Nation of Enemies

by H. A. Raynes

  “If Reverend Mitchell has a say in the future of our country, there may be some restructuring. Regardless of who wins the race.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know his plan. But he’s organized the massive training of thousands. He has followers and soldiers in every state.”

  “I thought BASIA used only cyber warfare.”

  “That’s part of it.” He considers his words carefully. “But we also do weapons training. Study how to engage enemies in different situations.”

  “What kind of situations?”

  “They’re vague. We’re not given details. Not yet.”

  Recently, Mitchell had one of his techs create a fake chat room run by Patriot’s Church. It’s meant to be easily infiltrated, to mislead any agencies listening in. Renner has identified the stream and alerted the Bureau. The messages are code, though it may take weeks to crack.

  “What do you think it all means?” she asks.

  He pulls the car alongside the curb in front of her apartment building. “I just follow orders. Try not to second-­guess my commanding officer. I believe in the cause, you know? Reverend Mitchell is a brilliant strategist—­look at the Planes. He’s—­”

  “Wait a minute.” She unbuckles her seat belt and turns to face him. “There’s no proof he had anything to do with that.”

  “Name one other person who has that kind of power, who’s not in government? Someone who has the leadership, the organization, the mind? Thousands of militia groups out there wish they had a tenth of BASIA’s strength and reach. There is no one else.”

  She shakes her head. “If there were proof, he’d have been arrested by now.”

  “There’s no proof because everyone who would have testified died. Anyone who’s changed their mind and left the church would think twice about giving him up. I’m sure he’s quite thorough in covering his tracks. He can’t lead a movement if he’s imprisoned.”

  Her gaze wanders out the windshield to a news van that’s stationed outside her apartment. “I know that we have to fight to change things. But, I’m sorry, Will. I don’t believe Reverend Mitchell’s responsible for murdering all those ­people. He’s clearly powerful enough to incite a massive countrywide movement without the need to massacre ­people.”

  “We’re at war, Taylor. This is Armageddon.”

  Avoiding eye contact, she gathers her bag and reaches for the door handle. He puts a hand on her arm. The warmth of her tanned skin surprises him. They both freeze. When she finally looks at him, he can’t think what to say next.

  “Thanks for the ride.” Her voice is a soft rasp. She gets out and shuts the door.

  He pops the trunk and goes to help her, but she’s two steps ahead of him, already holding her bike.

  “I’m sorry,” he says.

  “For what?”

  “I don’t know.” He shuts the trunk. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “It’s war, like you said. It’s upsetting.”

  “The Reverend has a vision.” He has to sell her on his loyalty to Mitchell. “We’re there because we like his version of the world. We have to trust him on the journey there.”

  “You drank the Kool-­Aid, didn’t you?”

  “Could’ve sworn I saw you filling your glass, too.”

  She smiles as she starts to walk away. “You want to come over for dinner tomorrow?”

  “That’d be great.” Finally, he’s in. There’s no room for error, he’ll only get one shot.

  The news van doors are thrown open and two men with video equipment jump out and rush toward Taylor. More gracefully than Sebastian would think possible, she waves and flips them off. The skirt she wears sways at the back of her knees. As she disappears into the building, the news crew heads in his direction. Quickly, he hops into the car and drives a few blocks away, until he’s sure they didn’t follow him. He parks under a broken streetlamp. On a handheld device from DARPA he launches the encoded surveillance app with live feed from Taylor’s apartment. She puts her daughter to bed and organizes her graffiti gear. Using the Silent Talk app, Sebastian sends an encoded message to Renner, who tracks him via locator chip. In minutes they’re parked down the street from Taylor’s apartment in Renner’s Bureau-­issued black SUV, the windows tinted beyond legal limits.

  TAYLOR REPLACES THE ruined bike tire and straps on her helmet and her messenger bag. She locks the door behind her, securing the sitter and Sienna. Balancing her bike, she navigates three flights of stairs and leaves through the back door, into the alley.

  Outside, the air is still, peaceful. Her muscles burn as she pumps her legs through the darkened streets. Tonight she’s scouting locations to find a good canvas for the church piece. She steers left then right, no clear destination.

  Focused on the road ahead, she replays her conversation with Will. Talking about Mitchell had made her tense. And Will’s hand on her skin was disarming. There’s been no one since Mason. The moment he’d taken his hand away she craved it. Unfortunately, his touch was eclipsed by his words. Her stomach is still in knots. Of course she knows the rumors about Reverend Mitchell. But Will appears to have no doubt. In fact, he seems all for it.

  She pedals faster. Does she care if the Reverend orchestrated the Planes? Regardless, millions have suffered and died as a result of her father’s MedID law. Her early contribution to MedFuture eats at her, though it also fuels her. She thinks of the aborted babies. The would-­be parents so distraught they commit suicide upon discovery they can only produce babies deemed less than perfect. Not to mention those under–75s, denied work, unable to feed and clothe their families. Her father has affected millions. Yes, it feels right to be standing on the other side.

  A flash of headlights behind her prompts her to take the next right. After a block, she scans the buildings, sees she’s just on the edge of Boston proper. On the deserted road, the headlights follow. Coincidence? Her father? She glances behind; the glare is blinding. She turns onto a street with abandoned warehouses. Spotting a potential canvas, she slows to a stop. A screech of wheels makes her jerk her head around.

  Two cars swing around the block, neck-­and-­neck, speeding toward her. For the briefest moment she can’t move, but then she whips the bike right, down a narrow alley. In seconds a loud scraping sound—­metal against concrete—­follows her. Go go go. Shit shit shit.

  Air rushes off her body, siphoned away by the cars. They’re close. She spots an opportunity twenty feet ahead. In a split second she steers her bike into a slight indentation in the alley, what used to be the back entrance to a restaurant. Her heart pounds in her ears.

  A Cadillac sedan cruises past her. The driver slams on the brakes just as a black SUV hits them at full force from behind. The SUV lands directly in front of her. She’s backed up against the wall, her legs still poised over the bike. No escape. The driver’s tinted window is close enough to touch. She holds her breath and glares directly at a face she can’t see.

  The Cadillac’s tires spin in place until burnt rubber stings her eyes and nose. Both cars inch forward as the SUV pushes the Cadillac. The tail of the SUV passes her, giving her an exit. In seconds she’s flying back down the alley, riding for her life. Her legs are numb and she’s all but forgotten the reason she was here in the first place.

  Sienna. What if someone came to the house after she left? Taylor pushes harder, faster. Within a few turns buildings are familiar again, a convenience store she frequents, a late night pizza place. In her mind, a flash of the SUV and the Cadillac. Neither car looked familiar and she couldn’t see either driver. She didn’t even see the plates.

  Finally. She takes the stairs two at a time and rushes in, past the babysitter and into Sienna’s room. Taylor climbs into the bed and curls against her daughter’s small, warm body. Muscles shaking, mind spinning, she clings to this little person she loves more than anything in the
world.

  RICHARD RECOGNIZES THE number that appears on his phone, but he can scarcely believe it. Except for the light emanating from the phone, his bedroom is pitch-­black. He switches on the bedside light and unlocks the screen with his index finger.

  “Is everything all right?” he asks.

  “You’re sick,” Taylor says. “You’ve gone too far this time.”

  “Calm down. What are you talking about?”

  “Watching me paint is one thing.” Ragged breaths interrupt her words. “I’m used to my privacy being invaded. But when you come after me—­for what? For supporting Mitchell? You want me dead because I’m not supporting your candidacy?”

  “Hold on a minute—­”

  “You want Sienna to grow up without a mother?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Taylor.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Whatever you may think of my motives, I don’t want you dead.”

  There’s a brief pause. “Well, maybe your campaign or the party does. Maybe they’re trying to do you a favor.”

  “Please, tell me what happened?” He throws off the covers and gets out of bed, his feet sinking into the carpet as he paces. It’s impossible not to be angry with her, for shutting him out, for blaming him for all of her problems. But the sound in her voice is desperate. “Taylor?”

  “I was out riding tonight and I heard cars behind me.” Her voice quavers.

  He closes his eyes, his mind creating images to match her story. She was in a dangerous part of the city, late at night, alone. A car chase, probably nothing more to it. She’s being paranoid. When she finishes, he opens his eyes. He isn’t going to win her back tonight.

  “Sounds like you were in the wrong place at the wrong time,” he says.

  “They were after me. When I turned, they turned. It was obvious.”

  “What’s obvious is that South Bay is a rough area. Somehow you ended up in the middle of someone’s business. Drugs, probably. Could be anything.”

  “I’m not an idiot. I know those Cadillacs are owned by the Liberty Party.”

  “It’s an American made car. Of course we have Cadillacs. Thousands of them are sold each year. Are you going to interrogate everyone with a Cadillac?”

  “So you’re denying it.”

  “Denying what?”

  “Did you have me followed, or not?”

  “In the past I’ve been guilty of, let’s say, having a keen interest in your whereabouts. But I had nothing to do with this. It sounds like an unfortunate coincidence that you’re overthinking.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s understandable. You’re feeling vulnerable and a little paranoid, thanks to the good Reverend Mitchell.”

  “I’m hanging up.”

  “The more he makes me out to be the one with twisted ideals, the more you’ll run in his direction. He’s a bright man.”

  “You almost had me killed tonight.”

  “I didn’t. But you believe what you want to believe. You’re consistent, at least.”

  “As are you.”

  “I didn’t kill Mason, Taylor. And I didn’t try to kill you.”

  “Just because you don’t do the physical act yourself doesn’t mean you’re not responsible.”

  “If I killed everyone who isn’t voting for me, I think someone would catch on.”

  “Stay away from us. No more visiting hours with Sienna.”

  “Taylor—­”

  She disconnects the call. Amazing. She accused, tried, and sentenced him, without an ounce of evidence. If Mason had survived, her life would be so different. Instead she’ll never stop blaming him, as though he ordered the MedFuture bombing himself.

  At his desk in the corner of the bedroom, Richard powers up his computer. He launches an application and four windows appear. In seconds live video streams: Taylor’s living room, Sienna’s bedroom, the view from the handlebars of Taylor’s bike, now stored inside the entryway, and a perspective from the top of the building doorway, monitoring visitors.

  In the dim glow of Sienna’s nightlight he can see her shape under the covers, her many dolls and stuffed animals taking up at least half of the bed. Just knowing she’s sleeping peacefully and safely makes him smile.

  In the living room, Taylor stares at the main wall, plainly painted with homey words. She’s wearing a mask over her nose and mouth and she’s holding a spray paint can. Music must be playing. Her head is bouncing in time with something. Suddenly she attacks the wall, rages against it with her paint. She begins to define a form that he can’t quite see. Probably going to be him on a crucifix, though that’s not very child appropriate.

  He rewinds footage from the bike cam. There’s only one quick shot of a Cadillac speeding past her, pursued by a dark SUV. The images are too blurred to make out license plates. He shakes his head and crawls back into bed, though sleep won’t come easily now. Tomorrow he’ll need to inquire about the Cadillac with his staff.

  Chapter 37

  IN THE TEMPERATURE-­CONTROLLED vault in Reverend Mitchell’s basement, Jonathan performs the monotonous task of logging in MedIDs extracted from thousands of BASIA militants across the country. Of course, his own MedID is now among the biochips housed here. It pisses him off that it wasn’t his decision. Pisses him off that they’re bribing him. That someone is using his talents for their own agenda. But he can’t risk Steven’s safety. And he sure as shit doesn’t want to go to prison. Now when he wanders the BASIA HQ or halls of the residence, he remembers the rumors, all the unsubstantiated news reports about the Reverend. He has to shake off the thoughts, though. Because whatever the bastard is up to, he’s now part of it.

  He scans and stores, scans and stores. Repeats. At least tomorrow will be more interesting when he goes back to BASIA HQ to work on something they call Operation Darkness Falls. From what he can tell, they want him to cause another power outage. Though he feels trapped working for Mitchell and Huan Chao, he’s oddly relieved to have the distraction. Lately, without warning, flashes of his mom hit him through the day. Memories, her voice. It’s been just three weeks since she died. Somehow he’s kept going. He hasn’t cried or done anything that resembles appropriate mourning, the kind he sees at the funeral home. Sometimes he catches himself thinking she’ll still be there when he goes home.

  “You hungry?” He jumps at the sound of Hannah’s voice.

  “Hey!” Wandering from the monitor, he meets her in the doorway. She smells like this flower his mother used to keep in a vase. He can’t remember the name. The past few weeks, they talk or message every day. She’s not what he assumed girls were like. She’s interesting. Gets his jokes. Laughs like a lunatic. Every time they hang up or leave one another, he still has things he wants to say. “You shouldn’t be down here.”

  “It’s my house.” She plays with a strand of hair, fallen free of its bun. “Want a snack?”

  “Sure. Give me a few minutes.” He concentrates on his task, occasionally glancing at the curves of her body, the way her shorts end a thread before it’s inappropriate. She waits patiently, wandering the tight quarters, gliding a hand over the many containers.

  “If my daddy could see all this.” Her voice is quiet, as though she’s talking to herself.

  “What would he think?”

  “I suppose he’d think everything’s going according to plan.”

  “Whose plan?”

  “God’s.”

  “Hannah?”

  “Um hmm?”

  “Can I ask how your parents died?”

  Sliding down the wall across from him, she sighs, closes her eyes like she’s gone into a meditative state. “He was a pilot. Flew one of the Planes.”

  “The planes?”

  “The Planes.” She nods. “Mama couldn’t take it. Had to join him. She went, peaceful
enough, in the garage. Car running all night while we were asleep.”

  “Jesus Christ.” He drops the scanner, fumbles to pick it up. His thoughts run to Steven, of his family that was killed on one of the fifty hijacked planes. Saliva fills his mouth and he fights the urge to hurl.

  “Jesus Christ, indeed,” she whispers.

  “Did you know? I mean, the last time you saw him. Did you know your father was about to . . .”

  Hannah stares at the ceiling. “He kissed me on the head that morning, hugged me tight, like always. Then he said, ‘Hannah Jane, you take care of this family. God is coming soon and you need to be ready.’ It didn’t mean anything to me until after.”

  “You must’ve been shocked.”

  “Life is one long string of shocks, isn’t it?”

  “I guess.”

  “I never imagined I’d live in a mansion one day. Have so many brothers and sisters to take the place of the two I lost.”

  “What happened to them?”

  “After my parents died, Charles sent for me. Child ser­vices took Joe, Jr. and Mary. My brother and sister.”

  He can’t keep up with the details, they don’t string together right. “What did your parents have to do with Reverend Mitchell?”

  “They were loyal to the church. My father was a minister at our local Patriot’s Church in Louisville.”

  “Are you saying that Reverend Mitchell and Patriot’s Church were behind the Planes?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  She’s not denying it either. “Why didn’t the Reverend take your brother and sister, too?”

  Hannah turns her head and subtly wipes away a tear. “The plan was only for me to go.”

  “What plan?”

  Avoiding his eyes, she says, “I found out after he died that my daddy promised me to Charles. Said I’d marry him when I came of age.”

  “What?” His face grows warm. “That’s not legal. That’s like slavery.”

  “It’s no different from an arranged marriage.”