Nation of Enemies

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Nation of Enemies Page 25

by H. A. Raynes


  Instead of a gun, Henry pulls out an electronic device detector. Taking the finger-­sized machine, he holds the device out in the center of the room to sweep for bugs. Within seconds it releases a single beep. He tucks it back into his pocket. “One can never be too safe.”

  “Safe from what, exactly?”

  “We have a mutual interest,” Henry says.

  “I’m guessing you don’t mean reading, or tennis?”

  “Jonathan Hudson is your stepson, correct?”

  Steven blinks. “What is this?”

  “You’ve had many losses, Mr. Hudson. Your first wife. A son and daughter. A second wife.” Henry feigns empathy, his face contorting unnaturally. “All you have left is Jonathan.”

  Still touching the gun, Steven’s hands begin to tremble. “What do you want?”

  “Let’s discuss your stepson.”

  “You’re with BASIA.”

  “He’s become quite an asset to the organization.”

  “Why do you care about one boy out of the thousands you must have at your disposal?”

  “Jonathan is a very special, very valuable young man.”

  Valuable. Of course. Why didn’t he see this coming? “How much do you want?”

  Henry grins. “It’s so difficult to put a price on a loved one.”

  You motherfucker! Steven wants to shout. His legs flex as though he might jump over his desk and lunge at the man. But if he does, or if he pulls out his gun, what then? “Where is he? Is he all right?”

  “Of course. We all want Jonathan well. And highly functioning.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Never mind.” Henry stands. “Three million, cash. Untraceable bills. Seems such a small amount to pay for a life, don’t you think?”

  Sadistic asshole. He moves his hand away from the gun. If they can get through this, get Jonathan back, they’ll leave. Shut Hudson’s. Disappear.

  “I don’t have three million in cash lying around. I need time.”

  “You’ll see Jonathan when we see the money.” From a pants pocket, he takes out a phone and tosses it to Steven. “I’ll be checking in. Oh, and I’m sure you’ve already guessed this, but if any of this leaks out, there won’t be a Jonathan left to barter for. Understand?”

  The hulking man turns and disappears down the hall. Steven hears the door shut, followed by an engine revving. Finally, the noise fades. His fists ball, nails digging into his palms. He closes his eyes and envisions his family, all of them, past and present. Ten deep breaths later he opens his eyes and begins logging into his bank accounts.

  RIGHT NOW JONATHAN wants his board. To ride the half-­pipe a few blocks from home, feel the rush when he flies over the edge and catches air. Things are so intense here, he needs a break.

  Until recently, he’d worked alone or with Huan Chao. But tonight at BASIA HQ he’s being treated like a soldier. They’ve split up the soldiers by expertise. A sharpshooting team is in the Ballistics Quad. Another group grunts and sweats through physical drills in the field. A third group spars one-­on-­one, refining defensive and offensive skills. Jonathan’s team sits alongside one another at long tables working on individual screens. Mitchell’s cyber warriors. Jonathan can’t help an occasional peek at another screen, but it’s hard to tell exactly what they’re working on. He wonders if Huan Chao and the Reverend have files on their families, too, if they’ve been threatened into doing this. But something must be different about him, since the Reverend has him on such a tight leash. The past few nights he’s even been coerced into staying overnight at the Mitchell mansion. Steven must be worried, probably calling him every hour. Meanwhile, Jonathan is honing his exit plan. He knows when the MedID Vault is unattended and has excuses lined up if he’s caught. The only complication is Hannah. He’s hardly had a minute alone with her since they kissed. He’s ready to tell her, to ask her to disappear with him. She can’t possibly want to stay and be forced into marriage.

  Every day, he works on his sole assignment, focusing on the power grid infrastructure across the country with the aim of gaining control of the grids in every state capital and major city. Via TOR, he’s anonymously established numerous botnets to use them for DoS attacks, allowing him to shut down power in these areas. Huan Chao and the Reverend have yet to tell him why he’s doing this. Still, he has to admit, it’s pretty cool. But when he’s not refining his tools, he’s plotting the mission he calls the Great MedID Heist.

  At midnight the soldiers are dismissed. They break ranks and head to the parking lot and the buses that will take them back into the city. Jonathan feels in his pants pockets for his phone but remembers that he lost it. Maybe left it at home. He needs to call Steven, who must be panicking. It’s late, but maybe Henry can take him to a corner store for a disposable.

  In the gray SUV, he hops in the front passenger side, with Reverend Mitchell in the back. Henry steers them down the long gravel drive off militia property and onto the road.

  “Hey, Henry,” Jonathan says. “Can we swing by a convenience store?”

  “What do you need?”

  “A phone. Just a disposable. I can’t seem to find mine.”

  “It’s late.”

  “I’ll just be two minutes.”

  “The Reverend’s tired. He doesn’t like detours.”

  Jonathan glances back to where the Reverend sits. It can’t hurt to ask, so he repeats his question directly to the man in charge.

  “Let’s just head back,” Reverend Mitchell says. “Do you need to use my phone?”

  “That’s okay.”

  The route to the Reverend’s home is familiar now. Jonathan checks street signs as they pass and calculates that he could walk home from here. It may take a while, but he could do it.

  The men are silent for the rest of the ride. Jonathan’s imagination kicks in. Is there a reason they don’t want him to have a phone? He’s tired of all the drama. Time to move on. He’s not for government, he’s certainly not for BASIA. He’s for family, whatever’s left of it.

  Chapter 49

  THE NEEDLE SINKS IN. Almost immediately Joe Shonkoff stops struggling against Sebastian’s grip. In the quiet of early nightfall, between abandoned buildings, he and Renner settle the limp body onto a blue tarp in Renner’s trunk. Thick dingy fog coats the roadways that Renner navigates on their way to a Bureau-­owned condo on the other side of town.

  Charles Mitchell’s message to Sebastian—­as Will—­had been clear; get rid of the soldier who was threatening to go rogue. Monitoring Shonkoff showed him to be a creature of habit. Daily, he rides his bike to a strip of fading businesses just outside Boston. A former investment banker, he was crushed in the Crash of ’26 and now works as an accountant for a few retailers that pay him minimum wage. Shonkoff is dangerous and certainly treasonous. Funny, they’re both eager to restore freedom to the country, both willing to fight. Both willing to die. Maybe they’re not so different.

  Carrying the bulky roll of tarp up three flights of stairs is tough to navigate, but Sebastian’s adrenaline gives him a burst of strength. In silence, he and Renner arrange things, posing Shonkoff’s body on the living room carpet in a manner to suggest he fell naturally but violently. His arms and legs are splayed, shirt untucked, hair mussed. From his briefcase, Sebastian takes the makeup and applies it expertly. Meanwhile, Renner destroys the sparsely furnished room, knocking over chairs and lamps, breaking a vase. Together they create blood spatter to match the story Sebastian will tell. Then it’s time for pictures.

  Close-­ups of the wound in Shonkoff’s head, the room from every angle. When that’s finished, they place a single chair in the center of the living room and tie him securely to it. Then they wait for the tranquilizer to wear off.

  “I have something for you,” Renner says. From his breast pocket he pulls out his phone and touches the screen. He aims it at one
of the walls and a message is projected. The left side shows one of the codes Sebastian sent on behalf of BASIA. The right side of the screen displays a number 110232.

  “A date?” Sebastian suggests.

  “Could also be a coordinate. Or a digital key.”

  “What does the tech think?”

  “The date theory makes the most sense. It’s Election Day.”

  They both stare at it.

  “Anything else?” Sebastian asks.

  “If this is a date, it makes sense for the other codes to include coordinates. Locations. But we haven’t confirmed it yet.”

  “What’s taking them so long?”

  “We’re working against Huan Chao,” Renner says. “He trained alongside some of our very own. These are complex codes. We read them wrong, we may be looking at losses on par with the Planes.”

  “Are we ready to alert Satterwhite? The candidates?”

  Renner shakes his head. “We can’t without concrete evidence. But we could tell them there’s chatter and advise them to double up on security for the candidates. As soon as we confirm the codes we’ll move.”

  “It’s four weeks away.” Nervous energy prompts Sebastian to stand and pace.

  “I’ve been doing some digging on the name Michael O’Brien gave us. I think Dash is a nickname.”

  Sebastian repeats the word. “Someone who runs?”

  “Specifically, someone who runs or ran a race like the hundred meter dash.”

  “Well that narrows it down. To every high school and college team in the U.S.”

  “Maybe. Or maybe it was a serious athlete. Broke some records. Came close to making the Olympics.” Renner types into his phone and hands it to Sebastian. “Recognize this guy?”

  It’s not possible. He reads and rereads the words, scans the face of Carter Benson, Richard Hensley’s deputy campaign manager, and before that aide to President Clark. Several pictures show Benson running, headlines predicting his future as an Olympian. The last image is of him on his knees at his final competition, clearly a loss. “Are you serious?”

  “It’s just a theory.”

  “Have you shared it with anyone?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Good.” He hands the phone back to Renner. “We need more proof than a hunch about a nickname.”

  “Someone at his level isn’t acting alone. He’s a middleman.”

  From outside comes a sound like a glass bottle hitting the pavement. Sebastian glances out the window. Renner’s accusation is dizzying. It could mean the State House attack originated from the Office of the President, that Benson coordinated all logistics—­which they know he had access to—­and then had a team of homegrown terrorists kill James Gardiner. Why would Clark or Hensley want to kill Gardiner? He wheels around. “Jesus Christ, Renner. This is a crazy fucking theory.”

  “Sometimes crazy happens.”

  The air is thick, the ceiling close. Has he been working on behalf of Kate’s killer this whole time? “Satterwhite gave you a direct order to stop this investigation. You need to watch your step.”

  “If there’s truth to this, I want a piece of these assholes,” Renner says. “All these years in the ser­vice . . .”

  Neither one of them talks much after that. Finally, their hostage stirs. Renner goes into the kitchen and returns with a glass. He tosses water on Shonkoffs face and the man immediately coughs and sputters awake. Lost, wild-­eyed, he struggles against the handcuffs. He glances at the “blood spatter,” quickly inspects his body.

  “You!” Shonkoff shouts at Sebastian. “I should have known.”

  “It’s the beard,” Renner says. “Makes him look like a trustworthy teddy bear.”

  “Don’t worry, Joe,” Sebastian says. “You get to call the shots today.”

  “I’m going to the Reverend,” Shonkoff growls.

  Sebastian cues the recording he has of Shonkoff on the bus, implying he intends to kill Richard Hensley before he gets to the White House. When the audio ends, Shonkoff spits in his direction.

  “You have three options.” Sebastian wanders in a circle around him. “One. Become a cooperating witness. Work inside BASIA with me. We guarantee time served and witness protection for you and your family. Don’t forget your beautiful wife and son.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Two. Testify when the time comes, in exchange for a lesser sentence and witness protection for your family.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Three. Be fully prosecuted for conspiracy and intent to assassinate the vice presidential candidate Richard Hensley.”

  “Fuck—­”

  Renner backhands him across the face.

  Real blood mixes with the fake blood already caked on his face. The night passes with no progress, only proof that Shonkoff is indeed ready to die and give up his life for his beliefs. The only time he flinches is when they threaten his wife and son. But it’s not enough.

  Just before daybreak a Bureau paddy wagon arrives and several men haul Shonkoff away. As an admitted enemy of the state, he’ll be put in solitary confinement until they can figure out how to use him. Maybe, Sebastian thinks, his earlier thoughts were wrong, and Shonkoff and he are on very different sides after all. Wouldn’t it be ironic if Shonkoff is the patriot and he is the real terrorist?

  Chapter 50

  AT PROJECT SWAP HQ, Cole holds the woman’s forearm and scans her cleaned MedID into the system. Her eyes are wet as she thanks him, then disappears through the back door. At 2A.M., Cole checks the appointment notes, handwritten into a log that will be burned at the end of the night. Despite a full day at the hospital, he’s reinvigorated by the faces of those who pass through their humble headquarters. The building is in disrepair—­a property bought by Hudson’s Funeral Homes, Inc.—­but no one cares about the peeling paint or smell of mildew. Priorities are elsewhere. Here the “patients” don’t speak, don’t exchange names or stories with one another. They come in one door, out another, and are given very specific directions on how to depart the neighborhood so that no one notices a pattern.

  The Jack Gardiner escapade had been a disaster, but they learned their lesson, and there’s been no news on the burned remains of a motorcycle accident. Surprisingly, they’ve heard nothing from the family of the man who’d been unwilling to give up Gardiner’s MedID. Perhaps the man’s parents hope he made it out of the country, is sunning himself in the Mediterranean.

  “Next,” Sean Cushing calls out from a procedure room.

  In two other rooms, associates of Sean’s reprogram more chips. Evidently, MedFuture Corporation made a few enemies among its employees. In an adjacent room another Project Swap volunteer extracts MedIDs for those who simply want them out. Now that MedIDs can simply be “wiped” and rescanned, the list of those willing to take their chances has grown dramatically. Less than a week into this new process, Karen can’t keep up with prioritizing her database of who has urgent employment needs, who’s trying to leave the country, who might be trying to buy a home or start a business. All things contingent on health.

  In the dim light of the hallway, Cole checks his phone. No messages. Lily isn’t speaking to him and she barely looks at him. Since the day he called her to the crash site and explained everything, she’s shut him out. At home he pleads with her, apologizes over and over again, but she walks away. God, he misses her. But she knows he’s endangering their family. And she’s right. It’s amazing how with children, the house can be so lively and loud, yet so lonely. Their voices are woven throughout Ian’s and Talia’s, but they never actually connect.

  “Cole.” Steven blows in through the front door. Behind him a sheet of water slicks the pavement, pulls at the trees. He’s winded, his hair wet and dripping, his suit drenched.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I waited as long as I could. I tried to get the mo
ney. I didn’t want to worry you and Karen.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “They have Jonathan.”

  “Who has Jonathan?”

  “Mitchell. BASIA.” In a hushed voice, Steven explains Jonathan’s confession, how he’s working for Reverend Mitchell’s BASIA and plans to steal the MedIDs for Project Swap.

  “But we have Sean now,” Cole says. “There’s no need for donors.”

  “Jonathan’s been gone for days.” Steven’s voice catches and he coughs. “I keep calling but they must have taken his phone. The last time I saw him we still needed donors.”

  Cole remembers the kid’s smugness that night, offering up ten thousand MedIDs. “What can I do?”

  “They gave me an ultimatum. Three million dollars for his safety.” Steven paces. “Since

  Mitchell’s henchman paid me a visit, I’ve spent every minute trying to put the money together. I didn’t want to involve you. I didn’t want to endanger the operation.”

  “So you don’t have the money?”

  “Not on me.”

  It’s surprising that Steven can’t simply produce the funds, given the success of Hudson’s. Something in his face must show his doubt, because Steven adds, “I’ve just bought two new funeral homes. Our savings are in Swiss and offshore accounts. The money’s tied up.”

  “Untie it.”

  “It’s impossible.” Steven leans against the wall. “Most of the money has to be withdrawn in person. A safeguard I set up, thinking I wouldn’t need to tap into it until retirement. Most of my other money is tied up in overhead. I have several thousand liquid, but not millions. Cole, they’ll kill him if he tries to steal those MedIDs.”

  What would he do if Ian or Talia were taken hostage? A pang settles in his gut. And he knows. “I’ll go.”

  “Where?”

  “To Patriot’s Church. No one knows me there. I’ll see if I can find him during the ser­vice. If he’s valuable, maybe the Reverend is keeping him close.”

 

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