Nation of Enemies

by H. A. Raynes

  Over their radios a male voice commands, “All guards report to stations. I repeat, all guards report to stations.”

  “There are cameras everywhere.” Whitey gestures to the various points in the hall. “There’s nowhere for him to hide.”

  Little do they know that he’s also compromised the security system. All video has been paused, creating the effect that the halls are empty. Jonathan slides toward the exit while they argue.

  “Fine.” Horse takes his hand off the weapon in his waistband. “But Mitchell is gonna be pissed this isn’t finished.”

  “Stay here, kid,” says Whitey. “If you so much as move we’ll kill your stepfather.”

  It’s a tired threat. Jonathan watches the men exchange glances, then quickly turn and run back toward the control room. As soon as they’re out of sight, he slides his back up the wall, stands and sprints for the door. He slams his body against it and it opens, mercifully. Daylight!

  Sirens pierce the air. He runs across the grass, into the woods. His feet fly over rocks, fallen branches. He knows he only has minutes before Huan rearms the system. The cold air wakes him up, feeds his body. Without his arms and hands to use for balance, he almost falls several times. But he never stops.

  “Fuck you, Mitchell, you asshole!” There’s no one to hear it, but it’s music to him.

  Crisp leaves crunch underfoot as he ducks branches, weaves around trees. The path he’s taking should lead to the main road. It’s hard to believe Hannah’s behind this, that she risked everything to help him. He wonders what the Reverend’s question was about. Did she escape? Will she be waiting for him?

  The siren stops. Up ahead, sunlight streams in through the pine needles and twisted branches. A gunshot blast, a warning. Faster, faster than he knew he could run, Jonathan pushes his body. The road must be close now. His eyes strain to find the pavement ahead.

  STEVEN CHECKS HIS WATCH. Twelve hours have passed since the attack. They’ve been sitting here this whole time, waiting. The air in the Land Rover is soupy from three perspiring bodies. Karen’s been a good sport playing doctor and driver, especially as she has nothing to gain from helping any of them. Despite his attempts at small talk, Hannah remains a mystery, though she must have her reasons for switching sides and leaving Mitchell. She’s been vague with details, but she directed them to park here, a few miles from the entrance to the BASIA headquarters. Apparently, she left Jonathan a map that leads here. If they get him back, Steven won’t know how to properly thank her.

  “Where is he?” Steven asks.

  “Should be any minute now,” Hannah says.

  Everyone stares in silence down the narrow two-­way road.

  “What if it doesn’t work?” Karen asks.

  “Have faith,” Hannah says. “It’ll work.”

  For the umpteenth time, Steven checks his gun. Loaded. Safety off. His fingers drum repeatedly on his good leg. He stares out the window at the gray asphalt that stretches west. In the backpack Hannah brought with her from Mitchell’s home, she’d packed several thumb-­sized explosives and a remote control stolen from the Reverend’s arsenal. This girl—­woman, he supposes—­is a wealth of surprises. She and Karen placed the explosives strategically in different places on the one road that leads to the BASIA compound. Chaos and distraction will help them rescue Jonathan. It’s the best—­and the only—­plan they have.

  “I know it’s cold but we should roll down the windows,” Hannah says. “We need to be able to hear them coming.”

  Karen obliges, lowering all the windows. Somewhere nearby, staccato pops burst the silence.

  “Shots.” Steven sits higher in his seat, lifts his gun.

  “They’re coming from the woods.” Hannah points. “That means Jonathan followed the map. He’s heading our way.”

  The blasts ring out in an unpredictable rhythm. They’re getting louder. Karen positions her gun, clicks off the safety. Hannah readies the remote control detonator.

  “They’re close,” Steven whispers. Branches sway in the wind. He sees something—­someone—­heading in their direction. He aims his gun out the window. It’s not an easy shot.

  Suddenly, an engine roars. It’s coming from the direction of the BASIA compound.

  “It’s him,” Hannah says. “Look!”

  Steven leans closer. Sure enough, Jonathan weaves through the last layers of trees until he hits the pavement. There, he pauses, only twenty yards away. Steven exhales as though he’s been holding his breath for days. But with Karen’s gun aimed out the window, a panicked look crosses Jonathan’s face. He sprints in the opposite direction, away from them and the BASIA compound. In that split second, he realizes Jonathan must not see him or Hannah, must not recognize Karen.

  “Jonathan!” He grabs Karen’s arm. “He thinks we’re with Mitchell. Let’s go!”

  “Wait,” Hannah says.

  Karen shuts the windows. Jonathan’s body is getting smaller in the distance. From the opposite direction a dark SUV is heading toward them at high speed. At the same time, two men in black uniforms emerge from the woods with assault weapons. They’re searching for Jonathan. Suddenly, they focus on the Land Rover, shifting their guns and firing without hesitation. Bullets ricochet off the glass, the hood, the side of the bulletproof car. The oncoming SUV is only a hundred feet away.

  “Now!” Karen shouts.

  Hannah presses a button on the remote, triggering all of the explosives simultaneously. Thunderous blasts, fire and smoke erupt. It’s hard to tell what’s happening within the billowing smoke. Steven turns to see Jonathan, stopped by the noise, watching this attack on his captors.

  “Go, go, go!” Steven yells.

  The tires screech on the pavement as Karen wrenches the steering wheel, turning the car in the other direction. Steven rolls down his window and waves to Jonathan, who stands motionless in the road. In the rearview mirrors the clouds of smoke are dissipating and there’s no movement. The SUV is on its side, burning.

  “Well done, Hannah,” he says, glancing back at her. She stares out the window. Tears streak her cheeks and run down her neck. She makes no move to wipe them away.

  Karen pulls the car to a stop alongside Jonathan. Upon seeing his stepfather, he bends at the waist, hands bound together at his back, and gasps for breath. If Steven could go to him, he would. Instead he leans his head out the window.

  “You’re not going to shoot me again, are you?” he says.

  Jonathan straightens, revealing a face streaked with tears, but he’s grinning. It’s the most delightful vision Steven has ever seen.

  Chapter 84

  SEBASTIAN GLANCES INTO the rearview mirror. The glare of oncoming headlights reveals Taylor peacefully staring out the darkened window, Sienna nestled into the curve of her body. It was disturbingly easy to slip back into the East Wing of the White House. The quiet was terrifying, as though the world had ended. He’d found Sienna where he left her in the secret room. To his surprise, she was sleeping. Her body had probably shut down after the trauma.

  D.C. was in utter chaos. Sebastian took the SUV he’d driven to the White House and blazed down the streets, passing U.S. military tanks and trucks filled with troops. They were frantically scrambling to set up barricades on roads leading from the convention center and the White House. If he’d been just a minute or two later, they might not have made it out.

  An hour ago Taylor awakened, groggy and confused. When she saw Sienna next to her, her body shook as she gathered her into her arms and they embraced in a tangle of arms and emotion. They haven’t let go since.

  The country road they’re on has little traffic. By now, he knows, all major highways have been shut down by the military, but there’s not enough manpower to cover the side roads. He wonders if Cole and Lily got out all right, if they’ve landed already. A little while ago he told Taylor everything that had happened since
she was drugged. She listened without comments or questions. And though she can clearly see they’re heading south, she hasn’t asked about their destination.

  In his lap, Sebastian’s right hand throbs from the bullet that pierced it. Wrapped tightly in a white T-­shirt, it’s now stained a rust color from dried blood. Despite the pain, a part of him is glad. Glad the cross tattoo will be obscured by the scar that will remain. A lifetime of memories in his hand.

  It will be several hours before they reach the Outer Banks, and after that it shouldn’t take long to find a willing captain with a boat to ferry them away. Plane travel will be suspended by now, but it should be easier to travel by boat. The coast guard and navy will be on alert, but they simply can’t cover the expanse of the Atlantic. A small fishing boat should do the job. And money will speak volumes to a fisherman.

  “Will?” Taylor’s voice is hoarse, weak.

  Their eyes connect in the rearview. Will. It’s all still lies.

  “Can we go somewhere sunny?” she asks. It’s a child’s question, a simple request based purely on want, not need.

  “You read my mind.” He grins. Given what they’re escaping, they should be granted asylum. Not to mention they all have clean MedIDs. “British Virgin Islands?”

  “Yes.” Her head lolls back on the seat. “Virgin Gorda. Tortola. Anegada.”

  It feels like a dream to talk of such things. Too simple, that after everything that’s happened they can be transported to a land without politics or terror, bullets or bombs. A twinge in his chest, a flash of Kate’s face. She’d want this for him. A new life. Maybe even a family.

  “I can sell my art to tourists.” Taylor’s eyes are closed now, daydreaming.

  “There’s something you should know.” He positions the mirror so he can see her better. “My name isn’t Will Anderson.”

  Taylor leans forward, rests her hand on his shoulder. “I’ve had enough truth for a lifetime. I don’t need to know your real name to know who you are.”

  He stares at their headlights on the road ahead. His family in Buenos Aires must be watching the news, must think he’s dead. In many ways, it’s like Sebastian Diaz died along with Kate, died along with his passion to defend a country corrupt to its core. Will Anderson only existed as an assignment, someone who witnessed too much death and horror. Maybe she’s right.

  “I like the name on my new MedID,” she says. “Starting now, I’m Cleo Mason. And this is my daughter, Sophie.”

  The name on his new chip, courtesy of Cole, is in honor of Boston and of his partner. Yet another identity, but this one he’ll easily remember. “Nice to meet you, Cleo. Name’s Logan Renner.”

  “Logan Renner.” She reaches over the seat, lays her hand gently against his cheek. He kisses her palm.

  Sienna stirs, restless. “Are we there yet?”

  “Not yet,” he says.

  Taylor settles back on the seat and sings softly. The tune calms the little girl, and him as well. Logan Renner, he thinks to himself. Who is he, or who will he be? It’s not a question he needs to answer now. Time will tell.

  THE SUDDEN, JARRING motion of the plane’s wheels hitting the tarmac make Cole grip the armrest of his window seat. He pushes up the oval shade to reveal a leaden sky, dampened asphalt, and green grass in the distance. It’s been twenty years since he and Lily have seen her cousins and this city they’ll now, finally, call home. London. He rubs his eyes, which sting from the stale air and the emotion of the past several hours.

  Three hours into the flight, seat monitors displaying news networks had suddenly interrupted programming to report a large-­scale terrorist attack on the United States. At precisely midnight, Eastern Standard Time, a wave of choreographed assassinations had swept the country, aimed at both newly elected and former administration officials.

  Shrieks, cries, denials had filled the air. ­People frantically tried to call, text, or email loved ones. Cabin air grew ripe with nervous sweat, the space suddenly claustrophobic. Some passengers fainted in the commotion.

  From what Cole learned, officials confirmed at least sixty deaths, but with updates coming hourly, sources said the actual number was likely to surpass initial reports. Shaky phone videos displayed footage taken at campaign parties where darkness fell, followed by gunshots and explosions. One reporter said the collective hope of the United States was with the Secret Ser­vice, who likely executed an escape for both President Clark and President-­elect Richard Hensley, along with the vice president and the vice president–elect. Then the pilot disconnected all incoming plane communications in the cabin.

  He’d tried to call Steven and Karen, but it was no use. Throughout the plane, voices shouted out names of known terrorists—­including Reverend Mitchell and BASIA—­along with conspiracy theories rooted in their very own government. His thoughts turned to Sebastian, where he was when it all went down. If he’s still alive. And have Steven and Jonathan been reunited? Perhaps he’ll never know.

  Eventually, the crew turned down the lights and ­people quieted. Worry and his imagination kept him awake through the flight. The War at Home changed in one night, and left a revolution in his wake. There are no winners, not yet.

  Beside him, Ian sleeps. In the aisle seat, Lily cradles Talia, her downy head resting against Lily’s chest. He studies his wife. She’s still beautiful, but something about her has changed. As though ten years passed in six months. Fine lines like parentheses curve around her mouth, and her ivory skin creases at the outer edge of her eyes, even when she’s not smiling. He imagines she thinks the same about him.

  “I love you, Lily.”

  “I love you, too.”

  They both smile weakly. A ding sounds as the pilot comes over the speakers and, in an English accent, welcomes the native citizens home.

  “For those of you who are United States citizens, I’d like to extend our deepest sympathies on behalf of myself, your copilot, and your crew.” The pilot’s tone is grave. “All passengers need to be aware that flights originating in the U.S. will be met at the gate by military officers. It’s standard procedure when an event like this takes place. They’ll be interviewing everyone before allowing you to leave the airport. It’s for your own safety, and for the safety of England. I’m sure you understand.”

  The plane taxis to the gate and everyone stands. Cole scans the cabin. It’s the first time he’s seen the faces of the passengers since the news. Cheeks streaked by tears, bodies hunched, eyes wide and alert with what he guesses is the universal look of shock. Fear hangs between them, connects them forever in this moment. The ache of it all settles in him.

  He pulls Ian to him, kisses the top of his head. He has no regrets. His family is alive. No matter what was left behind, his world is right here.

  Acknowledgments

  TO MY AGENT Laura Gross who took a chance on me and who worked with ceaseless energy and enthusiasm for this book until she found it a home. Thank you to my phenomenal editor, Emily Krump, who understood my characters as though they were her own and who helped me to make Nation of Enemies the best book it could be.

  To my unflaggingly talented writer’s group, Loren Schecter, Laurie Nordman and Karen Halil-­Mechanic, who supported me throughout the journey beginning at page one. To my friend, Celia St. Amant, always honest, always true, who has never steered me wrong in my writing and my life. To my sister, Heidi Thielen. An early reader and champion of my work, her tenacity of spirit and determination can be found woven through my characters.

  Also, to my friends at L’Aroma Café. It’s impossible to calculate the number of coffees and curries enjoyed within the comforting walls of this gem I like to call “my office.” Thank you for always saving me a seat.

  To my eternally supportive husband, Ben, and daughters, Amelie and Ivy, who understand my passion for writing and leave me with kisses and hugs as I go off to write each weekend.

&
nbsp; And last but not least, to my father, who told me I could be and do whatever I wanted to in life. And to my mother, for the dreams she never pursued.

  About the Author

  H.A. Raynes was inspired to write Nation of Enemies by a family member who was a Titanic survivor and another who escaped Poland in World War II. Combining lessons from the past with a healthy fear of the modern landscape, this novel was born. A longtime member of Boston’s writing community, H.A. Raynes has a history of trying anything once (acting, diving out of a plane, white water rafting, and parenting). Writing and raising children seem to have stuck.

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  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  NATION OF ENEMIES. Copyright © 2015 by Holly Raynes. All rights reserved under International and Pan-­American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-­book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-­engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of Harper­Collins e-­books.

  EPub Edition AUGUST 2015 ISBN: 9780062417695

  Print Edition ISBN: 9780062417701

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