Nation of Enemies (29 page)

 

Chapter 60

I
N
THE
OFFIC
E
of Mitchell's mansion, Sebastian stands at ease. In his mind, he sees Taylor being driven away by Benson. A gnawing sensation tells him she's in danger. There's no way to know where she is or what her father's plan is. Hell, what Mitchell's plan is! Benson implied that his orders to take her came from Mitchell. Time for some answers.

“Sergeant.” Mitchell leans back in his chair, eyeing him from behind the desk. “Your assignment was to protect one woman, and you end up here without a scratch of evidence that you fought for her.”

“I could have shot her. That would have kept her from going.”

“Why didn't you shoot Hensley's man?”

“He had the ace. Sienna. To Taylor, he was the only way she would see her daughter again.”

“Powerful bait.”

“Exactly. If I'd killed him, she wouldn't have left with me. I would have lost all the credibility I've been building with her.”

Mitchell rubs his tattooed palm. As he waits, Sebastian considers Richard Hensley. The presidential candidate can't be in bed with Mitchell. It's impossible. But the link that ties Carter Benson to Mitchell—­and President Clark—­remains a mystery.

“There's one more thing, sir,” he says. “The man who took her was Carter Benson, Hensley's deputy campaign manager and formerly President Clark's aide. Benson told me he was there on your behalf.”

“And you believed him?”

“He was pretty convincing. I went with my gut.”

Mitchell grins slightly. “Yes. Well, luckily your instincts were correct. This is a win-­win outcome, Sergeant. And a test.”

“I don't understand.”

“The money is secondary. We have other means we can tap into. But Taylor Hensley needed to be returned to her father. Strategically speaking.”

“You're saying I was supposed to let her go with Hensley's man?”

“Yes. Benson's one of us. A true believer.”

It takes everything in him not to react to this confession. He lets the words solidify. Mitchell is pulling strings in the highest office. “Sir, at the risk of sounding bold, is Richard Hensley working with you as well?”

Mitchell roars with laughter. Finally, he says, “Bold, yes. But the answer is no. Let's leave it at that.”

“But that's how you knew.” Sebastian wants more, needs more answers. He can see Kate lying on the steps, blond hair lifting in the breeze. “You told me that President Clark was behind the State House attack. You knew because Carter Benson told you.”

“And as I said, everyone has their agendas.”

Not a confirmation, but close enough. Jesus Christ. It was all true.

“Onward.” Mitchell gestures to Henry, who stands silently at the door, as always. “Your next assignment is to step in for Henry for a few days. He has a family situation to attend to.”

“It'd be an honor.”

“He'll be back in time for our mission.” Mitchell stands. “Meanwhile, your training will continue. According to my ballistics squad leader, your sharpshooting skills are unmatched by your peers. So, in the remaining week, you'll train daily at the range and on a special outdoor course.”

“Yes, sir.”
Remaining week
. The words reverberate through him. A week plus the three days Mitchell said they'd travel and prepare. Election Day. There's no doubt now. “May I ask what my target will be?”

Rarely has he seen Mitchell surprised. It lifts his mouth and eyes, wrinkles his forehead. “Eager, are we?”

“Excited. Eager, yes.”

Turning, Mitchell strolls to the window overlooking his vast property. “All will be revealed, Sergeant. On the chosen day, BASIA will spread its wings and fly. Fifty coordinated missions choreographed to create the most breathtaking and historic battle in this nation's history.”

He should kill him. Right now. But Henry has his weapon, which is always confiscated before he's in Mitchell's presence. But he's quick. Strong. He could snap the Reverend's neck. And then he himself would die. And it would make no difference at all.

“Anticipation is a gift, Sergeant Anderson.” Mitchell turns to face him. “The electrifying moments prior to the act are a major part of the enjoyment. The act . . . well, it will be quick and then over. And then anticipation begins anew.”

All he can do is nod.

“I'll tell you this.” Mitchell walks over, stopping inches from his face. “Of all our targets, yours will win us the prize.”

“Thank you, sir.” Sebastian's heart palpitates. Good God. They're going after the President. Future or current? Both? He swallows hard.

“But before the glory, the work.” Mitchell pats him on the shoulder. “Do me a favor. Before weapons practice, tell the cook to prepare the boy's meal and take it downstairs.”

“The boy?”

“She knows.” Mitchell returns to his desk. “Dismissed.”

Sebastian closes the door behind him. His soles click-­clack on the tile as he heads to the kitchen. Time to take action, to use his nervous energy to his advantage. He's got to reach Renner, tell him he's confirmed Benson's tie to Mitchell and that Benson was involved with President Clark's State House attack. Someone at the Bureau had their only State House suspect killed. Did President Clark himself make the call to Satterwhite? There's no one left to trust.

For now, he'll go along. In the kitchen, he conveys Mitchell's request to the cook. At least there's one piece of good news. He's finally found Jonathan Hudson.

 

Chapter 61

C
OLE
PULLS
INTO
the Mass General parking lot for the night shift. The cement structure is dimly lit and filled with cars as he backs into his reserved space. He powers off the Land Rover at the same moment wheels screech and a sedan pulls directly in front of him, their headlights almost touching. He blinks against the brightness.
What the hell?
He squints to try and make out the driver's face, the make of the car.

“Doors lock,” he commands. A click sounds and he reaches under his seat, unlatches his gun. Images of Lily, Ian, and Talia run through his mind.

The sedan's driver door opens. Cole releases the safety on the gun as a dark figure approaches. Ten feet. Five.
Shit, it's Sebastian's partner, Renner
. He tightens his grip on the pistol. The last time he saw Renner, he'd tried to kill Sebastian. And, incidentally, him.

Renner raps on his window, gestures to him to roll it down. The bulletproof car is his only protection. Persistent, Renner knocks again. Cole lifts his gun—­doesn't point it—­and shrugs. Renner takes out his piece and walks back to his car, placing it on the hood.

Despite Renner's issues with Sebastian, there should be no reason he'd want to kill him. Setting his gun on the passenger seat, Cole clicks the safety on. “Doors unlock.” He steps outside.

“Forgive me,” he says. “But the whole bomb experience made me a little wary of you.”

“All for show.” Renner extends a hand and they shake. “I needed certain individuals to think I was following orders. Sorry you were there.”

“What're you doing here?”

“The Bureau knows about you, Doc. About your project.”

His stomach seizes. “And you're here to arrest me? To shut us down?”

“I should be.” Renner glances around. “But I made it disappear. I erased the file.”

“Why?” Can he trust this man? He barely knows him. “I don't understand.”

“Look, Sebastian's been my partner for a decade. Our targets are terrorists, anyone who threatens the safety of this country. This MedID thing you're doing isn't terrorism. It's self-­preservation. And I get that. But technically it conflicts with my job responsibilities.”

“Okay. What happens now?”

“I came to tell you to be more careful. Watch your back. Stay off the grid. And screen your patients thoroughly.”

“Of course, absolutely.” His curiosity gets the better of him. “But you could get in trouble just for being here. Not to mention erasing evidence.”

“You were on the roof with Sebastian when I shared intel with him.”

How could he forget? He's hardly slept since, knowing another attack is imminent, not to mention the government had a hand in the State House attack.

“Corruption from the White House on down.” Renner sniffs. “I won't serve a country that's turned on itself. But I can do more from the inside.”

“I guess I should tell you to watch your back, too. You want a free MedID wipe?”

Renner smiles. “Thanks, I'm clean. An eighty-­six.”

“I could take out your locator chip. Change your name.”

“Thanks. But I need to appear as though I'm still on board with the Bureau. I can't make a difference if I leave.”

“So you're not really trying to kill Sebastian?”

The slightest shake of his head. “Just keeping him on his toes.”

“Thanks, Renner. I appreciate the warning.”

“Go underground. No centralized meeting place. Good luck.”

They shake hands and Renner leaves. Forgetting his shift, Cole hops back into his car and heads to Cambridge.

A
T
P
ROJECT
S
WAP
HQ, Steven and the team review their plans. The mood is upbeat, so Steven tries his best to put on a good face. It's hard to feign positivity when Jonathan is being held prisoner. Every hour that passes is more painful, and less hopeful, than the last.

“As of this week, our associates are wiping MedIDs in Denver, Orlando, Minneapolis, Dallas, and Seattle.” Karen beams. “We're a national movement, everyone. Congratulations.”

The tight-­knit group applauds. Suddenly the front door swings open. It's Cole.

“We've had a warning,” Cole says, out of breath.

“From who?” Karen asks.

“Doesn't matter. But it's legit. We need to vacate right away. Destroy anything incriminating. Wipe down surfaces for fingerprints. We were never here.”

“That puts a damper on our celebration,” Steven says. One more threat. The weight of it presses down on him. Everyone stands, unsure where to start.

“We'll work off-­site until we can figure out a plan,” Cole says.

“Are we in danger of being arrested?” Karen asks, standing.

“We're always in danger.” Cole looks around, surveying the room's contents. “The warning is a gift from a friend. But it only buys us a little time.”

“It'll be fine,” Sean says. “We're all clean. Our families, too. Plan B is in place.”

“There is some good news.” Cole puts a hand on Steven's shoulder. “The outreach to our network worked in spades. We have more than enough to free Jonathan. Check the account we opened. You'll find what you need.”

Relief washes over him, his whole body loosening from the tension that's held him for days.
Finally
. Emotion bubbles up and he coughs it away. “I should stay and help—­”

“Go,” Cole says. “Get Jonathan.”

“Be careful,” Karen says.

“Thank you.” His tongue fails him. Words are not enough. “Thank you so much.”

Since his meeting with the Reverend, he's been plagued by dark thoughts. He'd always imagined feeling a sense of closure in finding the person responsible for murdering his family. Instead, the news unearthed a powerful grief. Jolts of anger seize him without warning. Revenge, or justice—­perhaps both—­are the next logical step. It's time to share what he learned with his friends. And so he does. He tells them that Reverend Mitchell admitted he was behind the Planes. Heads nod, long held suspicions confirmed. He leaves them with a final thought. If the Reverend single-­handedly arranged the murder of thousands, what would he do for an encore?

The mood in the room plummets. He shakes hands and hugs each of them, thanking them again for everything they've been through. Just in case.

Finally, he comes to Cole. “You're a good friend. It's all we can hope for these days.”

“Mitchell is unpredictable.” Cole lowers his voice. “You need a gun?”

“Just moral support.”

“We're all here for you. Good luck.”

Steven gathers his things and leaves. As he crosses the lawn to his car he repeats a mantra,
Don't think, just do
. There's no choice here. If he wants a future and to bring Jonathan safely out of this, he has to face the Reverend one last time.

 

Chapter 62

J
ONATHAN
HAS
LOST
count of the days as he sits in his windowless cell. To keep sane, he devised a routine. For two hours a day, without access to a computer, he works out complex codes and hacking strategies in his head. He refuses to lose his edge—­it's the one thing that makes him feel useful, powerful. To keep alert and in shape, he does crunches, push-­ups, and runs in place. The endless hours are interrupted daily by a monitor that turns on whenever the Reverend is preaching or addressing BASIA. Hannah gave him the New Testament Bible to read, and she brings him his food, three times a day. At first he wouldn't even look at her. Her betrayal stung, he'd been used. He'd been foolish. But with all the time to think, he's worked out two things. One, she's scared. And two, Mitchell is the only family she's known for most of her life. She hasn't had a choice. And if he can plant doubts about the Reverend in her mind, she may be his only way out.

Down the hall, locks snap open, sneakers rub against the cement floor. It's dinnertime. Hannah appears at his door. Through the window panel, her pale skin glows, as though she's been infused with light. Rather than sliding the meal through a slit, she unlocks the door and comes in. She offers him a tray with a sandwich and a glass of milk.

“Eat up,” she says. “You're free.”

“What?”

“I don't know details.” She doesn't look at him, just stares at the open door. “But Charles is asking for you. Hurry, eat.”

He does.
Why are they letting him out?
As he eats, she talks in a random, nonstop stream. He can't follow it; all he can concentrate on is staying alive and getting the hell out of here. He barely chews his food, finishing quickly. As he stands to follow her, he realizes he may never see her again. Not if the Reverend is letting him go.

“Hey.” Gently, he puts his hand on her arm and lowers his voice to a whisper. “I know you feel indebted to Reverend Mitchell, I know that's why you pulled the alarm that day.”

“Things are so complicated.” She tucks a strand of red behind her ear. “I'm sorry I did that to you.”

“It's okay. I'm fine. But you're not. You don't want to marry him. I see the way you flinch when he touches you.”

Her eyes glisten. She blinks and looks at the floor.

“Come with me.” His hand slides down her arm to her hand, holds it in his. “I'll find your sister and brother. We can get out of here. Leave the country. You can make your own choices. And it doesn't have to be complicated anymore.”

“Jonathan.” She squeezes his hand. “You're so good to me. But I have to stay. I've made promises I need to keep. I hope someday you'll understand. I'm sorry, for everything.”

Her response isn't surprising. His energy deflates as she releases his hand and leads him upstairs, through the maze of corridors. The windows reveal nothing, only darkness. From a hall closet, she hands him his jacket he follows her outside, onto the deck. Suddenly, security floodlights are switched on, illuminating the grounds.

“I'm sorry, Jonathan,” she whispers.

He doesn't have time to ask why. Outside, a frosty breeze travels between the layers of his coat and shirt, chilling him. He sucks it into his lungs, savoring the fresh air. A memory of his first day on the compound and the Reverend's party comes to him. He's been so naive.

“It must be good to stretch your legs.” It's Reverend Mitchell's voice.

He whirls around. “Am I free to go?”

“Short sentence, wouldn't you agree?” The Reverend strolls past him to the edge of the deck that overlooks the vast moonlit lawn. “For stealing from your employer?”

“I didn't think you needed the MedIDs.”

“And you know ­people who do?”

Fucksake
. He can't expose Steven's MedID business. Excuses circulate in his mind. Screw it. He doesn't have to say anything. He presses his lips together.

“That's okay, Jonathan. I understand you want to protect your stepfather. But his project isn't as secret as you might think.”

“It doesn't affect you.”

“Doesn't it? A mass of ­people utilizing the government's own weapon against them? Against the world? Imagine the potential. Might take only a few years to formulate a plan. A new party. I'm not interested in a new group joining the mix. Patriot's Church and BASIA serve God. We fight for eternal salvation. Your father's plans complicate our mission.”

Glancing over his shoulder, the Reverend beckons to someone with a wave. Jonathan expects Henry, but instead another man joins them. The man's wavy hair and beard are in contrast to Henry's clean-­cut look. Jonathan's eyes dart to Hannah as she quietly disappears back into the house.

“Sergeant Anderson, this is Jonathan Hudson.”

“I'm sorry for trying to steal the MedIDs,” Jonathan says. “But I'm done with all this.”

“You have a job to do, Jonathan,” the Reverend says. “You're done when I say you're done. A few more days isn't a big sacrifice in the lives of you and your family.”

He knows he's not in a situation to bargain. Acceptance settles in his stomach like a brick. “Fine.”

“Good. Sergeant, let's get Jonathan's shooting skills up to par.”

“Yes, sir,” Sergeant Anderson says.

“Wait—­I'm not a soldier. That wasn't the deal.”

“New deal.” Reverend Mitchell's face is rigid, emotionless.

From inside his jacket pocket, the soldier pulls out two semiautomatic guns and hands one to Jonathan. “Let's get to work.”

“You'll find plenty of moving targets out there.” The Reverend gestures to the land. “I'll leave you to it.”

As Reverend Mitchell turns to go inside, the gun in Jonathan's hand draws his energy. One second to lift his arm, one second to pull the trigger. Would all of this be over? Would the world change in an instant if he killed this one man?

The glass door shuts. The moment over.

“There should be some wildlife out this time of night,” Sergeant Anderson says. “Deer, usually. And the moonlight is good.” He motions with his weapon to figures moving at the far end of the land, where the grass meets the woods. The floodlights from the deck cast a glow, helping visibility.

Shadows move. Deer, moose maybe. He follows Anderson off the deck, onto the grass.

“What are we practicing for?” he asks.

“Life.”

Without warning, Anderson raises his gun, aims and pulls the trigger. The sound shatters the air, makes Jonathan's ears ring. In the distance, something falls and lies still. The shot scatters the animals, shadows moving into the trees.

“A deer?”

Anderson nods. “Your turn.”

He takes a deep breath and raises the gun, holding it steady at eye level. He waits. Perhaps the shot scared them off. And then he sees something, follows it with his eyes as it walks into the open. But it's standing on two legs, not four.

“Hold on.” He squints, strains to see. “I think it's a man.”

Anderson clears his throat. “It's your target.”

“What?”

Softly, Anderson repeats, “It's your target. Aim low.”

“No.” His heart pounds in his ears. “I'm not ready.”

“It's you or him. And the Reverend is watching. “Aim low,” he repeats.

Jonathan's hands tremble, the gun wavers. The man—­is it a man or a woman?—­moves across the lawn slowly, too far to see clearly.
Shitshitshit
.
I'm not a killer!
Who is it, out there? Do they know what's coming?

“Goddammit, Jonathan, aim at his legs and shoot,” Anderson whispers. “Now.”

The blast almost knocks Jonathan off his feet. The figure in the distance falls, and with it, a cry.
Oh God
. He reaches out for a solid surface and finds only Anderson, who lends his arm as Jonathan vomits violently into the grass. Afterward, he gives back the gun and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Good,” Anderson says. “You did good.”

“What happens now?”

“We survive another day.”

He squints to make out details of the man on the ground, but he's too far away. “Is someone going to get him?”

Anderson nods.

T
HE
FROST
-­
COVER
ED
GRASS
is like needles against Steven's face. The drugs must be wearing off, whatever that bastard Mitchell gave him when he first arrived—­he's able to concentrate now, control his body more, though he has no idea how long he's been lying here. He'd passed out from the wrenching white-­hot pain in his leg. The drugs lessened the initial impact of the bullet, but now it radiates through him. If he lies here much longer, he knows he'll die.

With tremendous effort, he attempts to crawl. The Reverend's residence looms in the distance. He knows the driveway leads to the main road and so he pulls himself toward it. He can get to it through the woods if he can bear the pain. Somewhere in that compound, Mitchell has both Jonathan and his money. Just the thought gives him enough energy to go another several feet. But then darkness hits him once again.

T
ELLING
THE
KID
to pull the trigger on his stepfather was on par with any torture training Sebastian's experienced. But he'd quietly instructed Jonathan to aim low, and luckily his aim was good. Any higher and it would have killed Steven Hudson.

Pasty white and wild-­eyed, Jonathan follows behind him as they make their way toward the body in the field. Sebastian wishes there was something he could say to prepare him. The biggest shock is yet to come. Mitchell wants Jonathan to discover the man's identity himself.

The sky is beginning to lighten. For most of the night, Sebastian stood quietly in a corner of the room watching Jonathan, tied to a chair in Mitchell's office. The kid's defiance drained right out of him. Even for Sebastian, it was excruciating to listen while Mitchell pontificated on the state of the world now and the world as it will be in a matter of days. Mitchell gave Jonathan options. Opt out of this “job” with BASIA and face death. Opt in, and a new way of life begins. Or, complete the assignment and be set free. Though Sebastian isn't sure what role Jonathan is meant to play, clearly, Mitchell wants to harness his hacking talents for a very specific task. And Mitchell doesn't like to be told no.

In the field, with about twenty feet to go, he glances back at Jonathan. For once, he wishes he could tell the kid who he is and what he's doing there. But this has to play out.

“He's breathing.” Jonathan rushes forward, points to Hudson's back as it rises and falls.

“We need to get him inside.”

Suddenly, Jonathan stops. “Steven!”

On his stomach, Hudson's head is turned to face them. His skin is a bluish-­white, his eyes are closed. Sebastian goes to him, crouches down and places two fingers against his neck. The pulse is faint. Jonathan drops to his knees and begins shaking his stepfather.

“Get his legs,” Sebastian says.

“I shot Steven?” Jonathan's voice cracks. “I shot Steven.”

“He's alive. You're a good aim.”

“You motherfucker!” Jonathan stands and with both hands shoves him forcefully. “You knew it was my stepfather?”

“I had my orders.”

“Fuck orders.” Tears run down Jonathan's face. He kneels again at Hudson's side, rocking back and forth.

“Do what you're told, and both of you can go home after all this.” He's got to get them into the house. “Let's go.”

Together they stumble and strain carrying Hudson's body back to the house. He watches Jonathan. His tears are gone now, replaced by a mask of restrained anger.

“You're valuable to the Reverend,” he says.

“My skills are valuable.”

“Just do your job and you'll get out.”

“How about you? Why're you so valuable, Sergeant?”

“I'm a trained sniper.”

“You should shoot that asshole, then.”

Up the deck stairs and into the house they carry Steven Hudson. In a small room Mitchell calls their infirmary, a doctor cares for the wound while Jonathan sits stoically at his stepfather's side. Sebastian's only directive from Mitchell had been to keep Hudson alive, if barely. It's leverage with Jonathan, and it looks like it's going to work.