The Firstborn (36 page)

She couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

Morris spoke softly, approaching her. “I had a friend in the World Trade Center. His name was Neil. We went to college together—we even went to Vietnam together. He was in a different place than I was, but we still kept in touch. Then one morning I woke up to hear what those murderers had done.”

It all sounded so similar to what she’d heard from Tariq. Another sob story—another holy crusade to destroy a faceless enemy.

“I can’t let you do this,” she said, shaking her head.

He put a hand on her arm. “What could you possibly do to stop me?”

She looked him in the eyes—then shoved him. He wasn’t expecting it. The older man stumbled back, hitting the dirt.

Hannah ran out the tent entrance, past a guard. “Stop!” he shouted, grabbing her wrist. As if by instinct she swung out with her arm, her elbow connected with his eye, and the man went back, letting go of her wrist.

She melted into the night, ducking between the SUVs that were parked outside, then pressing forward, fleeing from the site. Hannah stole a glance back—the guard was slow, weighed down by heavy gear.

Car doors slammed behind her as soldiers climbed into idling vehicles, engines roaring. The road was ahead. Lights ignited, and the SUVs raced in. She threw her body into a run, arms pumping, legs burning as she sprinted forward.

The SUVs gained, careening past. One came to a skidding stop, peeling out in front of her. She looked back—soldiers in pursuit.

Surrounded. Cut off. Trapped.

She reached for her phone, dialing frantically as they climbed out of the hulking vehicles.

“Yes?” Devin answered, obviously shaken.

“It’s Morris Childs,” she shouted into the phone, soldiers reaching for her. “He’s behind everything. Blake is working for him.”

“Morris?”

“Yes, he’s—”

A militiaman grabbed at the phone, ripping it from her hand, throwing her to the ground.

“What?” Devin’s voice squeaked from the phone’s speaker five feet away. “What’s happening? Where are you?”

A soldier’s heavy boot came down hard on the phone, and it went silent.

“What are they doing?” Blake asked, looking through a set of binoculars. Devin and his people were climbing into their vehicles, as if they were about to leave.

A nearby militiaman snapped a phone shut and turned to Blake.

“That was Morris. The girl knows. I don’t know how, but she knows.”

Blake turned his attention to the exiting force. “Stop them.”

Devin was reaching for the door handle of the silver sedan when the rear window exploded.

Muzzle flashes erupted from behind the headlights—a dozen or so guns. There were sudden blotches of light that called out intermittently across the field, heralded by the distant bark of gunfire.

“Fall back!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. “Everybody get out of here!”

Chunks of grass and dirt burst from the ground, weapons fire snapping past in a violent torrent of rushing air.

Devin hit the ground, nestled his assault rifle against his shoulder, snapped the safety off, and opened fire.

Single-round burst. The bullets hammered through the air in sharp concussion. The headlights, he thought. Shoot out the headlights—it was their one big advantage. Five rounds in rapid succession and a headlight burst.

The ground in front of him began to boil with impacting lead.

A round struck the ground in front of him, not three feet away. The billow of dirt and debris washed over him, chunks of soil cascading into his eyes.

They weren’t going to win this fight.

The first of the cars were starting to fall out, driving away. All Devin could do was cover the retreat.

He reached for the selector switch—fully automatic.

The bullets were getting closer.

Devin rolled on his side, away from his former position, the ground festering with bullet strikes. He came to his stomach—peered down the iron sights—and held the trigger.

A string of blustering gunfire clattered from his weapon, ejecting a stream of hot brass. A collection of rounds pounded into the side of the car above him with a chorus of hacking smacks.

He stood, turned toward the vehicle, threw himself over the hood, slid across it, and dropped below on the other side. A bullet cut across the surface of the hood, leaving a scar. Devin threw the door open and twisted the key—the car came to life.

Throwing the vehicle into gear he stomped the gas and began to speed away.

The headlights winked on and Devin fought the vehicle—

Ahead were no less than a dozen Domani Paramilitary and Prima Militia, weapons raised. He gunned the engine and the sedan shot forward, swerving around them.

This was madness.

Bullets pattered against the back of the car, shooting out the remaining chunks of the rear window, as he raced away from the exchange ground—two SUVs following.

He looked in the rearview mirror. The SUVs were coming down on him hard, one nearing his back bumper, headlights stabbing through the empty space where the rear windshield used to be.

Devin slammed the clutch, ripping at the gears. They were in a car chase and there was one rule—whoever makes the first mistake loses. He drew air into his lungs, slowing his heart rate.

The glow of his headlights cut a swath through the darkness, illuminating the dirt road ahead. Whatever was coming, he had to react fast.

The speedometer climbed upward, rising across the horizon of numbers—faster and faster.

Seventy-five miles per hour. On the highway it was normal—on a dirt road it was suicide.

He came over a hill, stabbing the brake with his heel. One solid press to the pedal, then another—quick bursts would slow him but keep him in control as the vehicle plunged down the long, steep slope.

The SUVs came over the hill too fast, one sliding to a stop—nearly going off the road.

The second came up fast. Someone leaned out the window—assault rifle in hand.

Gunfire raked the vehicle, punching through the roof, blasting the passenger seat to chunks of drifting material, hanging in the air like dust. Bits of padding and metal rods were all that remained.

Devin hadn’t planned for this.

A solid slam rocked the back bumper of his car.

His mind raced—everything was unraveling—his thoughts couldn’t get past the moment. He fought to relax, trying to keep his car on the road.

A second slam—and he drifted to the right, the SUV coming alongside, gunman hanging out the window. Too close—the gunner wouldn’t miss.

He slammed on the brakes, and the SUV rocketed forward—racing past, sliding fast across the dirt road.

Devin nosed the car to the right onto another road and gunned the engine, leaving the SUV behind.

The silence was broken only for a moment by the sound of the handgun dropping to the concrete floor.

John stood in the tactical building, silent, Trista next to him.

The sweet, mechanical scent of gun oil, sulfur, and smoke whispered through his nostrils.

Brock lay on the floor in front of them, body laid out, his shoulder blades propped against the wall, head hanging forward—limp—like a hollowed-out melon. The once gray wall was covered in a thick, globular spray of red—blood and brain matter—all in varying shades and consistencies.

Brock’s body lay there, not moving.

A man. A civilian. A Christian. A full life cut short.

The body didn’t move. Legs splayed, palms up, skin white. John wondered how much the body weighed—a collection of tightly packed flesh and bones and muscles, none of which were capable of assisting in the move—if that was even what needed to be done.

John wanted to say something, but the silence persisted—empty and long.

He felt cold all over, his stomach twisting inside.

Something warm touched his hand—fingers, soft and feminine, interlacing with his own. He turned his head to Trista and looked into her eyes. She stared at him for a moment, then reached out with her spare hand, dabbing at his face with her thumb like his mother used to do. She wiped something away that felt like sweat, then looked at her fingers—

—blood.

John touched his own face, examining his fingertips—examining Brock’s blood.

What had they become?

Chapter 20

M
OST OF THE
F
ALLEN
team made it back to the tactical building before Devin. Nearly thirty minutes after everyone else had arrived Devin entered the planning area, throwing the door open loudly. He moved to the table and seethed.

No one spoke.

His breathing became more infuriated.

“What happened out there?” he demanded after several minutes.

“There were more of them,” Carson said with a shrug. “And they had us outflanked. They must have snuck up around us while we were waiting.”

“Why? As a precaution?” Devin snarled. “No. It was a trap, and they were there before we were.”

The room remained silent.

“They knew we were coming—they had a team in place before we ever got there.” Devin took another breath, calming himself. “Casualties?”

“A few minor wounds,” Saul said with a nod, “but for the most part everyone seems to be OK. But nearly half are still out in the field.”

“Doing what?” Devin asked.

“Maxwell and Danny are pinned down in an abandoned outbuilding about ten miles from here,” one of the Fallen, a man named Benson, said from a folding chair near the wall.

Devin nodded. “Someone needs to go pick them up.”

“Cory and Michael are already on the way,” Benson continued.

“Good. How long until they get there?”

“Five minutes, maybe.”

“Good. Let me know when they arrive.”

Devin left and turned into the room next door. There he sat alone on the lumpy couch, facing the blank TV. He rubbed his temples, working his thoughts.

Things had gone so wrong. Horribly wrong. This wasn’t the way things were meant to be. The Firstborn were supposed to be agents of God on Earth, not warring factions. But Blake had done it; he was Overseer of the Firstborn now—a genuine coup. The Firstborn would never be the same, not with him in power.

Someone had known the location where they would be. Someone knew where Maxwell and Danny were—and that reinforcements were coming. It was possible that Blake and his people had seen it—they were Firstborn, after all, but there was another possibility, one more chilling.