The Firstborn (22 page)

Devin looked at his watch.

“How long until we land?” John leaned over, shirt untucked, sleeves rolled up. Devin resented answering to someone who dressed poorly. Regardless, it was the grown-up version of “Are we there yet?”

“Washington DC is right out the window. We should be landing any minute.”

Hannah looked at them from across the aisle—face flushed.

“How long do we have?” John asked.

“A little more than an hour,” Devin responded.

“How long is the drive?”

“About thirty minutes.”

Hannah stared at them, obviously shaken. “What if we don’t make it in time?”

Alex showered.

If he was going to die, he was going to die clean—it was that simple.

He stepped out, shaved, and ran a hand across his smooth face.

Slacks. A dress shirt. A sport coat. He’d look like a workingman coming home from the gym.

He felt the heft of the bag—packed with explosive bricks.

His grandfather, Walter Bradley, had been an explosives expert. When Alex was twelve, his grandfather had decided to unearth a tree stump in the backwoods of Montana. Half a brick placed in a cleft at the base of the stump—that was all. They drove a half mile away and set off the charge. The blast shook the truck even at that distance, and when they returned, there was a hundred-foot crater left where once there had been a stump.

Half a brick.

Alex felt the weight in his shoulder.

More than fifteen full bricks of C-4. It was more than enough.

Devin pushed his way off the plane, checking his watch—forty minutes to go.

He moved up the ramp and into the terminal without looking back.

“Devin, wait,” John called from behind. Devin didn’t look back. He kept walking. “Wait—we’re right behind you.”

John came up next to him, Hannah alongside.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“Car rental.”

The rental was silver—midsize, manual transmission. Same as always.

Devin threw his laptop into the back and climbed into the driver’s seat. He turned the key. The car came to life. John climbed in next to him, Hannah into the back holding a map.

“Do we have a plan?” Hannah asked.

“As much of a plan as we’re going to have,” Devin replied.

“So we don’t have one?”

“Plans are overrated,” John interjected.

Devin looked at Hannah in the rearview mirror. “Our plan is to prevent the bombing of an internationally important mosque filled with innocent people—whatever the cost.”

Alex stepped out of the revolving door of his hotel, gym bag in hand, and entered the street.

It was pleasant today. The cold of just a few weeks prior was evaporating, giving way to the first warm-up of the season.

A beautiful day, Alex thought.

He wondered if tomorrow would be as nice—then remembered that there was no tomorrow for him.

The sedan raced across the bridge, gliding over the Potomac River—wide and gray, the car weaving through traffic. They had to get there quickly, but attracting the attention of the police was a guaranteed way to make sure they didn’t.

Regardless, there were cars in the way—lots of them. Late lunch hour on a Friday. Just in time for afternoon prayers at the mosque—and to get stuck in traffic.

After ten minutes of driving, Hannah spoke up. “This is Dupont Circle,” she said, pointing. A giant roundabout in the heart of DC—the bane of out-of-town drivers.

Devin moved the car into the circle, watching as the back bumper of the car in front of him slowed—red brake lights blinking on.

“What’s going on?” John asked, looking around.

“There seems to be some kind of backup.”

“Can’t we go around it?” Hannah asked.

Devin found her country sensibility charming but unhelpful. “No,” he replied.

The car ahead of them inched forward sluggishly, then stopped. A horn blared.

“There was some kind of accident ahead,” John said definitively. “This could take awhile.”

Devin gripped the steering wheel, squeezing tight. “It could take hours.”

His shoulders tensed. Eyes narrowed. Teeth clenched.

His vision blurred and—

The mosque.

Fire.

Smoke.

Screaming.

Smoke rising in thick, gray plumes.

Death.

And a face—a face he knew.

Alex Bradley.

Devin turned to John. “Can you drive a stick?”

“What?”

“Can you drive a car with a manual transmission?”

“Of course. When I was in Kenya all I had was a Land Cruiser with—”

Devin shoved the car door open and stepped into the traffic, a car horn protesting behind him.

“What are you doing?” John demanded.

“You drive. I’ll run. If you get out of this before I make it to the mosque, don’t bother to stop for me—stop that bomb.”

“But I don’t even—”

“Do it!”

Devin slammed the car door and slipped through the maze of cars.

Alex slung the bag over his shoulder—it was heavier than he had planned, making the trek a little slower going than he’d hoped.

He knew the path to the mosque—he’d walked there and back every day for a week now, preparing for this moment. The target had probably been there those days, but there was no guarantee—this was the day and time God had given them—a time set for judgment.

Alex thought of his late wife—Chloe. It was her death that had brought him to a deeper faith and Christian walk, a faith that revealed the future to him. A year later he had joined the Domani and as a former marine had slipped directly into their unofficial paramilitary branch.

He’d been sent all over the world to fight the enemies of God. Mission after mission—all successful. He considered that this would be his last. Fitting, he thought.

He looked up and saw the minaret ahead of him—he would be among the last to ever see it standing.

John looked around the sluggish traffic of Dupont Circle—then something moved. The cars began to slip slowly through the net of police and ambulances that lingered at the nearby car accident that had caused the jam.

“We’re moving,” Hannah said.

John nodded, checking the dash clock. “But we’re still not going to make it.”

Devin’s legs pumped up and down as he bolted toward the mosque—its shape growing bigger on the horizon.

Closer and closer.