Nation of Enemies by H.A. Raynes Page B

read the words, but there’s a picture of a beautiful baby girl.

 
    Chapter 14
    F ROM THE FAR end of the Common, Sebastian slams against panicked bodies, fighting his way to the State House and Kate. There must’ve been an attempted assassination for Secret Ser­vice and the police to pull their weapons, let alone shoot into a crowd of families. Even news crews are fleeing.
    Up ahead, the flow of ­people parts to avoid something on the ground. In seconds he’s there. On a stretch of grass lie four dead or dying agents and officers. Their bodies are rigid, faces strained, weapons drawn but discarded. He studies the men and women: vomit, hands on throats, mouths gaping. Across from them, three bodies are unmoving, faces hidden by masks now ruined by bullets. Beside them lies what looks like a child’s magic wand. My God. His attention snaps back to the State House steps. From here he can see several bodies collapsed around the podium. Right where Kate’s supposed to be.
    He breaks into a full run, pushing through anyone in his path. He touches his smartwatch. “Call Renner!”
    After a brief pause, Renner’s face appears on the tiny screen.
    â€œSend backup to the State House,” Sebastian shouts. “There’s been a chemical attack!”
    â€œBPD just called it in. We’re mobilizing—­”
    â€œAlert Mass General, all area hospitals.”
    â€œHow many casualties?”
    â€œI don’t know.” Sebastian squints at the State House stairs. “Twenty? Thirty? But the crowd is jammed at the exits, physical contact on all sides. There’s mass exposure here.”
    â€œI’m locating you.” Renner looks away from the camera. “Okay. You’re almost at Beacon. Too close. Stop right there.”
    â€œNot a chance.”
    â€œWhatever they used is probably still in the air. You’re no good to us dead. I’ll be there in five minutes.”
    Finally, the grounds are clear, the crowd now at the opposite end of the Common. Sunlight gleams off the gold dome of the State House. At the top of the hill, Sebastian steps into the street. It’s eerily quiet. What was Kate wearing this morning? Her blue summer dress. He moves slowly, studying the discarded magic wands. Black and navy suited bodies litter the pavement, all wearing the telltale earpieces of the Secret Ser­vice. Some weapons are drawn, but many are untouched in holsters. These ­people had no idea what hit them.
    Kate. Reaching the bottom of the stairs, he scans the podium area where she should have been standing. The steps are thick with legs and arms, twisted faces, bodily fluids. His eyes tear and his nose runs. Shit . He rips off his suit coat and throws it on the ground along with his tie. Unbuttoning his shirt, he fastens it around the back of his head so that it covers his nose and mouth. Sweat soaks through his T-­shirt and drips down his brow. Focus. Blue dress.
    There—­maybe twenty stairs up, to the right of the podium. The wind lifts her blond hair. Carefully, he steps over hands and thighs and heads. Some of the wounded are still moving, still breathing. There’s still hope. A chance.
    Finally, Kate. His hand covers his mouth, pain hits his chest. He falls to his knees. There’s no question, she’s gone. “No! Goddammit no!” His voice sounds like a stranger’s. It takes everything he has not to touch her. Crossing his arms, he buries his tight fists against his body. Whatever toxin this is has ruined her, turned her body into a contaminated weapon. She looks nothing like his Kate. His tears splash onto her gray and unmoving face. Her mouth is stretched wide by some unknowable pain.
    He rocks back and forth. The shirt over his face is suddenly suffocating, claustrophobic. Standing, he pivots and almost slips on vomit. When he looks down, he sees her phone. Without thinking, he picks it up and types in her code. First