Nation of Enemies Read Online Free Page A

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.
    â€œI should get going.” Cole kisses her check on his way out.
    â€œYou 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.
    â€œAnswer call.” The music halts and there’s a click. “Hey.”
    â€œHi, Scotty.” His brother’s voice is just beginning to crack. “What’re you doing?”
    â€œI can’t talk now. I left a note for you guys.” He lifts his foot slightly from the accelerator, his heart pounding.
    â€œWhere are you?”
    â€œListen to Mom, okay? Do your homework, clean your room. Don’t make her cry.”
    â€œYou made her cry.”
    He shakes his head. “You’re not me.”
    â€œCan we hang out later?”
    â€œBe good, Leon. I love you, little man.”
    â€œJeez, why’re you saying that?”
    â€œI 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.
    â€œBASIA 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.
    â€œThe 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.
    â€œHe 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.
    â€œHe leadeth me in the paths of righ­teous­ness for His—­”
    The car smashes through the doors and explodes.
    A FEW B LOCKS 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