Nation of Enemies (34 page)

 

Chapter 76

O
N
THE
LIMOUSINE
'
S
soft leather seats, Taylor sits next to her father on their way to the convention center. Across from them, Sienna lies stretched out in a deep slumber. Taylor wishes she could feel as peaceful as her daughter looks. Will's warning has her stomach in knots, but it's impossible to avoid the party. Her attendance is buying their freedom, their future.

“Please stay,” her father says suddenly. “You and Sienna move into the White House with me.”

“So we can be a constant target? No, thank you.”

“No one is more protected than the President of the United States.”

“That's naive.” Out the window, the blur of streetlights draws her eye.

“Do you and Sienna have your skins on?”

“Of course. But what's to stop them from aiming at our heads?”

“Enough!” The muscles in his neck tense. “This is my night. Our country's night. Don't ruin it.”

His tone snuffs out her idea to share Will's warning. Never mind. She'll do whatever it takes to keep Sienna safe.

 

Chapter 77

F
ROM
THE
WALKWAY
grid, Sebastian watches the action on the convention center floor. Under the lights, the crowd shimmers in elegant evening wear, waiting for the future President to take the stage. The man he's been assigned to kill.

On the side stage, a band plays standard party tunes. The festivities are in full swing. His phone vibrates with a text. An anonymous number displays the code signifying that Cole's attempt to free Steven was successful.
Thank God.
Under that, an alert from CNN declares Richard Hensley the clear winner in the election. He shoves the phone back into his pocket.

Through his earpiece comes the voice of the lead security officer for the event. “Stations everyone. T minus five minutes.”

Throughout the floor, convention center security guards scatter to their assigned positions. But the one who catches Sebastian's eye is a man moving just as quickly and purposefully, although he's dressed as a party guest. He's smoothed his hair into a more refined look, but his buzzed military cut is still obvious. So far, Sebastian has identified and dealt with two from his BASIA team. Below, the man with the buzz cut disappears into the stairwell.

Holding his XM3 rifle behind his leg, Sebastian waits. The metal of his handgun, strapped to his ankle, presses into the ballistics skin that stretches down his legs. The weapons are a solid, weighty comfort. In seconds the grid walkway door opens. Buzz Cut steps onto the passageway and strides past the camera crew busy setting up their shot.

“T minus sixty seconds,” comes over the line.

Buzz Cut stops about ten feet away. Smirking, he nods to Sebastian. “Great view from here.”

“The best.” Sebastian glimpses the stage. Sweat dampens his skins.

“Showtime, ­people,” the voice on the line announces.

“In the name of the Father.” The man makes the sign of the cross from his forehead, over his chest. “The Son and the Holy Spirit.”

Sebastian stares at his fellow assassin and joins in. “Put on the full armor of God, so that you will be able to stand firm against the schemes of the devil.”

In unison, their voices rise over the cheers of the crowd below. “For our struggle is against the rulers, against the powers and against the forces of darkness in the world.”

“Amen, brother,” Buzz Cut says.

A sudden silence draws their attention below. At the podium, the Liberty Party chairman is beaming, his arms spread wide as he addresses the crowd. “This is a proud moment. A moment not just for the President-­elect, but for the ­people. A moment that solidifies our country and our purpose. A moment that underlines our priorities and concerns, and most important, a moment that will define our collective future.”

The revelers cheer, raising hands that hold flags, signs, and drinks.

“Without further ado, ladies and gentlemen, it's my honor and privilege to present your next President of the United States, Richard Hensley!”

The band strikes up a victory song as a blizzard of red, white, and blue confetti obscures Sebastian's view of the stage. Next to him, Buzz Cut reaches into his suit and pulls out three pieces of a rifle that he expertly assembles in seconds. There's no doubt he's there both to take out a target and to back up Sebastian, if his mission is unsuccessful.

A parade of ­people make their way on stage as Sebastian readies his XM3. Positively effusive, a smiling Richard Hensley waves both arms while he crosses to the podium. Behind him trail the vice president–elect, and a bit farther behind, both men's families.
Goddammit, Taylor
. Upon seeing her, Sebastian's heart pounds faster. Through his scope, he watches her carrying Sienna in one arm and waving to the crowd with the other. He shoots a glance at Buzz Cut, who is either gunning for the vice president–elect or Taylor. Perhaps both. The whole room is a sensory explosion, but the soldier beside him has unwavering concentration.

“Hey,” Sebastian shouts. “Private.”

Buzz Cut's eyebrows furrow, his annoyance clear. “It's sergeant.”

“Forgive me. She brought the child.”

“It's not a concern.”

“No one likes dead children.”

“Thanks for the tip. But my aim is tight.”

“So is mine.” Sebastian pivots, points the XM3 at Buzz Cut and shoots. The bullet hits the man's neck, and as he crumples, his gun clangs on the metal walkway. Swiftly, Sebastian drags him into the shadows a few feet away. His phone buzzes, announcing that it's thirty seconds until midnight. He pulls on his night-­vision glasses.

A triumphant Richard Hensley gestures to quiet the crowd. The band plays the final notes as the shower of confetti tapers off. Then the lights go out.

Silence. Then panicked screams.

It's child's play to pick off the BASIA soldiers once the lights are out. From above, Sebastian finds the others outfitted with the same night-­vision eyewear, calmly aiming guns instead of running with the crowd. In seconds his bullets land solidly in three of them. They disappear on the floor, swallowed by thousands of feet. Three left.

B
EHIND
J
ONATHAN
, R
EVEREN
D
M
ITCHELL
paces back and forth in the control room. Except for his footfalls, the only other sound is the light tap of fingers on keyboards. Right to left across the map, the illuminated red dots in each state turn to green until finally they are all uniform in color. Abruptly, the pacing stops and hands rest firmly on his shoulders.

“You've done it,” the Reverend whispers.

Holy shit
. Single-­handedly he's turned off electricity across the country and shut down communications. Huan Chao's team has enabled the Reverend's assassins to murder every elected official, starting with the President. And to ensure BASIA's domination, most of the elected officials' predecessors are also being killed. It's all happening right now, this minute. A lump forms in his throat.

He pulls away from the Reverend's grasp and glances at a portion of the screen that displays the BASIA social network feed, shielded by an encrypted code Huan devised for BASIA communications. An influx of messaging has begun, soldiers confirming that their targets are down. Jonathan imagines the unified scream of the country. What has he done?

Without warning, he bends with the pain in his gut, leans over the side of his chair and vomits. On Reverend Mitchell's shoes.

“Get ahold of yourself, kid.” The Reverend laughs.

The joyous sound in this moment makes him gag again but he swallows it back. He wipes his mouth with the back of his sleeve.

“A little vomit won't ruin my moment.” The Reverend kicks off his shoes and dispatches a guard to clean them.

But then, one by one, the green lights on the board turn red, starting in the east and moving west. Mitchell leans over, hands on the console desk, gaping. Jonathan watches him. He's speechless, if only for a second. It's priceless.

“What's happening?”

Feigning innocence, Jonathan shakes his head. He stares at the screen and punches a few keys. “It looks like backup generators are kicking in. I'm not sure why—­”

“You said you took care of those! You tested the systems and there were no glitches!”

“It'll just take a minute.”

“Minutes are all we have. A minute is everything!”

Yes, sir. He is well aware.

 

Chapter 78

“G
O
,
GO
,
GO
!” In complete darkness, Richard is swept away from the podium. Bodies envelop and move him in a swift, insistent current. He can't catch his breath.

“Move! This way!” It's the voice of his lead Secret Ser­vice detail.

Richard opens his eyes wide as though it will help, but it's futile. This is no fluke. President Clark was right about an attack. Gunshots ring out above the thunderous noise of the crowd. Where are Taylor and Sienna?

Hands still tightly guiding him, Richard stumbles down a short flight of stairs. He recognizes the path, knows they're heading behind the stage. A fiery nugget of anger lodges in his throat—­they've stolen this glorious moment from him.

Beside him, one of the men in his detail grunts and stumbles. As the man falls, he clings to Richard's suit jacket, nearly pulling him to the floor.

“Keep moving!”

Richard doesn't recognize the voice but he isn't in a position to argue. Screams echo off the high ceiling. He trips over something—­was that a body? The force of hands pushing on his back disappears even as the urgent tug on his arms pulls him along faster.

The hum of a generator cuts through the noise, and with it, a flicker of lights, dim at first and then pure, bright light. His men don't stop moving. Richard cranes his neck to glimpse the path they've taken. There, in their wake, the bodies of two of his Secret Ser­vice team, bloody and motionless. Turning back around, he spots the vice president also being rushed out. They exchange looks. In that moment, from somewhere behind them, a bullet rips into the vice president–elect's head.
Oh my God.
Richard's legs falter. His men adjust, wrapping his arms around their shoulders as they storm ahead. Ahead of them the exit sign glows red.

S
EBASTI
AN
WHIPS
OFF
his goggles and squints to see. He wonders if Jonathan had anything to do with this glitch in Mitchell's plan. No time to dwell, though, with three BASIA soldiers remaining. And he no longer has darkness as a shield.

Shrieks and cries echo in the vast space. The crowd knows now, they see the bodies, slip on the bloodied floor. He clips one end of a rappelling line to his belt and the other to the railing. Leaving his sniper rifle behind, he swings his leg over the metal rail and lowers himself into the chaos. No one seems to notice or care. Handgun poised, he sprints across the room and behind the stage to find Richard Hensley and Taylor.

­People stream out any door they can find. Up ahead, Sebastian sees two downed Secret Ser­vice agents. He scans the crowd but no one stands out as militia. Rushing forward, he passes a crowd of men and women huddled on the ground around the vice president–elect as someone does chest compressions. Mitchell's soldiers must be close.

At the door, the river of escaping crowd is thick and slow. He shoulders his way through. For the first time in months he uses his credentials, shouting, “FBI!”

Finally, the fresh night air hits him. He's on the back side of the building, yards from the main parking lot. Droves of ­people sprint away, around the convention center to their cars.

A muted explosion turns him toward a line of identical black SUVs, headlights and engines on. The VIP parking lot. He holds a hand above his eyes against the glare of the high beams. Shots pierce the air and a woman screams.
Taylor?
He runs toward the voice.

Reaching the nearest SUV, he crouches behind it, peers into the windows. It's impossible to see inside through the tinted glass, but next to him there's a large hole in the metal where the door handle was blown off. Gun ready, he slides his free hand into the hole and pulls the door open. A bloodied congressman lies unmoving on the seat. In the front, the driver is unconscious, maybe dead. More shots ring and ricochet.

Does the Secret Ser­vice still have Taylor and Richard Hensley? Sebastian drops to his stomach and puts his ear to the cold asphalt to glimpse under the car. At the SUV farthest away, he sees several pairs of feet. Crawling to the back of the vehicle, he creeps past the other vehicles one by one, using them as cover. He pauses as he hears shoes scrape against pavement. Slowly, he moves until he's only a few feet from the last SUV.

Abruptly, Sebastian is knocked backward and drops his gun.
Oh God, shit.
White hot pain lodges in his ribs. He can't catch his breath. His hand fumbles with his jacket, rips it open. Reaching through layers of clothes, he feels the ballistics skin, locates the bullet and pries it out with his fingers.

Car doors slam. Wheels screech. Searing pain radiates through his torso as he finds his gun and pulls himself up, leans against the back of an SUV and forces his legs to move. Whoever it was, they're gone, leaving bodies dumped in the parking spaces. Two sets of taillights betray their path as they head toward the Convention Center exit. More shots ring out as he hauls the next unfortunate driver from his seat and crawls in. The motor is already running. He slams the transmission into drive and presses the pedal to the floor.

The taillights in the distance lead the way. He knows exactly where they're heading.