Nation of Enemies (27 page)

 

Chapter 56

T
HE
GRAY
SUV speeds under the streetlights of Route 9. A few cars behind, Steven drives his favorite hearse. As conspicuous as it is, it's an unlikely vehicle to use when following someone. The thought makes him grin vaguely. He'd waited in his car all afternoon, into the evening, until he saw Reverend Mitchell and his bodyguard leaving Patriot's Church. Twenty minutes later they're west of Boston and he has no idea where this ride will end. It's a dangerous errand. If this religious zealot was truly behind the Planes, he's capable of anything. And if Mitchell was the one who took Kelly, Sam, and Georgia from him, goddamned if he will let him take Jonathan. It's been a week since that hulk of a man, Harry, Henry, whatever, showed up and demanded three million dollars. Steven doesn't have it, won't have it. The most he could pull together is a little over a million in cash. Hell, he'll throw in the hearse.

The SUV veers off the highway and onto a dark stretch of road. After several turns it heads down a gravel drive, thick with trees. Steven can't see the house from here. His mouth is dry, his stomach in knots. The hearse kicks up a funnel of dust behind it as he presses on. About a mile in an enormous mansion appears, surrounded by a wall and a gated security system. At the gate, he begins to reach his arm out the window to press a call button when the gate suddenly swings open.

“He knows I'm here,” Steven mutters to himself. “Shit.”

The gates close as he pulls inside, around a circular drive, coming to a stop behind the SUV. Waiting for him at the front door are Reverend Mitchell and his bodyguard.

Deep breath. Steven eases himself out, careful to appear confident, chin up, his right hand firmly gripping an old leather briefcase.

“Mr. Hudson,” Reverend Mitchell says. “Welcome to my home.”

He shakes the Reverend's extended hand. “Was I too obvious in my hearse?”

Mitchell laughs. “It's a pleasure to meet the man behind Hudson's.”

“I'm not sure anything about our meeting is a pleasure.”

Gesturing to the door, the Reverend says, “Please. Come in.”

Crossing the threshold, Steven's grip tightens on the briefcase. Inside, the house is alive with voices. Children of all ages, but mostly teenagers, roam about or lounge in a living room playing video games. What is this? Are all of these kids being held for ransom? They look content, certainly not under any duress. He searches their faces. No Jonathan.

A circuitous route ends in a wood-­paneled office. Reverend Mitchell sinks comfortably into the leather chair behind his desk. Steven takes the rather stiff one across from it, placing the briefcase on his lap. The bodyguard closes the door, staying inside, annoyingly mute.

“Where's Jonathan?” Steven asks.

“He's here,” Mitchell says.

Without explaining the contents, Steven slides the briefcase across the desk. He swallows. It's impossible to guess what his reaction will be. Coming here with less than three million was a risk. But he's run out of time.

Mitchell peers inside the case briefly, then closes it. “Where's the rest?”

“It's what I have. It's not unsubstantial. A million dollars goes a long way these days.”

“Indeed. But that wasn't the price.”

“It's all that I have.”

“We're both businessmen, Mr. Hudson. You can't expect me to believe that with your nationally successful chain the most you can come up with is one million dollars?”

“As a businessman, I'm sure you're aware of the ebbs and flows of business. The constant need to reinvest, to grow the business. Currently most of my savings and the profits from the past few months have been funneled back into the business.”

“Hmm. How unfortunate.” Mitchell pushes the briefcase aside. The man's hands clutch together, hard, until his knuckles are white.

“Take the million dollars.” Something inside Steven is unraveling. “Please let me take Jonathan. And we'll be out of here.”

Mitchell clears his throat. “Come back when you have the rest.”

The bodyguard appears at his side. Sweat soaks Steven's back. His head begins to throb. He locks eyes with Mitchell and strains to keep an even voice. “The way I look at it, Reverend, I've already paid. Again, and again, and again.”

Mitchell doesn't flinch, doesn't register that he understood Steven's meaning. Is it possible he wasn't behind the Planes? Is someone else responsible for the deaths of Kelly and the kids?

“I'll go to the media,” Steven says. “The police. FBI. Tell them that the famous Reverend Mitchell extorts money to fund his so-­called Armageddon and—­” He flounders, gestures to the door. “Recruits young children that he brainwashes into spreading his insidious words.”

Mitchell's smile reveals perfectly straight, polished teeth. He leans his elbows on his desk and leans closer.

“The media would eat it up, Mr. Hudson. The FBI would be on my doorstep within the hour to reunite you with your stepson. But we're all programmed with self-­preservation, aren't we?” From his jack, the bodyguard retrieves a tablet and hands it to Steven.

A video plays. Shaky footage, from someone entering a building. Steven narrows his eyes at the screen. The rooms, the ­people. It's Project Swap HQ. Holy shit.
Holy shit.
A BASIA mole pretended to need a MedID, was wiped by Sean Cushing and released back into the world. Steven swallows back bile that burns his throat. He sets the tablet on the desk.

“As I said, self-­preservation. We wondered why on earth Jonathan would want to steal the clean MedIDs from our soldiers. So we did some research of our own and what we found was so interesting. Don't you agree?”

“No one's innocent anymore. But we're not hurting anyone.”

“I think the U.S. government would disagree.”

Behind him there's a creak. Steven turns to see that the bodyguard has opened the door. He turns back to Mitchell. “I'm not leaving without my son.”

“I'm afraid the deck's not stacked in your favor, Mr. Hudson. You've committed treason. Your son is an accomplice. And with a slight reach, I think you could even be implicated in the death of your lovely wife.”

Steven leaps up and dives across the desk. He grabs Mitchell by the throat, watches his face turn scarlet, his eyes bulge. Mitchell grips his wrists and tries to pry them away. When that doesn't work, his fists fly at Steven. Suddenly, hands latch onto Steven's arms and jerk him up and back like he's a puppet. The guard holds him, unaffected by his struggling. Mitchell coughs, pushes up from his chair and rubs his throat. Then he straightens, his hands smoothing back his mane of hair. His smile is gone, a flush remains in his cheeks. He walks around to the front of the desk where Steven dangles from muscular arms.

“That wasn't very smart.” Without warning, Mitchell slugs him in the stomach.

Doubling over, pain radiates through Steven.
Son of a bitch.
He can only gasp as he watches Mitchell pace in front of him.

“I'll let Jonathan know you dropped by. Please do visit again soon. Don't let a little money stand in the way of a future with your family.” He leans in closer now, so that his mouth is almost touching Steven's ear. In a whisper he adds, “After all, if you could bring back your dead wife and kids for a mere three million dollars, wouldn't you?”

The guard releases him. He crumbles to the ground, his knees weak, his tongue failing him for any kind of response. An admission! As close as anyone could get. He'll kill Mitchell. He'll kill him before this is over.

Roughly gripping his arm, the guard escorts him out. Steven hardly registers the soles of his shoes making contact with the ground, going from the polished marble tiles of the hallway onto the front porch, down the stairs, brushing across the pea-­stone driveway. His whole body shakes. For ten years he's wanted to know who to hate, who to blame for the death of his family. Now he knows.

As he opens the hearse door, Steven is overcome. Vomit spills from him, along with a gust of emotion. He wipes his face with the back of his sleeve and gets in, starts the car as he replays the conversation with Mitchell. As the gates close behind him, he vows to rescue Jonathan. But first he's got to warn Cole and the others.

 

Chapter 57

T
AYLOR
OPENS
HER
apartment door to see Will, grinning beneath a newly trimmed beard.

“Hair cut?” she says.

“Didn't want it to interfere with my wind speed.”

She laughs. He carries his bike over his shoulder and a bouquet of daisies in his other hand. No one's given her flowers in years. As she puts them in a vase, he plays with Sienna. Lying on the floor, he scoops her onto his feet, playing airplane. He's so good with her. An ache in her chest tells her how badly she's wanted someone in her life. These past few weeks with Will have brought such comfort and happiness into their world. Sometimes being with him makes it difficult to breathe. It's fear, she knows. She often wonders if it's fair to bring a man into their lives, to expose Sienna to someone she could lose. But this feels good. It feels right.

The three of them eat dinner together, though after ten minutes Sienna departs, opting for toys over food. Taylor grins at Will as he drops spaghetti sauce onto his T-­shirt.

“Can't take me anywhere,” he says, dabbing a napkin at the spots.

“It's good to know you're not perfect.”

“Far from it.”

She studies him. He's a good listener, always asking her questions, interested in what she has to say. It occurs to her that she hasn't done the same for him.

“So, where's your family?” she asks. “Are your parents still around?”

“It's just me. My mother died in childbirth. My father died a few years ago.”

“I'm sorry.”

“We've all got stories.” He shakes his head. “No one's walking around unscathed.”

She glances at his ring finger. “You never talk about your wife.”

He hesitates, looks at his plate. “It's not the best dinner conversation.”

“There is no best time for such topics.”

The air changes, his shoulders hunch. Finally, he says, “Rose was a lieutenant in the army. During the L.A. Riots of 'twenty-­four she was out fighting with her squad. You remember the fires? How they burned for days?”

She nods.

“They couldn't get her out. Didn't find her until days later.”

“I'm so sorry.”

“A shame we have so much in common.” His lips press together, a thin, sad smile.

The other night she'd told him about Mason. He'd known some of it, of course, through the news. But it felt good to tell her version. How she'd spent her life blindly following her father, how she still feels responsible and guilty for Mason's death. Just sharing it with Will had lifted her spirits.

After dinner the sitter arrives. Taylor kisses Sienna and she and Will depart with their bikes. Outside, they strap on their helmets and prepare to ride. No press waiting for her on the lawn tonight. She breathes easier.

“Where're you taking me, woman?” he teases.

“Don't worry. We'll take it slow.”

They glide down the street in the direction of the waterfront. The bitter October wind licks her cheeks, makes her eyes tear, though weather is never a deterrent to her art. And riding alongside Will makes her feel content, as though everything is in its place.

They wend through Boston's Seaport District, nearing her destination. Their tires on the pavement create a comforting sort of music. Will is just a few feet behind her. She wonders if he's watching her hips hovering just above the bike seat as they move. It's hard to believe she's doing this, bringing him. Not once in her career as a graffiti artist has she invited someone along.

“Here we are.” She slows her bike and hops off. Will pulls beside her and the two stare up at the remains of a convention center that overlooks the harbor.

“Why here?” he asks.

“Remember the World Convention on Peace they held here? Look at it now, in ruins. I love the irony. The ocean side will be the canvas. Asian cargo ships dock at Southie's Conley Terminal. And depending on flight patterns, planes should be able to see it either departing from or arriving to Logan.”

“A guaranteed audience.”

“Exactly. Let's get started.”

A narrow passage on the side of the building leads to the waterfront. The wall is four stories high, pure and clean and perfect. Taylor visualizes the piece, inspired by the Declaration of Independence. She considers how to approach the structure while considering the dimensions of the work. Will watches as she pulls out tools and accessories from her bag. Within seconds she's rigged a pulley and finishes by strapping on a safety harness.

She hears the hum of a car engine rising over the white noise of the wind and ocean. The rotation of rubber on asphalt is jarring.

“Dammit.” She closes her eyes a split second. “Goddammit.”

“The press?”

“Has to be.”

“Okay. We have three options.” Will lowers his voice. “Go back down the alleyway and confront them. Go around the building and ride out of here to try and ditch them. Or jump in.” He glances behind them at the black ocean water. “I didn't bring a wet suit.”

“There's one more way.” She places suctioning attachments on her feet and tosses a pair to Will, along with another harness. “Follow everything I do and you'll be fine. We can travel along the rooftops.”

A car door slams shut. Soles scratch the pavement as she begins to climb.

“Too late,” he says, dropping the harness.

She moves quickly, doesn't turn to see the intruder. In seconds Will is only inches tall below her as she waits, hanging, at the top of the building.

From around the corner a man appears. He wears a suit and walks confidently, carrying no camera or video equipment. In the dark, she squints to see if she recognizes him. He's tall and lean, with black hair and dark features. Is that her father's aide?

“Will!” She can't just unharness herself and take off without him. Her numbed fingers fumble to unclip the latch on her courier bag but she can't quite do it, her phone is just out of reach. She looks down. Will is aiming a gun at the man. Why does he have a gun?

The man stops, raising his hands slowly into the air. “Sorry to interrupt,” she hears the intruder say. His tone is friendly but cool. “I see you take your art seriously.”

“You need to leave.” Will steps toward him, his gun steady.

“This is public property, unless I'm mistaken?” He gestures to the gun. “Please. There's no need for that. Name's Carter Benson. And you are?”

“Not your new friend,” Will says.

The man looks up and waves at her. “Taylor! I need you to do some of that—­rappelling, is it? And come with me.”

“You're my father's assistant,” she says, recognizing him.

“Deputy campaign manager, actually. He's asked me to come on behalf of Sienna.”

A wave of nausea hits as she grips the rope tighter. “Where is she?”

“She's fine,” Carter says. “Didn't you get the text?”

Steadying herself, she shifts her bag and releases the clasp. Her head is dizzy with thoughts as she finds her phone. Sure enough, a new message is waiting for her. A video plays.

A close-­up of Sienna stares back at her, cherubic and smiling, wearing her princess pajamas exactly as Taylor left her. “Mommy, look who's here! It's Grandpa!” From behind Sienna, Taylor's father leans into frame. “Taylor, honey. I thought it was time we had a little family reunion.” The clip ends.

“She's five years old!” Taylor shouts. “Does he have so little power he has to involve a child?”

“He's about to be the most powerful man in the world,” Carter says. “Perhaps he wanted a moment alone with his granddaughter before the madness starts.”

“I'm pretty sure the madness has started,” Will says, his voice surprising Taylor. His gun is still aimed.

Carter cocks his head. “Have we met?”

“I don't think we run in the same circles,” Will says.

As the men stare at one another, Taylor considers her options. The truth is, if she died right here, right now, her father's problems would be solved. Hell, he'd probably look heroic, raising his orphaned granddaughter in the White House.

“You need to come with me,” Carter calls up to her. “I'll take you to Sienna. She's safe.” He puts a finger to his ear and appears to be listening to an earpiece, then looks up again. “Actually, right this moment she's having hot chocolate with her grandfather.”

The rooftop is just a ­couple feet up. She can touch it with her fingertips. The urge to run is powerful. They'll leave Will alone, won't they? It's her they want, her silence, until her father wins the election. She waits, dangling in indecision.

A
BO
UT
FORTY
FEET
away Sebastian focuses on Carter Benson, a.k.a. Dash. Dark eyes, a brush of stubble on his olive cheeks and chin. A slightly different shade of skin and they could be brothers. Adrenaline courses through him, every muscle taut. Maybe Benson didn't release the sarin himself, but he sure as shit helped arrange it. It doesn't matter that he's a middleman. In the end, we all have choices. Sebastian's index finger strokes the gun's smooth metal trigger.

“You okay, Taylor?” He glances up at her.

“How did you find us?” she asks Benson.

“Your father wants to ensure you're safe,” Benson says. “Please, come down. I'll take you to Sienna.”

“Despite what he's done, my father won't hurt Sienna.”

“You're right about that,” Benson says. “But have you wondered exactly why Will—­it's Will, right?—­is so interested in you? No offense, you're perfectly attractive and all that.”

“What's he talking about, Will?”

Utterly confused, Sebastian is momentarily speechless. How does Benson know his name? His alias? Maybe he's been watching the senator's video feeds from Taylor's apartment. That has to be it.

“I wouldn't know.” He stares at Benson. “How do you know my name?”

Under his breath, so only Sebastian can hear, Benson says, “We're on the same side, brother. Go along. That's a direct order.”

“I don't take orders from you.”

Benson's voice is a growl. “But you do take them from Mitchell. So stand down.” He looks up and shouts to Taylor, “He's an errand boy. The Reverend's puppet. He's been around a lot lately, hasn't he? Has barely let you out of his sight?”

Glancing at her, Sebastian can tell from her face that she's buying it. Goddammit. With one quick move he could shoot Benson in the leg, just to shut him up. But these pieces don't connect. If he shoots him, is he shooting Hensley's man? Or Mitchell's? Or both?

“Don't listen to him, Taylor,” Sebastian says.

“Do you know that Reverend Mitchell is currently extorting a great deal of money from your father to keep you safe?” Benson continues. “This here is your bodyguard.”

“He's full of shit.” But he recalls Mitchell saying Hensley would be making a donation to the cause.

“Will?” Taylor's tone is unsure, with an edge of anger. “Is it true?”

“I don't know anything about extortion.”

“But Reverend Mitchell is having you follow me?”

He searches the ground. His time with Taylor has been special. Not what he expected, certainly on assignment. It's more than he wanted, more than he's ready for. It's so soon after Kate, guilt is ever-­present. But he can't tell her the truth, can't endanger the mission. Most important here is maintaining his status with Mitchell.

“The Reverend knows we're friends,” Sebastian says. “He asked me to keep you safe. But I'd be here anyway, Taylor. You know that. Clearly, Reverend Mitchell was right, your father's agenda is threatened by your involvement in the church.”

“Asshole!” she shouts.

“Put the gun down, Anderson,” Benson orders.

A subtle zipping sound from above draws their eyes. Taylor's gone. There's a frozen moment between him and Benson. Their shared asset has just disappeared.

“If she gets away, this is on you.” Benson backs up slowly until he's at the narrow passageway that leads to the street. He turns and breaks into a sprint.

Wouldn't Mitchell have told him about Benson? Maybe this is a test. Losing her is not an option. He tucks the gun into his belt and grabs the discarded harness. He straps it on, along with the suctioning fittings for his shoes. Though he hasn't done this since basic training, it comes back easily. Using Taylor's pulley, he swiftly makes his way up to the roof, where he rips off the equipment. There's no sound, no evidence which way she went. It's a maze of rooftops.

He runs at full speed toward the city skyline. Benson must be doing the same on the ground. There's no sign of her on the fire escape or in the alley below. She's not on the building ahead as he bounds between them and lands roughly on the next roof. Again and again, no sign of her. The buildings are dark, the streetlights, long since shut down in this part of town, leave only moonlight as a guide. The white noise of the Atlantic is constant. He studies cracks in the buildings, crevices just big enough for a body to hide.

A soft patter of feet. Yes—­he sees her—­a silhouette on the next building, like a hunchback with her courier bag. He leaps onto an old brick foundry as she descends a fire escape. So close now. He skips stairs, glides between landings. He lands next to her in an alleyway. Nearby, an engine revs.

Taylor backs away. “Stay away from me, Will.”

“Not a chance.”

“Apparently I can't trust anyone anymore.”

“You can trust me, Taylor. Please, come with me. We'll get Sienna back.”

“She's all that matters. I don't care anymore. About the war, the church, the election. You.”

“That's fair. Smart, probably.” He moves closer. “But I'd never hurt you.”