Nation of Enemies (18 page)

“I was out riding tonight and I heard cars behind me.” Her voice quavers.

He closes his eyes, his mind creating images to match her story. She was in a dangerous part of the city, late at night, alone. A car chase, probably nothing more to it. She's being paranoid. When she finishes, he opens his eyes. He isn't going to win her back tonight.

“Sounds like you were in the wrong place at the wrong time,” he says.

“They were after me. When I turned, they turned. It was obvious.”

“What's obvious is that South Bay is a rough area. Somehow you ended up in the middle of someone's business. Drugs, probably. Could be anything.”

“I'm not an idiot. I know those Cadillacs are owned by the Liberty Party.”

“It's an American made car. Of course we have Cadillacs. Thousands of them are sold each year. Are you going to interrogate everyone with a Cadillac?”

“So you're denying it.”

“Denying what?”

“Did you have me followed, or not?”

“In the past I've been guilty of, let's say, having a keen interest in your whereabouts. But I had nothing to do with this. It sounds like an unfortunate coincidence that you're overthinking.”

“Excuse me?”

“It's understandable. You're feeling vulnerable and a little paranoid, thanks to the good Reverend Mitchell.”

“I'm hanging up.”

“The more he makes me out to be the one with twisted ideals, the more you'll run in his direction. He's a bright man.”

“You almost had me killed tonight.”

“I didn't. But you believe what you want to believe. You're consistent, at least.”

“As are you.”

“I didn't kill Mason, Taylor. And I didn't try to kill you.”

“Just because you don't do the physical act yourself doesn't mean you're not responsible.”

“If I killed everyone who isn't voting for me, I think someone would catch on.”

“Stay away from us. No more visiting hours with Sienna.”

“Taylor—­”

She disconnects the call. Amazing. She accused, tried, and sentenced him, without an ounce of evidence. If Mason had survived, her life would be so different. Instead she'll never stop blaming him, as though he ordered the MedFuture bombing himself.

At his desk in the corner of the bedroom, Richard powers up his computer. He launches an application and four windows appear. In seconds live video streams: Taylor's living room, Sienna's bedroom, the view from the handlebars of Taylor's bike, now stored inside the entryway, and a perspective from the top of the building doorway, monitoring visitors.

In the dim glow of Sienna's nightlight he can see her shape under the covers, her many dolls and stuffed animals taking up at least half of the bed. Just knowing she's sleeping peacefully and safely makes him smile.

In the living room, Taylor stares at the main wall, plainly painted with homey words. She's wearing a mask over her nose and mouth and she's holding a spray paint can. Music must be playing. Her head is bouncing in time with something. Suddenly she attacks the wall, rages against it with her paint. She begins to define a form that he can't quite see. Probably going to be him on a crucifix, though that's not very child appropriate.

He rewinds footage from the bike cam. There's only one quick shot of a Cadillac speeding past her, pursued by a dark SUV. The images are too blurred to make out license plates. He shakes his head and crawls back into bed, though sleep won't come easily now. Tomorrow he'll need to inquire about the Cadillac with his staff.

 

Chapter 37

I
N
THE
TEMPERATURE
-­
CONT
ROLLED
vault in Reverend Mitchell's basement, Jonathan performs the monotonous task of logging in MedIDs extracted from thousands of BASIA militants across the country. Of course, his own MedID is now among the biochips housed here. It pisses him off that it wasn't his decision. Pisses him off that they're bribing him. That someone is using his talents for their own agenda. But he can't risk Steven's safety. And he sure as shit doesn't want to go to prison. Now when he wanders the BASIA HQ or halls of the residence, he remembers the rumors, all the unsubstantiated news reports about the Reverend. He has to shake off the thoughts, though. Because whatever the bastard is up to, he's now part of it.

He scans and stores, scans and stores. Repeats. At least tomorrow will be more interesting when he goes back to BASIA HQ to work on something they call Operation Darkness Falls. From what he can tell, they want him to cause another power outage. Though he feels trapped working for Mitchell and Huan Chao, he's oddly relieved to have the distraction. Lately, without warning, flashes of his mom hit him through the day. Memories, her voice. It's been just three weeks since she died. Somehow he's kept going. He hasn't cried or done anything that resembles appropriate mourning, the kind he sees at the funeral home. Sometimes he catches himself thinking she'll still be there when he goes home.

“You hungry?” He jumps at the sound of Hannah's voice.

“Hey!” Wandering from the monitor, he meets her in the doorway. She smells like this flower his mother used to keep in a vase. He can't remember the name. The past few weeks, they talk or message every day. She's not what he assumed girls were like. She's interesting. Gets his jokes. Laughs like a lunatic. Every time they hang up or leave one another, he still has things he wants to say. “You shouldn't be down here.”

“It's my house.” She plays with a strand of hair, fallen free of its bun. “Want a snack?”

“Sure. Give me a few minutes.” He concentrates on his task, occasionally glancing at the curves of her body, the way her shorts end a thread before it's inappropriate. She waits patiently, wandering the tight quarters, gliding a hand over the many containers.

“If my daddy could see all this.” Her voice is quiet, as though she's talking to herself.

“What would he think?”

“I suppose he'd think everything's going according to plan.”

“Whose plan?”

“God's.”

“Hannah?”

“Um hmm?”

“Can I ask how your parents died?”

Sliding down the wall across from him, she sighs, closes her eyes like she's gone into a meditative state. “He was a pilot. Flew one of the Planes.”

“The planes?”

“The
Planes.” She nods. “Mama couldn't take it. Had to join him. She went, peaceful enough, in the garage. Car running all night while we were asleep.”

“Jesus Christ.” He drops the scanner, fumbles to pick it up. His thoughts run to Steven, of his family that was killed on one of the fifty hijacked planes. Saliva fills his mouth and he fights the urge to hurl.

“Jesus Christ, indeed,” she whispers.

“Did you know? I mean, the last time you saw him. Did you know your father was about to . . .”

Hannah stares at the ceiling. “He kissed me on the head that morning, hugged me tight, like always. Then he said, ‘Hannah Jane, you take care of this family. God is coming soon and you need to be ready.' It didn't mean anything to me until after.”

“You must've been shocked.”

“Life is one long string of shocks, isn't it?”

“I guess.”

“I never imagined I'd live in a mansion one day. Have so many brothers and sisters to take the place of the two I lost.”

“What happened to them?”

“After my parents died, Charles sent for me. Child ser­vices took Joe, Jr. and Mary. My brother and sister.”

He can't keep up with the details, they don't string together right. “What did your parents have to do with Reverend Mitchell?”

“They were loyal to the church. My father was a minister at our local Patriot's Church in Louisville.”

“Are you saying that Reverend Mitchell and Patriot's Church were behind the Planes?”

“I didn't say that.”

She's not denying it either. “Why didn't the Reverend take your brother and sister, too?”

Hannah turns her head and subtly wipes away a tear. “The plan was only for me to go.”

“What plan?”

Avoiding his eyes, she says, “I found out after he died that my daddy promised me to Charles. Said I'd marry him when I came of age.”

“What?” His face grows warm. “That's not legal. That's like slavery.”

“It's no different from an arranged marriage.”

“But, the Reverend's like a father to you.”

“It's hard to explain. He's been kind to me. Generous. But I'm not fighting in the war. This is my duty.”

“How does that serve God's cause? It sounds like you're living in a history book.”

“In a way it is. Charles says Armageddon is the final chapter.”

“So if it's the end, what's the point of marrying?”

“I don't know all the answers, Jonathan.” She stands and places a hand gently on his arm. A smile spreads across her face. “I do know my stomach's growling, though.”

He tenses at her touch but refocuses on the screen, finishes the final MedID entry. When she pulls her hand away the sensation of her skin lingers.

Their conversation sits like a stone in him. He can't shake it. They wander the hallways, create ice cream sundaes in the kitchen and eat them on the terrace. In the distance, fireflies put on a show over the darkened lawn. Jonathan's eyes float from one spark to the next. Hannah's voice is a constant stream but he's not even sure he's heard anything she's said in the last half hour. He glances over, watching as she absently rakes her hands through her hair.

“Beautiful night.” Reverend Mitchell appears. He stands in the space between their chairs.

“I finished downstairs,” Jonathan says, standing. “Did you need me to do something else?”

With a wave of the hand, the Reverend dismisses him. “It's late. You're welcome to stay the night here, or my driver can take you home.”

“I should go.” He gathers their plates from the table.

“Good night, Jonathan.” Hannah's voice is quiet now, muted. Not the Hannah of a few minutes ago.

“ 'Night.” Dishes in hand, he hurries into the kitchen and deposits them in the sink. He practically runs to the front door to find the driver. During the ride home, the Reverend dominates his thoughts, along with Hannah. And the Planes. His gut burns and he balls his fists until his nails leave indents in his palm. An arranged marriage for a ten-­year-­old girl. Her father must've been sick. And how could Reverend Mitchell marry a girl he raised as his daughter? When Jonathan finally peels down his covers and climbs into bed, his head is throbbing. It's impossible to sleep, and impossible to think of anything else.

 

Chapter 38

S
EBASTIAN
KI
CKS
THE
toe of his shoe against the black tar surface. It's Tuesday, his regular meeting time with Renner in Kenmore Square, on the roof of the old Boston University bookstore. The ninety-­year-­old red, white, and blue Citgo sign looms overhead, though it no longer illuminates the Boston skyline. He waits in windless summer night, squinting through the haze of clouds in an attempt to see stars. The roof door clangs open and Renner steps out, carrying two Dunkin' Donuts cups.

“Cream, no sugar.” Renner hands a cup to him.

“Thanks. Any update on your CI?”

“Negative. But we did scan the footage from your lenses at the BASIA meeting. We ran facial recognition and came up with a few ­people that'd be easy to lean on. But they're not close enough to Mitchell. You know the Reverend's main bodyguard?”

“Henry.”

“Right. Henry Keener. He's clean. But he's in the right position.”

“He doesn't leave Mitchell's side.”

“Except to go home. To his pregnant wife and three daughters.”

“Hmm. I don't know. Guy's loyal to a fault.”

“We need to test him, then. Apply a little pressure. See his reaction.”

“We can't risk it. If he tips off Mitchell, the operation's over.”

“Think about it.”

“Okay. You got news on the Caddy plate?”

“Belongs to the Liberty Party.”

The news settles. The night they basically saved Taylor's life, the Cadillac had lost them after several minutes racing around the city. “Shit. You sure?”

Renner nods. “There should be record of who signed it out. But we need a court order to gain access.”

“Taylor's bad press for him. But Hensley doesn't want his daughter dead. So who in the party would target her?” From a call she made to the senator that night, Taylor believes her father was involved. It doesn't ring true, though, regardless of their history. If anything, Hensley's protective of her.

“Your phone on?”

“No.”

Renner strolls to the edge of the roof. “I got a contact in Transportation says we should be looking closer to home.”

“What does that mean?”

“Maybe the Bureau. Someone in the administration.”

His thoughts are tangled, trying to make sense of this. As he steps next to Renner, an ambulance siren pierces the air. “Why would anyone go after the presidential candidate's daughter? Satterwhite gave us a direct order to protect her. Anything happens to her, it's our jobs.”

“I'm telling you, we put in a court order for the plate, we're gonna be shut down.”

“We don't have any choice. Someone's gone rogue. Someone inside. Shit, I thought Mitchell was the enemy.” And he is. Mitchell's next mission is ramping up, the date and details yet to be revealed. The BASIA soldiers are studying martial arts, firearms, and cyber warfare. Once a week several of them, Sebastian included, practice driving at high speeds on closed courses constructed to approximate a grid of city streets. It's not comforting.

“So, Satterwhite called me into his office this morning.” Renner shuffles his feet. “Talked about the suicide bomber on that transit bus in Houston yesterday. He wants our focus to be on counterterrorism in the future, not the past.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“He pulled me from the State House attack. Said they have enough resources on it.”

The image of their State House suspect surfaces in his mind. “What about O'Brien? He's still in custody. He gave us Dash, we have leads to follow—­”

“O'Brien's dead.”

“What?”

“Somehow he got a razor blade. They found him this morning.”

“Goddammit!” With a sudden burst of energy, Sebastian throws his cup across the roof, coffee splattering across the tarred surface.

“They're checking the security tapes to find out who might've slipped it to him.” Renner shakes his head. “And Satterwhite's full of it. No one else is investigating the State House.”

“The past predicts the future. Satterwhite can go screw. It doesn't end here.”

The words settle in the air, fill the space between them. Renner looks back at the Citgo sign. “I remember going to night games at Fenway as a kid. The whole drive in from Framingham I'd be watching for this sign. I knew as soon as I'd see it that we'd arrived. The Sox were just around the corner.”

“Sounds like a beautiful childhood,” he says. “So. We don't let this go, right? You in, Renner?”

Just the slightest pause from his partner. “Yeah, I'm in.”

“Far as I'm concerned, we just got a little further in this investigation.”

“How do you figure?”

“Our only State House witness died under our watch,” he says. “Let's assume it wasn't a suicide. Now the Bureau's ordered us
not
to investigate one of the most important attacks in the history of this country, in which a presidential candidate was killed. Not to mention, the one name they don't want us looking into.”

“Right, Dash,” Renner says. “We find their identity, maybe we find out who's behind the State House.”

“The three aren't tied, necessarily.”

“You realize we'll be suspended if Satterwhite finds out?”

“Depending what we find out, that may be the least of our worries.”

“Touché.” Renner holds up his coffee in a mock toast. “You're missing your coffee right about now, aren't you?”

“Maybe.” They stand in silence, gazing at the tops of brownstones. There's an answer they just haven't thought of yet. Maybe it's in the encrypted files that Mitchell is having him send to their soldiers around the country, codes that mean nothing to him but take shape on the other end of the protected chat. “Have you had any luck deciphering the BASIA chat?”

“We're close.” Renner heads toward the exit. “Techs think they can crack it in the next twenty-­four hours.”

“Good. We need a break.”

“I don't have a good feeling about any of this.”

“Me either.”

The door slams shut. One last time, he looks skyward in another vain attempt to see stars. He slips a hand in his pocket and fingers Kate's ring. The cool platinum and rough diamond edge always anchors him, a solid reminder that everything he says and does is an attempt to gain justice for her. It won't bring her back, but it might give him some peace. It's the best he can hope for.