Nation of Enemies

by H. A. Raynes

  “But, the Reverend’s like a father to you.”

  “It’s hard to explain. He’s been kind to me. Generous. But I’m not fighting in the war. This is my duty.”

  “How does that serve God’s cause? It sounds like you’re living in a history book.”

  “In a way it is. Charles says Armageddon is the final chapter.”

  “So if it’s the end, what’s the point of marrying?”

  “I don’t know all the answers, Jonathan.” She stands and places a hand gently on his arm. A smile spreads across her face. “I do know my stomach’s growling, though.”

  He tenses at her touch but refocuses on the screen, finishes the final MedID entry. When she pulls her hand away the sensation of her skin lingers.

  Their conversation sits like a stone in him. He can’t shake it. They wander the hallways, create ice cream sundaes in the kitchen and eat them on the terrace. In the distance, fireflies put on a show over the darkened lawn. Jonathan’s eyes float from one spark to the next. Hannah’s voice is a constant stream but he’s not even sure he’s heard anything she’s said in the last half hour. He glances over, watching as she absently rakes her hands through her hair.

  “Beautiful night.” Reverend Mitchell appears. He stands in the space between their chairs.

  “I finished downstairs,” Jonathan says, standing. “Did you need me to do something else?”

  With a wave of the hand, the Reverend dismisses him. “It’s late. You’re welcome to stay the night here, or my driver can take you home.”

  “I should go.” He gathers their plates from the table.

  “Good night, Jonathan.” Hannah’s voice is quiet now, muted. Not the Hannah of a few minutes ago.

  “ ’Night.” Dishes in hand, he hurries into the kitchen and deposits them in the sink. He practically runs to the front door to find the driver. During the ride home, the Reverend dominates his thoughts, along with Hannah. And the Planes. His gut burns and he balls his fists until his nails leave indents in his palm. An arranged marriage for a ten-­year-­old girl. Her father must’ve been sick. And how could Reverend Mitchell marry a girl he raised as his daughter? When Jonathan finally peels down his covers and climbs into bed, his head is throbbing. It’s impossible to sleep, and impossible to think of anything else.

  Chapter 38

  SEBASTIAN KICKS THE toe of his shoe against the black tar surface. It’s Tuesday, his regular meeting time with Renner in Kenmore Square, on the roof of the old Boston University bookstore. The ninety-­year-­old red, white, and blue Citgo sign looms overhead, though it no longer illuminates the Boston skyline. He waits in windless summer night, squinting through the haze of clouds in an attempt to see stars. The roof door clangs open and Renner steps out, carrying two Dunkin’ Donuts cups.

  “Cream, no sugar.” Renner hands a cup to him.

  “Thanks. Any update on your CI?”

  “Negative. But we did scan the footage from your lenses at the BASIA meeting. We ran facial recognition and came up with a few ­people that’d be easy to lean on. But they’re not close enough to Mitchell. You know the Reverend’s main bodyguard?”

  “Henry.”

  “Right. Henry Keener. He’s clean. But he’s in the right position.”

  “He doesn’t leave Mitchell’s side.”

  “Except to go home. To his pregnant wife and three daughters.”

  “Hmm. I don’t know. Guy’s loyal to a fault.”

  “We need to test him, then. Apply a little pressure. See his reaction.”

  “We can’t risk it. If he tips off Mitchell, the operation’s over.”

  “Think about it.”

  “Okay. You got news on the Caddy plate?”

  “Belongs to the Liberty Party.”

  The news settles. The night they basically saved Taylor’s life, the Cadillac had lost them after several minutes racing around the city. “Shit. You sure?”

  Renner nods. “There should be record of who signed it out. But we need a court order to gain access.”

  “Taylor’s bad press for him. But Hensley doesn’t want his daughter dead. So who in the party would target her?” From a call she made to the senator that night, Taylor believes her father was involved. It doesn’t ring true, though, regardless of their history. If anything, Hensley’s protective of her.

  “Your phone on?”

  “No.”

  Renner strolls to the edge of the roof. “I got a contact in Transportation says we should be looking closer to home.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Maybe the Bureau. Someone in the administration.”

  His thoughts are tangled, trying to make sense of this. As he steps next to Renner, an ambulance siren pierces the air. “Why would anyone go after the presidential candidate’s daughter? Satterwhite gave us a direct order to protect her. Anything happens to her, it’s our jobs.”

  “I’m telling you, we put in a court order for the plate, we’re gonna be shut down.”

  “We don’t have any choice. Someone’s gone rogue. Someone inside. Shit, I thought Mitchell was the enemy.” And he is. Mitchell’s next mission is ramping up, the date and details yet to be revealed. The BASIA soldiers are studying martial arts, firearms, and cyber warfare. Once a week several of them, Sebastian included, practice driving at high speeds on closed courses constructed to approximate a grid of city streets. It’s not comforting.

  “So, Satterwhite called me into his office this morning.” Renner shuffles his feet. “Talked about the suicide bomber on that transit bus in Houston yesterday. He wants our focus to be on counterterrorism in the future, not the past.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “He pulled me from the State House attack. Said they have enough resources on it.”

  The image of their State House suspect surfaces in his mind. “What about O’Brien? He’s still in custody. He gave us Dash, we have leads to follow—­”

  “O’Brien’s dead.”

  “What?”

  “Somehow he got a razor blade. They found him this morning.”

  “Goddammit!” With a sudden burst of energy, Sebastian throws his cup across the roof, coffee splattering across the tarred surface.

  “They’re checking the security tapes to find out who might’ve slipped it to him.” Renner shakes his head. “And Satterwhite’s full of it. No one else is investigating the State House.”

  “The past predicts the future. Satterwhite can go screw. It doesn’t end here.”

  The words settle in the air, fill the space between them. Renner looks back at the Citgo sign. “I remember going to night games at Fenway as a kid. The whole drive in from Framingham I’d be watching for this sign. I knew as soon as I’d see it that we’d arrived. The Sox were just around the corner.”

  “Sounds like a beautiful childhood,” he says. “So. We don’t let this go, right? You in, Renner?”

  Just the slightest pause from his partner. “Yeah, I’m in.”

  “Far as I’m concerned, we just got a little further in this investigation.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “Our only State House witness died under our watch,” he says. “Let’s assume it wasn’t a suicide. Now the Bureau’s ordered us not to investigate one of the most important attacks in the history of this country, in which a presidential candidate was killed. Not to mention, the one name they don’t want us looking into.”

  “Right, Dash,” Renner says. “We find their identity, maybe we find out who’s behind the State House.”

  “The three aren’t tied, necessarily.”

  “You realize we’ll be suspended if Satterwhite finds out?”

  “Depending what we find out, that may be the least of our worries.”

  “Touché.” Renner holds up his coffee in a mock toast. “You�
��re missing your coffee right about now, aren’t you?”

  “Maybe.” They stand in silence, gazing at the tops of brownstones. There’s an answer they just haven’t thought of yet. Maybe it’s in the encrypted files that Mitchell is having him send to their soldiers around the country, codes that mean nothing to him but take shape on the other end of the protected chat. “Have you had any luck deciphering the BASIA chat?”

  “We’re close.” Renner heads toward the exit. “Techs think they can crack it in the next twenty-­four hours.”

  “Good. We need a break.”

  “I don’t have a good feeling about any of this.”

  “Me either.”

  The door slams shut. One last time, he looks skyward in another vain attempt to see stars. He slips a hand in his pocket and fingers Kate’s ring. The cool platinum and rough diamond edge always anchors him, a solid reminder that everything he says and does is an attempt to gain justice for her. It won’t bring her back, but it might give him some peace. It’s the best he can hope for.

  Chapter 39

  IT’S JUST AFTER midnight as Cole sits across from Karen and Steven at Steven’s kitchen table. They drink beer and take turns lobbing ideas and debating issues. In the few weeks since they started Project Swap, they haven’t gained much traction. For his part, Cole’s been discreetly researching his Harvard Medical School network, searching for signs of government mistrust. He bought a separate device to use when contacting colleagues, and tosses burners after only a few uses. But getting ­people to talk about their fears, their real beliefs, is near impossible. He doesn’t want to come on too strong. The best way to unearth honestly is often at the bottom of a wine bottle in a dim bar. And even those meetings hold no guarantees.

  Steven’s had some luck with technology/government outliers needing money more than MedIDs. And from a list of patients she’s treated, Karen created a database of potential donors and recipients based in New England. At this point they’re mired in logistics and contemplating process. After working a twelve-­hour shift at the hospital, Cole wishes he had more to contribute. But he’s been around and around these problems and the danger involved. He’s afraid their movement may end before it begins.

  “How about an orphanage?” Karen offers. “No inheritance, no familial issues.”

  “Are you suggesting we kill children to save other children?” Steven asks, arching an eyebrow.

  “I’m saying that if anything ever happens at an orphanage—­a bomb, a natural disaster—­it would be a horrific stroke of luck for our purposes.” Karen runs her fingers over her beer bottle, making streaks in the condensation. “The demand for clean MedIDs for children is overwhelming.”

  “Maybe Steven’s on to something,” Cole says. “Boston’s lost half its citizens to the countryside in the past ten years. ­People who left the IT and financial sectors are getting their hands dirty now. Sharing crops, raising animals. And those areas are always in greater need. They have maybe one or two doctors in their communities and the ­people barely have enough money to get by.”

  Karen takes a thoughtful sip of beer and adds, “And they’re off the grid.”

  “The risk is encountering violence,” Steven says. “Last week I backed out of a camp with my hands held high. Felt like I was in a movie.”

  “What else could we offer?” Cole asks. “If they don’t want or need money, and they’ve moved away from technology, what else could sway them?”

  The room falls silent. Cole takes a swig of beer and stares at a picture of Steven’s family, stuck to the refrigerator by a magnet. He thinks of Ian and Talia. The more he considers the risk he’s taking, the less he wants to include Lily. Putting them both at risk is unfair, irresponsible. The least he can do is protect her from a charge of treason.

  “I know where you can get clean MedIDs.” From the hallway shadows, Steven’s stepson, Jonathan, emerges.

  All heads swivel in his direction. He’s a handsome kid, in need of a haircut. His pale skin contrasts with his black outfit of jeans and a T-­shirt. Holy shit. How much has he heard?

  “When did you get in?” Steven says.

  Jonathan ignores him, shuffles to the refrigerator. He grabs a beer and hops up on the kitchen counter. Between sips, his mouth opens and closes as he plays with a tongue piercing.

  “Jonathan, meet Doctors Fitzgerald and Riley. Doctors, this is my stepson, Jonathan.”

  “What’s up,” the boy says.

  “Isn’t there somewhere you’d rather be?” Steven asks.

  “Nope. I’m pretty sure I should be right here.”

  This kid could undo them all. But the carrot he’s dangling can’t simply be left there. Finally Cole says, “I’ll bite. What was that you were saying, Jonathan? About knowing where to find MedIDs?”

  “I know where there’s a stash.” His head jerks, tossing the hair out of his eyes. “About ten thousand, give or take.”

  Cole narrows his eyes at the kid, trying to get a read on him. Smudges of purple underline his dark eyes. Two facial piercings, though piercings don’t make him untrustworthy. Still, Steven’s told him the kid is troubled. Into God knows what. And he’s probably doubly lost since his mother died. Too unstable to get pulled into their project.

  “Where does one get ten thousand MedIDs?” Karen asks.

  “Let’s just say they’re up for grabs.” Jonathan shrugs. “No one’s using them. They’ve sort of been given up.”

  With a loud sigh, Steven stands and strolls to the refrigerator. “What are you into, Jonathan?”

  “Do you want them or not?”

  Bottles clang together as Steven retrieves another round. The room is silent with unasked questions. Everyone waits, sips his or her drink.

  “I imagine there’s a price to this generosity of spirit,” Steven says.

  Jonathan drums his fingers on the granite countertop. “What are ten thousand lives worth?”

  “There it is,” Steven says. “Your mother would be proud.”

  “Fuck off.” Jonathan hops off the counter and begins to make his way out of the kitchen, down the hall. “If you have another offer, by all means.”

  When his footsteps have ascended the stairs and a door slams, there is a collective exhale from the group.

  “What just happened here?” Karen says.

  “Was that a legitimate offer?” Cole asks.

  “I wouldn’t know.” Steven takes a long drink. “But I have a confession to make. You know my . . . let’s call them, community outreach excursions? Well. I’ve been taking him with me, looking for MedIDs.”

  “What the hell?” Cole grips the tabletop. “That could jeopardize everything! You can’t make unilateral decisions like this.”

  “Cole’s right,” Karen says. “Teenagers are unpredictable and self-­centered. No offense to Jonathan.”

  “You’re right.” Steven holds his hands up in surrender. “I’m sorry. I should have asked. But he’s been with me for ten years and this is his home. I’m all he has left since his mother died. I need him to see that he has options in life, and that he can make a difference. He’s old enough to help and young enough to still need some direction. I believe we can trust him.”

  “Dammit, Steven, that was reckless.” Cole shakes his head. “I haven’t even told my wife! You yourself have said Jonathan isn’t stable. And somehow he has access to ten thousand MedIDs?”

  “Why didn’t he tell you this when you were out combing for MedIDs?” Karen asks.

  “I don’t know.” Steven’s face sags. “Would have saved a lot of time, though. I imagine he was gauging if he could trust me. But his offer means that he’s willing to put himself on the line. Wherever he’s getting these MedIDs, there’s a risk. Probably a great risk.”

  “And are you willing to risk him?” Cole asks.

  “He’s almost eighteen and
certainly seems willing. He’s already put himself in precarious situations. Illegal, illicit dealings, who knows. I’d rather have him on our side. To know how he’s spending his days.”

  “Where could he have access to that many MedIDs?” Cole searches out the darkened window for an answer. “Hospitals. Funeral homes. The government. Another group like us.”

  “Doubtful. All of that,” Karen says.

  “The kid’s handy with a computer,” Steven says. “Maybe he stumbled on a stash electronically. Maybe he’s found an online source.”

  “Suppose it’s true. For the moment, let’s ignore how he’s getting them.” Cole stands and paces around the kitchen. “Ten thousand chips is our equivalent of venture capital. We could hit the ground running and our network would grow exponentially.”

  “Let’s at least talk to him,” Karen says.

  Cole looks pointedly at Steven. “We’re all adults here. We know what’s at stake. But can we expect a teenager to grasp the consequences we’re facing? What if he can’t keep his mouth shut?”

  “If there’s one skill he’s honed, it’s keeping his mouth shut. But I should talk to him alone. Regardless of our history, he doesn’t really want to hurt me.”

  A full moon illuminates the pathway for Cole when he leaves. Jonathan’s offer sits uneasy in his gut. As he navigates the back roads to District 149, their conversation plays in his head. He tries to imagine where this kid could get his hands on that many chips. It can’t be legal and is likely dangerous. But there’s an element of darkness they all need to get used to. Quickly.

  Chapter 40

  WITH THE TOUCH of a finger, Steven moves two million dollars from his business account into his Swiss bank account. Next he moves the same amount into an account in the Cayman Islands. The access codes are in his personal vault, hidden behind a false wall in the morgue. And for ultimate security, he’s requested an in-­person retinal scan in order for any money to be removed or transferred. He looks forward to visiting both places.

  Also in his vault, one floor below where he sits in his home office, is his cash reserve. That is strictly for emergencies should Project Swap’s actions trigger any suspicions. Moving the bulk of his money offshore helps to settle his nerves.