Nation of Enemies (17 page)

 

Chapter 35

T
HE
AUTONOM
OUS
RENTAL
car transports Steven and Jonathan three hours northwest of Boston. Steven thought it best not to bring the Mercedes, lest his license plate—­HUDSONS—­give away their identity. Reclined in his seat, Jonathan has slept most of the way. They're heading to one of many communities of outliers who eschew both society and technology while preaching nonviolence. This particular “town” he learned about from a client whose daughter moved here a few years ago. The ­people grow their own food, build their own homes, and rely on one another for all things. It's like a hippie commune. Or the Amish. Steven wonders if they have toilet paper and other trivial, yet civilized luxuries.

It's after dusk as the car steers down a long dirt road through the New Hampshire woods. The handgun stashed under his seat unnerves him, but he thought it best to bring it along. Despite their nonviolent beliefs, there could be survivalists among them that don't look kindly on strangers. Beside him, Jonathan stirs.

“ 'Morning, sunshine.”

“You look ridiculous,” Jonathan says.

Steven glances at himself in the rearview mirror. For the occasion, he borrowed from his mortician's arsenal and is wearing a strategically placed mole, glasses, and streaks of gray in his hair. With his advertisements everywhere, he can't take the chance someone will recognize him.

“Are you gonna tell me what we're doing here?” Jonathan asks. “Is someone dead?”

“Always.”

“What's this for?” Jonathan holds a medical supply kit from the morgue.

“We're diversifying.”

“You gonna kill someone?”

Steven coughs. “Let's hope it won't come to that.”

The members of Project Swap, as they're calling the MedID effort, are eager but cautious. The MedID database is growing at a rate impossible to keep up with, on the recipient side, of course. Each of them—­Cole, Karen, and Steven—­already knew a handful of potential recipients. But the donor side is impossible to predict, and considerably slower to fill. While they all brainstorm how best to find donors, this is Steven's first foray into Project Swap's underground outreach. Donating Sarah's MedID had gone flawlessly, thanks to Karen, who connected them with a former patient desperate to shed her medical history. Something about the transaction helped Steven sleep better at night, as though he'd finally put Sarah to rest. Or maybe it was the opposite—­giving her a second chance at life. At any rate, in an effort to find more donors, he had the idea to seek out those who might need money more than MedIDs.

Finally they pull into a clearing with a smattering of housing structures, built of wood with a roughness that brings colonial times to mind. Torchlight illuminates an area in the center with several long wooden tables. Adults are eating while children wander and play. Everyone turns and freezes in the headlights.

“This a family reunion?” Jonathan asks.

“There's that wit. But this isn't the time.” He takes the Medical Record Scanner out of the kit. “We're here to run the MRS on these ­people. If they'll let us.”

“Why?”

“Do you know your MedID number?” Steven asks.

“Yeah.”

“As I recall, it's impressive.”

“Eighty-­six.”

“Yes. You should live to be a hundred and ten.”

“Why the fuck would I want to do that?”

“Why indeed.” Frankly, he's just trying to keep his stepson alive long enough to see thirty. He wants him to wake up. To understand what life is like outside the wrought-­iron gates of their estate. Since Sarah died, Jonathan disappears even more, gone for hours at a time to this new job of his. Steven works so much he can't keep tabs on him, and there has to be a level of trust between them. He hasn't pressed him for information, for fear of pushing him away. Perhaps if he gives the boy just enough freedom, he'll want to stay. Now that Jonathan is his sole responsibility, Steven has decided to try something drastic. Hopefully this plan works and Jonathan will start to understand the bigger picture.

“We're here to find clean MedIDs,” he explains. “If we find anyone seventy-­five or over, we can make an offer.”

“What kind of offer?”

“Just follow my lead.” He feels for the gun under his seat and retrieves it, tucking it into the back of his pants. Jonathan gapes. “At this point you listen. Ask questions later.”

The humid night, and his nerves, make Steven sweat. He should have changed out of his suit, dressed casually. Jonathan is wearing ripped jeans and a T-­shirt, a better fit for the circumstances. The slam of the car doors is jarringly loud in the silence. In the flickering light, children look up and ­people stop eating. A few men stand from the table, their puffed out chests and furrowed brows causing Steven to stop several feet away.

“ 'Evening!” Steven holds up a hand in greeting and hopes they can't see it shaking.

“What's your business here?” One of the men leaves his table, approaches while keeping a hand tucked behind his back. He wears army fatigues and waves of dark hair brush his shoulders, blending in with a beard that could use a trim. He stops about ten feet away.

“I'm sorry to interrupt your dinner,” Steven says. “My name is Brandon Goodby and I've come to your community today with an opportunity.”

“We don't need anything,” the man says.

“We all need something.”

“You've come to the wrong place. Move on.”

“Please. I'm not selling anything. I'm not here to convert you or to disrupt your lives.”

“Then what?” a middle-­aged woman asks as she stands, hands on her hips.

He shifts on his feet, the metal against his back nudging him. He's sure the man he's speaking to is carrying a gun. Maybe they all are. Gravel crunches behind him. Jonathan. He shouldn't have brought him. This is a dangerous, poorly-­thought-­through idea. Suddenly, he wants to turn and run. Instead he takes a deep breath and swallows. Make the offer and get out.

“Do any of you have clean MedIDs?”

“Fuck you, suit,” calls a teenage boy. Kids around him laugh.

“What're you after?” asks the man in army fatigues.

“Fair trade,” Steven says. “Clean MedIDs are a commodity. And I'm buying.”

Murmuring from the crowd.

“Why do you want clean chips?” Army Fatigues steps closer. “You from the government? The FBI?”

“No. Not even close.” Trying his best to look confident and relaxed, shoulders back, he approaches the man. “Listen, this isn't about me. This is about you. About all of you.”

“As I'm sure you already know, we don't use MedIDs here. Some of us have them, some don't. Either way, it's not part of our life.”

“Precisely. You don't need them. So I'm here to ask if any of you would be willing to part with any clean chips you might have.”

“In exchange for what?”

“Five thousand dollars.”

Army Fatigues laughs, then turns to the rest of the pack, who laugh along. “You want a spotless medical history for your own? For five thousand dollars?”

“Not my own, per se.”

“This has been entertaining, but you need to go.”

“I understand the choice you've made to live here. It's like one sane pocket of society while the rest of it has gone mad.” The laughter stops. All eyes are on him. “You have your own doctors, teachers, carpenters, gardeners. You communicate face-­to-­face instead of multitasking with machines. And you're not doing anything illegal. It's quite brilliant, actually.”

“But?”

“A lot of ­people can't get out. They're trapped, afraid to leave the only place they've known. And they have no hope because they're stuck with subpar DNA. Remember when ­people used to get organ donations, before the 3D printers? This would be just like that. What if you could donate a priceless organ to someone who would die otherwise?”

The night noises grow suddenly loud in the quiet. An owl, crickets, wind in the leaves.

“But someone would have our identity,” the woman from earlier says softly.

“Your name,” Steven says. “A DNA number that isn't really theirs. And if you truly have left the world in which all of that means something, do you really care?”

“For five thousand dollars?” Army Fatigues asks.

“Per MedID. Buys a lot in this economy,” he counters. “Clothes. Supplies. Medicine.”

The man looks up to the night sky. Steven chews the inside of his cheek. Finally Army Fatigues says, loudly enough for everyone to hear, “Everyone here is free to make his or her own decisions. But we've built our society on several rules. One of which involves material things and finances. Anything of personal value goes to the improvement and maintenance of our buildings, along with supplies for sustenance and anything else deemed necessary by majority vote.”

Steven matches the man's volume, glances over his shoulder at the others. “So, ridding yourselves of your MedIDs would not only be a selfless act to help another in need, but it would also enable you to live here, longer and more comfortably.”

A ripple of whispers spreads throughout the group. The children have gone back to playing, while the adults have abandoned their dinners.

“I got rid of my chip years ago,” Army Fatigues says. “My wife, too. Kids never had them. But feel free to talk to the others.” He steps aside, clearing the way for Steven and Jonathan.

The next two hours pass quickly. Jonathan trails wordlessly behind as Steven makes his way down the line of donors. As he preps and cleans the MedID Extractor, Jonathan reads from a tablet, asking each person a litany of questions that ultimately decides whether someone is a candidate. An ideal donor has no relatives, no pension, and no debts. As though, other than the MedID, he or she doesn't exist. Out of the hundred or so that live here, around thirty don't have MedIDs, and out of the remaining ­people there are twenty-­three clean chips. Better than he anticipated. Eighteen of them are willing to part with theirs. Together they've earned ninety thousand dollars. Good thing, since he only brought a hundred thousand, an investment that will be repaid once recipient matches are found. When the equipment is packed up and almost everyone has gone inside for the night, Steven hands Army Fatigues a duffel bag, heavy with cash. They shake hands.

“Good luck,” the man says.

“And to you,” Steven says. “Though it doesn't seem like you need it. I have to tell you, I didn't know what to expect coming here. But it looks like you've figured it out. How to live like there's no war. No crumbling society. It's tempting to join you.”

“The door is always open.”

“Thank you. Maybe when our lives get less complicated.”

“They are what you make them.”

Indeed. The images of the night stay with him on the ride home. Happy families, dining and playing under the moonlight, as natural as the forest that surrounds them. The car is quiet most of the way home, until finally Jonathan asks, “Why are you doing this?”

“Change of pace. Helping ­people live rather than burying them.”

“Is it the money? Are you making money on this?”

The words sting. After everything they've been through, the boy still thinks he cares for no one and nothing. “I'm tired, Jonathan. Tired of losing. You should understand that. And if there's a way to give us a better future, I need to do something about it.”

This shuts him up, but the air is like a wall between them. Exhaustion settles into Steven's bones and he craves his bed, where he can drift off to sleep, shutting out reality for at least a few hours. Perhaps dream of living under the stars.

 

Chapter 36

S
EBASTIAN
HAS
SUCCESSFULLY
secured his alias, Will Anderson, a place within Mitchell's world. He's an active member of Patriot's Church and is quickly becoming a friend to Taylor Hensley. They've had several easy conversations and trust between them is growing. She's an easy subject to study, finished with pretending and pretenses, after a childhood and early adulthood filled with both. As far as he can tell, she has no criminal agenda and there are no ugly truths lying just below the surface. Sitting across from her isn't difficult. She's beautiful. But just the thought sends a pang of guilt through him, as though Kate is in the room.

After the evening ser­vice, the congregation funnels out into a large conference room for coffee hour. Rubbing his eyes, he activates the camera in his smart lenses that live-­feeds to a tech at the Bureau. He scans the crowd, allowing the facial recognition software to hone in on anyone of interest, anyone that might be of use in this operation. Sebastian watches as Mitchell seeks Taylor out in the crowd. Before long they're in a corner of the room talking, with Henry standing as a barrier. This “singling out” of Taylor by Mitchell has been going on since he arrived. Clearly Mitchell's after her bloodline, eager to see how he might use her.

Although she's vehemently opposed to her father and the government, Taylor doesn't seem to have any concerns or reservations about Mitchell and the rumor that he was behind the Planes, along with other attacks. Whenever Sebastian tries to lead the subject in that direction, she shrugs it away, saying only that after a while in life you have to go with your gut. He understands. Unfortunately, her gut has led her down a dangerous path.

He checks his watch. In an hour he's meeting with Renner. Taylor asked him for a ride home tonight after blowing a tire on her bike. Rather than intruding on their conversation, he waves to her. She sees him, nods. In ten minutes they're in his beaten-­up Honda Civic cruising through Boston's South End, past endless abandoned brick town houses on their way to Milton. Their windows are open and Taylor swims her hand through the rushing air.

“The Reverend had you cornered tonight,” he says.

“He does like to talk,” she says.

“Did he share any earth-­shattering revelations or gardening tips?”

“We were swapping recipes.” He can hear the smile in her voice.

“Can you imagine the Reverend in a kitchen?”

“He does have a personal chef,” she says. “But he's pretty normal, you know. Down-­to-­earth.”

He glances at her. “Down-­to-­earth?”

She laughs. “I just mean he's interested in normal things. Home life. Education. Things we all care about.”

“This is what you two talk about?”

“Yes.”

Of course. The closer he is to her, the closer he is to Richard Hensley. Invite a lonely woman to dinner, ask about her child. Suck her in, emotionally. So far the surveillance hasn't revealed anything interesting or out of the ordinary either on Taylor or anyone in contact with her. She rarely uses her computer and isn't tech savvy. Without noticing, she opened a virus that allows him to monitor her usage and correspondence. Listening to the banality of her phone conversations puts Sebastian nearly to sleep, but the more time that passes, the more he's reassured that she's naive to any game her father or Mitchell may be playing. Sometimes he feels less alone when he's observing her. Momentarily, he'll lose himself in her world. A grin will unconsciously form on his lips when she plays with Sienna, or when she's singing to herself as though no one in the world can hear. He's come to know the way her body moves, her habits, her comforts. They're intimacies he's only known with Kate. So he reminds himself that he's doing this to avenge Kate, not to find her replacement.

“Does Reverend Mitchell ask you about your father?” he asks.

Taylor's hand stops moving outside the window. “You know I don't discuss him.”

They drive through a row of green lights as he considers what to say next. Time is wasting with this silence.

“He's been hard to avoid, though,” she says finally. “Now that he's running, he's everywhere. I can't walk outside my house without seeing his face or hearing his voice. And if he wins . . .”

“
If
he wins?”

“He'll be one of the most powerful men in the world. How can I avoid him if he's the President of the United States?”

“If Reverend Mitchell has a say in the future of our country, there may be some
restructuring
. Regardless of who wins the race.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don't know his plan. But he's organized the massive training of thousands. He has followers and soldiers in every state.”

“I thought BASIA used only cyber warfare.”

“That's part of it.” He considers his words carefully. “But we also do weapons training. Study how to engage enemies in different situations.”

“What kind of situations?”

“They're vague. We're not given details. Not yet.”

Recently, Mitchell had one of his techs create a fake chat room run by Patriot's Church. It's meant to be easily infiltrated, to mislead any agencies listening in. Renner has identified the stream and alerted the Bureau. The messages are code, though it may take weeks to crack.

“What do you think it all means?” she asks.

He pulls the car alongside the curb in front of her apartment building. “I just follow orders. Try not to second-­guess my commanding officer. I believe in the cause, you know? Reverend Mitchell is a brilliant strategist—­look at the Planes. He's—­”

“Wait a minute.” She unbuckles her seat belt and turns to face him. “There's no proof he had anything to do with that.”

“Name one other person who has that kind of power, who's not in government? Someone who has the leadership, the organization, the mind? Thousands of militia groups out there wish they had a tenth of BASIA's strength and reach. There is no one else.”

She shakes her head. “If there were proof, he'd have been arrested by now.”

“There's no proof because everyone who would have testified died. Anyone who's changed their mind and left the church would think twice about giving him up. I'm sure he's quite thorough in covering his tracks. He can't lead a movement if he's imprisoned.”

Her gaze wanders out the windshield to a news van that's stationed outside her apartment. “I know that we have to fight to change things. But, I'm sorry, Will. I don't believe Reverend Mitchell's responsible for murdering all those ­people. He's clearly powerful enough to incite a massive countrywide movement without the need to massacre ­people.”

“We're at war, Taylor. This is Armageddon.”

Avoiding eye contact, she gathers her bag and reaches for the door handle. He puts a hand on her arm. The warmth of her tanned skin surprises him. They both freeze. When she finally looks at him, he can't think what to say next.

“Thanks for the ride.” Her voice is a soft rasp. She gets out and shuts the door.

He pops the trunk and goes to help her, but she's two steps ahead of him, already holding her bike.

“I'm sorry,” he says.

“For what?”

“I don't know.” He shuts the trunk. “I didn't mean to upset you.”

“It's war, like you said. It's upsetting.”

“The Reverend has a vision.” He has to sell her on his loyalty to Mitchell. “We're there because we like his version of the world. We have to trust him on the journey there.”

“You drank the Kool-­Aid, didn't you?”

“Could've sworn I saw you filling your glass, too.”

She smiles as she starts to walk away. “You want to come over for dinner tomorrow?”

“That'd be great.” Finally, he's in. There's no room for error, he'll only get one shot.

The news van doors are thrown open and two men with video equipment jump out and rush toward Taylor. More gracefully than Sebastian would think possible, she waves and flips them off. The skirt she wears sways at the back of her knees. As she disappears into the building, the news crew heads in his direction. Quickly, he hops into the car and drives a few blocks away, until he's sure they didn't follow him. He parks under a broken streetlamp. On a handheld device from DARPA he launches the encoded surveillance app with live feed from Taylor's apartment. She puts her daughter to bed and organizes her graffiti gear. Using the Silent Talk app, Sebastian sends an encoded message to Renner, who tracks him via locator chip. In minutes they're parked down the street from Taylor's apartment in Renner's Bureau-­issued black SUV, the windows tinted beyond legal limits.

T
AYLOR
REPLACES
THE
ruined bike tire and straps on her helmet and her messenger bag. She locks the door behind her, securing the sitter and Sienna. Balancing her bike, she navigates three flights of stairs and leaves through the back door, into the alley.

Outside, the air is still, peaceful. Her muscles burn as she pumps her legs through the darkened streets. Tonight she's scouting locations to find a good canvas for the church piece. She steers left then right, no clear destination.

Focused on the road ahead, she replays her conversation with Will. Talking about Mitchell had made her tense. And Will's hand on her skin was disarming. There's been no one since Mason. The moment he'd taken his hand away she craved it. Unfortunately, his touch was eclipsed by his words. Her stomach is still in knots. Of course she knows the rumors about Reverend Mitchell. But Will appears to have no doubt. In fact, he seems all for it.

She pedals faster. Does she care if the Reverend orchestrated the Planes? Regardless, millions have suffered and died as a result of her father's MedID law. Her early contribution to MedFuture eats at her, though it also fuels her. She thinks of the aborted babies. The would-­be parents so distraught they commit suicide upon discovery they can only produce babies deemed less than perfect. Not to mention those under–75s, denied work, unable to feed and clothe their families. Her father has affected millions. Yes, it feels right to be standing on the other side.

A flash of headlights behind her prompts her to take the next right. After a block, she scans the buildings, sees she's just on the edge of Boston proper. On the deserted road, the headlights follow. Coincidence? Her father? She glances behind; the glare is blinding. She turns onto a street with abandoned warehouses. Spotting a potential canvas, she slows to a stop. A screech of wheels makes her jerk her head around.

Two cars swing around the block, neck-­and-­neck, speeding toward her. For the briefest moment she can't move, but then she whips the bike right, down a narrow alley. In seconds a loud scraping sound—­metal against concrete—­follows her.
Go go go. Shit shit shit.

Air rushes off her body, siphoned away by the cars. They're close. She spots an opportunity twenty feet ahead. In a split second she steers her bike into a slight indentation in the alley, what used to be the back entrance to a restaurant. Her heart pounds in her ears.

A Cadillac sedan cruises past her. The driver slams on the brakes just as a black SUV hits them at full force from behind. The SUV lands directly in front of her. She's backed up against the wall, her legs still poised over the bike. No escape. The driver's tinted window is close enough to touch. She holds her breath and glares directly at a face she can't see.

The Cadillac's tires spin in place until burnt rubber stings her eyes and nose. Both cars inch forward as the SUV pushes the Cadillac. The tail of the SUV passes her, giving her an exit. In seconds she's flying back down the alley, riding for her life. Her legs are numb and she's all but forgotten the reason she was here in the first place.

Sienna
. What if someone came to the house after she left? Taylor pushes harder, faster. Within a few turns buildings are familiar again, a convenience store she frequents, a late night pizza place. In her mind, a flash of the SUV and the Cadillac. Neither car looked familiar and she couldn't see either driver. She didn't even see the plates.

Finally.
She takes the stairs two at a time and rushes in, past the babysitter and into Sienna's room. Taylor climbs into the bed and curls against her daughter's small, warm body. Muscles shaking, mind spinning, she clings to this little person she loves more than anything in the world.

R
ICHARD
RECOGNIZES
THE
number that appears on his phone, but he can scarcely believe it. Except for the light emanating from the phone, his bedroom is pitch-­black. He switches on the bedside light and unlocks the screen with his index finger.

“Is everything all right?” he asks.

“You're sick,” Taylor says. “You've gone too far this time.”

“Calm down. What are you talking about?”

“Watching me paint is one thing.” Ragged breaths interrupt her words. “I'm used to my privacy being invaded. But when you come after me—­for what? For supporting Mitchell? You want me dead because I'm not supporting your candidacy?”

“Hold on a minute—­”

“You want Sienna to grow up without a mother?”

“I don't know what you're talking about, Taylor.”

“Bullshit.”

“Whatever you may think of my motives, I don't want you dead.”

There's a brief pause. “Well, maybe your campaign or the party does. Maybe they're trying to do you a favor.”

“Please, tell me what happened?” He throws off the covers and gets out of bed, his feet sinking into the carpet as he paces. It's impossible not to be angry with her, for shutting him out, for blaming him for all of her problems. But the sound in her voice is desperate. “Taylor?”