Nation of Enemies by H.A. Raynes Page A

just so many.”
    His eyes close. She forces the memory of Sullivan’s into her mind once again. Be nice, she tells herself. “Sienna wanted me to tell you she hopes you’re feeling better.”
    A grin spreads across his dry, cracked lips. “Sienna.”
    She inches closer, considers talking about the swimming lessons Sienna’s taking and how she’s learning to read. But Taylor can’t be bothered with small talk. He points to a cup of water and she holds it for him to drink. Several awkward minutes pass as he appears to awaken more fully, taking deeper breaths. Finally he speaks again.
    â€œYou’ve been busy.” The lines in his face deepen, his eyes fix on her.
    â€œSingle mothers are generally busy.”
    â€œThe Liberty headquarters piece was inspired.” His words are slow but his brain is not.
    â€œThank you.” So, it was his SUV that night. She has a fleeting moment of satisfaction.
    â€œDoes your new friend like it?”
    â€œExcuse me?”
    â€œReverend Mitchell.”
    â€œDon’t you have better things to do? Aren’t there more pressing matters of state than my social calendar?”
    â€œNot when your friends try to assassinate me.”
    Every muscle in her tenses. “The Reverend and Patriot’s Church had nothing to do with the attack! They have a strong belief in God, and last I checked, that’s one freedom we have left. And yes, we’re at war. But BASIA isn’t out killing innocent ­people.”
    â€œAren’t they?”
    â€œAre you really going to point fingers?” At his bedside now, she enjoys looking down at him. “You flicked that first domino with powerful force and you’ve done nothing to stop it.”
    â€œWhy would I?”
    â€œWhy wouldn’t you?” She runs her fingers over the pockmarks on her cheek and neck. “How can you look at me and not want to stop it?”
    He closes his eyes. When he opens them again, there’s renewed energy in his voice.
    â€œI’m not responsible for the actions of terrorists. I didn’t blow up MedFuture. I didn’t scar your beautiful face, and I didn’t kill Mason. Any more than you did.”
    â€œGoddamn you.” Her hands curl into fists.
    â€œNo one twisted your arm to join the party and to take the job at MedFuture. If you’re feeling guilt about Mason, you should ask yourself why. No one’s innocent, Taylor.”
    An old ache inside her stirs. She should walk away, but she can’t help herself. “I was young. I went along. If it wasn’t for you, the MedID wouldn’t be law. The terrorists wouldn’t have had a reason to bomb MedFuture. Your grand idea. You damned us all.”
    â€œIf you want to go down that road, you wouldn’t have Sienna if it wasn’t for the MedID.”
    â€œDon’t try and take credit for anything as good and innocent as Sienna.”
    â€œYou’re always so dramatic.”
    â€œGo to hell.”
    â€œTaylor.” His tone is a snarl, a warning. “You’re aligning yourself with dangerous ­people. Don’t make yourself a party to the machine that killed Mason.”
    â€œReverend Mitchell and his church did not kill Mason.”
    â€œI’m speaking simply as us against them. They—­the terrorists and this war they’ve started—­they killed Mason. I didn’t. This government didn’t.”
    Above his bed is an oil painting of Beacon Hill, familiar brownstones stretching up narrow slopes with cars crammed bumper-­to-­bumper. She stares at it and silently counts to ten.
    â€œDo you remember what it was like before?” she says. ­“People held jobs for years. Went on vacations. Saw doctors. Went to school. Saved money in a bank and bought a house.”
    â€œThey were delusional.” Her father struggles to prop himself up on his pillows. “I’m glad your mother