Nation of Enemies

by H. A. Raynes

  “Yes, sir.”

  “This won’t be a challenge for you. The trust between you and Taylor is already there. It should be more of a reward than an assignment, really.”

  Behind the beard, Anderson grins. “Thank you.”

  “You’ve met my chief technology officer, Huan Chao? He’ll provide you access to video feeds into Taylor’s home. You need to get in deeper, faster. Figure out what she wants, and give it to her. Enjoy yourself, but don’t forget this isn’t a dating ser­vice, it’s your job.”

  “I appreciate your trust,” Anderson says. “If I may ask, is this my role in our mission? To protect Taylor Hensley?”

  “No. This is like extra credit, Sergeant. Play before work. Yours will be a key role in our Holy War.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “You’re dismissed, Sergeant.”

  Anderson stands and leaves. Once again Charles rests his head on his chair, kneads his palm. Anderson’s a good man. He couldn’t ask for more in a soldier. But should he be placed in the center of the action, where he can handle himself deftly? Or assign him an easy target, one with little risk that will ensure he returns home? Either way, God wins.

  Chapter 55

  “HOLD HER STILL,” Dr. Westin says. She positions the MedID injector over the translucent skin of Talia’s forearm. “Just a pinch. It’ll all be over in a second.”

  A burn, Lily remembers. It’s more of a burn than a pinch. Five-­month-­old Talia squirms, never happy when her body is restrained. Well who would be? Lily holds down her arms, kisses her forehead. Cole stands opposite, his hands gripping Talia’s legs firmly but gently. The pediatrician injects the MedID into her arm. Talia’s high-­pitched screams tear at Lily’s insides and she blinks back tears. It’s hard to know if it’s empathy for Talia’s pain or the disappointment of knowing the end result.

  “You’re okay, little one.” Dr. Westin deposits the injector on the counter and takes the MRS. With a wave over the site, the MedID is activated. The doctor calls up the chart and the smartwall illuminates a screen with details from Talia’s DNA. In seconds Talia’s MedID number, 74, appears in red next to her name. Her pediatrician says, “All done.”

  Lily picks up the sobbing Talia and holds her close. The three of them stare at the screen. To be one number away is cruel.

  “I’m sorry,” Dr. Westin says. “Do you have any questions?”

  “If I’d done the in-­utero screening—­” Her cheeks are hot, her shirt suddenly damp under her armpits. She buries her head in Talia’s neck. “This is my fault.”

  “There’s no way to know, Lily.” The doctor stands and disposes of the injection needle, stores the MRS.

  “Her whole life is on a different track because I was too stubborn.”

  “You did what you thought was best for your child,” Dr. Westin says.

  “She’s perfect.” Cole stands abruptly, pulling on his jacket. “Talia’s exactly who she’s supposed to be.”

  “Of course she is.” Dr. Westin gives a conciliatory smile. “Call me if you have questions.”

  “Thank you.” Lily’s fingertips caress the soft folds of Talia’s legs, she inhales her scent. Cole swoops over and takes their baby, buckles her into the car seat and they leave the pediatrician’s office.

  They haven’t spoken for weeks. After all these years, he’s like a stranger to her. This movement of theirs, this Project Swap, is treason. Her momentary relief that he’s not having an affair with Dr. Riley has been replaced by anger at his willingness to put his family in danger. They could be torn apart by this, the children taken away. He could be imprisoned, and God knows what would happen to her.

  Back in the car, she slams shut her passenger door as Cole powers the ignition and shuts off automated drive. Shifting gears, he tears out of the medical practice parking lot, down the street. Not in the direction of home. Holding her tongue is the last thing she has control of, but she can’t do it any longer.

  “Where are you going?” she demands.

  “It’s time. You need to see what we’re doing.”

  “I’ve heard and seen enough.”

  “Please Lily, I need you to trust me.”

  “Forgive me if I don’t trust you after watching you burn a crime scene. You’ve put your entire family on the line. You could destroy us all, Cole. And all we have is us.”

  “I understand. But I want you to see it for yourself. And then make up your mind.”

  Soon they’re in Cambridge. The once quaint neighborhood is just like the rest of them, ruined, unrecognizable. “I want to go home.”

  “We’re almost there.”

  One hundred, ninety-­nine, ninety-­eight, ninety-­seven . . . Counting backward helps her to calm down. When she hits sixty-­two the car stops. Before her is a slightly off-­kilter Victorian painted a bright lilac color with shutters that hang off the windows. Long curls of paint give the building a shaggy look. Cole retrieves Talia, who now sleeps soundly after her MedID ordeal. Reluctantly, Lily gets out. An oak tree shades the front yard and rains a steady stream of leaves in the breeze, acorns hitting the pavement with an infrequent, dull beat.

  “What is this place?” she asks.

  “Our headquarters.”

  She follows him inside. The air is musty, mixed with a strong antiseptic scent. There are holes in the wall and patches of rotting floorboards. It’s quiet, no one in sight. Then a door down the hall opens and closes. A man wearing a surgical mask passes them on his way out. He doesn’t make eye contact or acknowledge them in any way.

  “Next,” a male voice calls from the same doorway.

  From an adjacent room—­what used to be a living room—­two women also wearing surgical masks emerge, quickly disappearing into the room down the hall. Lily notices Dr. Riley—­Karen—­sitting at a desk in the living room. She’s talking in hushed tones to what looks like a teenage boy, also with a mask.

  “Why is everyone wearing masks?” she asks.

  “Anonymity. The process is quick and we ensure privacy to anyone who comes.”

  With Talia’s car seat in hand, Cole leads her through the house as he talks in depth about Project Swap. It’s a lot to take in. Slowly her animosity—­for his lies, his secrets—­dissipates. He’s helping these ­people. They’re all desperate with diminishing hope, just like they were when they were turned away in London. She watches him talk to his team members and her chest aches for him, for her.

  In Sean Cushing’s room, she wears a mask and watches as he wipes a MedID clean. Just like that, a life is changed, restored. A family is whole again, they can move around in the world without predisposed physical barriers to employment, home, medical access. With both hands, the person envelopes Sean’s hand, shaking it with pure gratitude. Lily imagines that behind all these masks there are smiles. Perhaps determined looks of hope.

  Cole sets the car seat on the floor and rocks it with his foot. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you from the beginning, Lily. But what we’re doing is dangerous. I guess I just wanted to keep you and the kids safe in the district, as long as I could.”

  “No more secrets.”

  “No more secrets.” He wraps his arms around her.

  “Will all these ­people leave the country?”

  “Some will.” He looks around. “But many will stay and try to make a better life here. We’re building an underground network. Eventually this group will make a difference. We’ll take positions of power in the government. We’ll have a say in our own lives again.”

  “A new political party?”

  Cole nods.

  “How many ­people are you talking about?”

  “We’re growing quickly. Sean’s brought in associates with his skill set and they’re planning to expand our reach. In the Northeast alone we’ve helped hundreds in only a few weeks.”

  “The
government will kill you, Cole.” She squeezes his arm. “They’ll either kill everyone here or put you all in prison for life.”

  “We’re being careful. It’s a calculated risk.”

  “I don’t like any risk. Especially when it might affect Ian and Talia.”

  “I’m trying to give them options. To give them a future.”

  “But what if you’re arrested?” she asks. “What if we’re arrested? The state takes the kids? They go into foster care?”

  “I won’t let that happen.”

  “We could lose everything.”

  “Family is everything,” he says. “If I woke up tomorrow and our house was gone, the hospital was gone, all of this.” He gestures to the Project Swap headquarters. “If I was with you, Ian, and Talia, I would still have everything.”

  “There are no guarantees.” That’s what she wants. It’s why she stays at home most days, where she makes decisions that are confined to the life inside the four main walls of that house.

  “Let’s give ourselves a guarantee,” he says.

  Lily and Talia slide into the schedule, between Sean Cushing’s appointments. Still, she can’t shake the uneasy feeling. Sean takes the MRS and punches in a few keys on the computer. A red light emanates from the scanner and in one fluid movement he brushes it over Talia’s MedID site. Instantly, her medical record appears on the screen.

  “What number do you want?” Sean asks, his fingers hovering over the keyboard.

  “Safe but not obvious,” Cole says.

  “Eighty-­two,” she says. Safe, clean.

  “Eighty-­two. Keys to the kingdom.” Sean types away and in minutes Talia’s medical record is rescanned, her MedID updated to reflect the change.

  “Your turn, Lil,” Cole says.

  “Me?”

  “Sixty-­seven doesn’t cut it,” Cole says. “Imagine how well you’ll sleep at night with, say, a seventy-­eight.”

  She’d been so focused on Talia, on all of this, that it hadn’t occurred to her that she might want to have her own MedID cleaned. Since stepping through the threshold of this place, her entire world has been challenged, and changed. In this room, as everyone stares expectantly at her and Sean dangles the MRS in wait. She realizes she’s been fighting alone. It’s time to join the others.

  Chapter 56

  THE GRAY SUV speeds under the streetlights of Route 9. A few cars behind, Steven drives his favorite hearse. As conspicuous as it is, it’s an unlikely vehicle to use when following someone. The thought makes him grin vaguely. He’d waited in his car all afternoon, into the evening, until he saw Reverend Mitchell and his bodyguard leaving Patriot’s Church. Twenty minutes later they’re west of Boston and he has no idea where this ride will end. It’s a dangerous errand. If this religious zealot was truly behind the Planes, he’s capable of anything. And if Mitchell was the one who took Kelly, Sam, and Georgia from him, goddamned if he will let him take Jonathan. It’s been a week since that hulk of a man, Harry, Henry, whatever, showed up and demanded three million dollars. Steven doesn’t have it, won’t have it. The most he could pull together is a little over a million in cash. Hell, he’ll throw in the hearse.

  The SUV veers off the highway and onto a dark stretch of road. After several turns it heads down a gravel drive, thick with trees. Steven can’t see the house from here. His mouth is dry, his stomach in knots. The hearse kicks up a funnel of dust behind it as he presses on. About a mile in an enormous mansion appears, surrounded by a wall and a gated security system. At the gate, he begins to reach his arm out the window to press a call button when the gate suddenly swings open.

  “He knows I’m here,” Steven mutters to himself. “Shit.”

  The gates close as he pulls inside, around a circular drive, coming to a stop behind the SUV. Waiting for him at the front door are Reverend Mitchell and his bodyguard.

  Deep breath. Steven eases himself out, careful to appear confident, chin up, his right hand firmly gripping an old leather briefcase.

  “Mr. Hudson,” Reverend Mitchell says. “Welcome to my home.”

  He shakes the Reverend’s extended hand. “Was I too obvious in my hearse?”

  Mitchell laughs. “It’s a pleasure to meet the man behind Hudson’s.”

  “I’m not sure anything about our meeting is a pleasure.”

  Gesturing to the door, the Reverend says, “Please. Come in.”

  Crossing the threshold, Steven’s grip tightens on the briefcase. Inside, the house is alive with voices. Children of all ages, but mostly teenagers, roam about or lounge in a living room playing video games. What is this? Are all of these kids being held for ransom? They look content, certainly not under any duress. He searches their faces. No Jonathan.

  A circuitous route ends in a wood-­paneled office. Reverend Mitchell sinks comfortably into the leather chair behind his desk. Steven takes the rather stiff one across from it, placing the briefcase on his lap. The bodyguard closes the door, staying inside, annoyingly mute.

  “Where’s Jonathan?” Steven asks.

  “He’s here,” Mitchell says.

  Without explaining the contents, Steven slides the briefcase across the desk. He swallows. It’s impossible to guess what his reaction will be. Coming here with less than three million was a risk. But he’s run out of time.

  Mitchell peers inside the case briefly, then closes it. “Where’s the rest?”

  “It’s what I have. It’s not unsubstantial. A million dollars goes a long way these days.”

  “Indeed. But that wasn’t the price.”

  “It’s all that I have.”

  “We’re both businessmen, Mr. Hudson. You can’t expect me to believe that with your nationally successful chain the most you can come up with is one million dollars?”

  “As a businessman, I’m sure you’re aware of the ebbs and flows of business. The constant need to reinvest, to grow the business. Currently most of my savings and the profits from the past few months have been funneled back into the business.”

  “Hmm. How unfortunate.” Mitchell pushes the briefcase aside. The man’s hands clutch together, hard, until his knuckles are white.

  “Take the million dollars.” Something inside Steven is unraveling. “Please let me take Jonathan. And we’ll be out of here.”

  Mitchell clears his throat. “Come back when you have the rest.”

  The bodyguard appears at his side. Sweat soaks Steven’s back. His head begins to throb. He locks eyes with Mitchell and strains to keep an even voice. “The way I look at it, Reverend, I’ve already paid. Again, and again, and again.”

  Mitchell doesn’t flinch, doesn’t register that he understood Steven’s meaning. Is it possible he wasn’t behind the Planes? Is someone else responsible for the deaths of Kelly and the kids?

  “I’ll go to the media,” Steven says. “The police. FBI. Tell them that the famous Reverend Mitchell extorts money to fund his so-­called Armageddon and—­” He flounders, gestures to the door. “Recruits young children that he brainwashes into spreading his insidious words.”

  Mitchell’s smile reveals perfectly straight, polished teeth. He leans his elbows on his desk and leans closer.

  “The media would eat it up, Mr. Hudson. The FBI would be on my doorstep within the hour to reunite you with your stepson. But we’re all programmed with self-­preservation, aren’t we?” From his jack, the bodyguard retrieves a tablet and hands it to Steven.

  A video plays. Shaky footage, from someone entering a building. Steven narrows his eyes at the screen. The rooms, the ­people. It’s Project Swap HQ. Holy shit. Holy shit. A BASIA mole pretended to need a MedID, was wiped by Sean Cushing and released back into the world. Steven swallows back bile that burns his throat. He sets the tablet on the desk.

  “As I said, self-­preservation. We wondered why on earth Jonathan would want to steal the cl
ean MedIDs from our soldiers. So we did some research of our own and what we found was so interesting. Don’t you agree?”

  “No one’s innocent anymore. But we’re not hurting anyone.”

  “I think the U.S. government would disagree.”

  Behind him there’s a creak. Steven turns to see that the bodyguard has opened the door. He turns back to Mitchell. “I’m not leaving without my son.”

  “I’m afraid the deck’s not stacked in your favor, Mr. Hudson. You’ve committed treason. Your son is an accomplice. And with a slight reach, I think you could even be implicated in the death of your lovely wife.”

  Steven leaps up and dives across the desk. He grabs Mitchell by the throat, watches his face turn scarlet, his eyes bulge. Mitchell grips his wrists and tries to pry them away. When that doesn’t work, his fists fly at Steven. Suddenly, hands latch onto Steven’s arms and jerk him up and back like he’s a puppet. The guard holds him, unaffected by his struggling. Mitchell coughs, pushes up from his chair and rubs his throat. Then he straightens, his hands smoothing back his mane of hair. His smile is gone, a flush remains in his cheeks. He walks around to the front of the desk where Steven dangles from muscular arms.

  “That wasn’t very smart.” Without warning, Mitchell slugs him in the stomach.

  Doubling over, pain radiates through Steven. Son of a bitch. He can only gasp as he watches Mitchell pace in front of him.

  “I’ll let Jonathan know you dropped by. Please do visit again soon. Don’t let a little money stand in the way of a future with your family.” He leans in closer now, so that his mouth is almost touching Steven’s ear. In a whisper he adds, “After all, if you could bring back your dead wife and kids for a mere three million dollars, wouldn’t you?”

  The guard releases him. He crumbles to the ground, his knees weak, his tongue failing him for any kind of response. An admission! As close as anyone could get. He’ll kill Mitchell. He’ll kill him before this is over.

  Roughly gripping his arm, the guard escorts him out. Steven hardly registers the soles of his shoes making contact with the ground, going from the polished marble tiles of the hallway onto the front porch, down the stairs, brushing across the pea-­stone driveway. His whole body shakes. For ten years he’s wanted to know who to hate, who to blame for the death of his family. Now he knows.