Nation of Enemies (24 page)

 

Chapter 49

T
HE
NEEDLE
SINKS IN
. Almost immediately Joe Shonkoff stops struggling against Sebastian's grip. In the quiet of early nightfall, between abandoned buildings, he and Renner settle the limp body onto a blue tarp in Renner's trunk. Thick dingy fog coats the roadways that Renner navigates on their way to a Bureau-­owned condo on the other side of town.

Charles Mitchell's message to Sebastian—­as Will—­had been clear; get rid of the soldier who was threatening to go rogue. Monitoring Shonkoff showed him to be a creature of habit. Daily, he rides his bike to a strip of fading businesses just outside Boston. A former investment banker, he was crushed in the Crash of '26 and now works as an accountant for a few retailers that pay him minimum wage. Shonkoff is dangerous and certainly treasonous. Funny, they're both eager to restore freedom to the country, both willing to fight. Both willing to die. Maybe they're not so different.

Carrying the bulky roll of tarp up three flights of stairs is tough to navigate, but Sebastian's adrenaline gives him a burst of strength. In silence, he and Renner arrange things, posing Shonkoff's body on the living room carpet in a manner to suggest he fell naturally but violently. His arms and legs are splayed, shirt untucked, hair mussed. From his briefcase, Sebastian takes the makeup and applies it expertly. Meanwhile, Renner destroys the sparsely furnished room, knocking over chairs and lamps, breaking a vase. Together they create blood spatter to match the story Sebastian will tell. Then it's time for pictures.

Close-­ups of the wound in Shonkoff's head, the room from every angle. When that's finished, they place a single chair in the center of the living room and tie him securely to it. Then they wait for the tranquilizer to wear off.

“I have something for you,” Renner says. From his breast pocket he pulls out his phone and touches the screen. He aims it at one of the walls and a message is projected. The left side shows one of the codes Sebastian sent on behalf of BASIA. The right side of the screen displays a number 110232.

“A date?” Sebastian suggests.

“Could also be a coordinate. Or a digital key.”

“What does the tech think?”

“The date theory makes the most sense. It's Election Day.”

They both stare at it.

“Anything else?” Sebastian asks.

“If this is a date, it makes sense for the other codes to include coordinates. Locations. But we haven't confirmed it yet.”

“What's taking them so long?”

“We're working against Huan Chao,” Renner says. “He trained alongside some of our very own. These are complex codes. We read them wrong, we may be looking at losses on par with the Planes.”

“Are we ready to alert Satterwhite? The candidates?”

Renner shakes his head. “We can't without concrete evidence. But we could tell them there's chatter and advise them to double up on security for the candidates. As soon as we confirm the codes we'll move.”

“It's four weeks away.” Nervous energy prompts Sebastian to stand and pace.

“I've been doing some digging on the name Michael O'Brien gave us. I think Dash is a nickname.”

Sebastian repeats the word. “Someone who runs?”

“Specifically, someone who runs or ran a race like the hundred meter dash.”

“Well that narrows it down. To every high school and college team in the U.S.”

“Maybe. Or maybe it was a serious athlete. Broke some records. Came close to making the Olympics.” Renner types into his phone and hands it to Sebastian. “Recognize this guy?”

It's not possible. He reads and rereads the words, scans the face of Carter Benson, Richard Hensley's deputy campaign manager, and before that aide to President Clark. Several pictures show Benson running, headlines predicting his future as an Olympian. The last image is of him on his knees at his final competition, clearly a loss. “Are you serious?”

“It's just a theory.”

“Have you shared it with anyone?”

“Not yet.”

“Good.” He hands the phone back to Renner. “We need more proof than a hunch about a nickname.”

“Someone at his level isn't acting alone. He's a middleman.”

From outside comes a sound like a glass bottle hitting the pavement. Sebastian glances out the window. Renner's accusation is dizzying. It could mean the State House attack originated from the Office of the President, that Benson coordinated all logistics—­which they know he had access to—­and then had a team of homegrown terrorists kill James Gardiner. Why would Clark or Hensley want to kill Gardiner? He wheels around. “Jesus Christ, Renner. This is a crazy fucking theory.”

“Sometimes crazy happens.”

The air is thick, the ceiling close. Has he been working on behalf of Kate's killer this whole time? “Satterwhite gave you a direct order to stop this investigation. You need to watch your step.”

“If there's truth to this, I want a piece of these assholes,” Renner says. “All these years in the ser­vice . . .”

Neither one of them talks much after that. Finally, their hostage stirs. Renner goes into the kitchen and returns with a glass. He tosses water on Shonkoffs face and the man immediately coughs and sputters awake. Lost, wild-­eyed, he struggles against the handcuffs. He glances at the “blood spatter,” quickly inspects his body.

“You!” Shonkoff shouts at Sebastian. “I should have known.”

“It's the beard,” Renner says. “Makes him look like a trustworthy teddy bear.”

“Don't worry, Joe,” Sebastian says. “You get to call the shots today.”

“I'm going to the Reverend,” Shonkoff growls.

Sebastian cues the recording he has of Shonkoff on the bus, implying he intends to kill Richard Hensley before he gets to the White House. When the audio ends, Shonkoff spits in his direction.

“You have three options.” Sebastian wanders in a circle around him. “One. Become a cooperating witness. Work inside BASIA with me. We guarantee time served and witness protection for you and your family. Don't forget your beautiful wife and son.”

“Fuck you.”

“Two. Testify when the time comes, in exchange for a lesser sentence and witness protection for your family.”

“Fuck you.”

“Three. Be fully prosecuted for conspiracy and intent to assassinate the vice presidential candidate Richard Hensley.”

“Fuck—­”

Renner backhands him across the face.

Real blood mixes with the fake blood already caked on his face. The night passes with no progress, only proof that Shonkoff is indeed ready to die and give up his life for his beliefs. The only time he flinches is when they threaten his wife and son. But it's not enough.

Just before daybreak a Bureau paddy wagon arrives and several men haul Shonkoff away. As an admitted enemy of the state, he'll be put in solitary confinement until they can figure out how to use him. Maybe, Sebastian thinks, his earlier thoughts were wrong, and Shonkoff and he are on very different sides after all. Wouldn't it be ironic if Shonkoff is the patriot and he is the real terrorist?

 

Chapter 50

A
T
P
ROJECT
S
WAP
HQ, Cole holds the woman's forearm and scans her cleaned MedID into the system. Her eyes are wet as she thanks him, then disappears through the back door. At 2
A
.
M
., Cole checks the appointment notes, handwritten into a log that will be burned at the end of the night. Despite a full day at the hospital, he's reinvigorated by the faces of those who pass through their humble headquarters. The building is in disrepair—­a property bought by Hudson's Funeral Homes, Inc.—­but no one cares about the peeling paint or smell of mildew. Priorities are elsewhere. Here the “patients” don't speak, don't exchange names or stories with one another. They come in one door, out another, and are given very specific directions on how to depart the neighborhood so that no one notices a pattern.

The Jack Gardiner escapade had been a disaster, but they learned their lesson, and there's been no news on the burned remains of a motorcycle accident. Surprisingly, they've heard nothing from the family of the man who'd been unwilling to give up Gardiner's MedID. Perhaps the man's parents hope he made it out of the country, is sunning himself in the Mediterranean.

“Next,” Sean Cushing calls out from a procedure room.

In two other rooms, associates of Sean's reprogram more chips. Evidently, MedFuture Corporation made a few enemies among its employees. In an adjacent room another Project Swap volunteer extracts MedIDs for those who simply want them out. Now that MedIDs can simply be “wiped” and rescanned, the list of those willing to take their chances has grown dramatically. Less than a week into this new process, Karen can't keep up with prioritizing her database of who has urgent employment needs, who's trying to leave the country, who might be trying to buy a home or start a business. All things contingent on health.

In the dim light of the hallway, Cole checks his phone. No messages. Lily isn't speaking to him and she barely looks at him. Since the day he called her to the crash site and explained everything, she's shut him out. At home he pleads with her, apologizes over and over again, but she walks away. God, he misses her. But she knows he's endangering their family. And she's right. It's amazing how with children, the house can be so lively and loud, yet so lonely. Their voices are woven throughout Ian's and Talia's, but they never actually connect.

“Cole.” Steven blows in through the front door. Behind him a sheet of water slicks the pavement, pulls at the trees. He's winded, his hair wet and dripping, his suit drenched.

“What's wrong?”

“I waited as long as I could. I tried to get the money. I didn't want to worry you and Karen.”

“What are you talking about?”

“They have Jonathan.”

“Who has Jonathan?”

“Mitchell. BASIA.” In a hushed voice, Steven explains Jonathan's confession, how he's working for Reverend Mitchell's BASIA and plans to steal the MedIDs for Project Swap.

“But we have Sean now,” Cole says. “There's no need for donors.”

“Jonathan's been gone for days.” Steven's voice catches and he coughs. “I keep calling but they must have taken his phone. The last time I saw him we still needed donors.”

Cole remembers the kid's smugness that night, offering up ten thousand MedIDs. “What can I do?”

“They gave me an ultimatum. Three million dollars for his safety.” Steven paces. “Since

Mitchell's henchman paid me a visit, I've spent every minute trying to put the money together. I didn't want to involve you. I didn't want to endanger the operation.”

“So you don't have the money?”

“Not on me.”

It's surprising that Steven can't simply produce the funds, given the success of Hudson's. Something in his face must show his doubt, because Steven adds, “I've just bought two new funeral homes. Our savings are in Swiss and offshore accounts. The money's tied up.”

“Untie it.”

“It's impossible.” Steven leans against the wall. “Most of the money has to be withdrawn in person. A safeguard I set up, thinking I wouldn't need to tap into it until retirement. Most of my other money is tied up in overhead. I have several thousand liquid, but not millions. Cole, they'll kill him if he tries to steal those MedIDs.”

What would he do if Ian or Talia were taken hostage? A pang settles in his gut. And he knows. “I'll go.”

“Where?”

“To Patriot's Church. No one knows me there. I'll see if I can find him during the ser­vice. If he's valuable, maybe the Reverend is keeping him close.”

“They're probably holding him somewhere else.” Steven shakes his head, runs his hand through his hair. “The church is their public facade. Who knows what other properties they have? He could be anywhere.”

“While you figure out your finances, I'll just take a look around.”

“You have a family.”

“Jonathan put himself at risk because of us.” Cole gestures to their surroundings. “I owe it to him.”

They stand in silence as MedID patients quietly pass by them in the hallway. All these ­people. No one is changed, but everyone has a chance now. He places a hand on Steven's shoulder. Trying to find Jonathan is the right thing to do.

 

Chapter 51

A
T
BASIA HQ, Charles stares out from behind his podium at his loyal troops. Thousands stand before him, and thousands more watch him via streamed video. He touches his hand to his chest, then reaches it out to them, palm open. In unison, they do the same.

“It's God who arms you with strength,” he proclaims. “And with it, we will strike down the evil that infests our society. Finally, our great country will serve Him, under his laws, with the Great Book as our guide. And God will thank all of us by opening his eternal kingdom to you and your families. But before that, you'll enjoy the riches of his love here on earth.”

“Amen,” they say in unison.

“Thy will be done,” he says. “Dismissed.”

The soldiers salute and the monitors turn to black as the men and women in the room funnel through the aisles, on their way out. He gives a subtle nod to Henry, who walks purposefully through the crowd to retrieve Will Anderson.

In the Command Center control room, Charles waits. An e-­map of the U.S. spans an entire wall. Opposite, security monitors with live feeds display different angles of BASIA HQ. Several touch keypads are embedded into a table the length of the room. He pushes buttons on one of them, causing a small red light in each of the fifty states to illuminate. His chest swells, tears sting his eyes. It's hard to believe the moment is almost here. “Thy will be done,” he whispers.

There's a knock on the door. He presses a button and the red lights disappear from the screen. “Come in.”

Will Anderson trails Henry inside. He's not much to look at, but he has balls. Shave the scruffy beard, cut that hair, and he'll be a force within the organization.

“Leave us,” Charles commands. Henry closes the door behind him. Anderson waits at attention as he walks a circle around him, stopping to look him in the eye. “You have something for me?”

“Yes, sir.” From inside his jacket he produces a phone. He unlocks it, finds what he's looking for and hands it to Charles.

In vivid color, photographs show a murdered Joe Shonkoff. The graphic nature prompts the sharp pain in Charles's temple and he rubs it with his free hand. “When were these taken?”

“Last night.”

“Where?”

“Quincy. But he's in the northwest corner of the state now.”

“This is a serious offense, Anderson.”

A sharp inhale, his brow twitches slightly.

“Was this your first time?”

“No.”

Anderson appears humble and honest. He's committed a necessary evil in the interest of BASIA's mission. There's nothing questionable in his history, either online or MedID. And evidently he's ready. More than willing.

“Pictures can be created,” Charles says.

“I brought proof. May I, sir?”

At Charles's nod, Anderson reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a small plastic bag. Inside are two bloody teeth.

“While I appreciate your effort, it is possible to survive without teeth.”

“I burned the remains.”

Despite their research, it's always possible that someone has infiltrated BASIA and has an agenda to shut them down. He leans in close to Anderson and whispers, “Are you setting me up, Anderson?”

“No, sir.” He stares ahead, unflinching. “I have nothing to gain but my salvation and the honor of serving BASIA in the name of God.”

Charles drags the moment out. Finally he pats him—­hard—­on the back. “Well done, Anderson. You've demonstrated your commitment to BASIA. Proven you're able to act alone. And you deliver results.”

“Thank you, sir. I did what was necessary.”

“Indeed. Shonkoff might have spoiled our mission. Everything we've worked for.”

“I'm here to serve, sir.”

“Aren't we all.” Charles closes his eyes, gives a moment of thanks for this dedicated soldier. Then he continues, “For your bravery and exceptional ser­vice, I hereby promote you to Sergeant.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Anderson nods as relief and, Charles thinks, gratitude soften his face. Perhaps this one can lead without being sacrificed.

“With your new rank comes a higher level of clearance,” he explains. “More personalized assignments as our mission nears.”

“I'm ready, sir.”

Charles wanders to the window and takes in the brilliant autumn leaves. “Thanks to the State House attack, we learned a lot from the government. They made some mistakes, some missteps. But then again, they're not used to pulling off chemical attacks.”

“Excuse me?”

“You remember the sarin attack?”

“Of course.”

Spinning back around, he returns to where Anderson stands. “They removed a presidential candidate that wouldn't do what he was told. Gardiner had plans to phase out the MedID program. President Clark and his administration couldn't let that happen. All their precious systems would explode! Their reins on society would slip away. It's amazing, really. ­People turn to God in times of war. Killing their own promotes our cause and increases our membership.”

“You're saying President Clark had James Gardiner assassinated?” Anderson's brow furrows.

“Don't look so shocked. A government that enslaves its ­people is capable of anything.”

“I'm sorry. It's just, I thought it was our accomplishment.”

“Our efforts will make that look like child's play.”

“Can I ask, sir.” Anderson shifts on his feet. “How do you know it was President Clark? Tell me if I'm overstepping, but—­”

“You are.” Too curious for his own good. “BASIA is everywhere. Our resources are vast. That's all you need to know.”

“Yes, sir.”

“That's all for now, Sergeant Anderson.”

“Thank you, Reverend Mitchell. And thank you for this opportunity.”

“Make Him proud.”

Anderson salutes.

“Dismissed.”

When Anderson leaves, Henry enters. “The car's ready.”

“What the status on our two investments?”

Henry's lips pinch together. “No word from Hudson or Hensley, sir.”

“Dammit.” Unwelcome news. His board will be asking for an update on funds any day now. “Make our presence felt, Henry. Send reminders to the senator and the undertaker. Time is of the essence.”

J
ONATHAN
LIES
IN
bed, waiting for the right time. Reverend Mitchell must think he's an idiot. For five days he's only been allowed off the compound for cyber training at BASIA HQ. The Reverend tells him that with the long hours he's putting in, he might as well stay. When Jonathan tries to argue, Henry tells him they can't spare a driver to transport him. There's no way for him to contact Steven. And Henry blatantly ignores his requests to buy a new phone.

Poor Steven probably thinks he's dead. After what his stepfather has been through—­at the hands of Charles Mitchell—­his imagination must be getting the best of him. Jonathan's chest is heavy at the thought. No matter what's happened between them in the past, Steven is his family. Enough already. Tonight is the night.

At 3
A
.
M
. the mansion is quiet, the only sound a whisper of heat through the vents. He wears sweatpants and a T-­shirt so if he's caught he can just say he's grabbing something to eat. In socks, he pads along the darkened hallways until he reaches the basement stairs. In seconds he's there, inside the MedID Vault, the door triggering the overhead lights. He works fast. Taking one of the heavy metal briefcases, he logs into the computer and accesses the MedID database. Methodically, silently, he pulls clean MedIDs from a temperature-­controlled safe and places them one by one in the briefcase in individual slots. As he places the last one in the case he notices his hands are shaking.

“You're up late.”

His hands fly up, his whole body jumps. “Hannah, what the hell!”

“Seriously. What the hell?”

“I'm just working.” Breathe. Without skipping a beat, he reverses the direction of his actions. He takes MedIDs back out of the case, logs them into the system and places them into the storage vault. He feels her watching him. If he tells her, maybe she'll go with him.

“Why are you doing this in the middle of the night?”

“Couldn't sleep.” He avoids her gaze. “Nothing better to do, might as well work.”

“You've been staying here a lot lately.”

“Uh huh.”

“Charles has taken to you. He doesn't usually have soldiers in the house.”

“I'm not a soldier.”

“I know you don't want to be. But you're a cyber soldier.”

Her hand on his arm makes his body tense. She presses against him, her chest to his back as her arms slide around his waist. His breath catches. Being with her makes him believe it's possible to be happy, that maybe the future doesn't have to be so grim. After tonight he may never see her again. She wants out, he knows it. He needs to make her see the possibilities. He reverses direction, once again placing the clean MedIDs in the case.

“What are you doing?” She moves away from him, the warmth from her body still clinging to him.

“Remember I told you there's always a way out?” he asks.

“Stealing from Charles is not a way out.”

“I'm not stealing. These are banned at BASIA. Everyone in the militia gave them up.” He places the final chip in the case and shuts it. They lock eyes and he can tell she's scared. “These clean MedIDs can help ­people. They can save lives.”

“We don't believe in MedIDs.”

“No. But right now this is the system. And ­people need them. To get jobs. To move. To get special medical treatment.”

“We take care of our own. Those ­people should come to the church.”

“Hannah. Not everyone believes this is Armageddon.”

“Do you?”

Jonathan secures the lock and picks up the case. “I believed in my mother. I believe in my stepfather. I believe in you.”

She stares at him a minute. Her eyes fill. “That's not what I asked.”

“Well that's my answer. At the end of the day, I only believe in ­people. My family. My friends. I don't care about getting back at the government. I don't care about getting vengeance for a God I don't know exists.”

“Are you leaving?”

He swallows. “Come with me.”

Tears tumble onto her cheeks. “I can't.”

“Won't.”

“It's complicated, Jonathan. He takes care of me.”

“You can take care of yourself.”

Hannah leans against the door frame, her head bowed so that her hair partially hides her face. “Things are going to change,” she says. “Just wait. Wait a little longer.”

“I can't. We've got to go now.”

“You're so good, Jonathan.” She takes a few steps backward, into the hallway. “I'm sorry. Forgive me.” She pulls a lever on the wall. Piercing sirens burst throughout the house.

For a moment he can only stare at her. How could she do this? Why not just let him go? She brushes the wet off her cheeks as he runs past her, briefcase in hand, down the hall and up the stairs. Heart thumping, breath short. With each stride he works out his path. Get to the kitchen. Out the sliding glass door. Across the lawn. Through the field.

“Stop right there.”

In the reflection of the kitchen's sliding glass door he sees Henry with his gun raised. Jonathan does as he's told. In just his T-­shirt, sweatpants, and socks, he feels naked.
Goddammit, Hannah.
Does she understand she might have gotten him killed? He lowers the briefcase to the ground and turns to face Henry.

“How disappointing.” Reverend Mitchell enters from the darkened hallway. He wears a robe and slippers. “I had high hopes for you, Jonathan.”

“I just want out. I have some stuff going on at home.”

“Stuff that involves my MedIDs?”

“All due respect, Reverend, they're not yours.”

“And they're not yours.”

He can't argue that.

“You're stealing from our soldiers. And you're stealing from my home. What were you planning to do with the biochips?”

There's no way he's going to tell Reverend Mitchell about Steven's Project Swap. Just lie. “I need money. Clean MedIDs are like gold.”

A long silence fills the room. The Reverend takes a stool at the kitchen counter and studies him. Finally he says, “Money and MedIDs should be the least of your worries, Jonathan.”

“I'm done, sir. I just want out.”

“I wish it were that easy.”

“It is.” Jonathan's stomach aches with nerves. “I'm just one guy. You have thousands.”

“After the mission, you may go.”

“No. Listen, I don't want any part of it.”

“Sleep on it. You may change your mind.” The Reverend gestures to Henry, who takes the briefcase and continues aiming the gun at Jonathan.

Without another word, Henry escorts him back to the basement, this time to a cell-­like room. When the door locks behind him, Jonathan falls onto the bed, exhausted, his muscles tight and throbbing as though he ran a marathon. He stares at the ceiling. Steven is probably calling and texting him every hour. And Hannah.

He was so stupid, trusting her. Believing she might actually choose him over the Reverend. He's out of ideas now, out of a plan. Mitchell's residence is off the grid, so how would anyone even find him? It's like he's buried alive.