The Firstborn (43 page)

The water was warm—pleasant and soothing. He felt the sopping washcloth run across his foot, rough and warm.

He worked in silence, washing Morris Childs’s feet. The cloth moved along the outsides of his feet and along the arches, between his toes and across his heels. And when Devin Bathurst was finished, he stood.

Morris looked up at him. “Devin, I…”

Devin pressed the button on the side of the pistol, and the magazine dropped out into his waiting hand. He pulled the slide back, sending a single tube of brass hopping into the air—the mechanism locking back as the unspent round hit the floor with a heavy thud. Devin tossed the empty pistol and its magazine on to the bed.

And without speaking he walked to the door.

“Wait,” Morris called as Devin’s hand touched the knob. “Why did you come here?”

“Because I realized that even though we are at war with each other, you’re not my real enemy.”

“Devin, I…”

He didn’t turn around. “If we can’t even love each other…” he said, pain in his voice, “then what do we stand for?”

Morris heard the knob begin to turn.

“I miss God,” the older man announced.

Devin looked back.

“I miss God,” he said again, “before the politics and the pain. I miss knowing my place and my purpose.”

Devin simply nodded. “Me too.” Then walked out the door.

Devin stepped into the hall. It was over, and he knew it.

Blake stood in the middle of the hallway, two guards with him. One of them was Shawn. Blake looked confused at first, maybe even surprised, then he nodded to the guards, pointing at Devin. “Please take Mr. Bathurst.”

Shawn stepped forward, lifting his eyes at the last moment. Devin held the gaze until the guard looked away again.

“I’m sorry,” Shawn muttered, taking hold of Devin’s elbow, “I…”

“I understand.”

Chapter 24

T
HE CAR GLIDED SOFTLY
across the asphalt, rolling to a stop.

John looked around. It was a kind of pull in his chest as his feelings drew him nearer and nearer to where he was meant to be. He’d driven through the neighborhoods of brick homes and sloping grass lawns through narrow, twisting streets, but now he was drawing closer to the center of the living beast that was the District of Columbia.

John had considered going into real estate when he was searching for a real job. It made sense to him, the way a neighborhood lived, grew, and died. Behind him were the vibrant, living areas, where money flowed through metropolitan channels like blood through veins. But as he drew closer to where his heart was pulling him, he could see the ragged, dying edges of the organism—a place where life had left and only survival remained.

Where once there had been a vibrant, living community there was despair. For whatever reason people had left the area—perhaps it had grown unfashionable, or people who had lived outside of their means had fallen prey to foreclosure, but life had left and gone somewhere else. There were no new buyers to fill the void, and so property prices dropped…and dropped, until it was cheap enough that the most desperate facets of society could afford to live there.

The result was a section of city where poverty and desperation were the defining characteristics. John had often been told that where there’s smoke there’s fire, and had often said that where there’s desperation there is despair.

He knew that drugs moved into these places, trapping people. With drugs came violence. With violence came lower property values, which attracted slumlords. Slowly, what had been a community would decay into the remains of a dying neighborhood: a thing that was known as the ghetto.

John had worked missions in the inner city—perhaps that was why he understood real estate and property value—but it still didn’t keep him from being nervous as he rolled through the increasingly unwelcoming streets.

Where once there had been manicured lawns and crisply painted houses he now saw decaying structures, flaking paint, and overgrown yards. Young men walked by in groups, like pack animals, heavy coats sagging to one side or another, weighed down by heavy objects stored within. One of them eyed John, an obvious outsider, and the car he was driving.

Reaching out nonchalantly he keyed the rocker switch on the door’s armrest. The locks snapped down with a sharp mechanical thud. The group stopped and stared, eyeing the vehicle as John rolled through the stop sign.

He wasn’t given to mistrust toward people, but this pushed his tolerances.

Another block, and the world was looking more deserted. His eyes wandered to the sides, then came forward again: a little boy moving through the crosswalk. John would have rolled through, but he saw the boy moving slowly, a heavy, clear plastic backpack slung over his shoulder. The boy, no more than six, looked up and made eye contact.

He felt it in his stomach: a kind of nausea.

Men drawing together.

Explosives unpacking.

Weapons cracking open.

Bags filling with instruments of death.

John touched his forehead, an oily sheath of sweat wiped away, leaving a glistening sheen on his fingertips. It was all happening right now.

The boy moved to the end of the crosswalk, and John stepped on the gas pedal.

No more time.

Disgusting, he thought.

Ibrahim set the wad of cash on the counter, paying for his cup of coffee. The man working the morning shift at the convenience store simply nodded, muttering something, then handed the young man a receipt.

Ibrahim nodded, thankfully, then stepped out into the morning chill. He took a sip from his tall Styrofoam cup, sucking the hot beverage through the narrow lip of the lid. Even with the elaborate blue and brown design on the outside of the cup, it was still just cheap, tacky coffee. The “cappuccino” from a corner store always tasted horrible to him. It was sweet, thick, and for lack of a better word, gooey. It was as if someone didn’t have the time or patience for creamer and had added butter out of desperation.

Disgusting.

But it was warm and caffeinated, and at this early hour it was hardly worth his time to complain. He was out a dollar and seventy-six cents, and while he would probably throw the latter half of the cup away, the first half was what he needed to wake up.

Ibrahim looked across the street toward the building.

Today was the day, the day his years of thought and passion would finally pay off. His dreams and aspirations would finally come into fruition. Raised in the dregs of an Arab ghetto himself, he was used to the layout of the neighborhood, but with his Yale training in engineering and political science, he knew what was really at stake here.

It was a visit to Mecca that had taught him the plight of the Middle East and the corruption of the Zionists. He knew full well that the world wouldn’t understand, but living a life of lucrative and gainful employment wasn’t going to make the world a better place.

For God, he thought. For Allah he would right the wrong thinking of others.

Today was the day, long waited for, like a wedding at the end of seemingly endless engagement, and yet he somehow felt nothing.

He sipped his disgustingly sweet coffee and stared at the building. Crisp air slipped into his nostrils. It would be his last morning. Nothing would stop that now.

Then he saw the car, rolling into place at the safe house across the street.

One of the others? No, it was someone else. The stranger stepped out of the vehicle.

Something was wrong.

This was it.

John’s heart stopped as he looked up at the building.

There was no getting around it. He knew this place with his heart. The building looked like an old store that might have been converted into an apartment building. It was red brick, four stories tall, and covered in lewd twists of black spray paint and vibrant messages bursting off the walls in pastel bubble letters. The doors and windows were boarded up, most of them covered in the mangled overgrowth of color.

A sign, hardly visible beneath an artist’s handiwork, read: “For Lease.” Rust ate at the corners of the heavy sheet metal announcement, betraying the time it had spent hanging there, unheeded. Whatever the place had been before, it was empty now and in total disrepair. There were no obvious signs of any kind of tenant.

He stepped out of the car and sent the door swinging shut with a hard shove. John looked around. No one was looking, except perhaps the young man across the street sipping his coffee. John moved toward the building and down the side.

The wall seemed blank, except for a sloping ramp to accommodate those who might have had a wheelchair. An oddity, but an understandable feature. John moved up the slanting walkway and stopped at the door, reaching for the cold, metal handle. His thumb pushed down on the chilly handle—

The latch gave way.

His heart stopped. The door was unlocked.

He placed his ear against the cold metal and listened.

Nothing. He pulled gently with his body weight, drawing at the door. It gave way, gliding toward him.

John looked into the darkness, giving his eyes a moment to adjust—then stepped into the black beyond.

Ibrahim took a deep breath, then another draw of coffee, watching as the stranger stepped through the side entrance into the building.

This was a problem.

After another casual sip of the oily brew, he tossed the rest of the container into a nearby trash can, overflowing with wadded newspapers and stained paper napkins. He moved across the street.

The last day of his life had officially begun.