s been with him for the better part of ten years. Every Christmas and Thanksgiving, Henry extends an invitation to join his family. Charles finally accepted last year, attending their Christmas day festivities. But it was too much. The intimacy of being in their home, of watching Henry bend and bow to his children’s and his wife’s every request, is not how Charles wants to see this man who protects him. Better to maintain distance, though there’s nothing he doesn’t know about Henry. One gives up privacy when one protects Charles Mitchell.

  “Ava’s well?” Charles asks.

  A blush comes over Henry’s fair features. “She’s pregnant, actually. Sixteen weeks.”

  “Congratulations! That’s wonderful news.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You going to have the testing done?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Good man. A child is a child.”

  “We’re excited. Maybe we’ll break our streak of girls on this one.”

  Don’t count on it. Two X chromosomes say otherwise, information courtesy of the OB/GYN on Charles’s payroll. In fact, Henry’s fourth daughter will have cystic fibrosis. Just like his second daughter, though the six-­year-­old is a lovely girl and there’s hope a cure is on the horizon. Charles himself has donated to the cause. He feels for Henry, knows it must be terrible to watch his child suffer. So he does what he can to ease the man’s pain. He provides complete coverage and access to private medical care for his family. He’s happy to do it.

  Charles stands and straightens his perfectly tailored black suit as Henry holds the door open, adding, “Hannah and the other children are waiting for you by the stage. There are just over seven hundred seated in-­house, and the medical staff is in place.”

  “Excellent.” Charles pats him on the arm as he passes. “Let’s go greet our new recruits.”

  SEBASTIAN LEFT ALL of his devices at home. No reason to take a risk now. This is Mitchell’s world, and at BASIA HQ no electronics are allowed, enforced by detection systems at the entrance. Nervous energy courses through him and he shifts on the cold metal seat, one of hundreds lined up to face a stage. The space is an old airplane hangar. In the back, one corner is marked Area A, with a curtain around it, and another is marked Area B, with another curtain. It strikes him that men and women of all ages and sizes are here. No doubt they cover a ran
ge of talents Mitchell will attempt to harness for his next mission.

  The buzz of conversation ceases, everyone stands. Reverend Mitchell strides across the stage to the podium. Following, and taking seats behind him, are a group of children and teens. Sebastian studies them. There are twelve here today, though rumor is he’s collected many more who were orphaned in the war.

  “Welcome,” Reverend Mitchell says, lifting his arms in the air. “You’re here tonight because you sought out the truth. The truth that we are one nation under God, and our God put us on this earth to be free. It’s a divine mandate to realize this freedom that is being denied you by your very own government. Together we will change our future and the future of our families. It’s our duty. If we don’t change it, no one else will.”

  Mitchell’s right about one thing; Sebastian is here for the truth. The soldiers remain standing with their arms at their sides for ten minutes as Mitchell expounds the value of their commitment and the impact it will have on not just America, but the world.

  “The State House attack was brilliant.” Mitchell’s voice is clear and strong. “Whoever was behind it thought of everything. The choreography, the weapon of choice, delivery method, down to the last ten seconds. It was devastating. Wish I’d thought of it myself.”

  Laughter erupts. Mitchell grins proudly. And though Sebastian’s stomach turns and bile rises to his throat, he forces a laugh. Assuming he’s telling the truth, Renner’s informant was right. Goddammit. Then who?

  “But we will learn from it,” Mitchell continues. “Over the next few months, we’ll gather information. Organize. And then execute our plan. Each of you has the potential for massive impact. Don’t underestimate yourself. I certainly don’t. You will touch lives. And they will never see you coming. Look around.”

  Feet shuffle, bodies turn. To Sebastian’s left stands a woman in her fifties, plain but athletic. On his right is a man in his twenties wearing a suit and tie, the air of a financial institution.

  “You are neighbors,” Mitchell says. “Classmates. Coworkers. Friends. The fabric of society. Nothing about you is insidious. Obvious. You aren’t depressed or psychotic. You’re every man. Every woman. And you are key to BASIA’s mission. Have confidence in yourself. The impact of one can be great. One can change everything.”

  The Reverend extends an arm toward the back of the room. “Behind you on the left is Area A. There, you’ll form an orderly line and have your MedIDs scanned by our medical technicians. After that, on the right is Area B, where you’ll have your MedID removed by one of our physicians. For those of you in other states, the room setup is the same.”

  Murmuring spreads throughout the crowd. Sebastian runs his fingertips over his forearm. Thankfully the spot has healed since the insertion of Will Anderson’s chip. This comes as no surprise since the Bureau rarely arrests a terrorist who wears a MedID. Mitchell invites questions from the new recruits. What if I don’t want to get my MedID out? What if someone notices? What if I die and my family needs my pension?

  Without exception, Mitchell explains, BASIA troops are expected to get their biochips extracted. The MedID has brought Armageddon, after all. They are free ­people and thereby free to remove this evil harness. He tells them that the government has no right to withhold funds from a family even if a MedID has been deactivated.

  “Unless he is a terrorist!” someone shouts.

  “There are no terrorists here,” Mitchell counters.

  “What do you do with all of them?” Sebastian asks. “Our MedIDs.”

  “They’re held in a safe place. If a soldier leaves BASIA for any reason and requests that his or her MedID be returned, we’ll oblige. From this day forward you will have access to the medical staff at any of our bases and coverage for you and your families. Our doctors do the initial MedID scan to create a record and access your medical history. But they won’t update it or do any functional scanning that the government requires. And in the unfortunate event of death, each of you will sign a document to specify what will happen with your MedID. We can destroy it, give it to your family, or bury it with you.”

  That cache of biochips would be priceless. If Mitchell’s truly been collecting them since the MedID law was instituted, it could be the key to making the case for the Planes. This means that somewhere, Mitchell has hidden the MedIDs for each of the fifty suicide pilots. Sadistic trophies. It’s the first inkling of hope he’s felt in weeks. The room grows quiet. There appear to be no more questions.

  “Be here fully,” Mitchell announces, “mind and body, or don’t be here at all. Our mission is to fight for the liberty that’s been taken from us. Accept these terms and you’ll be forever welcomed in the house of God. When we win the war, the opportunities will be endless. Each of you is an integral member in our secret forces. One enormous, harmonious family.” His face brightens. “No discord here, brothers and sisters. Unlike in some families.”

  More laughter. Sebastian smiles. A fucking comedian.

  “If you’re ready to join BASIA, please proceed to lines A and B and you’ll be given your orders from there. God bless America.” Mitchell presses his right hand to his heart and then extends his arm, palm open with the famous cross tattoo. The soldiers mimic the action. With his bodyguard leading the way, he exits the stage followed by the line of orphaned kids. As the door closes behind them, the communal adrenaline fuels instant conversations between the soldiers.

  Sebastian introduces his alias, Will Anderson, to as many ­people as he can. He takes his time getting to Area A, where a long line awaits. As he makes small talk, he watches the exit, counting ­people who’ve decided to leave. Looks like a ­couple dozen have made the choice to keep their MedIDs, and just maybe made them rethink their priorities.

  When the process is finished, he boards a bus along with thirty or so other soldiers. They weren’t allowed to drive tonight, escorted to the secret location in a vehicle with blacked-­out windows. On the journey back into Boston, a mother of three sits next to him. She lost her husband several years ago, talks about retribution for her children. She goes on and on. He wants to shout at her, to ask her why she’d want to orphan her children. Instead he nods along. He stops listening and concentrates on the stash of MedIDs. Renner’s informant must know about them. It’s time to make some promises to their one and only potential witness.

  Chapter 31

  IT’S EARLY SUNDAY morning as Huan Chao walks a few paces ahead of Jonathan, through the echoing halls of BASIA HQ. Mitchell’s chief technologist has been a decent boss so far, though he only speaks when he has something important to say. The past few weeks he’s given Jonathan surprisingly simple projects. Doesn’t matter. He’s getting paid and he gets to see Hannah.

  “In here.” Huan stops at a door and holds his hand over a security screen. It opens to reveal a large room filled with monitors but no ­people. Jonathan hops onto a chair with wheels and spins it around. Huan makes sweeping gestures that bring the machines to life. A hum fills the air. Focusing on one monitor, he motions with his fingers as the electronic sensors follow along and find the page he’s searching for. He rotates the screen to face Jonathan, who leans in for a closer look. It’s a file on him. Information about his mother. Steven. His father. Facts, history.

  “What’s this?”

  “This is public knowledge. There are no secrets these days.”

  “Sure there are.”

  “Indeed.” Huan’s grin is lopsided and somewhat creepy.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “The past few weeks have been a trial period. It’s time to discuss your role here. We know you’re a gifted hacker.”

  Jonathan’s leg bounces rapidly. He wants to bolt.

  “You were only a child when you hacked the Department of Education site.”

  “That file’s sealed. I was a juvenile.”

  “You’re still a juvenile.”
>
  “For less than a year.”

  “In any event, performing system upgrades and troubleshooting is well below your skill level. But we had to ease you in. Do you like working for Reverend Mitchell?”

  “Yeah.” He shrugs. “It’s been cool.”

  “And at the same time, your crimeware business is booming. You’ve been busy. I was impressed with your DoS attack in June.”

  His jaw drops. No one knows. No one knew. Are they going to turn him in?

  “Credit where credit is due.” Huan glances at the screen with his family’s data. “That power outage you caused cost the state a small fortune.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Cooperation.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  Huan grimaces. “Just the opposite. I’m presenting an opportunity.”

  Bullshit. He nods.

  “Good.” Huan touches the screen and the Hudson family file disappears. “I need three things. Your time, as much as it takes to complete the task within our deadline. Your talent. Hold nothing back and we will support you in any way you require. And your MedID.”

  “Why?”

  “Make that four things. No questions.”

  In just minutes the ground beneath him has shifted. What just happened? He watches Huan’s mouth but the words are fuzzy. It’s like that paranoid feeling he gets sometimes when he’s high. But this time it’s for real.

  Chapter 32

  IF SHE WAS to paint him, Taylor would add peacock feathers fanned out behind him, and his hands would be exaggerated, bigger than his head perhaps, his tattooed palm in the foreground. It’s hard not to stare at Reverend Mitchell, seated across from her at his desk. His white teeth gleam, his skin is so smooth it makes her question his age. Thirty-­five? Forty-­five? He looks her in the eye and his voice is warm, drawing her in. After a month of church ser­vices, he’d pulled her aside, singled her out. She’s sure it’s because of her bloodline, but it doesn’t bother her. He listens like no one has listened to her in a long time.