Nation of Enemies (3 page)

 

Chapter 4

Boston, Massachusetts

T
HE
DRIVER
JUTS
his middle finger into the air at the sound of a car horn. The windows of his Mustang are down, the air whipping his hair chaotically as he passes abandoned Victorian mansions with overgrown lawns and peeling paint. Graffiti winds like ivy from house to house, from fence to sidewalk. Cruising by dilapidated Fenway Park, he shouts, “Go Sox!”

A death metal song screams from the car speakers, his head bouncing to the thrashing beat. He knows his fellow Brothers and Sisters in Arms—­BASIA—­are with him in spirit. These last few minutes make the hairs on his arms stand up. This is it. Salvation.

A ring tone sounds, an image of a blond boy appearing on his windshield.

“Answer call.” The music halts and there's a click. “Hey.”

“Hi, Scotty.” His brother's voice is just beginning to crack. “What're you doing?”

“I can't talk now. I left a note for you guys.” He lifts his foot slightly from the accelerator, his heart pounding.

“Where are you?”

“Listen to Mom, okay? Do your homework, clean your room. Don't make her cry.”

“You made her cry.”

He shakes his head. “You're not me.”

“Can we hang out later?”

“Be good, Leon. I love you, little man.”

“Jeez, why're you saying that?”

“I gotta go. Take care, buddy.” He shuts off the phone.

The music screams once again as the car careens past crumbling and charred buildings. Blowing through lights, he swings onto Newbury Street. Looted storefronts are a grayish blur. A smattering of suits stride down the street. At a red light, he pulls to a stop and stares at his destination, a brownstone building one block down. His whole body trembles.

“BASIA is eternal life!” On the passenger seat is a crude bomb, wrapped with wires and duct tape. He presses a button and instantly shoves the gas pedal to the floor. The wheels spin, burning tire treads that emit a high-­pitched shriek. ­People scatter.

“The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want . . .”

Outside the Liberty Party headquarters, two armed guards flank the glass doors, raising their semiautomatic rifles. A flash of Leon appears in his mind.

“He leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul.”

The Mustang jumps the curb. Bullets shatter the windshield. The guards dive out of the way. He closes his eyes against the glass shards but keeps his foot glued to the floor.

“He leadeth me in the paths of righ­teous­ness for His—­”

The car smashes through the doors and explodes.

A
FEW
B
LOCKS
away, stained-­glass windows tremble, dust floats down from ceiling moldings.

In the Patriot's Church office, behind a sleek glass desk, Reverend Charles Mitchell reclines in his chair. The thumb on his left hand presses into his right palm, traces the tattooed, imperfect cross that follows the creases in his lifeline. It's been a habit for as long as he can remember. As a boy, in his first foster home, he'd noticed the cross there, with him always. As though he carries God in his hand.

Across from him on a sofa, Hannah sits curled up on the cushions. Her green eyes are wide, her tangle of red hair loose down her back. A beautiful child, though at eighteen, a child no longer. She's been with him ten years, since the Planes Fell. It's hard to believe she'll soon be his bride, but forty-­five seems a good age to marry. He follows her gaze to the large wall monitor. The audio is muted, but breaking news streams live from a bombing. Ambulances and fire engines are parked behind a reporter as ­people in uniform run this way and that. Yes, this morning God was with Scott Durgin, the evidence a blackened crater in Boston's Liberty Party headquarters. It reminds him of the tomb from which Jesus emerged, born again. He closes his eyes in a silent prayer of thanks.

“You send him, Charles?” Hannah's voice still has a southern lilt despite elocution lessons.

He shakes his head. “No one could tell that boy what to do.”

Though he acted alone, Brothers and Sisters in Arms was in Scott's heart. BASIA's victory is shared with other groups who fight in the resistance. Across the country, ­people are on their knees in thanks. It's what Charles has worked for. A headache suddenly and swiftly stabs at his temples, making his eyes water. It happens sometimes, after these events. He believes it's brought on by grief—­he doesn't
want
­people to die. But this is war. This is Armageddon.

Charles's voice commands, “Power off,” and the monitor goes black. He retrieves a prescription bottle from his desk drawer. Without water, he swallows a pill that should erase his pain by the time he takes the stage.

Hannah stands and slips into her black flats. “You feeling all right?”

“Fine.” From his suit jacket pocket he pulls a lavaliere microphone and pins it to his lapel. In a corner of the room his bodyguard stands at attention. With or without his holstered gun, Henry is an imposing presence.

Charles rises, straightens his suit. “I must admit, I didn't think he had it in him.”

On cue, Henry opens the office door.

“He was quiet, I remember.” Hannah's brow furrows, a vertical line forming on her freckled brow. “He brought a little boy to ser­vice one day.”

“His mother wasn't too happy about that,” Charles says. “But Scott turned out to be a fine soldier of God.”

“Like my father,” Hannah says, her voice soft.

“Yes, he was one of the best. A minister and pilot wrapped up into one. Meant for greatness.” He remembers her father well, a devoted leader, willing to give up his family in the name of God. “All right. Let's get this show started.”

Every pew in the cavernous, circular nave is full. ­People line the aisles and crowd together along the walls. Hannah enters first, takes a seat in the row designated for Charles's family, orphaned children and teens of every age and race. Charles comes in after her, his hands clasped humbly as he makes his way to center stage, slightly raised above the seats in his very own theater-­in-­the-­round. Upon seeing him, voices hush, bodies settle. A thousand pairs of eyes follow him. The energy in the room is electric. Their faith has carried him far.

“Good morning.” He turns slowly, taking in his flock.

“Good morning,” they say in unison.

“God bless America,” he says.

“Amen,” they say.

One last rotation and he faces the portion of the wall on which is painted a massive mural of a palm—­his palm—­with the tattooed cross. “Whether you came today for God or country or family—­or all three—­you are here to be saved. No one on the other side of that door,” he points to the church entrance, “is fighting for you. Do you think they're fighting for you?”

“No,” they answer. Affirmations from the crowd invigorate him.

“They don't care about your God-­given rights. The civil servants no longer serve—­they play God. They give orders. Tell you what to do, what not to do. They deny you your dreams.”

“That's right!” the crowd says.

“One nation under God.” Charles grips the Bible that rests on his podium. “Make no mistake. This is, has, and always will be, one nation under God. The day the courts removed that phrase from our national pledge of allegiance, I knew it was a sign.” That news had hit him viscerally, took his breath away. In response, he'd spent that day in a tattoo parlor. The pain in his newly inked palm had soothed him, for no good comes without sacrifice. “And God is angry. Angry at the politicians and the government. At our supposed representatives who serve only themselves. For if they truly served us, would they make a dying child wait to see a doctor?”

Shouts of “No!” fill the hall.

“They turn their backs on those of us without jobs when it's their own laws that have put ­people out of work. They feed off our desperation. Can't support yourself? Good. Can't care for your children? Even better. They want you to depend on them. They want you fearful. Hungry. Dependent.”

­People shout out in agreement. Charles lets the clamor build as he makes eye contact with parishioners. Finally he sees the face he's searching for. Senator Richard Hensley's daughter, Taylor. Only child of the future vice president of the United States. Henry had told him she'd come. Of course, in her wake, news vans are lining the curb outside. She's in the back, on her feet with the others. What brought her here today? Does she share their passion?

“We are hungry to be free,” he continues. “Hungry for change. Well let me assure you, change is coming. Change starts right here. Your strength and spirit has carried you to Patriot's Church. Our children deserve a bright future in God's country. This land, our home, should be a place of dreams. Many of us can still remember the time before. We know it's possible. But the leaders of our great country have forgotten what America means. They instill fear and they rule without our support. Without ­people of faith. But here, we know the truth. Slowly, steadily, we're gaining on them, taking back our country. Because this is
our
country. This is our war to win. And we
will
win!” Charles raises a fist in the air.

Cheers as a thousand fists punch the air. Charles beams. After a few seconds, he lowers his hand and the believers do the same. His mood darkens with the seriousness of this sermon. He waits until he has silence.

“I don't celebrate the lives lost in this battle. But even as those souls, God willing, ascend into everlasting life, we are gaining ground here on earth. They will be remembered for making the ultimate sacrifice for our freedom.” A sharp pain stabs at his temple, his eyes water. He breathes through it and continues. “One of our own gave his life this morning in ser­vice to God and his country. Scott Durgin was a man of conviction. A fine soldier. Of his own volition and fierce beliefs, Scott made a bold statement by demolishing the Liberty Party headquarters. I don't condone the slaughter of innocents, but Scott sacrificed himself for his beliefs. He's a hero who'll forever live in our hearts.” Gasps and whispers fill the air. “Our enemies heard us loud and clear on this beautiful spring day. Do you think they're listening to us now?”

“Yes.” Every head nods, every pair of lips mouth
Yes
.

“Do they feel our power?”

“Yes.”

“As well they should. Now. Every day we're blessed with new members. If you're new today, welcome. Please stand and introduce yourself.” He locks eyes with Taylor. She is striking despite her short hair and lack of makeup. Prettier than in the tabloid pictures.

Her cheeks blush as she looks around the room. As others rise to their feet, so does she. The room quiets in anticipation. He extends a hand in her direction.

“Please,” he says. “Don't be shy.”

Taylor holds up her right hand in greeting. “My name is Taylor Hensley. Please don't hold my last name, or my father, against me.” Laughter from the crowd. “As a widow, a mother, and a citizen, I've felt lost and in limbo for a long time. I haven't been to church in years, but I believe in God. And I believe in freedom. Thanks for the welcome. I'm happy to be here today.”

The crowd claps one time simultaneously and in unison extend their right palms to him—­many revealing cross tattoos.

Charles nods in acknowledgment and says only, “Welcome, Taylor.” With her as one of his flock, the possibilities are great. But in the beginning, he must treat her like all the rest.

 

Chapter 5

Boston

I
N
FR
ONT
OF
Massachusetts General Hospital, throngs of ­people and press crush against one another, desperate for information. No names have been released so far, no number confirmed dead. FBI Special Agent Sebastian Diaz winds through the revolving glass doors of the hospital on his way to interview bombing victims.

When headquarters called with the news, his body grew leaden. His fiancé, Kate, has been working with the Liberty Party. He called her, got voice mail. Texted. Called again. Called her sister Lily, to no avail. Kate's family—­her sister, brother-­in-­law, Cole, and nephew, Ian—­have become his own in the past year. As he tried the numbers over and over again, his hands shook. “She's okay, she's okay,” he repeated out loud to himself. But ser­vice was jammed. Finally a text from her:
I'm safe, home. Go to work. xo.

And he did, eagerly. There's no sign of his partner, fellow agent Chris Renner, but Sebastian can't wait. It's crucial that the Counterterrorism Taskforce interviews victims immediately. Ahead, an eight-­member security team guards the Mass General entrance. Four burly men dressed in dark suits are armed with guns and expert martial-­arts skills. Dressed in business attire, another man and three women round out the group, sitting at touch-­screen desks. Their job is to identify potential terrorists in the steady stream of hospital visitors and outpatients.

The line moves forward, each person passing through safety screening stations. Despite his FBI credentials, Sebastian is treated no differently. As the soles of his leather shoes press against the smart carpet, he watches a security analyst up ahead. He knows that when she swipes her index finger across her tablet, a biometric measurement on him appears. A few more steps and he encounters one of several screens with the outline of a hand, prompting him to hold his right palm about an inch away. When it beeps, he removes his hand and walks a few more steps until an interactive board prompts him to enter the name of the patient or doctor he is there to see. Sebastian can't see the subliminal flashes—­images of known terrorists, words such as Taking Back the Country, photographs of government officials—­but he knows they're there. By the time he reaches the analysts and armed guards, his body temperature, heart rate, and respiration have informed security that Sebastian Diaz does not harbor malicious intent and poses no immediate threat to the hospital. He passes through the final door to the ER.

The frenetic energy makes Sebastian stand still. An antiseptic scent coats the air. It triggers his memory of the last time he'd made a call like the one he made to Kate. But that day, his father died on a gurney behind one of the pale blue curtains. He'd just been doing his job, working at a desk job at an investment firm, when a disgruntled ex-­employee walked into the office and set off a bomb. After Sebastian's father was buried, his mother and brothers returned to Buenos Aires to be with family. With them safe and far from the war, he can focus on his job.

Through the chaos, he sees his future brother-­in-­law, Dr. Cole Fitzgerald. The chief of Emergency Medicine is consulting a floor plan of the ER displayed on a smart wall. His fingers sweep across the electronic diagram, moving physician and patient names to correspond with beds and operating rooms.

Sebastian steps alongside him. “Welcome back.”

Cole glances at him, sniffs. “It's good to see you.”

They shake hands. It's the first time Sebastian's seen him since he and Lily got on the ship, headed to London. He wasn't sure he'd ever see Kate's family again.

“Busy morning,” Sebastian says.

“Aren't they all.” Cole looks toward the entrance. “You alone?”

“Renner's on his way.” Sebastian scans the faces in the beds. “How many dead?”

“Eleven. Seventeen are critical.”

“Mind if I start the interviews?”

“No problem.” Cole gestures toward a middle-­aged man wearing a johnny and sitting on a gurney. Bandages cover half his face. “Start with him.”

Sebastian heads in the man's direction, glancing back at Cole. “We still on for tonight?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“We'll bring the wine,” Sebastian says. “Kate can't wait to see Lily.”

Everything has changed in just a year. Sebastian had always thought he'd stay single, especially with the long hours he puts in at work. But Kate reminds him there are still reasons to be happy, despite the terrible shit he sees daily. He had no idea how much he needed to forget.

Sebastian hears his name being called. Renner catches up with him and together they approach the patient with the bandaged face.

D
R
. C
OLE
F
ITZGE
RALD
'
S
attention is quickly drawn back to the bloodied and broken patients being wheeled this way and that. The choreography of his staff and how the teams work within chaos always impresses him. When he took his family to London, he'd told the hospital he was vacationing for two weeks. He'd hoped never to return.

“We have a problem.” It's Nurse Huberty, her voice low. She is his eyes and ears on the floor. Nodding her head to a curtained bed across the room, she explains, “Your new hire, Dr. Riley, is refusing to update the chips.”

“I'll take care of it. Thanks.”

At the partition, Cole opens the curtain and enters the tight space. Inside, Dr. Karen Riley speaks to the parents of her patient, a girl of seven or eight years, who sits on the bed. Her two front teeth are missing and her brown hair is in a braid down her back. The girl's johnny has been discarded on the floor and she's fully dressed. The mother grips Dr. Riley's arm. The father rubs a hand over his daughter's back. The Medical Record Scanner rests on the side table, untouched. Dr. Riley has only been at the hospital a month, so Cole doesn't have a read on her yet. Her petite build and unruly curls give her a mousy appearance. But he senses strength underneath.

“Excuse me, Dr. Riley,” he says. “A moment, please.”

Riley excuses herself and follows him. It's hard to find privacy with all the activity, so he leads her to a supply closet. The voices and machines fade into white noise when the door closes behind them. On either side of the narrow space, shelves are filled with bandages, syringes, bed pans, and countless other items. Riley pulls off her latex gloves and drops them into a receptacle. He watches as she methodically touches each finger on her right hand to her thumb and repeats this action. A nervous habit he noticed during her interview.

“It's part of your job to update the chips,” he says. “There's no choice in the matter. You have to do the scans.”

Though her cheeks blush, Riley steps toward him, her eyes meeting his. “With all due respect, we're here to help and heal ­people, not to subject them to laws that violate their civil liberties.”

“You knew the job when you signed on. This is a state-­run and -­financed hospital. Neither of us would be here healing ­people if it weren't for government support. And whether or not you like it or agree with it, you will update the MedIDs.”

“That family is planning to move to Finland next week. If I update Tess Connelly's chip, it'll ruin those plans. It will take away their chance to—­”

“Not our problem,” he says. “You won't make it in this field if you can't separate your emotions from your work. Believe me, I know that's hard to do sometimes.”

Red blotches appear down Riley's neck. “How can we save ­people and then condemn them? What we write on MedIDs impacts lives forever.”

Not mousy at all. Feisty, even. Of course he agrees, but he can't say as much. “This isn't a debate, Dr. Riley. I'm not in charge of this country—­I'm in charge of this ER. When I'm here, I don't have political opinions. And the MedIDs are part of our job.”

“I just think—­”

“Think about this. I hired you because you're a talented doctor. But I'll replace you if you can't do what's required.” He turns and opens the door. “When you finish your shift tonight, let me know if you're on board. In the meantime, Nurse Huberty will do your scans.”

On the floor, he passes a packed waiting room. ­People shout over the loud volume of the TV. Cole recognizes the advertisement for Hudson's Funeral Homes. The owner is selling a ser­vice that doesn't need to be promoted. He imagines they'll be just as busy today as the ER.