Nation of Enemies

by H. A. Raynes

  Does the Secret Ser­vice still have Taylor and Richard Hensley? Sebastian drops to his stomach and puts his ear to the cold asphalt to glimpse under the car. At the SUV farthest away, he sees several pairs of feet. Crawling to the back of the vehicle, he creeps past the other vehicles one by one, using them as cover. He pauses as he hears shoes scrape against pavement. Slowly, he moves until he’s only a few feet from the last SUV.

  Abruptly, Sebastian is knocked backward and drops his gun. Oh God, shit. White hot pain lodges in his ribs. He can’t catch his breath. His hand fumbles with his jacket, rips it open. Reaching through layers of clothes, he feels the ballistics skin, locates the bullet and pries it out with his fingers.

  Car doors slam. Wheels screech. Searing pain radiates through his torso as he finds his gun and pulls himself up, leans against the back of an SUV and forces his legs to move. Whoever it was, they’re gone, leaving bodies dumped in the parking spaces. Two sets of taillights betray their path as they head toward the Convention Center exit. More shots ring out as he hauls the next unfortunate driver from his seat and crawls in. The motor is already running. He slams the transmission into drive and presses the pedal to the floor.

  The taillights in the distance lead the way. He knows exactly where they’re heading.

  Chapter 79

  WRAPPED IN TAYLOR’S arms, Sienna trembles. Taylor whispers into her daughter’s hair, “Everything’s going to be okay.” They huddle on the floor of the SUV as two BASIA soldiers hold their guns just inches away. The car swerves, the engine roars. She raises her head and peers out the window. They pass K Street, then a few turns later, Pennsylvania Avenue. They’re heading to the White House. Where can Reverend Mitchell possibly think all of this will lead?

  Another SUV pulls alongside them, and the two vehicles race neck and neck down a busy two-­lane avenue. Shots ricochet off the bulletproof glass. Getting as close to the floor as possible, she hugs Sienna tighter, using her own body as a shield. We’re going to die. It’s not time, it can’t be time.

  Their driver swerves, brakes fast, the tires screeching on the asphalt. When Taylor peeks up for a split second, she sees they’re behind the other vehicle, close on its tail. The soldiers above her barely speak and when they do it’s in code. Is her father still alive inside the other SUV? Are his Secret Ser­vice agents loyal, or plants by the Reverend? When she was grabbed in the parking lot, she’d thought these men in black were their protection. When they’d aimed their weapons at her father, her shock had turned to sickening regret for not heeding Sebastian’s warning. But her father had threatened to renege on his promises, to brand her a terrorist and to sue for custody of Sienna. She’d had no choice. After all, what judge would deny the President of the United States his granddaughter?

  SEBASTIAN’S BODY TENSES behind the wheel of his commandeered SUV. The two identical vehicles ahead of him jockey for position, but one takes the lead. He knows one car carries Secret Ser­vice agents and Richard Hensley, the other Reverend Mitchell’s BASIA. But in which one are Taylor and Sienna? He knows they’re still alive. As long as Richard Hensley lives, Mitchell will keep them as currency. It’s easier to control the president-­elect that way.

  The White House looms just a block away now. The two SUVs disappear around a corner, and he follows, keeping a short distance between them. And there it is. At the White House gate, a line of U.S. troops stand in a barricade, assault weapons aimed and ready. They dare not fire. With three identical SUVs approaching, how can they know which one holds the president-­elect? Neither SUV ahead slows down. Closer, closer. They’re almost there when hands appear out of one of the passenger-­side windows, holding a rocket launcher. A blast sends a fiery comet at the guard station. Flames erupt as a second blast unhinges the White House gate. Guards are tossed like rag dolls, with no one left standing.

  RICHARD GAPES OUT the window at the bodies of the wounded and dying guards. He’s in shock now, he’s sure of it. His SUV is only seconds ahead of the one that he thinks—­he hopes—­carries Taylor and Sienna. Let them be alive.

  The car screeches to a stop as the agents strap on gas masks and ballistics hoods. The nearest agent slides a ballistics hood with holes for eyes, nostrils, and mouth over his head. On top of that, a tight-­fitting gas mask is secured. It’s disorienting, hard to breathe. He watches as they ready an arsenal of weapons. With their guns poised in the direction of the nearing SUV, bodies surround him. He’s never felt more helpless.

  “Where’s President Clark?” he shouts.

  No one answers.

  “Carter?” Richard searches the masks.

  Behind him, Carter fastens his own gas mask over a ballistics hood. His voice comes out muted and deep. “By now he should be either in the tunnel on the way to Mount Weather, or secured in the bunker.”

  “Get Taylor and Sienna! Save my granddaughter, dammit!”

  “Our priority is you, sir,” says the agent to his left. The door swings open and hands tug him from both sides. “We’ll send a team for them once you’re secure.”

  Richard is thrust outside, up the White House steps to the door. As the other SUV screeches to a halt, one of his men lobs a device at it. An explosion releases a cloud of tear gas. He jerks his head to see behind them but the cloud of chemicals obscure everything.

  “Taylor!” His shouts are muffled by the protective layers. They wouldn’t harm a child, would they?

  Bullets pock the white pillars and pristine paint as they race over the threshold and down the historic hallway. Breathing hard, he slows, but the arms that guide him grip tighter, pull stronger. They’re deeper into the West Wing now. Almost to safety.

  Shots shred a painting a few feet ahead of them as they make the last turn. Just ahead is the elevator, where a guard stands with an automatic rifle aimed in their direction, his foot wedged against the open door.

  The lead agent shouts to the guard, identifying them and confirming they have the president-­elect. A hand roughly shoves Richard into the elevator, his face slamming into the wall. He turns back to see a member of his team systematically shoot each of his Secret Ser­vice agents in their only unprotected areas—­the hands and feet. Weapons and bodies drop to the floor, their agonizing, muffled groans shaking Richard to the core. Despite the shooter’s mask, he recognizes Carter’s suit. Impossible! Carter is President Clark’s man. Why would he disable his own men?

  Wait—­the guard at the elevator! Carter hasn’t shot him, hasn’t even looked his way. Richard leans forward, reaches the wall panel and hits the button that should propel him to safety. Instead, the guard glares at him and steadies his hold on the open door. Then he nods to Carter. Oh Christ. Oh, God. They’re all in on it. Are they with BASIA?

  “You can have the honor,” Carter says to the guard, indicating the men struggling on the floor. “Finish it.”

  As Carter steps into the elevator, he aims his gun at Richard’s feet. Pressing his back against the wall, Richard uses it to steady himself and stand. Saliva pools in his mouth. He desperately wants to spit at the traitor but he swallows it. The elevator descends six floors deep into the earth. Why hasn’t Carter killed him? What could they possibly be planning? Through the protective headgear the familiar brown eyes blink at him.

  Richard slides his gas mask up onto his head, rolls the ballistics hood up, revealing his face. “Why, Carter?”

  Carter also removes the protective masks from his face. “Ben Franklin said, ‘They who can give up essential liberty to obtain a little temporary safety deserve neither liberty nor safety.’ ”

  “Ben Franklin didn’t live in our world.”

  “The MedID goes against everything our forefathers believed. It goes against our God-­given freedoms.”

  “What if I shut down the MedID?”

  “It’s too late.”

  “What are you part of? Are you with Charles Mitchell?”

&n
bsp; “I serve God. Years ago in His name and for our freedom, my mother sacrificed herself. Then my father enlisted in the U.S. Army.”

  “As a mole?”

  Carter nods. “After he died, Reverend Mitchell took me in. I was just a kid. He taught me everything. Gave me everything.”

  “But you work for President Clark?”

  “That was my assignment. It’s completed now.”

  The moment is surreal. His trusted confidant is a double agent, and Richard knows he’s been a fool.

  “You need to put your hood and mask back on.” Carter pulls two pairs of earphones from his pocket. “And take this. Make sure they’re secure in both ears.”

  “Goddammit, Carter, think about the enormity of this!” Hands trembling, he does as he’s told, readjusting the face gear and plugging his ears.

  “You’ve waited your whole life for this moment, but so have I,” Carter says. “So have I.”

  Chapter 80

  DOWN THE WHITE HOUSE hallway, Taylor digs her heels into the carpet to slow the men who yank her forward. The gas mask limits her vision to what’s in front of her. Before the tear gas erupted outside, she’d seen her father being ushered through the entrance. No doubt they’re heading for the Presidential Emergency Operations Center with the bunker, several floors below.

  Sienna. The bastards left her locked in the SUV, screaming “Mommy!” as the door slammed shut. Knowing she’s alone and scared makes Taylor struggle even harder. But maybe her daughter is safer there? If Reverend Mitchell expects her father to give up his life—­or the presidency—­in exchange for his daughter’s safe return, he’s sorely misguided.

  They’re about to turn down a new hallway when Taylor raises her feet off the carpet. It doesn’t faze her abductors, who continue on, carrying her now. So she kicks. Wildly. The kicking stops them, but a sharp jab in her thigh makes her gasp. Her body goes slack. One of the men picks her up and throws her over his shoulder. Consciousness slips away.

  REMNANTS OF TEAR gas cling to the air. Without a mask, Sebastian had to wait for it to clear. Now he ties his shirt over his nose and mouth and, with only the ballistics suit covering his torso, jumps out of his vehicle and sprints toward the entrance. His eyes burn, but he ignores it as best he can, squinting through blurry vision. As he passes the first SUV, muted screams come from within. He presses his face up against the window but he can’t see through the tinted pane. Still, he recognizes Sienna’s voice.

  He works rapidly as he wrests the shirt from his face and tears a seam, ripping off a section of material. In seconds he ties the shirt back over his nose and mouth, then from his belt he pops off a metallic button. Attaching it to the rear passenger door, he yells to Sienna to turn away. A pop blows out the handle, leaving a hole. He wads up the piece of fabric and shoves it through the hole.

  “Hold this over your mouth and nose,” he instructs. “I’ll carry you through the gas.”

  Silence.

  “Sienna, It’s Will!” He pulls the shirt down briefly so she can see his face. A moment’s hesitation until finally she holds the material over her face. He opens the door, and she jumps into his arms.

  “Where’s Mommy?”

  “I’m going to get her, but I need your help. Can you help me?”

  She nods and clings to him as he races up the White House steps. Inside the foyer, he sets her down and draws out his gun. There are no voices, no sounds. No evidence revealing their path. Suddenly, Sienna wraps her arms around his legs. He bends down so he’s eye level with her. They both take off their masks.

  “We’re gonna play hide-­and-­seek, Sienna. Okay?”

  “Where’s Mommy?” she asks again.

  “She wants you to hide. She asked me to find you a good place.”

  “Okay.”

  Keeping a tight hold on his gun, with his free arm Sebastian carries her through the East Wing. He’s read countless books about the White House, knows about the secret compartments and rooms. They enter the library and he searches for a leather-­bound copy of The Odyssey. He finds it and pulls it forward. A door no taller than Sienna opens beneath it.

  “Wow,” she says.

  From his belt, he frees a thumb-­sized flashlight and hands it to her as she settles inside the space. “Remember, part of the game is being as quiet as you can. Only come out when you hear your mom’s voice.”

  “I’m scared.”

  “You’re safe here. And I’ll be back soon with your mom. Think about those happy dreams your mom puts into your ears.”

  Finally she nods.

  “Okay.” He smiles reassuringly, then seals her inside.

  Pivoting, he bolts back down the hall and rounds another corner, entering the West Wing. He stops and listens. Muffled footsteps come from up ahead somewhere. Gun poised, he slows at the next corner and peers around the wall. There, maybe twenty feet away, a BASIA soldier carries a limp Taylor over his shoulder.

  Sebastian’s on him in seconds. He lands a powerful kick to the man’s back and hears a bone crack. The soldier groans as he and Taylor land in a heap. Ahead, another soldier turns and points his weapon, but Sebastian fires first. The bullet explodes the man’s hand, sends the gun flying. He moves forward, rips off the soldier’s gas mask and ballistics hood and shoots him in the head.

  Disarming both men, Sebastian stuffs their weapons into his belt and kneels beside Taylor, feels for a pulse. Relief fills him. She’s alive, probably drugged. For a split second he doesn’t know if he should run out with her and Sienna or finish this—­whatever this is.

  Indiscernible sounds echo in the distance. He stops debating and moves, stripping the bulkier man of his pants and jacket. The clothes fit over his own, and he slides on the ballistics hood and gas mask. He hoists Taylor over his shoulder and strides around the corner.

  At an elevator midway down the hall, a man dressed identically to Sebastian is furiously waving him forward. Another BASIA soldier. Sebastian quickens his pace and watches as the man touches his thumb to a wall scanner, then leans in for a retinal scan.

  “Who fired shots?” the soldier asks.

  “Secret Ser­vice,” Sebastian says. “We got him.”

  “Where’s Murphy?”

  “He was hit.”

  The man nods and hits the elevator button multiple times, as though that will hurry it along. Sebastian grips his gun tighter, shifts Taylor on his shoulder. The door opens.

  “PEOC is the last button, all the way down. Carter’s just ahead of you.”

  Swiftly, Sebastian shoots the man in his temple. He sets Taylor on the elevator floor and drags the man inside with them. The doors close and the car descends. He leans against a wall, catches his breath. Carter Benson is one step ahead, he thinks. Charles Mitchell’s reach is truly stunning, the scope of his plan immense. At this point, Sebastian isn’t even sure what he hopes to accomplish. All he can do is move forward.

  Chapter 81

  RICHARD ADJUSTS HIS earphones as he scans the concrete vestibule that leads into the bunker. There’s no way out. He watches Carter, who pulls up his ballistics sleeve and presses buttons on a device fastened to his arm. With worrisome ease, he activates the retinal key and the fingerprint scanner. The door opens with a loud click and a beep.

  Downed guards litter the corridor, weapons forgotten as they writhe and moan. At least they look like they’re moaning, but Richard can’t hear them with the earphones. He feels his jaw drop, he can’t move. But Carter prods him forward with his gun. The guards don’t notice as Richard stumbles over them and Carter walks confidently to the end of the hall.

  The mask is suffocating. Richard’s senses are off, his balance unsure.

  At the end of the hallway, Carter opens a door with the presidential seal. A half second later, Richard follows him into the Executive Briefing Room. He gasps. Fifteen, twenty ­people are on the fl
oor, all in apparent agony. Many are hunched in the fetal position, hands covering their ears. ­People are vomiting, hyperventilating, unconscious. My God, my God. Richard recognizes almost all of them: the current vice president, First Lady Shannon Clark, the Secretary of State, two counselors, the Chief of Staff, and the National Security Advisor. The others’ suits give away their identity as Secret Ser­vice. In a corner, crumpled in a heap with his wife, is President Clark. Blood streams from his nose. This cannot be real. Richard looks over to Carter, who systematically checks bodies and removes weapons.

  Richard is paralyzed. Inside his ballistics suit, his chest is tight, his body drenched in sweat. Carter dumps the weapons into a trashcan. Gathering the pulls on the plastic bag within, he hauls out the sack and slings it over his back, like a macabre Santa Claus.

  THE ILLUMINATED DOTS in thirty-­eight states remain green, with the remainder red. Charles isn’t convinced Jonathan is doing as he’s told, working to take control of the power grids. The kid’s fingers press keys, but perhaps he’s just doing it for effect. It’s been an hour since Richard Hensley took the stage, yet there’s been no confirmation on BASIA’s critical targets, Hensley and Clark. Charles presses his thumb into the cross in his palm. Presses until it hurts. Though their goal is finally within reach, the wait is maddening. Pain stabs at his temple. From his pants pocket he pulls out a bottle, opens it and swallows one of the pills. He begins to pray silently. Heavenly Father, who art in Heaven. . .

  “Sir, you have a call.” Henry hands him a phone.

  “Watch him.” Charles gestures to Jonathan. He steps out into the hallway, holds the phone at face level. “Go.”

  Carter’s face appears. The image is grainy, distorted.