Nation of Enemies

by H. A. Raynes

  “I’m sorry.” Sitting cross-­legged like a child, Karen repeatedly touches each finger on her right hand to her thumb. “I’ve put all of us at risk.”

  Already, stiffness is setting into Cole’s back and neck from the crash. He offers her a hand and she takes it, standing slowly, ignoring the dust and grass that cling to her.

  “We’re all responsible,” he says. “Time to clean it up.”

  They work quickly. In twenty minutes Karen’s car is clean of anything that could be traced back to her: plates, registration, vehicle identification number. Do no harm runs on an endless cycle in Cole’s mind despite trying to refocus his thoughts. They call Steven for help, but there’s no answer. There’s only one other option.

  An hour later Lily pulls the Land Rover onto the side of the road. She doesn’t get out. Through the open window, her eyes wander over Cole’s disheveled, bloodied body and then Karen’s equally wounded one. He goes to the back of the car and lifts the rear gate. As he requested, Lily brought five gallons of gasoline and lighter fluid. He can’t believe he’s gotten her into this.

  “Thank you, Lil.”

  “What have you done?” She gestures to Karen. “Who is this?”

  “Later.”

  In the rearview mirror, their eyes meet. She shakes her head and mumbles something he can’t decipher. This isn’t the time. He has to get this done.

  The fire ignites and spreads in blue flames. Within seconds an explosion rocks the car. Cole’s skin tightens from the heat, his breath catches. Karen’s car is blackened, fumes making her cough. Now it’s time to deal with Quinn Feeney and his motorcycle. Cole motions to Karen to stay where she is while he slides back down the embankment. He stares at Feeney’s face, commits it to memory.

  The stench of gasoline stings his eyes. When the bike and man are drenched in it, he adds lighter fluid and then takes a few steps back. He lights a match, flicks it strategically onto the engine. He’s halfway up the hill when a second explosion knocks him down, into dusty earth.

  Lily doesn’t look at Cole when he gets into the front passenger seat and Karen takes a seat in the back.

  “The kids at home?” he asks.

  “You’d rather I brought them?” Lily turns the car around and presses down on the gas. “You want them to see their father destroying—­what? Evidence? What have you done? What’s down that embankment?”

  He glances at Karen.

  “You want your kids to meet your girlfriend, Cole?”

  “She’s not my girlfriend—­”

  “I know you’re not picking up extra shifts. When I call the hospital, no one’s seen you for hours. You don’t answer my calls. My texts. Stop lying about everything, goddammit.”

  “Okay. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” He puts a hand on her arm, but she wrenches it away. The whole point of Project Swap is family. If he loses Lily and the kids, this has all been for nothing. So he starts at the very beginning and tells her, and doesn’t skip a detail. All this time he’s spent supposedly protecting her, and now he’s plunged her into the middle of it. Do no harm, indeed.

  Chapter 46

  “ ‘IT IS GOD who arms me with strength,’ ” Charles quotes from Psalms 18:32. “He teaches my hands to make war, So that my arms can bend a bow of bronze. You have also given me the shield of Your salvation; Your right hand has held me up, Your gentleness has made me great. You enlarged my path under me, So my feet did not slip. Will not slip, gentlemen.”

  At BASIA HQ, Charles sits at the head of a table in an empty conference room as Henry stands guard outside. On the smartwall opposite Charles, twelve separate, encrypted video feeds display the faces of BASIA’s board of directors. It’s taken twenty years to assemble them: an engineer, a congressman, a military specialist, a businessman, and a billionaire, among others. They’re his advisors, his eyes and ears. No one suspects them. They’ve gone to great lengths to conceal their relationship to Charles and this movement. He grips the edge of the table.

  “At last, Operation Darkness Falls is within sight,” he says.

  “How are the soldiers?” the congressman asks. “They’ll be ready in six weeks?”

  “Everything’s on schedule,” he says.

  “Have they been briefed?” the former U.S. army general asks.

  “No need, yet.” He shakes his head. “They’re doing drills, sharpening their weaponry skills, and studying blueprints they’ve been provided. Without labels, of course.”

  “Is Dash prepared?” the congressman asks.

  “Absolutely,” he says. “He’s integral. But in case he’s captured or killed, we’re equipped to keep moving without him.”

  “Tell us about your progress on the power grids,” the congressman asks. “I want to make sure my generator’s ready.”

  Laughter.

  “Darkness will indeed fall and keep our soldiers safe during their mission,” Charles says. “Each and every venue hosting an election event will be rendered powerless at the stroke of midnight. At that time, our shooters will take out both existing and newly elected government officials.”

  “Let’s discuss the citizens attending those events,” the congressman adds.

  “No harm will come to them,” he explains. “We only want them out of our way. BASIA soldiers have specific targets and will do everything they can to ensure there is no—­in the words of our current administration—­collateral damage. When the power is cut, ­people will funnel outside. If and when they hear shots, they’ll run from the site. But they won’t learn the truth until hours later. In complete darkness, video won’t record the moves of our soldiers. Obviously, citizens will be less traumatized without being exposed to those images. The lights will go out. They’ll wander home. And then, with the sunrise, will come illumination. We want them to feel safe, back in their homes. And that’s when we’ll address them. We’ll explain—­briefly—­what’s happened. They’ll see that we took great care not to harm them. And they will listen. They’ll see that our reach is far, our power great with the hand of God that guides us.”

  Heads nod in unison. They know Charles is working to keep citizens safe.

  Without skipping a beat, the businessman says, “Let’s discuss budget. I reviewed the numbers and in another two weeks we’ll be in the red.”

  “Supporting our militia is costly, Rob.” Money is a detail that should never get in the way of their goal. “We have close to a million soldiers. That’s travel costs for operations, weapons, and medical needs. But we always have new sources of support. I’m planning to tap them today, as a matter of fact.”

  “Is weather an issue?” the engineer interjects.

  “Won’t matter. Our troops will get there with enough time to get settled and acquainted with their targets. Let it rain.”

  “Security’s going to be tighter than in previous years,” the billionaire says, alluding to the Gardiner assassination.

  “We’re ready.” Charles makes eye contact with his associates. “We have schedules, blueprints, guest lists, and soldiers on the inside of every one of the venues. BASIA is tight. Disciplined. Dedicated. They will systematically attack and render the U.S. government speechless. Literally.” There are nods and grins all around. He relaxes.

  “And if you’re caught or killed,” the congressman says. “What then?”

  “If and when I can no longer be a part of this, you’ll be in place, ready to step in. You’re as ready as I am. God willing, together we’ll guide this country back to greatness on a foundation built of Chris­tian­ity and patriotism. So with or without me, if you carry through on our promise, the masses will be appeased.”

  Each board member discusses his or her plan for the country post-­Election Day: financial ramifications, handling of media coverage, political fallout, security issues, international relations. Charles listens, pleased with his colleagues’ thoroughness
. This kind of revolution happens once in a lifetime. When it’s deemed safe, the board members will divulge their identities and wield their collective power to assure the citizens there is strength in the new government. He has waited years for this. There isn’t room for error.

  “One final point,” the billionaire says. “The MedID. Yes, we’ll phase it out and ultimately destroy the system. But as we’ve discussed before, I strongly advise the board to consider utilizing it initially. We need to know how the masses are responding. We’ll explain that we’re eliminating the system but that it will take time. That allows us to continue monitoring the existing infrastructure to see where we’re at in the first year.”

  “It’s the Mark of the Beast.” Charles leans his arms on the table. He flexes his tattooed hand. “It’s everything we’re fighting against.”

  “It’s temporary,” the billionaire argues. “It’s business. And we won’t use the information against our citizens. It’s merely a device to monitor our success. The feedback is crucial in a new government. The data will tell us what we can or should be doing differently.”

  Silence from the group. He desperately wants to bend his neck to crack it but refuses to show his tension.

  Finally, the businessman says, “I’ll agree to it. We’ll use it as our own tool. But the MedID number hierarchy won’t exist anymore. We’ll promise citizens that it ends the day we take power. They’ll almost forget they’re wearing them.”

  The group votes. They are unanimous, except for Charles. But he must trust his advisors.

  “God is great,” he says. “We’ll have our final meeting three days before the mission. Then we won’t speak until after the event. I’ll be in touch.”

  Pressing his hand to his heart, Charles extends his open palm. They return the gesture, though their palms have no ink to give away their BASIA affiliation. The lines disconnect, screens go black. He presses a button on his watch. Instantly Henry enters.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “I need you to deliver some messages.”

  There is money to be made. His connections have supplied ample documentation on the financial situations of both Steven Hudson and Richard Hensley. Jonathan and Taylor are Charles’s best investments in years. Within an hour Henry regurgitates his assignment, the names and addresses of his targets, and alternative executions should the originals fail. Charles considers the word “fail.” It’s simply not an option. When lives hang in the balance, ­people make the right decision.

  Chapter 47

  DRESSED IN A black suit, Richard takes in the beauty of the White Mountains, the colored leaves appearing to hit their peak of glory this very moment. An intimate crowd has gathered at a national park in memoriam of Jack Gardiner, who took his own life a ­couple weeks ago. Born in New Hampshire, it seems an appropriate place to release his ashes. There was a delay in finding the son of the assassinated presidential candidate, but Carter had come through, thanks to the MedID tracking system.

  “Be sure to hold the urn away from you,” Carter says, miming the act with his arms outstretched. “Winds up here change on a dime. The audience is seated to the west. You’ll need an east wind.”

  Richard glances around, nods solemnly when he makes eye contact with anyone. Off to the side, at a respectable distance—­if there is such a thing—­throngs of reporters and cameramen await an opportune moment. Sadly, this ser­vice feels like any other venue to him. Now that they’re near the end of the campaign trail, the sheer number of performances is like an endurance test. He’s sweeping the polls. It used to be more fun when it felt like a legitimate race.

  The moment arrives. He summons thoughts of Taylor and Sienna, imagines these could just as easily be their ashes. The speech is heartfelt, the words crafting him as a fellow parent and a friend to his former running mate. The crowd is tearful when, at the end of his speech, Richard steps a few feet away and releases Gardiner’s ashes. The easterly wind carries them swiftly toward majestic Mount Washington.

  Within the hour, Richard, Kendra, and Carter are in the Town Car, cruising back toward Boston. He warms his hands on a travel mug filled with hot chocolate, courtesy of a local coffee shop. His eyes fall upon a grayish spot on the thigh of his pants. Ashes. Furiously, he pats at it until it’s undetectable. A wave of nausea. Though he’s got the stomach for politics, he can’t deal with blood or any bodily fluids. He clears his throat as he glances at his team. Kendra is working to finalize their schedule, while Carter confirms their dinner with party donors this evening. It would be a luxury to have a home-­cooked dinner. His phone vibrates with a text but the number is blocked. There’s a grainy image. He squints to make out the details.

  A video plays. Taylor and Sienna are eating lunch at home, in their kitchen. He grins, warmth spreading in his chest. But something’s not right. This is one of his cameras, the ones he had placed. Someone has intercepted his feeds and is watching his daughter and granddaughter!

  He types: Who is this?

  The response: We have a shared interest, as you can see.

  What is this about?

  Money.

  It must be those goddamned terrorists. Is this a live feed, or are Taylor and Sienna tied up somewhere? His mouth fills with saliva, he thinks he might vomit. Despite their history, the thought of Taylor dying or being hurt in any way is unbearable. Everything he’s done since the day she was born has been to protect her, and now Sienna. How dare that Reverend bastard do this! One call to the FBI and they’ll be on this. Well, maybe, maybe not. President Clark warned him that Taylor won’t cost the party the presidency. His head pounds. Screw it. He’ll handle this himself.

  Richard types: Who are you?

  Friends of Taylor’s.

  BASIA? Charles Mitchell?

  No response.

  Richard asks: Are they okay?

  For now.

  There’s only one question remaining. How much?

  How much are they worth?

  “Mother fuckers,” he says aloud.

  “Is everything all right?” Kendra asks.

  He waves her off. Finally he types: How do I know they’ll be safe?

  This is a simple agreement. You deliver. We deliver.

  What’s your price?

  Five million.

  Five million! He closes his eyes, desperately considering his resources. His Cape house, the Nantucket estate. But the market has bottomed out, no one’s buying, especially not vacation properties. The only liquid cash he has is tied to the campaign. There’s Taylor’s trust fund, probably untouched, but legally untouchable by him.

  He types: That’ll take time.

  There’s not much of that left, is there Mr. President?

  Meaning what?

  Money’s due before election. Or the deal’s off.

  Richard can’t catch his breath. How do I get in touch with you?

  You don’t. And if Taylor discovers this exchange, forget the money.

  The text conversation self-­destructs. He attempts to find it but it’s gone. My God, Taylor has no idea what her friends are doing. What happens if he can’t get the money? But that’s out of the question. He must. He simply must.

  Chapter 48

  IN HIS OFFICE, Steven Hudson rests his head against his chair, his eyes following the gray cloud of smoke from his cigar. These quiet moments are few and far between. But keeping busy keeps him sane. Project Swap is a welcome distraction so that he’s not dwelling on Sarah all the time.

  Just this morning their team officially welcomed a new partner. Though he’s rather anemic-­looking, Sean Cushing is an ex-­MedFuture software programmer whose experience and knowledge changes everything. They no longer need to match recipients and donors. Cushing will clean MedIDs and assign new numbers that are 75-­plus, pure and simple. Soon, he’ll train others to do the same. Cushing has assured them that with the sheer
volume of the MedID system, it would take the government years to catch on to inconsistencies and revisions. And by then they’d need to track millions of citizens.

  Steven can’t wait to tell Jonathan. With the new system, he won’t need to steal the BASIA MedIDs. Unfortunately, he hasn’t been able to reach his stepson since he left for work two days ago. He’s not answering his phone, not returning texts. Steven’s impulse is to call the police, but obviously he can’t do that. Instead he checks his watch incessantly, his imagination running, leaving him with a dark, sinking sensation. He texts again: Come home. Big news.

  The doorbell rings. He stubs out the cigar in an ashtray and makes his way to the funeral home entrance. Bright sunlight silhouettes the visitor. Steven is struck by the man’s height and broad shoulders.

  “Hello,” he says. “Do you have an appointment?”

  The man shakes his head. “Steven Hudson?”

  “Yes. And you are?”

  “Henry.”

  “Henry . . . ?”

  “Is there somewhere we can talk?”

  The man takes a step forward and Steven steps back in response. Henry is wearing a crisp suit and has a spiky military haircut. Behind him, a gray SUV with tinted windows is parked. Jesus. Steven’s mouth is suddenly dry, his heart races. My God, he’s from the government. We’ve been caught. Backup plans aren’t in place. Blood drains from him, the floorboards sucking his energy through the soles of his shoes.

  “Mr. Hudson?”

  “Yes, of course.” Steven waves him into the foyer. Working to steady his breathing, he leads the stranger into his office and immediately regrets the cigar, the scent detectable before they’re even in the room. He sits at his desk, the hulking man sitting across from him. “So, Henry. What brings you here?”

  Henry reaches into his jacket pocket. Steven stiffens. A weapon? Under his desk, in a makeshift holster fastened to the underside of the drawer, is a handgun. Subtly, he feels for and finds it.