Nation of Enemies Read Online Free Page B

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 a silent prayer of thanks.
    â€œYou send him, Charles?” Hannah’s voice still has a southern lilt despite elocution lessons.
    He shakes his head. “No one could tell that boy what to do.”
    Though he acted alone, Brothers and Sisters in Arms was in Scott’s heart. BASIA’s victory is shared with other groups who fight in the resistance. Across the country, ­people are on their knees in thanks. It’s what Charles has worked for. A headache suddenly and swiftly stabs at his temples, making his eyes water. It happens sometimes, after these events. He believes it’s brought on by grief—­he doesn’t want ­people to die. But this is war. This is Armageddon.
    Charles’s voice commands, “Power off,” and the monitor goes black. He retrieves a prescription bottle from his desk drawer. Without water, he swallows a pill that should erase his pain by the time he takes the stage.
    Hannah stands and slips into her black flats. “You feeling all right?”
    â€œFine.” From his suit jacket pocket he pulls a lavaliere microphone and pins it to his lapel. In a corner of the room his bodyguard stands at attention. With or without his holstered gun, Henry is an imposing presence.
    Charles rises, straightens his suit. “I must admit, I didn’t think he had it in him.”
    On cue, Henry opens the office door.
    â€œHe was quiet, I remember.” Hannah’s brow furrows, a vertical line forming on her freckled brow. “He brought a little boy to ser­vice one day.”
    â€œHis mother wasn’t too happy about that,” Charles says. “But Scott turned out to be a fine soldier of God.”
    â€œLike my father,” Hannah says, her voice soft.
    â€œYes, he was one of the best. A minister and pilot wrapped up into one. Meant for greatness.” He remembers her father well, a devoted leader, willing to give up his family in the name of God. “All right. Let’s get this show started.”
    Every pew in the cavernous, circular nave is full. ­People line the aisles and crowd together along the walls. Hannah enters first, takes a seat in the row designated for Charles’s family, orphaned children and teens of every age and race. Charles comes in after her, his hands clasped humbly as he makes his way to center stage, slightly raised above the seats in his very own theater-­in-­the-­round. Upon seeing him, voices hush, bodies settle. A thousand pairs of eyes follow him. The energy in the room is electric. Their faith has carried him far.
    â€œGood morning.” He turns slowly, taking in his flock.
    â€œGood morning,” they say in unison.
    â€œGod bless America,” he says.
    â€œAmen,” they say.
    One last rotation and he faces the portion of the wall on which is painted a massive mural of a palm—­his palm—­with the tattooed cross. “Whether you came today for God or country or family—­or all