Nation of Enemies: A Thriller

By H.A. Raynes

A chilling, suspenseful new thriller in the vein of Michael Crichton and James Rollins

It's all about the genetics. DNA. Black & white.

A decade ago the US government mandated that all citizens be issued biochips containing all of their medical information and an id number indicating a person's health. Then they made the information public—the implications of which were wide-spread and devastating.

Now on the eve of the 2032 presidential election, the country is deeply divided and on the brink of civil war. But as the two major political parties face off, innocent Americans are dying at the hands of masked terrorists. When the Liberty Party's presidential nominee is assassinated in a highly-coordinated, masterful attack, it sets off a chain of events that will change the course of history and leave America's inalienable rights—life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness—dangling on the precipice of extinction.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Aug 18, 2015
• ISBN: 9780062417695

Book preview

Chapter 1

London, England

S

O

,

THIS

IS

freedom. No sirens pierce the air. Buildings in the distance are whole. Yet the ground beneath his feet feels no different. Dr. Cole Fitzgerald glances past their docked cruise ship, to the horizon. The sky blends into the ocean, a monochromatic swatch of gray. A chill in the air penetrates him, dampens his coat and makes all the layers underneath heavy. When they left Boston, pink-­tinged magnolia petals blanketed the sidewalks, blew across overgrown parks and the burnt remains of brownstones. He’d reached up and touched a blossom, still hanging on a limb. It’s remarkable to see beauty amid war.

The din of discontent is constant. On the vast dock of England’s Southampton Cruise Port, a few thousand passengers stand in line, all on the same quest to flee the United States. He’s heard that three million citizens emigrate annually. But no one documents whether those ­people are more afraid of the lone wolves and militias, or of their government bent on regaining control. Cole isn’t sure which is worse. But London is a safe place to start again. They have family here, built-­in support. No point in dwelling.

Beside him, Lily’s usual grace and composure are visibly in decline. He reaches out and gently strokes the nape of his wife’s neck, where pieces of her dark hair have strayed from her ponytail. The coat she wears can’t hide her belly, now twenty-­nine weeks swollen with a baby girl. Cole wishes he could offer her a chair. Instead she rests on one of their enormous suitcases.

Their son Ian sits cross-­legged on the asphalt and reads a paperback. Throughout the journey, he’s gone along with few complaints. Ten years ago he was born the night the Planes Fell, the night that changed everything. Living in a constant state of fear is all he’s ever known. The joy and devastation of that night was so complete. To become parents at the same time terrorists took down fifty passenger planes . . . there were no words. It was impossible to celebrate while so many were mourning.

The mist turns to rain as night comes. Every fifty feet or so instructions are posted: Prepare left arm for MRS scan; Citizenship Applications must be completed; Use of electronic devices prohibited. Finally they cross the threshold of the Southampton Port Customs and Immigration building. The air is sour with sickness and stress and filth. Dingy subway tiles cover the walls of the enormous hall. Ahead, above dozens of immigration officer booths, a one-­way mirror spans the width of the wall. Cameras, security officers, judgment. Cole’s skin prickles.

In one of numerous queues they finally near the end. Lily elbows him and juts her chin toward the front of the line. ­People are scanned and then directed to one of three signs: Processing, Return to Country of Origin, or Hearings. Bile stings Cole’s throat. He calculated the risk of this trip, turned the possible outcomes in his mind endlessly. But thanks to Senator Richard Hensley and the biochip he legislated, it’s all about genetics, DNA. Black and white.

They shuffle forward. Cole takes Lily’s hand in his. It’s comforting, despite the sweat coating her palm. He only wants to live a normal, safe life with his wife, with their children. It doesn’t seem too much to ask.

The immigration officer at desk number 26 does not smile. The man’s shorn, square head sits atop a barely discernible neck. Without glancing up, he shouts, Next.

They move quickly. Cole hands him their citizenship applications.

Prepare for scanning, the officer says. Wearing latex gloves, he holds the MedID scanner aloft as Cole lifts his left arm. The officer scans the biochip, barely discernable under the forearm skin. The process repeats with Lily and Ian.

Mrs. Fitzgerald, please come forward again, the officer orders.

She trades concerned looks with Cole. Yes?

The officer rifles for something under the desktop and his hands return with some kind of an apparatus. Excuse me, Cole says. What is that?

IUMS, the man says.

I don’t know what that is, Cole says.

In Utero MedID Scanner, he explains. It’s just another version of the MRS.

What are you going to do with it? Lily asks.

Ma’am, I need you to lean forward. He gestures with the scanner in his hand.

We don’t have those in the U.S., Cole says quietly. His mind spins. They opted out of prenatal testing, wanted to enjoy their baby girl before knowing what her genetic future might hold. Despite his research, he’s never read about this technology.

New protocol. The man smirks. He aims the scanner at Lily’s belly. Handy device that’ll shed light on the fetus.

You don’t need a MedID? A blood test? Cole presses.

The officer shakes his head. It’s an estimation but it’s good enough for our purposes. He swipes the wand across her sweater-­covered belly and once again regards the small screen.

With wet eyes, Lily wraps the coat tightly around her. Ian leans into them and the three meld in anticipation. They watch as he stamps each application. From this angle, Cole can’t read it, but he knows. Lily’s MedID number of 67 is eight points from the clean benchmark of 75. There’s a thirty-­percent chance she’ll develop leukemia. A fifty percent chance depression will strike. And a ten percent chance she’ll be diagnosed with early Alzheimer’s. Fortunately, both Cole and Ian are in the clear with MedID scores of 84 and 78 respectively. They have virtually no markers for disease. In the eyes of England’s society, Lily will be a drain on public resources. But what about the baby?

Wearing the same bored expression, the officer says, Cole and Ian Fitzgerald you’ve been approved and may proceed to the Processing line. Lily Fitzgerald, you and your unborn child have been denied and will immediately return to the United States. Do you wish to make a plea?

We do. A wave of nausea hits Cole. What’s the baby’s number?

The estimate is seventy-­four. The officer taps his device and reaches below his desk to retrieve a piece of paper from a printer, the medical summary for their family. He hands the paperwork back to Cole and directs them to the Hearings line.

Seventy-­four, Lily whispers. Her skin is ashen.

One number away from being a clean, cherished 75. It might as well be twenty. Denied is denied. Still, they’re prepared to fight. The rumor is that immigration judges rarely turn away individuals with specialized degrees.

They head down the corridor and enter another section of Immigration as Cole rehearses his speech silently. They join one of the lines, each ending at a glass-­encased booth. A digital monitor hangs atop each one with the name of a judge.

How do you feel? Lily asks.

Like I’m about to kill someone on the operating table. Cole reads the name on the booth ahead. Let’s hope Judge Alistair Cornwall is having a good day.

They will have five minutes. Plea guidelines are posted above each booth:

• 03:00 per Plea

• 01:00 Judge Review and Decision

• 00:30 Final Arguments

• 00:30 Final Judgment

Gavel-­like sounds punctuate the hearings as the lines move ahead simultaneously. Cole’s heart pounds as he clings to his CV, Harvard and Yale doctoral certificates. Sell, sell, sell. I’m a commodity. My family is worth more than numbers.

The gavel sounds. It’s their turn. Cole slides the stack of papers through an opening to Judge Cornwall. Wiry gray eyebrows fan out over the judge’s dark eyes. He glances briefly at Cole, then turns his attention to the documents.

Proceed, says the judge.

Your honor, I’m Dr. Cole Fitzgerald, Chief of Emergency Medicine at Massachusetts General Hospital in Boston. For the past six years I’ve been on the Bioscience Board there, which has led the world in testing protein-­based drugs targeting cancerous cells. Cole coughs, glances at Lily. For five years my wife, Lily, has been on a prophylactic course of medication used to delay or completely stop the onset of Alzheimer’s. Your new scanning system has just informed us that Lily’s carrying a baby girl with an approximate MedID number of seventy-­four. But with eleven weeks left in the pregnancy, there are still opportunities to gain that one point needed to give this child a clean number. We’ll make it our priority. I realize the immigration safeguards are in place to insure England’s physical and economic health. And I assure you that the four of us will contribute to the well-­being of this country.

The timer sounds. The judge leans to the side as he peers over Cole’s shoulder at Lily.

Mrs. Fitzgerald, Judge Cornwall says. You’ve brought quite the trifecta with you.

Excuse me, sir? Lily slides beside Cole.

Cancer. Alzheimer’s. Depression.

Her mouth opens, closes.

The judge continues. Fortunately, cures seem to be on the horizon. But they’re not here yet. He flips through the paperwork. After reviewing your case and considering your statement, my decision is to grant you, Dr. Fitzgerald, and your son Ian, temporary visas. However, I am unable to grant both Lily Fitzgerald and the unborn child the same. Mrs. Fitzgerald, your health is cost-­prohibitive, and as for your fetus, there is already an endless line of children in our medical system.

Lily leans heavily into Cole. The timer sounds. Thirty seconds to argue.

Please, sir. Cole’s chest tightens. My son needs his mother, and I need my wife. Our new child needs a chance. My ser­vices to your health-­care system will be of great benefit and I’ll work tirelessly to make sure your investment in me is a wise one. Ian will thrive in your schools. And we’ll treat our daughter in utero, as I mentioned. She’ll grow up and contribute to your society. I swear she will. Please.

The final timer goes off.

But you can’t guarantee it, can you? Judge Cornwall slides the papers back through the slot. No one can predict the future and many a parent has been disappointed in the outcome of children. One never knows. I regret to tell you that my decisions are final.

The gavel sounds. ­People behind them in line push past to get in front of the judge. In silence, the Fitzgeralds gather their things and move along the white tile floor, marred by a continuous gray smudge. At the entrance to the two final corridors, Lily moves toward the Return to Country of Origin sign. She says, I want you and Ian to stay.

No, Cole says. We tried. We did our best. It didn’t work.

It worked for the two of you. You can be safe here.

It’s not an option, Lily.

I’ll go back. Have the baby. Maybe Kate or Sebastian can help us get visas.

Cole shakes his head. You can’t ask an FBI agent to help you do something illegal.

Ian watches them wordlessly.

This isn’t forever. Lily reaches for his hand and presses it between hers.

What if Ian stayed here with your cousins? Cole suggests. He’ll be safe while we work things out at home.

No way, Ian interjects. I don’t know the cousins. And what if you don’t come back?

A river of ­people flows around them, arms and suitcases jostling them. The faces around them display raw emotion, nothing hidden: joy, angst, fear, relief. A security officer stationed a few feet ahead of them signals ­people forward with a waving hand.

Finally Lily nods. Defeat burns in Cole’s gut. The three of them wrap arms, touch hair, kiss cheeks, and hold on as they savor the one moment they have left in this safe haven. And then it’s time to go. Once again they pick up their belongings and head in the direction they no longer want to go. Back home.

Chapter 2

Washington, D.C.

A

WAITER

SWINGS

by and hands Senator Richard Hensley another scotch on the rocks. It helps to override the anger that has settled in Richard’s gut, loosens him up enough to mingle at this fund-­raising gala. Between tuxedos and gowns, he watches fellow senator James Gardiner, the newly nominated Liberty Party presidential candidate. Richard runs a hand through his thick white hair. Gardiner is ten years his junior and has barely dipped his toes in politics, yet somehow he may lead the country in a matter of months. It’s tough for Richard to stomach.

Second place is unacceptable, and yet here he is. A month has passed since he lost the nomination to Gardiner by a handful of votes. After years of public ser­vice—­years of ushering through the MedID to protect these evidently ungrateful citizens. The wealthy hide out in Safe Districts, and the middle class has fled to the countryside, while the low-­income population remains in what’s left of city housing. Agriculture is the only sector that’s seen a boon in a decade. Fortunately, the largest corporations have survived by increasing security to keep their buildings and employees safe. But for the most part Richard’s hometown of Boston has been reduced to piles of bricks. And though the New York City buildings still pierce the sky, firefighters can’t keep up with the blazes that are set daily. Chicago is burning as well, and from the air, Los Angeles sparkles, the sun glinting off the shards of glass from incessant looting.

After the Planes Fell, every religious fanatic and mentally ill citizen was emboldened. They come from all sides, with different agendas—­though one of the shared themes is restoring their lost civil liberties. If it was just one effort, it would have been more predictable, easier to fight. But the attacks don’t stop and law enforcement can’t keep up. The lack of courage in the citizenry is disappointing. If it wasn’t for Richard’s MedID program, all hope and control would be lost. He’d been foolish to expect gratitude in the form of the nomination. He drains his glass, enjoys the burn that travels down his throat.

For two weeks following the results, he shut himself away from the world and considered his options. But the private sector doesn’t appeal to him and he’s far too young to retire. Politics course through his veins, a calling passed down from a father and a grandfather who were senators until their dying days. To walk away is unthinkable. So when he received the call, he had no choice but to accept.

His rival appears to have similar style and grace, floating seamlessly through the sea of party supporters. They lock eyes. Richard smiles and holds up a hand in greeting. After all, they must appear cordial now that he’s Gardiner’s running mate.

­Couples crowd onto the dance floor. An old pang grips him as he feels for the ring he still wears, turning it around his finger. Norah would have shone on that floor. She would have propped him up tonight, slid her arm into his and fortified him. He drains his drink, checks his watch. A familiar hand swoops in and plucks the empty glass from his hand.

Did they teach that at Yale, Carter?

No sir. Carter grins. When I was President Clark’s personal aide, I became intimately familiar with the importance of refreshments at such events.

I won’t argue with that.

Landing Carter as his chief aide was a godsend. It came as a surprise that the President was willing to part with him, though he obviously realized it was for the good of the party. Now, Carter rarely leaves Richard’s side. He’s a constant, competent presence who has been steeped in this world for over ten years, since he was a White House intern. Carter’s eyes stray over his shoulder. Senator, the President’s heading your way.

Turning, Richard regards President Clark. He’s an imposing presence, standing at six-­five, with broad shoulders and a shaved head. His face softens when he smiles, but that’s the only softness he displays. In his two terms as President he’s provided great strength to the country in the face of the war, a true Commander-­in-­Chief. Richard extends a hand and the two men shake in greeting. Mr. President. Are you enjoying yourself?

Always. President Clark says it with a charming grin, but it falls away quickly.

Evening, Mr. President, Carter says.

Good to see you, Carter. The President raises his glass to them and drinks.

Richard’s aide excuses himself and disappears into the flow of partygoers. Secret Ser­vice agents for both men linger a few feet away, their eyes on the crowd.

You should have won the nomination, President Clark says.

That was certainly my opinion, Mr. President.

Everything can change in an election year. For better or for worse.

I’m sure James Gardiner will be the man to make those changes. For the better.

Don’t be so sure. President Clark glances around them. Up to now it’s all been campaign rhetoric. Bipartisan bullshit. Promising an end to the war.

It’s all anyone wants.

Indeed. But this is no time to change a system that’s in its infancy. If he has his way, Gardiner will phase out the MedID.

I’m well aware. Richard’s cheeks flush and he sips his scotch.

Polls indicate ­people believe our country has changed for the worse in the past four years. That the War at Home has gone on too long. But after almost eight years in the Oval Office, I can tell you honestly, the country has never been stronger. And that’s in great part because of your efforts.

Thank you, says Richard. Truth is, I expected more voter support after introducing the MedID.

­People are shortsighted, President Clark says. They can’t see potential.

Several religious groups have labeled the MedID the Mark of the Beast, the beginning of Armageddon. But it’s meant to root out terrorists and individuals who have a reason to stay off the grid. Of course, they’re the only ones who don’t have MedIDs! A decade ago, with the wave of random school shootings, suicide bombings, and Chris­tian martyrs, citizens were clamoring for the government’s help. Richard delivered. And After the Planes Fell, those same citizens felt reassured by the MedID. Over the years, they’ve spent billions on the system, and there’s quantifiable proof that MedID works. Law enforcement uses it to track suspects and to identify those who don’t want to be found. Because of the mandated physician chip updates, health care has become streamlined. The workforce is strong. Ever since employers started hiring contract workers and scanning their MedIDs, productivity rates have spiked. No one takes sick days anymore. Those with clean MedIDs praise the system, and anyone with a score below a 75 cries foul. They’re angry, desperate. But for things to change, a segment of the population will suffer. It’s no different from any other war.

Gardiner will turn on us, the President says.

I know, sir. He bristles at the thought of James Gardiner’s lack of respect or understanding of the MedID. It may not seem it now, but it will be the glue in their society. The two men stand in silence as the orchestra strikes up a new tune.

I hear it’s beautiful in Boston this time of year, President Clark says.

An odd non sequitur. My favorite time at home.

I hear the tourism office is kicking off a national campaign.

Yes. It’s on my agenda to attend. His thoughts go to his daughter, Taylor, who lives in Boston and hasn’t spoken to him in over a year.

Persuade James Gardiner to join you. President Clark gazes into the crowd. I’m sure a few words from our presidential candidate would go a long way to encouraging the average American to vacation in the States.

With all due respect, Mr. President, I’m quite capable of amping up the crowd alone.

Yes, but he ought to join you at the event. See that he does. President Clark looks pointedly at him and pats a heavy hand on his shoulder before moving into the crowd.

The air is suddenly thick and soupy, the tie at Richard’s neck snug. A waiter appears with another drink. He swallows the remaining contents of his glass and takes the new one. The rest of the night passes quickly, though Richard is distracted by this task of convincing James Gardiner to join him in Boston. Something in his gut tells him the President’s order is about more than promoting tourism.

May, 2032

Chapter 3

Safe District 149, Massachusetts

I

T

’

S

HARD

FOR

Lily Fitzgerald to believe that only a month ago they were on a ship to London, only to be denied entry. Now thirty-­four weeks pregnant, she rests her hand atop her belly and sets her feet on an unpacked box of pots and pans. Early morning sun fills the room as she sits at the kitchen table checking email on her tablet. She shifts uncomfortably in the maternity jeans she’s come to loathe. The baby moves and a bit of Lily’s belly juts out. An elbow? A foot?

Their failed attempt to immigrate brought her to a dark place. Since the moment they scanned her belly, she’s questioned everything. If it weren’t for the baby, they might be living in England. And though she wants this baby with every thread of her being, she knows it’s selfish. After Ian was born, they debated having another child. It seemed wrong, knowingly bringing a child into war. But it didn’t stop her yearning. Finally, they decided to leave it up to Fate. Fate waited ten long years. Despite everything, she can’t wait to meet her daughter.

She’s promised herself not to cry anymore, and she needs to be strong for Ian. Cole says he’ll find a way around the MedID system, but she can’t imagine how. He also swore to keep them safe. When they’d disembarked in South Boston, he surprised her with a self-­driving, bulletproof Land Rover waiting for them in the harbor parking lot. And instead of going to their wilting Victorian in Brookline, he’d taken them to a Safe District just west of the city. They’d been fighting this move for years, clinging to an old way of life in a beautiful, but decaying, neighborhood. Now they live in an unimaginative, mind-­numbing, prefab house. Still, she has to admit that driving through heavily guarded gates into a community surrounded by twenty-­foot walls is comforting. She actually lets Ian ride his bike down the street now. And Cole has abandoned his treadmill, his runs finally infused with fresh air. He must’ve spent most of their savings for their new life-­in-­a-­bubble. The exclusivity of it all bothers her—­most ­people can’t afford to live this way. But her children are safe here. So to hell with her guilty conscience.

The next email fills the screen with video of an animated woman. Her voice is eerily friendly. Lily Fitzgerald, your daughter has a forty-­eight percent higher chance of securing a clean MedID number if you address issues in utero. New life equals new opportunity. With embryonic intervention, your daughter won’t need to worry about major medical issues. Though you’ve entered your third trimester, there are still options available. Don’t wait until it’s too late. Call now to give your baby a healthier future.

With an edge of anger in her voice, she commands, Delete. Goddamn them. These infernal governmental messages torment her. It’s becoming the norm, choosing sex, eye and hair color, musical and athletic abilities, along with gene editing to cull abnormalities. But it’s not natural, and shouldn’t having a baby—­of all things—­be natural? Her hand shakes as she reaches for her bagel, knocking into her orange juice and sending a splash over the edge. Shit.

Orange drips pool on the laminate wood floor. In her mind she hears the judge denying them again and again. Cole enters the kitchen and kisses the top of her head. She doesn’t move as she watches him mop up the juice with a towel.

What’s wrong? he says.

Another email from Government Health.

He sits next to her. You all right?

"She’s a seventy-­four, Cole. What if we missed an opportunity to change her life? To give her a healthier existence?

You’re a sixty-­seven and I think you’re perfect.

Don’t joke.

I’m not. He sighs. Listen. We had ultrasounds, did all the same tests when you were pregnant with Ian. It’ll be okay. She’ll be happy and healthy and that’s it.

This is one of the many reasons she married him. He has a way of calming her. She shakes her head. Every time I get one of those emails it throws me. Sorry.

Don’t be. ­People in Government Health know how to guilt ­people into action.

Lily taps his smartwatch with her finger. Don’t forget your gig this morning. The fourth grade waits for no one.

It takes a moment to register and then Cole remembers. He rushes down the hall.

The door to Ian’s room is open, voices emanate from the computer. Quietly, Cole enters and sits on the unmade bed. His son’s back is to him, seated at his desk in a corner of the room. Like every other room in the house, his is filled with unopened boxes.

A large monitor features the heading Social Studies, Miss Johnson’s Class along with nine video feed windows with his classmates and his teacher. Ian spins around in his chair, and Cole gives him a thumbs-­up. His son grins the same grin as his mother, though Cole doesn’t see Lily’s quite as often anymore, especially since London. Ian is a good physical mix of them: her smile, his eyes; her hair, his physique. He’s always been a good boy, kind to others and very gentle. Perhaps too gentle for this world.

Miss Johnson, my dad is here, Ian announces.

On cue, Cole walks over and waves into the camera.

Class, this is Dr. Fitzgerald, Miss Johnson announces.

Good morning, Miss Johnson. Class.

The students return the greeting in monotone unison.

As we begin our unit on the MedID, I thought it would be helpful to have an expert answer some of your questions, Miss Johnson says. Dr. Fitzgerald works at Massachusetts General Hospital in the emergency room, so he knows a lot about this subject. How would you like to start, Doctor?

I’m sure everyone has questions, Cole says. Who wants to go first?

The kids are hesitant, looking away from their monitors. The teacher says, Why don’t I get the ball rolling. As someone who works in a hospital, can you share what the MedID law has changed over the past several years?

I don’t think we have enough time for that. He smiles. But hospitals can better treat patients who have a MedID. Being able to quickly identify a patient’s medical history is essential in the treatment process. It saves lives.

Some ­people don’t get MedIDs, one of Ian’s classmates says. How come?

Cole hesitates, considers his words carefully. Every U.S. citizen is required to have one, but yes, some ­people choose not to. The chip was originally meant to streamline health care. But it also allows the government to see personal information. Some ­people don’t agree with that. They want their private lives to stay private. But the government thinks they can protect citizens better if they have access to certain areas of our lives. After the Planes Fell, they changed the MedID system. Law enforcement started using it to narrow the suspect list for terrorists. Criminals don’t want to be tracked by being scanned, right? So that’s one reason. But even some good ­people don’t want the government to know their personal business.

So they go to jail? a dark-­eyed girl asks.

That’s up to the police and the FBI. But they’re breaking the law by not having one.

So it’s not just our medical records? the girl continues.

No, MedIDs are also tied to driver’s licenses, social security cards, passports, bank accounts. Employers and insurance companies also use MedID information.

A blond boy asks, Do visitors from other countries have to get our MedIDs?

Good question. If they’re just visiting, they’re given a temporary locator chip. It’s like a MedID, but the only information on it is the person’s name, country of origin, and contact information. The system tracks visitors who stay longer than four weeks. But all ­people entering the U.S. on visas, work permits, or those attending college are given MedIDs. When they go through customs, there’s a MedID clinic right there at the airport.

Another girl raises her hand. Do other countries make ­people wear MedIDs?

Japan is the only other country participating in a MedID program, he explains. But the chips and technology are available worldwide. Other countries can deny ­people entrance based on MedID numbers. They’re more apt to allow in only ­people with clean chips. Many countries are happy to take our healthiest citizens who’ll be productive in their society.

The same girl asks, How do doctors get new information on the chip?

I bet you remember this from checkups with your doctor. We use an MRS—­a Medical Record Scanner—­and the information is sent wirelessly. Parts of the chip are encrypted, which means they can’t be changed. Things like your name, birth date, social security number.

There is a lull in the questions. Miss Johnson says, Well thank you for your time, Dr. Fitzgerald. That was very informative.

Cole nods, pats his son on the shoulder. Ian beams and returns his attention to his class. At the door, Cole lingers. School should mean recess and lunches with friends, team sports and field trips. It pains him that his kids will miss all of that. But at least they won’t be sitting targets for rogue students and radical groups.

Back in the kitchen, Lily’s reading a book. Cole takes a seat at the table, moves his chair next to hers. Placing both hands on her belly, he leans over and kisses her passionately, something he hasn’t done in far too long. When they part, she has tears in her eyes.

She looks down at his hands. I can’t bring myself to unpack the boxes. To put up pictures and artwork.

I know. He leans back in his chair and stares at the bare white walls that bring the word sanitized to mind. But seeing our things again might make you feel better.

He knows she wants out of this country more than he does. There must’ve been a moment in London when she wondered if he’d emigrate without her. Their MedID point inequality heightens her anxiety, makes her worry he might leave her. It’s ludicrous, of course. But it’s happened to friends of theirs. All he can do is reassure her.

I should get going. Cole kisses her check on his way out.

You wearing your skins? she calls.

Pulling down the collar of his shirt, he reveals the gray, skintight material that serves as a ballistics shield. When they returned from London, he’d bought skins for the whole family. The bodysuit was uncomfortable at first, but he’s gotten used to it. With hospitals a constant target, he’ll take all the help he can get.

Chapter 4

Boston, Massachusetts

T

HE

DRIVER

JUTS

his middle finger into the air at the sound of a car horn. The windows of his Mustang are down, the air whipping his hair chaotically as he passes abandoned Victorian mansions with overgrown lawns and peeling paint. Graffiti winds like ivy from house to house, from fence to sidewalk. Cruising by dilapidated Fenway Park, he shouts, Go Sox!

A death metal song screams from the car speakers, his head bouncing to the thrashing beat. He knows his fellow Brothers and Sisters in Arms—­BASIA—­are with him in spirit. These last few minutes make the hairs on his arms stand up. This is it. Salvation.

A ring tone sounds, an image of a blond boy appearing on his windshield.

Answer call. The music halts and there’s a click. Hey.

Hi, Scotty. His brother’s voice is just beginning to crack. What’re you doing?

I can’t talk now. I left a note for you guys. He lifts his foot slightly from the accelerator, his heart pounding.

Where are you?

Listen to Mom, okay? Do your homework, clean your room. Don’t make her cry.

You made her cry.

He shakes his head. You’re not me.

Can we hang out later?

Be good, Leon. I love you, little man.

Jeez, why’re you saying that?

I gotta go. Take care, buddy. He shuts off the phone.

The music screams once again as the car careens past crumbling and charred buildings. Blowing through lights, he swings onto Newbury Street. Looted storefronts are a grayish blur. A smattering of suits stride down the street. At a red light, he pulls to a stop and stares at his destination, a brownstone building one block down. His whole body trembles.

BASIA is eternal life! On the passenger seat is a crude bomb, wrapped with wires and duct tape. He presses a button and instantly shoves the gas pedal to the floor. The wheels spin, burning tire treads that emit a high-­pitched shriek. ­People scatter.

The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want . . .

Outside the Liberty Party headquarters, two armed guards flank the glass doors, raising their semiautomatic rifles. A flash of Leon appears in his mind.

He leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul.

The Mustang jumps the curb. Bullets shatter the windshield. The guards dive out of the way. He closes his eyes against the glass shards but keeps his foot glued to the floor.

He leadeth me in the paths of righ­teous­ness for His—­

The car smashes through the doors and explodes.

A

FEW

BLOCKS

away, stained-­glass windows tremble, dust floats down from ceiling moldings.

In the Patriot’s Church office, behind a sleek glass desk, Reverend Charles Mitchell reclines in his chair. The thumb on his left hand presses into his right palm, traces the tattooed, imperfect cross that follows the creases in his lifeline. It’s been a habit for as long as he can remember. As a boy, in his first foster home, he’d noticed the cross there, with him always. As though he carries God in his hand.

Across from him on a sofa, Hannah sits curled up on the cushions. Her green eyes are wide, her tangle of red hair loose down her back. A beautiful child, though at eighteen, a child no longer. She’s been with him ten years, since the Planes Fell. It’s hard to believe she’ll soon be his bride, but forty-­five seems a good age to marry. He follows her gaze to the large wall monitor. The audio is muted, but breaking news streams live from a bombing. Ambulances and fire engines are parked behind a reporter as ­people in uniform run this way and that. Yes, this morning God was with Scott Durgin, the evidence a blackened crater in Boston’s Liberty Party headquarters. It reminds him of the tomb from which Jesus emerged, born again. He closes his eyes in