Nation of Enemies (23 page)

 

Chapter 47

D
RESSED
IN
A
black suit, Richard takes in the beauty of the White Mountains, the colored leaves appearing to hit their peak of glory this very moment. An intimate crowd has gathered at a national park in memoriam of Jack Gardiner, who took his own life a ­couple weeks ago. Born in New Hampshire, it seems an appropriate place to release his ashes. There was a delay in finding the son of the assassinated presidential candidate, but Carter had come through, thanks to the MedID tracking system.

“Be sure to hold the urn away from you,” Carter says, miming the act with his arms outstretched. “Winds up here change on a dime. The audience is seated to the west. You'll need an east wind.”

Richard glances around, nods solemnly when he makes eye contact with anyone. Off to the side, at a respectable distance—­if there is such a thing—­throngs of reporters and cameramen await an opportune moment. Sadly, this ser­vice feels like any other venue to him. Now that they're near the end of the campaign trail, the sheer number of performances is like an endurance test. He's sweeping the polls. It used to be more fun when it felt like a legitimate race.

The moment arrives. He summons thoughts of Taylor and Sienna, imagines these could just as easily be their ashes. The speech is heartfelt, the words crafting him as a fellow parent and a friend to his former running mate. The crowd is tearful when, at the end of his speech, Richard steps a few feet away and releases Gardiner's ashes. The easterly wind carries them swiftly toward majestic Mount Washington.

Within the hour, Richard, Kendra, and Carter are in the Town Car, cruising back toward Boston. He warms his hands on a travel mug filled with hot chocolate, courtesy of a local coffee shop. His eyes fall upon a grayish spot on the thigh of his pants. Ashes. Furiously, he pats at it until it's undetectable. A wave of nausea. Though he's got the stomach for politics, he can't deal with blood or any bodily fluids. He clears his throat as he glances at his team. Kendra is working to finalize their schedule, while Carter confirms their dinner with party donors this evening. It would be a luxury to have a home-­cooked dinner. His phone vibrates with a text but the number is blocked. There's a grainy image. He squints to make out the details.

A video plays. Taylor and Sienna are eating lunch at home, in their kitchen. He grins, warmth spreading in his chest. But something's not right. This is one of his cameras, the ones he had placed. Someone has intercepted his feeds and is watching his daughter and granddaughter!

He types:
Who is this?

The response:
We have a shared interest, as you can see.

What is this about?

Money.

It must be those goddamned terrorists. Is this a live feed, or are Taylor and Sienna tied up somewhere? His mouth fills with saliva, he thinks he might vomit. Despite their history, the thought of Taylor dying or being hurt in any way is unbearable. Everything he's done since the day she was born has been to protect her, and now Sienna. How dare that Reverend bastard do this! One call to the FBI and they'll be on this. Well, maybe, maybe not. President Clark warned him that Taylor won't cost the party the presidency. His head pounds. Screw it. He'll handle this himself.

Richard types:
Who are you?

Friends of Taylor's.

BASIA? Charles Mitchell?

No response.

Richard asks:
Are they okay?

For now.

There's only one question remaining.
How much?

How much are they worth?

“Mother fuckers,” he says aloud.

“Is everything all right?” Kendra asks.

He waves her off. Finally he types:
How do I know they'll be safe?

This is a simple agreement. You deliver. We deliver.

What's your price?

Five million.

Five million! He closes his eyes, desperately considering his resources. His Cape house, the Nantucket estate. But the market has bottomed out, no one's buying, especially not vacation properties. The only liquid cash he has is tied to the campaign. There's Taylor's trust fund, probably untouched, but legally untouchable by him.

He types:
That'll take time.

There's not much of that left, is there Mr. President?

Meaning what?

Money's due before election. Or the deal's off.

Richard can't catch his breath.
How do I get in touch with you?

You don't. And if Taylor discovers this exchange, forget the money.

The text conversation self-­destructs. He attempts to find it but it's gone. My God, Taylor has no idea what her
friends
are doing. What happens if he can't get the money? But that's out of the question. He must. He simply must.

 

Chapter 48

I
N
HIS
OFFICE
, Steven Hudson rests his head against his chair, his eyes following the gray cloud of smoke from his cigar. These quiet moments are few and far between. But keeping busy keeps him sane. Project Swap is a welcome distraction so that he's not dwelling on Sarah all the time.

Just this morning their team officially welcomed a new partner. Though he's rather anemic-­looking, Sean Cushing is an ex-­MedFuture software programmer whose experience and knowledge changes everything. They no longer need to match recipients and donors. Cushing will clean MedIDs and assign new numbers that are 75-­plus, pure and simple. Soon, he'll train others to do the same. Cushing has assured them that with the sheer volume of the MedID system, it would take the government years to catch on to inconsistencies and revisions. And by then they'd need to track millions of citizens.

Steven can't wait to tell Jonathan. With the new system, he won't need to steal the BASIA MedIDs. Unfortunately, he hasn't been able to reach his stepson since he left for work two days ago. He's not answering his phone, not returning texts. Steven's impulse is to call the police, but obviously he can't do that. Instead he checks his watch incessantly, his imagination running, leaving him with a dark, sinking sensation. He texts again:
Come home. Big news.

The doorbell rings. He stubs out the cigar in an ashtray and makes his way to the funeral home entrance. Bright sunlight silhouettes the visitor. Steven is struck by the man's height and broad shoulders.

“Hello,” he says. “Do you have an appointment?”

The man shakes his head. “Steven Hudson?”

“Yes. And you are?”

“Henry.”

“Henry . . . ?”

“Is there somewhere we can talk?”

The man takes a step forward and Steven steps back in response. Henry is wearing a crisp suit and has a spiky military haircut. Behind him, a gray SUV with tinted windows is parked.
Jesus
. Steven's mouth is suddenly dry, his heart races. My God, he's from the government. We've been caught. Backup plans aren't in place. Blood drains from him, the floorboards sucking his energy through the soles of his shoes.

“Mr. Hudson?”

“Yes, of course.” Steven waves him into the foyer. Working to steady his breathing, he leads the stranger into his office and immediately regrets the cigar, the scent detectable before they're even in the room. He sits at his desk, the hulking man sitting across from him. “So, Henry. What brings you here?”

Henry reaches into his jacket pocket. Steven stiffens. A weapon? Under his desk, in a makeshift holster fastened to the underside of the drawer, is a handgun. Subtly, he feels for and finds it.

Instead of a gun, Henry pulls out an electronic device detector. Taking the finger-­sized machine, he holds the device out in the center of the room to sweep for bugs. Within seconds it releases a single beep. He tucks it back into his pocket. “One can never be too safe.”

“Safe from what, exactly?”

“We have a mutual interest,” Henry says.

“I'm guessing you don't mean reading, or tennis?”

“Jonathan Hudson is your stepson, correct?”

Steven blinks. “What is this?”

“You've had many losses, Mr. Hudson. Your first wife. A son and daughter. A second wife.” Henry feigns empathy, his face contorting unnaturally. “All you have left is Jonathan.”

Still touching the gun, Steven's hands begin to tremble. “What do you want?”

“Let's discuss your stepson.”

“You're with BASIA.”

“He's become quite an asset to the organization.”

“Why do you care about one boy out of the thousands you must have at your disposal?”

“Jonathan is a very special, very valuable young man.”

Valuable
. Of course. Why didn't he see this coming? “How much do you want?”

Henry grins. “It's so difficult to put a price on a loved one.”

You motherfucker!
Steven wants to shout. His legs flex as though he might jump over his desk and lunge at the man. But if he does, or if he pulls out his gun, what then? “Where is he? Is he all right?”

“Of course. We all want Jonathan well. And highly functioning.”

“What does that mean?”

“Never mind.” Henry stands. “Three million, cash. Untraceable bills. Seems such a small amount to pay for a life, don't you think?”

Sadistic asshole. He moves his hand away from the gun. If they can get through this, get Jonathan back, they'll leave. Shut Hudson's. Disappear.

“I don't have three million in cash lying around. I need time.”

“You'll see Jonathan when we see the money.” From a pants pocket, he takes out a phone and tosses it to Steven. “I'll be checking in. Oh, and I'm sure you've already guessed this, but if any of this leaks out, there won't be a Jonathan left to barter for. Understand?”

The hulking man turns and disappears down the hall. Steven hears the door shut, followed by an engine revving. Finally, the noise fades. His fists ball, nails digging into his palms. He closes his eyes and envisions his family, all of them, past and present. Ten deep breaths later he opens his eyes and begins logging into his bank accounts.

R
IGHT
NOW
J
ONAT
HAN
wants his board. To ride the half-­pipe a few blocks from home, feel the rush when he flies over the edge and catches air. Things are so intense here, he needs a break.

Until recently, he'd worked alone or with Huan Chao. But tonight at BASIA HQ he's being treated like a soldier. They've split up the soldiers by expertise. A sharpshooting team is in the Ballistics Quad. Another group grunts and sweats through physical drills in the field. A third group spars one-­on-­one, refining defensive and offensive skills. Jonathan's team sits alongside one another at long tables working on individual screens. Mitchell's cyber warriors. Jonathan can't help an occasional peek at another screen, but it's hard to tell exactly what they're working on. He wonders if Huan Chao and the Reverend have files on their families, too, if they've been threatened into doing this. But something must be different about him, since the Reverend has him on such a tight leash. The past few nights he's even been coerced into staying overnight at the Mitchell mansion. Steven must be worried, probably calling him every hour. Meanwhile, Jonathan is honing his exit plan. He knows when the MedID Vault is unattended and has excuses lined up if he's caught. The only complication is Hannah. He's hardly had a minute alone with her since they kissed. He's ready to tell her, to ask her to disappear with him. She can't possibly want to stay and be forced into marriage.

Every day, he works on his sole assignment, focusing on the power grid infrastructure across the country with the aim of gaining control of the grids in every state capital and major city. Via TOR, he's anonymously established numerous botnets to use them for DoS attacks, allowing him to shut down power in these areas. Huan Chao and the Reverend have yet to tell him why he's doing this. Still, he has to admit, it's pretty cool. But when he's not refining his tools, he's plotting the mission he calls the Great MedID Heist.

At midnight the soldiers are dismissed. They break ranks and head to the parking lot and the buses that will take them back into the city. Jonathan feels in his pants pockets for his phone but remembers that he lost it. Maybe left it at home. He needs to call Steven, who must be panicking. It's late, but maybe Henry can take him to a corner store for a disposable.

In the gray SUV, he hops in the front passenger side, with Reverend Mitchell in the back. Henry steers them down the long gravel drive off militia property and onto the road.

“Hey, Henry,” Jonathan says. “Can we swing by a convenience store?”

“What do you need?”

“A phone. Just a disposable. I can't seem to find mine.”

“It's late.”

“I'll just be two minutes.”

“The Reverend's tired. He doesn't like detours.”

Jonathan glances back to where the Reverend sits. It can't hurt to ask, so he repeats his question directly to the man in charge.

“Let's just head back,” Reverend Mitchell says. “Do you need to use my phone?”

“That's okay.”

The route to the Reverend's home is familiar now. Jonathan checks street signs as they pass and calculates that he could walk home from here. It may take a while, but he could do it.

The men are silent for the rest of the ride. Jonathan's imagination kicks in. Is there a reason they don't want him to have a phone? He's tired of all the drama. Time to move on. He's not for government, he's certainly not for BASIA. He's for family, whatever's left of it.