Nation of Enemies (22 page)

 

Chapter 45

“T
HERE
'
S
A
PROBLEM
.” In her white coat and scrubs, Dr. Karen Riley rushes into Cole's office, shutting the door behind her. She's breathless as she hands him a tablet and a writing pad.

“What's wrong?”

“We took all the precautions.” Her voice is low.

The note she scrawled reads:
On paper the match was solid. I checked it twice.
He stares at the screen. It's a day-­old article on the suicide of Jack Gardiner, son of assassinated presidential candidate James Gardiner. On the pad he writes:
?

The scrape of her pencil is frantic.
Yesterday we donated Jack Gardiner's MedID. A perfect match. A common name.

“Christ!” he whispers, hand over his mouth.

They've only just finished vetting the former MedFuture technician, Sean Cushing. Cole will offer to treat Cushing's medical condition, lupus, and if he accepts the opportunity and does indeed wipe MedIDs for Project Swap, it will change everything. But in case it doesn't work out with him, they hadn't wanted to stop their progress. Dammit, they've been too eager. Karen sinks into the chair across from him. He writes:
This is not okay.

She takes the pad:
He fit the profile. Orphan, no living relatives. He was seventeen, no pension fund. He's never worked.

He writes:
Inheritance. Must be tied up.

What do we do?

Where's recipient?

Winchester. His parent's house.

JG's suicide is on every site, everyone's talking about him.
He leans in, whispers. “Fix it, Karen. Fix it before it's too late.”

She nods and runs out. Taking the notepad, he rips the pages off and sends them through the shredder under his desk. Then he closes his eyes and wonders if this is the one misstep that will undo them all.

B
Y
TEN
IN
the morning Richard Hensley has already been up for five hours. The campaign trail is arduous—­even when one knows the end result is a sure thing. Each day he begins with one hour of exercise, followed by two cups of coffee and a briefing by Kendra on updates from the fund-­raising manager and communications department. He then reviews national and international news. Thus far she's been successful in reining in his focus and ensured that Taylor is off his radar. Still, at night in the glow of a monitor, he reads tabloid stories on his daughter's involvement with BASIA. She's going to get herself killed. Thankfully, his doctor prescribed good pills, or he'd never sleep.

Today promises another relentless agenda with calls, handshakes, debate prep, plus myriad issues and decisions to be made. At campaign headquarters, he sits alone in his office, running through a speech he'll make in a few hours at a senior center.

Carter flings open the door. “Sir, take a look at this.” He thrusts an e-­sheet into Richard's hands. It's a news article.

“Jack Gardiner.” Richard hands back the device. “Suicide, yes, I know all about it. Terrible waste. We've sent flowers, haven't we?”

“That's just it. I can't seem to find anyone to send flowers to.”

Suddenly Richard remembers. “Of course. He was an orphan. Well who's arranging the funeral?”

“Far as I can tell, no one. I can't even figure out which funeral home he's at.”

“Well then.” Richard slaps his hand on his desk. “See to it.”

“Excuse me?”

“Let's get Jack a proper burial. Track him down, Carter. We can't have the son of the former presidential candidate missing. It's bad enough he's dead. Christ, one of the best things about the MedID is that we can track ­people. It should take one phone call to the hospital where he died to figure this out.”

“Yes, sir.”

The thought of James Gardiner's son reminds him of Taylor. “What did you find on the Liberty car database?”

Carter's mouth hangs open in question.

“The night Taylor was followed?” he prompts.

“Right, sorry.” Carter shakes his head. “There were two cars signed out on the night of the eighteenth. One was to a ­couple volunteers who took a road trip to the Berkshires to do some campaigning. We have the hotel and gas receipts, so we know they went.”

“And the other?”

“It was me.” He holds up both hands in defeat. “You caught me. In my off hours I like to get involved in the occasional car chase, hit-­and-­run scene.”

“I told her it was an absurd accusation. The girl has a vivid imagination.”

Carter smiles and starts back toward the door.

“What were you doing?”

“Sorry?”

“With the car. On the eighteenth.”

“Kendra and I had a meeting with the editor to go over the script and footage for the latest promo. I dropped her at home. Brought the car back in the morning.”

“Thanks for humoring me.” Another dead end. It was probably that psychopath Reverend.

Richard watches through the glass walls of his office as Carter leaves, navigates past the staffers and volunteers. It's a shame about the Gardiner family. On a positive note, arranging the funeral of James Gardiner's son will gain him favor in the eyes of mothers everywhere. Perhaps he can weave Jack and the subject of mental illness into his intro at the debate tonight.

N
ERVES
GNA
W
AT
Cole's stomach. The remains of Jack Gardiner are in a ceramic blue urn, fine gray ash with a few hard bits of bone that didn't quite disintegrate completely. His MedID is fifty miles away in Winchester, Massachusetts, where Cole and Karen stand at the front door of a white colonial, circa 1850. Green shutters on the windows are badly in need of a coat of paint and the yard is wildly overgrown. Inside is the recipient of Jack Gardiner's MedID, Quinn Feeney. Karen called his parents and Quinn several times to try to explain the situation. They've been uncooperative, unwilling to hear her out. Karen carries Quinn Feeney's original MedID, wiped clean courtesy of Sean, to be exchanged for the one in his arm. Everything is at stake.

“They're home.” Cole nods to a curtain on the second floor that moved.

“They must think I'm the Grim Reaper,” she says. “First I give Quinn a new chance at life, now they think I'm here to take it back.”

“We're still giving him a clean MedID.” He rings the bell a third time. “He can't really believe he can walk around as Jack Gardiner, can he?”

From behind the garage an engine revs. They turn just as a motorcycle appears and the driver, wearing a black helmet, guns it out of the driveway and down the street. Cole and Karen race to her Mini Cooper. She reverses out of the driveway and floors it in the direction he went, banking a left that leads into some hills through a nature preserve.

The houses thin, then disappear. They pass a runner, a few cyclists. Cole scans the woods, lowers his window. “That's it. Listen.”

“What?”

“The engine. We're close.”

Cool wind whips through the car as they round a corner and, yes—­there he is. Karen shifts gears and the distance between them closes.

“Steady.” Cole braces himself with one hand on the dashboard. “Don't lose him.”

The road becomes gravel, it turns this way and that. Quinn Feeney can't go as fast on this terrain with his bike. They're gaining on him. Finally his motorcycle is directly in front of them, almost too close. “What's he doing?” she shouts. “Why doesn't he just stop?”

“Maybe he didn't understand your messages. Let's ask him.”

Karen's eyes dart to Cole. But her hands follow her glance, and the steering wheel turns. She tries to correct but the car spins, fishtails. It catches the rear wheel of the motorcycle. The woods are a blur. She screams and lets go of the wheel. Cole sees the tree an instant before he's jolted by the impact, metal against tree. The motion stops. The engine sighs. Silence.

“You okay?” he asks.

Lifting her head from the air bag, blood pours from her nose and she wipes it with the back of her hand. “I'm sorry.”

“It's okay.” He looks out the shattered passenger window. “Do you have any internal pain?”

“No. You have a cut on your head. You'll need stitches.”

He doesn't feel any pain, his body is shaking but numb as he releases his seat belt. “Shit. Where's Quinn?”

Karen shoves her shoulder against her door. “It won't open.”

Cole helps her crawl out his side and they struggle to their feet. A skid line mars the pavement and they follow it to the ledge of an embankment, overlooking scattered gravel and shredded grass several feet below.

“Oh, God.” She covers her mouth.

The motorcycle is on its side, pinning the driver beneath it. One wheel is suspended, spinning. The helmet, still on Quinn Feeney's head, looks unnaturally twisted to one side.

“Shit.” Cole repeats it under his breath as he descends the embankment with Karen a few feet behind.

Kneeling at the man's side, Cole flips open the plastic face shield on the helmet. Blank eyes stare out. Despite the obvious, he attempts to find a pulse in Quinn Feeney's carotid artery.

“Goddamn it,” Karen says. “If he'd have just stopped for one minute to hear us out! This didn't have to happen. It would've been fine.” Tears pour down her face, mixing with dirt and blood. She wipes her cheek with the sleeve of her jacket.

Cole gets to his feet, glances in both directions. If anyone drives down this road, they'll be found out. There isn't time to consider consequences. He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out the MedID kit.

“What are you doing?”

“What we came here to do.” He pulls up the sleeve of Feeney's left arm and deftly applies the retractor, removing Jack Gardiner's MedID. Karen is silent as he takes the injector with Quinn Feeney's cleaned MedID and places it back into the dead man's forearm. He retrieves the postmortem salve and wipes it over the tiny wound. In minutes it will be undetectable.

“I'm sorry.” Sitting cross-­legged like a child, Karen repeatedly touches each finger on her right hand to her thumb. “I've put all of us at risk.”

Already, stiffness is setting into Cole's back and neck from the crash. He offers her a hand and she takes it, standing slowly, ignoring the dust and grass that cling to her.

“We're all responsible,” he says. “Time to clean it up.”

They work quickly. In twenty minutes Karen's car is clean of anything that could be traced back to her: plates, registration, vehicle identification number.
Do no harm
runs on an endless cycle in Cole's mind despite trying to refocus his thoughts. They call Steven for help, but there's no answer. There's only one other option.

An hour later Lily pulls the Land Rover onto the side of the road. She doesn't get out. Through the open window, her eyes wander over Cole's disheveled, bloodied body and then Karen's equally wounded one. He goes to the back of the car and lifts the rear gate. As he requested, Lily brought five gallons of gasoline and lighter fluid. He can't believe he's gotten her into this.

“Thank you, Lil.”

“What have you done?” She gestures to Karen. “Who is this?”

“Later.”

In the rearview mirror, their eyes meet. She shakes her head and mumbles something he can't decipher. This isn't the time. He has to get this done.

The fire ignites and spreads in blue flames. Within seconds an explosion rocks the car. Cole's skin tightens from the heat, his breath catches. Karen's car is blackened, fumes making her cough. Now it's time to deal with Quinn Feeney and his motorcycle. Cole motions to Karen to stay where she is while he slides back down the embankment. He stares at Feeney's face, commits it to memory.

The stench of gasoline stings his eyes. When the bike and man are drenched in it, he adds lighter fluid and then takes a few steps back. He lights a match, flicks it strategically onto the engine. He's halfway up the hill when a second explosion knocks him down, into dusty earth.

Lily doesn't look at Cole when he gets into the front passenger seat and Karen takes a seat in the back.

“The kids at home?” he asks.

“You'd rather I brought them?” Lily turns the car around and presses down on the gas. “You want them to see their father destroying—­what? Evidence? What have you done? What's down that embankment?”

He glances at Karen.

“You want your kids to meet your girlfriend, Cole?”

“She's not my girlfriend—­”

“I know you're not picking up extra shifts. When I call the hospital, no one's seen you for hours. You don't answer my calls. My texts. Stop lying about everything, goddammit.”

“Okay. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry.” He puts a hand on her arm, but she wrenches it away. The whole point of Project Swap is family. If he loses Lily and the kids, this has all been for nothing. So he starts at the very beginning and tells her, and doesn't skip a detail. All this time he's spent supposedly protecting her, and now he's plunged her into the middle of it. Do no harm, indeed.

 

Chapter 46

“ ‘I
T
IS GOD
who arms me with strength,' ” Charles quotes from Psalms 18:32. “He teaches my hands to make war, So that my arms can bend a bow of bronze. You have also given me the shield of Your salvation; Your right hand has held me up, Your gentleness has made me great. You enlarged my path under me, So my feet did not slip.
Will
not slip, gentlemen.”

At BASIA HQ, Charles sits at the head of a table in an empty conference room as Henry stands guard outside. On the smartwall opposite Charles, twelve separate, encrypted video feeds display the faces of BASIA's board of directors. It's taken twenty years to assemble them: an engineer, a congressman, a military specialist, a businessman, and a billionaire, among others. They're his advisors, his eyes and ears. No one suspects them. They've gone to great lengths to conceal their relationship to Charles and this movement. He grips the edge of the table.

“At last, Operation Darkness Falls is within sight,” he says.

“How are the soldiers?” the congressman asks. “They'll be ready in six weeks?”

“Everything's on schedule,” he says.

“Have they been briefed?” the former U.S. army general asks.

“No need, yet.” He shakes his head. “They're doing drills, sharpening their weaponry skills, and studying blueprints they've been provided. Without labels, of course.”

“Is Dash prepared?” the congressman asks.

“Absolutely,” he says. “He's integral. But in case he's captured or killed, we're equipped to keep moving without him.”

“Tell us about your progress on the power grids,” the congressman asks. “I want to make sure my generator's ready.”

Laughter.

“Darkness will indeed fall and keep our soldiers safe during their mission,” Charles says. “Each and every venue hosting an election event will be rendered powerless at the stroke of midnight. At that time, our shooters will take out both existing and newly elected government officials.”

“Let's discuss the citizens attending those events,” the congressman adds.

“No harm will come to them,” he explains. “We only want them out of our way. BASIA soldiers have specific targets and will do everything they can to ensure there is no—­in the words of our current administration—­collateral damage. When the power is cut, ­people will funnel outside. If and when they hear shots, they'll run from the site. But they won't learn the truth until hours later. In complete darkness, video won't record the moves of our soldiers. Obviously, citizens will be less traumatized without being exposed to those images. The lights will go out. They'll wander home. And then, with the sunrise, will come illumination. We want them to feel safe, back in their homes. And that's when we'll address them. We'll explain—­briefly—­what's happened. They'll see that we took great care not to harm them. And they will listen. They'll see that our reach is far, our power great with the hand of God that guides us.”

Heads nod in unison. They know Charles is working to keep citizens safe.

Without skipping a beat, the businessman says, “Let's discuss budget. I reviewed the numbers and in another two weeks we'll be in the red.”

“Supporting our militia is costly, Rob.” Money is a detail that should never get in the way of their goal. “We have close to a million soldiers. That's travel costs for operations, weapons, and medical needs. But we always have new sources of support. I'm planning to tap them today, as a matter of fact.”

“Is weather an issue?” the engineer interjects.

“Won't matter. Our troops will get there with enough time to get settled and acquainted with their targets. Let it rain.”

“Security's going to be tighter than in previous years,” the billionaire says, alluding to the Gardiner assassination.

“We're ready.” Charles makes eye contact with his associates. “We have schedules, blueprints, guest lists, and soldiers on the inside of every one of the venues. BASIA is tight. Disciplined. Dedicated. They will systematically attack and render the U.S. government speechless. Literally.” There are nods and grins all around. He relaxes.

“And if you're caught or killed,” the congressman says. “What then?”

“If and when I can no longer be a part of this, you'll be in place, ready to step in. You're as ready as I am. God willing, together we'll guide this country back to greatness on a foundation built of Chris­tian­ity and patriotism. So with or without me, if you carry through on our promise, the masses will be appeased.”

Each board member discusses his or her plan for the country post-­Election Day: financial ramifications, handling of media coverage, political fallout, security issues, international relations. Charles listens, pleased with his colleagues' thoroughness. This kind of revolution happens once in a lifetime. When it's deemed safe, the board members will divulge their identities and wield their collective power to assure the citizens there is strength in the new government. He has waited years for this. There isn't room for error.

“One final point,” the billionaire says. “The MedID. Yes, we'll phase it out and ultimately destroy the system. But as we've discussed before, I strongly advise the board to consider utilizing it initially. We need to know how the masses are responding. We'll explain that we're eliminating the system but that it will take time. That allows us to continue monitoring the existing infrastructure to see where we're at in the first year.”

“It's the Mark of the Beast.” Charles leans his arms on the table. He flexes his tattooed hand. “It's everything we're fighting against.”

“It's temporary,” the billionaire argues. “It's business. And we won't use the information against our citizens. It's merely a device to monitor our success. The feedback is crucial in a new government. The data will tell us what we can or should be doing differently.”

Silence from the group. He desperately wants to bend his neck to crack it but refuses to show his tension.

Finally, the businessman says, “I'll agree to it. We'll use it as our own tool. But the MedID number hierarchy won't exist anymore. We'll promise citizens that it ends the day we take power. They'll almost forget they're wearing them.”

The group votes. They are unanimous, except for Charles. But he must trust his advisors.

“God is great,” he says. “We'll have our final meeting three days before the mission. Then we won't speak until after the event. I'll be in touch.”

Pressing his hand to his heart, Charles extends his open palm. They return the gesture, though their palms have no ink to give away their BASIA affiliation. The lines disconnect, screens go black. He presses a button on his watch. Instantly Henry enters.

“Yes, sir?”

“I need you to deliver some messages.”

There is money to be made. His connections have supplied ample documentation on the financial situations of both Steven Hudson and Richard Hensley. Jonathan and Taylor are Charles's best investments in years. Within an hour Henry regurgitates his assignment, the names and addresses of his targets, and alternative executions should the originals fail. Charles considers the word “fail.” It's simply not an option. When lives hang in the balance, ­people make the right decision.