Nation of Enemies

by H. A. Raynes

  Glancing at him sideways, Joe says, “Life and death are intense. Gotta be ready.”

  “I’ve been ready. Before BASIA, I worked alone. Tried to change things. But I realized a team has greater impact. One man can’t change the system.”

  Joe snorts, smirks.

  “You disagree?”

  “Depends on the man.” Joe lowers his voice. “One man can change the course of history.”

  A familiar twist in his gut. There’s something here. He has to prod gently. “I guess if he has the right plan, sure.”

  “A Plan. Determination. And action.”

  “You got a plan?”

  The man chews on the inside of his cheek. “Look, I don’t know you.”

  “Hey.” Sebastian raises his hands, palms out, revealing his cross tattoo. He looks around them and whispers. “We’re all in it for the cause. And in the end, we all act alone.”

  “That’s the truth.”

  He looks straight ahead, acts disinterested and waits.

  “That State House attack was awesome,” Joe says. “You see that son of a bitch Hensley use that agent as a shield? Shit. Now they want him to lead this country. I can’t see it. I just can’t see it happening.”

  “You going to vote against him?”

  Joe cracks his knuckles as he scans the bus, checking to see if he has an audience. His lips curl and he leans closer. “I just have a feeling, that’s all.”

  “Hensley’s going to lose. That’s your gut feeling?”

  “Hensley won’t be alive long enough to lose.”

  There it is. Lead him to it. “You know he lives a few miles from Boston?”

  “You seen his mansion?”

  “Driven by it.”

  “Yeah, me, too.” A full-­blown smile erupts onto Joe’s face, revealing a large space between his front teeth. “He thinks he’s safe behind those iron gates, all those Secret Ser­vice agents. Fact is, he’s just a man. He’ll die like any other.”

  “Not soon enough,” Sebastian says. “When he’s in office, he’ll be untouchable.”

  Joe’s face grows serious. “Have faith, Anderson. It only takes seconds to kill a man.”

  “You looking to get in the history books?”

  “I don’t need fame. Just some justice.”

  It’s not an admission, but it’s enough for Sebastian.

  AS A BASIA soldier, Will Anderson should have no idea where Reverend Mitchell lives. Of course, Sebastian has known for the better part of ten years where his sprawling estate lies in the hills west of Boston. It’s daybreak when he reaches the gates that secure the property. He rings the buzzer and stares into a camera. A woman asks for his name.

  “Private Will Anderson. I have urgent information for Reverend Mitchell.”

  The gate opens and he cruises down the driveway that leads to the behemoth, angular mansion. Not the home of a humble servant of God. Outside the entrance, Henry greets him with a gun aimed at Sebastian’s chest. In Henry’s other hand is a scanner.

  “Turn around slowly,” Henry says.

  Sebastian does as he’s told. Holding his arms away from his body, he’s swept for audio or video sensors, or explosives, though his surveillance lenses won’t be detected. After a rotation, Henry regards the machine then slips it into his jacket pocket. “Follow me.”

  The soles of their shoes echo down the marble-­tiled hall. When they reach a set of double doors, Henry knocks. Voices seep from under the door. Sebastian strains to hear. The conversation is a continuous murmur with different tones, no discernible words. Then suddenly it’s quiet.

  “Come in,” Mitchell calls.

  Henry opens the door to reveal Mitchell standing in front of a glass desk, dressed and not a hair out of place. There’s no one else in the room. It must have been a video conference.

  “Sir, Private Will Anderson,” Sebastian says, clasping his hands behind his back.

  “I know who you are.”

  “I apologize about the time.”

  The Reverend cocks his head. “Tell me, Private, how is it you know where I live?”

  “I—­” Sebastian blushes, caught. But he’s ready. “Before I joined up, I was sort of a Reverend Mitchell, Patriot’s Church hobbyist, if you will. I was dedicated to the cause but I wasn’t involved yet. I learned all I could before I came forward. And, I’m sorry, sir. One night I followed you from the church to your home.”

  “You were spying on me?”

  “I’m sorry, sir.”

  Mitchell grins. “It’s impressive, actually. My men are sharp, they have keen eyes. They always catch on if someone’s tailing us.”

  “Not always, sir.”

  Silence. And then Mitchell laughs. Relief washes over him; he was just starting to sweat. Henry stands silently at the door as Mitchell invites Sebastian to join him in a seat by the window. Sunlight warms the room and causes Sebastian to squint at Mitchell, illuminated in bright yellow across from him.

  “I don’t like surprise guests, Private. What’s so urgent?”

  “I have information that may impact BASIA’s impending mission.”

  “Go on.”

  “This morning on the ride back into the city, I sat next to a man.” He tells the story, omitting the name of the potential rogue soldier. It’s hard to say what Mitchell will do with this information, or with Sebastian, for that matter. Though it’s a risk, he had to use this, needed to get closer. Best case, this will prove his allegiance to Mitchell, make him more valuable. Worst case, he’ll be killed. He studies the Reverend’s face as he sits with the news.

  Finally, Mitchell says, “And you brought this to me because . . . ?”

  “As I said, I was concerned that it might jeopardize BASIA’s mission.”

  “Which you have insight into?”

  “No sir. But this man may attempt a presidential assassination. If he does, it could come out that he has ties to BASIA. A rogue soldier could be dangerous.”

  Mitchell stands, moving closer to the window. He stares out at his grounds.

  “Maybe I shouldn’t have come.” Sebastian rises.

  “Are you a believer, Will?”

  “Excuse me, sir?”

  Mitchell lifts his hands in the air, palms skyward. “ ‘Put on the full armor of God, so that you will be able to stand firm against the schemes of the devil.’ ” In the tone of his weekly sermons, his voice reverberates off the walls.

  “ ‘For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the powers,’ ” Sebastian continues the Ephesians psalm. “ ‘Against the world forces of this darkness, against the spiritual forces of wickedness in the heavenly places.’ ”

  Mitchell turns back around, a broad smile lifting his face. “You belong here, Private Anderson. You came here this morning because you feel in your soul that BASIA is threatened by one of our own.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Tell me the name of this soldier.”

  “Joe Shonkoff.”

  “Joe Shonkoff.” Mitchell closes his eyes. They snap open a few seconds later. “Henry, give him the file.”

  Henry goes to an old-­fashioned file cabinet and rifles through it, eventually pulling out a manila folder. He hands it to Sebastian.

  “Your intuition brought you here, Anderson,” Mitchell says. “I wonder where it will take you now.”

  It’s a test. He won’t say it, won’t direct him to make the hit. Mitchell walks over and shakes his hand. His grip is firm. Almost painful.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Thank you, private.”

  Henry escorts him out. As the heavy doors shut behind him, Sebastian sucks in the crisp air as though he’s being resuscitated. He’s got Mitchell’s attention, perhaps the first inklings of trust. Finally, some traction. Back in his
car, he flips through Joe Shonkoff’s file. He needs to speak to Renner, who was watching the meeting live via his lenses. This task needs to be executed perfectly, no room for error. For Will Anderson to be accepted fully by the Reverend, Joe Shonkoff must die.

  Chapter 45

  “THERE’S A PROBLEM.” In her white coat and scrubs, Dr. Karen Riley rushes into Cole’s office, shutting the door behind her. She’s breathless as she hands him a tablet and a writing pad.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “We took all the precautions.” Her voice is low.

  The note she scrawled reads: On paper the match was solid. I checked it twice. He stares at the screen. It’s a day-­old article on the suicide of Jack Gardiner, son of assassinated presidential candidate James Gardiner. On the pad he writes: ?

  The scrape of her pencil is frantic. Yesterday we donated Jack Gardiner’s MedID. A perfect match. A common name.

  “Christ!” he whispers, hand over his mouth.

  They’ve only just finished vetting the former MedFuture technician, Sean Cushing. Cole will offer to treat Cushing’s medical condition, lupus, and if he accepts the opportunity and does indeed wipe MedIDs for Project Swap, it will change everything. But in case it doesn’t work out with him, they hadn’t wanted to stop their progress. Dammit, they’ve been too eager. Karen sinks into the chair across from him. He writes: This is not okay.

  She takes the pad: He fit the profile. Orphan, no living relatives. He was seventeen, no pension fund. He’s never worked.

  He writes: Inheritance. Must be tied up.

  What do we do?

  Where’s recipient?

  Winchester. His parent’s house.

  JG’s suicide is on every site, everyone’s talking about him. He leans in, whispers. “Fix it, Karen. Fix it before it’s too late.”

  She nods and runs out. Taking the notepad, he rips the pages off and sends them through the shredder under his desk. Then he closes his eyes and wonders if this is the one misstep that will undo them all.

  BY TEN IN the morning Richard Hensley has already been up for five hours. The campaign trail is arduous—­even when one knows the end result is a sure thing. Each day he begins with one hour of exercise, followed by two cups of coffee and a briefing by Kendra on updates from the fund-­raising manager and communications department. He then reviews national and international news. Thus far she’s been successful in reining in his focus and ensured that Taylor is off his radar. Still, at night in the glow of a monitor, he reads tabloid stories on his daughter’s involvement with BASIA. She’s going to get herself killed. Thankfully, his doctor prescribed good pills, or he’d never sleep.

  Today promises another relentless agenda with calls, handshakes, debate prep, plus myriad issues and decisions to be made. At campaign headquarters, he sits alone in his office, running through a speech he’ll make in a few hours at a senior center.

  Carter flings open the door. “Sir, take a look at this.” He thrusts an e-­sheet into Richard’s hands. It’s a news article.

  “Jack Gardiner.” Richard hands back the device. “Suicide, yes, I know all about it. Terrible waste. We’ve sent flowers, haven’t we?”

  “That’s just it. I can’t seem to find anyone to send flowers to.”

  Suddenly Richard remembers. “Of course. He was an orphan. Well who’s arranging the funeral?”

  “Far as I can tell, no one. I can’t even figure out which funeral home he’s at.”

  “Well then.” Richard slaps his hand on his desk. “See to it.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Let’s get Jack a proper burial. Track him down, Carter. We can’t have the son of the former presidential candidate missing. It’s bad enough he’s dead. Christ, one of the best things about the MedID is that we can track ­people. It should take one phone call to the hospital where he died to figure this out.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The thought of James Gardiner’s son reminds him of Taylor. “What did you find on the Liberty car database?”

  Carter’s mouth hangs open in question.

  “The night Taylor was followed?” he prompts.

  “Right, sorry.” Carter shakes his head. “There were two cars signed out on the night of the eighteenth. One was to a ­couple volunteers who took a road trip to the Berkshires to do some campaigning. We have the hotel and gas receipts, so we know they went.”

  “And the other?”

  “It was me.” He holds up both hands in defeat. “You caught me. In my off hours I like to get involved in the occasional car chase, hit-­and-­run scene.”

  “I told her it was an absurd accusation. The girl has a vivid imagination.”

  Carter smiles and starts back toward the door.

  “What were you doing?”

  “Sorry?”

  “With the car. On the eighteenth.”

  “Kendra and I had a meeting with the editor to go over the script and footage for the latest promo. I dropped her at home. Brought the car back in the morning.”

  “Thanks for humoring me.” Another dead end. It was probably that psychopath Reverend.

  Richard watches through the glass walls of his office as Carter leaves, navigates past the staffers and volunteers. It’s a shame about the Gardiner family. On a positive note, arranging the funeral of James Gardiner’s son will gain him favor in the eyes of mothers everywhere. Perhaps he can weave Jack and the subject of mental illness into his intro at the debate tonight.

  NERVES GNAW AT Cole’s stomach. The remains of Jack Gardiner are in a ceramic blue urn, fine gray ash with a few hard bits of bone that didn’t quite disintegrate completely. His MedID is fifty miles away in Winchester, Massachusetts, where Cole and Karen stand at the front door of a white colonial, circa 1850. Green shutters on the windows are badly in need of a coat of paint and the yard is wildly overgrown. Inside is the recipient of Jack Gardiner’s MedID, Quinn Feeney. Karen called his parents and Quinn several times to try to explain the situation. They’ve been uncooperative, unwilling to hear her out. Karen carries Quinn Feeney’s original MedID, wiped clean courtesy of Sean, to be exchanged for the one in his arm. Everything is at stake.

  “They’re home.” Cole nods to a curtain on the second floor that moved.

  “They must think I’m the Grim Reaper,” she says. “First I give Quinn a new chance at life, now they think I’m here to take it back.”

  “We’re still giving him a clean MedID.” He rings the bell a third time. “He can’t really believe he can walk around as Jack Gardiner, can he?”

  From behind the garage an engine revs. They turn just as a motorcycle appears and the driver, wearing a black helmet, guns it out of the driveway and down the street. Cole and Karen race to her Mini Cooper. She reverses out of the driveway and floors it in the direction he went, banking a left that leads into some hills through a nature preserve.

  The houses thin, then disappear. They pass a runner, a few cyclists. Cole scans the woods, lowers his window. “That’s it. Listen.”

  “What?”

  “The engine. We’re close.”

  Cool wind whips through the car as they round a corner and, yes—­there he is. Karen shifts gears and the distance between them closes.

  “Steady.” Cole braces himself with one hand on the dashboard. “Don’t lose him.”

  The road becomes gravel, it turns this way and that. Quinn Feeney can’t go as fast on this terrain with his bike. They’re gaining on him. Finally his motorcycle is directly in front of them, almost too close. “What’s he doing?” she shouts. “Why doesn’t he just stop?”

  “Maybe he didn’t understand your messages. Let’s ask him.”

  Karen’s eyes dart to Cole. But her hands follow her glance, and the steering wheel turns. She tries to correct but the car spins, fishtails. It catches the rear wheel of the motorcycle. T
he woods are a blur. She screams and lets go of the wheel. Cole sees the tree an instant before he’s jolted by the impact, metal against tree. The motion stops. The engine sighs. Silence.

  “You okay?” he asks.

  Lifting her head from the air bag, blood pours from her nose and she wipes it with the back of her hand. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay.” He looks out the shattered passenger window. “Do you have any internal pain?”

  “No. You have a cut on your head. You’ll need stitches.”

  He doesn’t feel any pain, his body is shaking but numb as he releases his seat belt. “Shit. Where’s Quinn?”

  Karen shoves her shoulder against her door. “It won’t open.”

  Cole helps her crawl out his side and they struggle to their feet. A skid line mars the pavement and they follow it to the ledge of an embankment, overlooking scattered gravel and shredded grass several feet below.

  “Oh, God.” She covers her mouth.

  The motorcycle is on its side, pinning the driver beneath it. One wheel is suspended, spinning. The helmet, still on Quinn Feeney’s head, looks unnaturally twisted to one side.

  “Shit.” Cole repeats it under his breath as he descends the embankment with Karen a few feet behind.

  Kneeling at the man’s side, Cole flips open the plastic face shield on the helmet. Blank eyes stare out. Despite the obvious, he attempts to find a pulse in Quinn Feeney’s carotid artery.

  “Goddamn it,” Karen says. “If he’d have just stopped for one minute to hear us out! This didn’t have to happen. It would’ve been fine.” Tears pour down her face, mixing with dirt and blood. She wipes her cheek with the sleeve of her jacket.

  Cole gets to his feet, glances in both directions. If anyone drives down this road, they’ll be found out. There isn’t time to consider consequences. He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out the MedID kit.

  “What are you doing?”

  “What we came here to do.” He pulls up the sleeve of Feeney’s left arm and deftly applies the retractor, removing Jack Gardiner’s MedID. Karen is silent as he takes the injector with Quinn Feeney’s cleaned MedID and places it back into the dead man’s forearm. He retrieves the postmortem salve and wipes it over the tiny wound. In minutes it will be undetectable.