Nation of Enemies (11 page)

 

Chapter 22

T
HE
S
AFE
W
ALL
gates to the Hudson estate swing open, allowing in a grey SUV. Jonathan squints against the chrome and glass that gleam in the midday sun. On his way out of the house he'd passed his mother. She barely noticed him, her eyes black, her face pale. No doubt she'll crash all day, coming down from her high. And Steven won't know he's gone until hours from now when he emerges from the morgue.

Hopping into the backseat, he greets the driver, who then closes the privacy window. As they leave the estate, his breath catches. He's only ever ridden with his mother or stepfather, and those times have been for special—­or tragic—­occasions. Since the war started, parents let kids have social lives online but that's about it. He rolls down the window; the fresh air warms his skin. Hannah's invitation is like a door to freedom.

They're on the Mass Pike, heading west. Her family is having some kind of party today and she insisted on sending a car for him. It's not like he could have ridden his skateboard down the highway. Unease creeps in; he's not often plunged into new situations. Since the day he met Hannah, they've spoken every day. They video chat and play online games, talk about movies or random things, like where they'd travel if they could go anywhere in the world. Their voices run together in a nonstop stream. When she gets tired, she plays with her hair and her voice grows singsongy. They talk until the light changes, the shadows moving across the room.

A half hour later the car pulls off the highway and onto a dirt road overgrown with a lush canopy of trees. The dirt turns to pavement, ending with a wrought-­iron gate that opens into a circular driveway. An enormous white mansion looms. The word that comes to his mind is geometric. Angles pointing this way and that with a lot of glass. Cool. And a little intimidating. He brushes his shaggy hair out of his eyes and runs his palms over his jeans.
Shit. Hope the party's casual.

An attendant opens the door and escorts him into the foyer and down a long hallway. Inside it's cold, spotless. White and marble. Everything echoes. He second-­guesses himself. Maybe he shouldn't have come. Or at least gotten high before coming.

In the living room, glass doors open onto a stone patio. Classical music plays softly under a din of voices. The party is in full swing, with a crowd of ­people spilling from the deck onto the pristine grass. His mouth is dry. Maybe this was a bad idea. With his feet fixed at the door, he notices that everyone looks to be his age or younger. He searches for Hannah, to no avail. The crowd is a mass of white and khaki and he senses eyes on him. On his jeans and T-­shirt. Sweat pools under his arms and a trickle runs down his back as he stares straight ahead and moves directly toward his salvation. The bar.

“D'you have beer?” he asks the bartender.

“You have ID?”

Jonathan looks around. When he confirms no one can hear him, he leans in closer. “No, but I have a twenty.”

The bartender, a man seemingly round as he is tall, flashes a grin. “Reverend Mitchell pays me well enough, thanks. So. Coke? Lemonade?”

Reverend Mitchell. The guy who leads that megachurch? The one conspiracy theorists claim was behind the Planes? No way. Hannah's too normal to have a father like that. Jonathan takes his lemonade to a corner of the deck. The other kids have already forgotten him, returned to their conversations. As he stands with his back against the railing. someone slides next to him.

“You came.” Wide smile, freckles, a mass of red hair.

They clink their glasses. “Cheers.”

“It's good to see you in person.”

His face grows hot. “Nice house.”

She glances back. “It's a bit much. All I need is a kitchen and a bedroom and I'm good.”

“Is your father really
the
Reverend Charles Mitchell?”

“My adoptive father. Yes.”

Rumors about the Reverend are well-­known. “They say he doesn't believe in MedIDs.”

She turns her forearm over to reveal a tiny scar, evidence of an extracted biochip.

“Now it makes sense.”

“What?”

Shit. He hadn't meant to say that out loud. “Sorry. I just wanted to know more about you. So I did a search, a pretty thorough search. But there was nothing. Like you don't exist.”

“It's okay.” She gestures to the other partygoers. “We're all off the proverbial grid here.”

“They go to your father's church?”

“They're my sisters and brothers.”

“How is that possible?”

“We're all orphans. Most of us lost our parents in the war. Charles has so much to give and he doesn't hold back. Part of his mission is to care for those of us who've given the most for our country. Our parents.”

“That's . . . amazing.” Or weird. It's certainly a different image from the one painted by the media.

“Let me introduce you.” She takes his hand and leads him across the deck.

Her touch distracts him, thrills him. But it's fleeting. In seconds he sees the face he recognizes from countless articles. The man is a few inches taller than Jonathan, and wears a suit jacket and a button-­down shirt opened at the collar.

“Charles, there's someone I want you to meet.” Hannah releases Jonathan's hand. “This is Jonathan Hudson.”

They shake hands. The Reverend's grip is firm and his eyes are intense. Jonathan wants to look away but forces himself to hold his gaze.

“Nice to meet you, Reverend Mitchell.”

“I've heard a lot about you, Jonathan.”

Hannah blushes, stifles a grin.

He's at a loss for what to say. “Your house is beautiful.”

“Would you like a tour?” Reverend Mitchell asks.

“Oh. Sure.”

“I'll join you in just a minute,” Hannah says, excusing herself to the restroom.

“Walk with me.” The Reverend heads toward the house. “And don't be alarmed. Henry is like my shadow.”

They are trailed by a statuesque, silent man in a suit. Jonathan swallows. What the hell? He reminds himself it's just Hannah's house. And her father. Strange as that is.

The house is vast, and during the tour there are hallways the Reverend doesn't mention, and doors he doesn't open. Finally, Hannah finds them as they're heading into an office that resembles a vault. In fact, he's pretty sure it is a vault, with a thick door and locking devices. Henry waits outside as Hannah and Jonathan sit on a leather couch across from Reverend Mitchell.

“So, Jonathan,” he says. “I hear you know your way around a computer.”

There's a pit in his stomach. He confided in Hannah. Trusted her with some of his secrets. As if reading his thoughts, she gently places her hand on his arm.

“I just told him you might be able to help him. He's hopeless with anything technical.”

“You might say I never touch the stuff.” The Reverend grins.

Weird that someone with this kind of house and his reputation doesn't know how to work a computer. He glances at Hannah then back to Reverend Mitchell. “Uh, sure. What do you need help with?”

“I'm told our network needs updating. Something to do with the cloud.” He waves his hand. “We're working to create a private communications channel that will bring the members of Patriot's Church closer together. As you may know, our flock is spread out nationally.”

“Sounds simple enough.”

“If you say so. It's not my forte so I must defer these matters to the experts.”

“Right. Sure.”

Reverend Mitchell's face grows serious. “I pay well, Jonathan. But in exchange I ask for complete confidentiality. My lawyer will draw up a contract.”

“Oh. Okay.” He's not sure exactly what he's just agreed to. He's never had to sign anything before. But his cyber business isn't exactly legal. Sounds like this would be. Helping them create an encrypted chat for their church should be cake.

“Good.” The Reverend stands, shoulders back, chest broad. “I look forward to working with you. Now, let's get back to the party.”

Once again Reverend Mitchell leads with Henry trailing behind the three of them. On their way, Jonathan's curiosity gets the better of him. “Hannah was telling me that she and everyone here are your adopted children?”

“There are two great gifts in this world, Jonathan. Life and death. When ­people die in the name of freedom, die for our future, it's our duty to protect the lives they created. When I realized that children were being orphaned in the name of our cause, I had to step in. I can't let these precious souls be handed over to a government system rife with corruption.”

“And you legally adopt them?”

“What's ‘legal' these days? We care for our own.”

It seems extreme to take in so many kids. Like a little cult he's growing here in this big compound. But whatever. If Reverend Mitchell has the money, it's generous of him to give them a home. Jonathan wonders what happened to Hannah's family.

Back outside, the Reverend pats him on the back. “I'll send a car for you tomorrow morning at nine and you can get started.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I'm glad you came, Jonathan. I think you'll like the Mitchell family.”

The Reverend and Henry disappear into the crowd. Hannah loops her arm in his.

“I'm glad you came, too.”

“You're full of surprises.”

“No more for today. Come on. Let me introduce you.”

Somehow, in just a few hours, everything has changed. He's out in the world, separate from his parents. He has a real job. And he has Hannah, whatever it is between them. The darkened room that awaits him at home seems so far away. The rest of the afternoon he spends with her siblings, making small talk. When she's not at his side, he watches her through the crowd. He feels slightly off-­balance in this world, this place. But being with her eclipses all of it.

 

Chapter 23

T
AYLOR
H
ENSLEY
'
S
AT
it again, strapped to the side of a building in Boston's Financial District. She wields her paint cans and dangles perilously. Sebastian's not one for heights, he's glad they can watch from the ground. It's after midnight on a warm June evening as he and Renner sit with the engine off in an old—­but stunningly fast—­Honda Accord. The Bureau has a host of these cars that aren't flashy on the outside but are outfitted on the inside with the latest technology. The car's 360-­degree surveillance cameras reveal quiet streets and only the occasional passing vehicle. Parked a block away in the shadows, Sebastian strokes his beard while contemplating Taylor. There's no doubt she'll be integral to his mission, once he's inside Patriot's Church. Politically, he needs to keep her safe. So he'll get to know her habits, her daily routine. Tonight, Renner offered to keep him company.

“You get any more info from Kate's email?” he asks.

“Everyone's clean,” Renner says. “I checked her colleagues at National Tourism. Nothing.”

They stare down the street, but it's hard to make out Taylor, illuminated only by a headlamp she wears. Sebastian taps on the Smart Shield and live video from their camera appears before them. He gestures with his fingers and in seconds they have a grainy but close-­up image of Taylor on her perch.

Renner's phone vibrates. He pulls a burner out of his coat pocket. “Hey.”

Sebastian recognizes the familiar soft tone Renner uses with his informant. As though it's a family member.

“You sure the weather's gonna be sunny this weekend?” Renner closes his eyes. “Okay. Keep on it. Maybe the forecast will change. How about that other thing we talked about?”

The code is their own, but his partner's face shows his disappointment. There's more back-­and-­forth and finally the call is wrapping up.

“Not yet,” Renner says. “Hey, there's a piece of art you should see. I'll leave it for you. And let me know your decision about the trip. Right. 'Bye.” He shuts off the phone.

“Let me guess,” Sebastian says. “Mitchell wasn't involved in the State House.”

“Apparently not.”

“Maybe he doesn't want to claim it.” He considers it from Mitchell's perspective. “Chemical warfare, presidential candidate assassination. Maybe it's too high profile.”

“The Planes were high profile.”

“He didn't claim that one either.”

They sit silently for a few minutes and watch Taylor. Sebastian circles back to the conversation. “Sounds like your CI isn't ready to cooperate when I'm inside.”

“Unclear. Needs more time.”

“More time. Shit.” He leans in closer to the video, watching Taylor work.

“What's up with the artwork you mentioned?”

“My CI has siblings that might be alive. Maybe in foster care. I pulled a favor and got renderings on what they'd look like now, ten years later.” Renner tugs the curl at the nape of his neck. “Needle in a haystack.”

As they watch the paint dry, literally, Sebastian spins this new intel around in his mind. It's just not possible. If Mitchell wasn't behind the State House, that means there's another highly organized enemy that's not even on their radar. He rolls his head around, his neck cracking. It's sunrise when Taylor finally peels off her harness and packs up her equipment. He examines the unmistakable image of her father's face peering out from behind a medieval shield. The shield is a distorted Secret Ser­vice agent, bent and twisted to fit inside the protective armor.

 

Chapter 24

Los Angeles, California

R
ICHARD
INHALE
S
THE
moment. A hundred thousand voices—­delegates, media, attendees—­bounce off the cavernous ceilings of the Los Angeles Convention Center on the evening of the second election primary for the Liberty Party. All this pomp and circumstance, the waste of party money for what is a foregone conclusion. There were never any other legitimate contenders, and his opponent in this race is an afterthought. She doesn't know how to play the game. Doesn't cater enough to her constituents. But she was their best option.

Since he accepted the nomination, Richard has felt propelled forward by a force he can only describe as fate. His team spends hours pouring over daily polls and honing strategies. But all of their calculations and predictions won't change what he already knows. The White House is his. It was always his.

Beside him backstage, his campaign manager Kendra coaches him on the event. The keyhole neckline of her conservative dress draws his eye. He's not sure if she ignores him or doesn't notice, either way, he always enjoys being close to her.

“Next is the moment of silence for James Gardiner,” she says. “Let them see you feel the weight of his sacrifice.”

“Yes, yes. I've been doing this for a while, my dear.”

“Many of your delegates are sixty-­fives and forty-­eights. Their kids, too. The speech will show your compassion, acknowledge that you're their President, too.”

“That's precisely the reason I'm pushing the new health agenda. It's for the under seventy-­fives.” Richard ticks off the items on his fingers. “Federal ban on smoking, mandatory fetal testing, checking waistbands after age forty, limiting television—­”

“You're right,” she interrupts. “Those things will change the way we live. But today we want to excite, not make them dwell too much about one detail or another.”

Richard waves a hand in the air, indicating that she can move on to the next subject.

“Governor Glickman will walk on stage with you and take a seat after greeting the crowd.”

“He's a child,” Richard mumbles.

“He's a child the party loves. And he'll go along quietly. Both good things.”

“True enough.”

“Okay, that's it.” Kendra checks her smartwatch. “Three minutes.”

Carter appears and hands Richard a bottle of water. As he drinks, ­people talk at him: an aide, his speechwriter, a senator. None of it registers. He's busy conjuring Norah. Imagining her walking hand in hand with him on stage. The audience would fall in love with her instantly.

Finally, it's time. With a triumphant smile and an arm raised in greeting, he strides onto the stage to the sound of massive applause. A step behind, his vice presidential running mate, David Glickman, waves both arms. The energy in the room is unlike anything Richard's ever felt and it makes him gasp. It's a full minute before they settle down and he takes his place behind the podium.

“It's good to see you, too.” Laughter. “I am honored and humbled to be your presidential candidate.” Cheers. He gestures to the young governor. “And of course, I'm excited and thankful to have David Glickman as my partner, your next vice president.” Slowly, the din quiets.

“However.” Richard thinks again of Norah
.
His eyes glisten. “It saddens me beyond words that we've been brought together in the wake of a national tragedy. We will never forget James Gardiner and the inspiring, distinguished life he lost in the name of this great country. Please, let's share a moment of silence in his name.”

Richard closes his eyes and focuses on the next part of his speech. After what feels like enough time, he returns his gaze to the crowd.

“And just as we can never forget James Gardiner and the other souls lost in Boston, we can never forget that we are a country at war.” He grips the podium. “Our nation is in shock at the constant loss of life. Horrified by the viciousness of our enemy, these terrorists who make our streets unsafe and pretend to be good neighbors. But as I stand here today, I promise you we will spare no resource to expose and capture them.” A burst of applause.

“As Commander-­in-­Chief, I will greet each day with renewed energy and determination to win the War at Home. I will work ceaselessly with the Department of Defense and Homeland Security to strengthen our military. In time, the United States will be home to the healthiest, most resilient citizenry on the planet. With the MedID as our tool, you will be well-­cared for. Your health and your safety. You will be free to live your lives. To work your jobs. To go to school. To care for your children.” Shouts of yes echo off the walls. “The MedID was instrumental in facilitating emergency care for the victims of our recent tragedy. With the MedID, the incredible medical community, and with God's blessing, we will be healed. No more disease. No more evil. Health and happiness will be our just desserts.”

Thunderous approval. “I want to take a minute and speak to the Independents. Those of you who do not have MedIDs. We share this beautiful country, its resources, its government. And I want you to be safe, too. I've spoken to folks in Atlanta and Dallas, in Minneapolis and Seattle, and in small towns and cities across this country. I understand your concerns and your fears. And let me be clear. Everyone in the United States is free. Free to travel, to work, to own property, to earn money. Free, in fact, to run for President. But let's be honest. No one wants a president with a fifty-­eight.” Laughter. “My number is on public record—­I'm proud to say I'm an eighty-­two.”

Cheers. He moves on to highlight the party platform: education, unemployment, and international relations. After fifteen minutes he is ready for the finish.

“When I'm in the White House, we'll work together to get a handle on this war that's been brought to our doorstep. Together, we'll build a healthier nation. Doctor visits will be a rare occurrence. No one will need to file for unemployment. We will once again be the strongest country in this world because we will bring this war to an end. We will come together. And all will be well. That's what I want you to remember when you vote for me come November. All will be well.”