Nation of Enemies

by H. A. Raynes

  “They’re probably holding him somewhere else.” Steven shakes his head, runs his hand through his hair. “The church is their public facade. Who knows what other properties they have? He could be anywhere.”

  “While you figure out your finances, I’ll just take a look around.”

  “You have a family.”

  “Jonathan put himself at risk because of us.” Cole gestures to their surroundings. “I owe it to him.”

  They stand in silence as MedID patients quietly pass by them in the hallway. All these ­people. No one is changed, but everyone has a chance now. He places a hand on Steven’s shoulder. Trying to find Jonathan is the right thing to do.

  Chapter 51

  AT BASIA HQ, Charles stares out from behind his podium at his loyal troops. Thousands stand before him, and thousands more watch him via streamed video. He touches his hand to his chest, then reaches it out to them, palm open. In unison, they do the same.

  “It’s God who arms you with strength,” he proclaims. “And with it, we will strike down the evil that infests our society. Finally, our great country will serve Him, under his laws, with the Great Book as our guide. And God will thank all of us by opening his eternal kingdom to you and your families. But before that, you’ll enjoy the riches of his love here on earth.”

  “Amen,” they say in unison.

  “Thy will be done,” he says. “Dismissed.”

  The soldiers salute and the monitors turn to black as the men and women in the room funnel through the aisles, on their way out. He gives a subtle nod to Henry, who walks purposefully through the crowd to retrieve Will Anderson.

  In the Command Center control room, Charles waits. An e-­map of the U.S. spans an entire wall. Opposite, security monitors with live feeds display different angles of BASIA HQ. Several touch keypads are embedded into a table the length of the room. He pushes buttons on one of them, causing a small red light in each of the fifty states to illuminate. His chest swells, tears sting his eyes. It’s hard to believe the moment is almost here. “Thy will be done,” he whispers.

  There’s a knock on the door. He presses a button and the red lights disappear from the screen. “Come in.”

  Will Anderson trails Henry inside. He’s not much to look at, but he has balls. Shave the scruffy beard, cut that hair, and he’ll be a force within the organization.

  “Leave us,” Charles commands. Henry closes the door behind him. Anderson waits at attention as he walks a circle around him, stopping to look him in the eye. “You have something for me?”

  “Yes, sir.” From inside his jacket he produces a phone. He unlocks it, finds what he’s looking for and hands it to Charles.

  In vivid color, photographs show a murdered Joe Shonkoff. The graphic nature prompts the sharp pain in Charles’s temple and he rubs it with his free hand. “When were these taken?”

  “Last night.”

  “Where?”

  “Quincy. But he’s in the northwest corner of the state now.”

  “This is a serious offense, Anderson.”

  A sharp inhale, his brow twitches slightly.

  “Was this your first time?”

  “No.”

  Anderson appears humble and honest. He’s committed a necessary evil in the interest of BASIA’s mission. There’s nothing questionable in his history, either online or MedID. And evidently he’s ready. More than willing.

  “Pictures can be created,” Charles says.

  “I brought proof. May I, sir?”

  At Charles’s nod, Anderson reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a small plastic bag. Inside are two bloody teeth.

  “While I appreciate your effort, it is possible to survive without teeth.”

  “I burned the remains.”

  Despite their research, it’s always possible that someone has infiltrated BASIA and has an agenda to shut them down. He leans in close to Anderson and whispers, “Are you setting me up, Anderson?”

  “No, sir.” He stares ahead, unflinching. “I have nothing to gain but my salvation and the honor of serving BASIA in the name of God.”

  Charles drags the moment out. Finally he pats him—­hard—­on the back. “Well done, Anderson. You’ve demonstrated your commitment to BASIA. Proven you’re able to act alone. And you deliver results.”

  “Thank you, sir. I did what was necessary.”

  “Indeed. Shonkoff might have spoiled our mission. Everything we’ve worked for.”

  “I’m here to serve, sir.”

  “Aren’t we all.” Charles closes his eyes, gives a moment of thanks for this dedicated soldier. Then he continues, “For your bravery and exceptional ser­vice, I hereby promote you to Sergeant.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Anderson nods as relief and, Charles thinks, gratitude soften his face. Perhaps this one can lead without being sacrificed.

  “With your new rank comes a higher level of clearance,” he explains. “More personalized assignments as our mission nears.”

  “I’m ready, sir.”

  Charles wanders to the window and takes in the brilliant autumn leaves. “Thanks to the State House attack, we learned a lot from the government. They made some mistakes, some missteps. But then again, they’re not used to pulling off chemical attacks.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You remember the sarin attack?”

  “Of course.”

  Spinning back around, he returns to where Anderson stands. “They removed a presidential candidate that wouldn’t do what he was told. Gardiner had plans to phase out the MedID program. President Clark and his administration couldn’t let that happen. All their precious systems would explode! Their reins on society would slip away. It’s amazing, really. ­People turn to God in times of war. Killing their own promotes our cause and increases our membership.”

  “You’re saying President Clark had James Gardiner assassinated?” Anderson’s brow furrows.

  “Don’t look so shocked. A government that enslaves its ­people is capable of anything.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s just, I thought it was our accomplishment.”

  “Our efforts will make that look like child’s play.”

  “Can I ask, sir.” Anderson shifts on his feet. “How do you know it was President Clark? Tell me if I’m overstepping, but—­”

  “You are.” Too curious for his own good. “BASIA is everywhere. Our resources are vast. That’s all you need to know.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That’s all for now, Sergeant Anderson.”

  “Thank you, Reverend Mitchell. And thank you for this opportunity.”

  “Make Him proud.”

  Anderson salutes.

  “Dismissed.”

  When Anderson leaves, Henry enters. “The car’s ready.”

  “What the status on our two investments?”

  Henry’s lips pinch together. “No word from Hudson or Hensley, sir.”

  “Dammit.” Unwelcome news. His board will be asking for an update on funds any day now. “Make our presence felt, Henry. Send reminders to the senator and the undertaker. Time is of the essence.”

  JONATHAN LIES IN bed, waiting for the right time. Reverend Mitchell must think he’s an idiot. For five days he’s only been allowed off the compound for cyber training at BASIA HQ. The Reverend tells him that with the long hours he’s putting in, he might as well stay. When Jonathan tries to argue, Henry tells him they can’t spare a driver to transport him. There’s no way for him to contact Steven. And Henry blatantly ignores his requests to buy a new phone.

  Poor Steven probably thinks he’s dead. After what his stepfather has been through—­at the hands of Charles Mitchell—­his imagination must be getting the best of him. Jonathan’s chest is heavy at the thought. No matter what’s happened between them in the past, Steven is
his family. Enough already. Tonight is the night.

  At 3 A.M. the mansion is quiet, the only sound a whisper of heat through the vents. He wears sweatpants and a T-­shirt so if he’s caught he can just say he’s grabbing something to eat. In socks, he pads along the darkened hallways until he reaches the basement stairs. In seconds he’s there, inside the MedID Vault, the door triggering the overhead lights. He works fast. Taking one of the heavy metal briefcases, he logs into the computer and accesses the MedID database. Methodically, silently, he pulls clean MedIDs from a temperature-­controlled safe and places them one by one in the briefcase in individual slots. As he places the last one in the case he notices his hands are shaking.

  “You’re up late.”

  His hands fly up, his whole body jumps. “Hannah, what the hell!”

  “Seriously. What the hell?”

  “I’m just working.” Breathe. Without skipping a beat, he reverses the direction of his actions. He takes MedIDs back out of the case, logs them into the system and places them into the storage vault. He feels her watching him. If he tells her, maybe she’ll go with him.

  “Why are you doing this in the middle of the night?”

  “Couldn’t sleep.” He avoids her gaze. “Nothing better to do, might as well work.”

  “You’ve been staying here a lot lately.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Charles has taken to you. He doesn’t usually have soldiers in the house.”

  “I’m not a soldier.”

  “I know you don’t want to be. But you’re a cyber soldier.”

  Her hand on his arm makes his body tense. She presses against him, her chest to his back as her arms slide around his waist. His breath catches. Being with her makes him believe it’s possible to be happy, that maybe the future doesn’t have to be so grim. After tonight he may never see her again. She wants out, he knows it. He needs to make her see the possibilities. He reverses direction, once again placing the clean MedIDs in the case.

  “What are you doing?” She moves away from him, the warmth from her body still clinging to him.

  “Remember I told you there’s always a way out?” he asks.

  “Stealing from Charles is not a way out.”

  “I’m not stealing. These are banned at BASIA. Everyone in the militia gave them up.” He places the final chip in the case and shuts it. They lock eyes and he can tell she’s scared. “These clean MedIDs can help ­people. They can save lives.”

  “We don’t believe in MedIDs.”

  “No. But right now this is the system. And ­people need them. To get jobs. To move. To get special medical treatment.”

  “We take care of our own. Those ­people should come to the church.”

  “Hannah. Not everyone believes this is Armageddon.”

  “Do you?”

  Jonathan secures the lock and picks up the case. “I believed in my mother. I believe in my stepfather. I believe in you.”

  She stares at him a minute. Her eyes fill. “That’s not what I asked.”

  “Well that’s my answer. At the end of the day, I only believe in ­people. My family. My friends. I don’t care about getting back at the government. I don’t care about getting vengeance for a God I don’t know exists.”

  “Are you leaving?”

  He swallows. “Come with me.”

  Tears tumble onto her cheeks. “I can’t.”

  “Won’t.”

  “It’s complicated, Jonathan. He takes care of me.”

  “You can take care of yourself.”

  Hannah leans against the door frame, her head bowed so that her hair partially hides her face. “Things are going to change,” she says. “Just wait. Wait a little longer.”

  “I can’t. We’ve got to go now.”

  “You’re so good, Jonathan.” She takes a few steps backward, into the hallway. “I’m sorry. Forgive me.” She pulls a lever on the wall. Piercing sirens burst throughout the house.

  For a moment he can only stare at her. How could she do this? Why not just let him go? She brushes the wet off her cheeks as he runs past her, briefcase in hand, down the hall and up the stairs. Heart thumping, breath short. With each stride he works out his path. Get to the kitchen. Out the sliding glass door. Across the lawn. Through the field.

  “Stop right there.”

  In the reflection of the kitchen’s sliding glass door he sees Henry with his gun raised. Jonathan does as he’s told. In just his T-­shirt, sweatpants, and socks, he feels naked. Goddammit, Hannah. Does she understand she might have gotten him killed? He lowers the briefcase to the ground and turns to face Henry.

  “How disappointing.” Reverend Mitchell enters from the darkened hallway. He wears a robe and slippers. “I had high hopes for you, Jonathan.”

  “I just want out. I have some stuff going on at home.”

  “Stuff that involves my MedIDs?”

  “All due respect, Reverend, they’re not yours.”

  “And they’re not yours.”

  He can’t argue that.

  “You’re stealing from our soldiers. And you’re stealing from my home. What were you planning to do with the biochips?”

  There’s no way he’s going to tell Reverend Mitchell about Steven’s Project Swap. Just lie. “I need money. Clean MedIDs are like gold.”

  A long silence fills the room. The Reverend takes a stool at the kitchen counter and studies him. Finally he says, “Money and MedIDs should be the least of your worries, Jonathan.”

  “I’m done, sir. I just want out.”

  “I wish it were that easy.”

  “It is.” Jonathan’s stomach aches with nerves. “I’m just one guy. You have thousands.”

  “After the mission, you may go.”

  “No. Listen, I don’t want any part of it.”

  “Sleep on it. You may change your mind.” The Reverend gestures to Henry, who takes the briefcase and continues aiming the gun at Jonathan.

  Without another word, Henry escorts him back to the basement, this time to a cell-­like room. When the door locks behind him, Jonathan falls onto the bed, exhausted, his muscles tight and throbbing as though he ran a marathon. He stares at the ceiling. Steven is probably calling and texting him every hour. And Hannah.

  He was so stupid, trusting her. Believing she might actually choose him over the Reverend. He’s out of ideas now, out of a plan. Mitchell’s residence is off the grid, so how would anyone even find him? It’s like he’s buried alive.

  October, 2032

  Chapter 52

  AS NIGHT BURNS into morning, Sebastian rides his bike aimlessly through the outskirts of Boston. Faces, theories, and memories have kept sleep at bay lately. He’s numb. Confused. And the rush of the air, the sheer speed he can reach on the empty streets, is invigorating.

  Last night Renner didn’t show at their meeting place. Despite numerous attempts, Sebastian hasn’t been able to reach him. It’s unlike Renner. He needs to brainstorm with his partner. Get his take on things.

  They need to dig deeper into Mitchell’s accusation that the government orchestrated the State House attack and Gardiner’s assassination. And Kate’s murder. But is it just an accusation? It’s in-­line with Renner’s theory that ties the nickname Dash to Carter Benson, then to President Clark, along with Richard Hensley. But it goes against Sebastian’s gut that Mitchell is behind everything. It’s dizzying.

  Suddenly, he realizes where he’s going. Two lefts, a right. Past streetlights and buildings. He can’t get there fast enough. Before he knows it, he sees the apartment building, hoists the bike over his shoulder and runs through the front door, up the three flights of stairs. He unstraps his helmet and knocks. The door opens.

  “Will?” Taylor wears a T-­shirt and boxers, her hair messy from sleep.

  “I’m sorry.”

&nbs
p; “For what?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Come in.”

  Behind the closed door, he sets his bike against the wall, tosses his helmet over it. Then he cups her face in his hands and takes her in. Her furrowed brow softens. Everything that’s been building in him comes out now and he can hardly control himself. He peels off his sweat-­soaked shirt and realizes he’s wearing his skins. She doesn’t seem to care or think twice. She peels the skins off him, runs her hands over his bare chest. Thoughts dissipate, he is right here, fully in the moment. She leads him into her bedroom. Light leaks in through the shades, the air smells of citrus. Her touch unravels him, makes him want her, need her more. They slam against the wall, moving blindly, falling onto the bed. Their eyes connect and she smiles, full and happy, as he’s never seen her before. And he wishes more than anything it could last.

  A FEW HOURS later Sebastian and Taylor sit together in a pew at Patriot’s Church. He hasn’t heard a word of Mitchell’s sermon. All he can think about is Renner. What if Renner told Satterwhite his hunch about Dash being in the government? Sweat coats his palms and he rubs them against his pant legs, pressing the one with the tattoo harder, as though he might be able to rub it off. He needs to find his partner.

  Mitchell says the blessing and the congregation stands, moving through the aisles toward the exits. Sebastian and Taylor are propelled along with the crowd into the main hall.

  “Want some coffee?” She slips her arm through his and nods at the line forming in front of large coffee urns. Her touch still surprises him, though they’ve been together for hours now.

  There’s nothing to be learned here in Mitchell’s public facade. “Let’s go to a café. There’s a great one in District 19.”

  “Perfect.” Taylor checks her watch. “Sienna’s with her sitter for another ­couple hours.”

  “Sebastian?” From somewhere in the crowd a man is calling his name. His real name. There must be other Sebastians in the room, though. “Sebastian.” The tone is insistent, the voice familiar. He looks over Taylor’s shoulder. Shit. Oh shit. He scans the room for the closest exit, but there are so many ­people there’s not a clear path. What the hell is Cole doing here?