The Firstborn (47 page)
“How much are you willing to sacrifice for the truth?” Blake asked. “As Overseer, these are the choices I have to make.”
They stared back at him, faces souring.
“I had no choice. He didn’t leave me any other option.”
Trista stood, looking at the blood on her hands. “He’s dead,” she announced.
Blake held. Morris Childs, leader of the Domani, was dead. The finality of it all sank in.
Trista Brightling wiped her hands on the back of Morris’s shirt and walked away from Blake—
He swung the weapon toward her. “Don’t do it,” he announced.
Trista glared at him for a moment, then turned her back. She stopped next to Devin and put a hand on his shoulder. She knelt, bowing her head.
Blake squeezed the grip of the weapon, stepped forward, and raised the pistol, the muzzle hovering at the back of her skull, nearly touching her blonde hair. His hand shook.
Something caught him off guard in the corner of his eye.
Dr. Saul Mancuso stepped past them to the left of the praying line, kneeling just in front of Devin Bathurst.
Blake stepped away and turned around. Three of the Fallen were walking toward him. He lifted his weapon. “Go back,” he ordered.
The three men ignored him, taking their place with the others, kneeling.
“Get up,” he snarled. “Get up, now!”
No reply.
Another of the Fallen took his place.
“I’m warning you!”
Blake looked back at the soldiers who stood with the Fallen. “Stop them,” he said harshly. “That’s an order!”
The one named Shawn stared back, then unslung his weapon, setting it on the ground—and stepped forward.
“If you do this,” Blake shouted, “you will never be welcome among the Firstborn again.”
Shawn knelt with the others.
Blake looked back—the others were following, all setting down their weapons as they moved toward the growing mass of kneeling bodies.
And then Blake came to the realization—
He was the only one still standing.
Devin’s eyes were pressed shut, beads of sweat on his face.
The Lord’s Prayer.
He felt himself relax. It didn’t matter if he lived or died. John needed him. Small children, targeted for murder, needed him.
He felt Dr. Saul Mancuso’s hand reach out, touching him on the shoulder. Devin’s head lifted, looking at the older man, examining his face as he prayed.
“What are you doing here, Saul? You don’t even believe in God anymore.”
“Shut up,” Mancuso replied.
Devin smiled inwardly and let his head bow again.
They were all together—dozens of them, united in faith, praying as one. Different perspectives, different lives, different goals. All together.
And then he felt it—
As his head dropped to its lowest point his world stopped.
He could feel it all—he felt the others around him—they could all feel it—from the beginning.
Blake murdering the imam—
Bullets. Glass. Blood.
Disposing of the weapon—someone, drenched in shadow, whispering in the man’s ear.
He saw the shadowy figure in San Antonio, moving from one to another, whispering in ears—distrust mounting and growing. Henry Rice—
Falling. Breaking. Dying.
The figure covered in shadow, watching.
Washington DC, Pennsylvania—
Shouting. Hitting. Gunfire.
The shadowy figure moving from one to another, pitting them against each other.
John Temple, in Washington DC. A building.
Across the street. Through the doors. Up the stairs. Into the bathroom.
Screaming, straining, fighting. Water bursting from the tub in sprays.
Four of them. Weapons. Explosives. Video cameras. Recording their final message.
The future—
The hacksaw. The blood. John’s lifeless body.
The elementary school. Stepping through the front doors. Murder. Bullets tearing through bystanders.
Hundreds of children in a gymnasium.
A standoff. News vans. The world watching. Afternoon.
The explosion.
An aerial view of the school—the walls blown out, glass shattered.
Ratty debris spread across the street, turning grass to soot. Smoke rising in a tall tower of black.
The mangled corpses of small children.
More violence. More blood. More death.
Devin lifted his head. They had all felt it. They knew exactly where to go. They knew exactly what to do.
J
OHN’S HEAD PLUNGED INTO
the dark, swirling water—his vision filling with the murky ruddiness of rust and dirt, bubbles flashing before his eyes. His hair ripped back and he came up gasping—
Then plunged beneath again.
He’d held back what he knew about Tariq and the Firstborn out of stubbornness—but now he was ready for it to be over. He hadn’t had a full breath in what felt like hours. His body was preparing to collapse.
The hand that held his hair let go again as they traded the duty again.
His body leaned against the lip of the tub as he hacked and sobbed.
Hassan knelt next to him again. “Are you ready to tell me what happened to Tariq?”
John groaned in exhaustion and misery. Behind him he heard as they began to pour a bag of ice into the full tub.
His eyes stung. His ears rung. His muscles ached. He was ready for it to be over.
John closed his eyes and reached out with one last prayer—
And suddenly he felt it.
“Hang on, Temple. We’re coming.”
They were coming for him.
He wasn’t going to make it that long. They would kill him first. But if he could stall them long enough, it might all mean something. If he could delay these men, keep them here, then the others stood a chance—just a chance—of stopping them here—
Maybe.
Hassan looked John in the eye. “Are you ready to tell me what I need to know?”
John balked with what little strength he had, a gurgling sound sputtering from his lips. His weak voice muttered, “Not a chance.”
A thick hand grabbed his hair.
Dying quickly could be easy, he thought. But he had to make it last…
Devin walked back to the SUV; some had stood, most were still kneeling. All were experiencing some kind of emotional release. A few were crying.
Blake stood in the middle of it all, pistol in hand, a confused look on his face. No one tried to subdue him. He approached Devin. “What’s going on? What happened?”
Devin opened the SUV door, looking for the keys. “John found the terrorist cell.”
“Tariq’s dead.”
“There are more of them—and they still plan on carrying out the attack.”
Blake’s mouth opened and hung there. “But how come none of us saw that?”
“When was the last time you had a vision?”
“I don’t know, a few days. Maybe more.”
“Through all of this you haven’t seen a thing?”
“No. Why?”
“We’re being blocked by our own blindness.” Devin realized the keys weren’t in the vehicle. He looked back at the milling crowd. “Thresher isn’t a man—”
“What? Then who is it?”
“Thresher is Satan himself,” Devin announced, walking away. “We’ve been turned against each other.”
Blake remained silent, setting his pistol down on the hood of the SUV absentmindedly. He followed after Devin. “What are you going to do?”
“We have to find John. They’re going to kill him…and then they’re going to murder a lot of children.”
“Where are they?”
“Washington DC.”
Blake came up alongside Devin. “You can’t drive that far. You’ll never make it in time.” He put a hand on Devin’s arm, keeping him from leaving. “Let me help, Bathurst.”
Devin turned. How like a bully. Play to the crowd. Do what makes yourself look powerful and tough, but when the power shifts, you immediately change sides.
“Do you have a plan?”
Trista leaned against the SUV, hugging her elbows close to her body. Her uncle dead…murdered. Children in danger. Terrorists. And John.
She banished the thought from her mind. He was reckless, foolish, immature. If he got hurt, it would no doubt be sad—but this went beyond sadness. Something deeper didn’t want him to get hurt. There was a concern one felt for others simply as other humans, and then there was something more. Not just the outrage of a crime committed against another, but the sense of impending traumatic loss. As if a piece of her soul was being ripped away from her. Something she could never have back and could never live without.
She shook her head. How ridiculous. How naÏve. How childish. “It’s Morris’s plane,” Blake said, talking to the small group gathering around him, just a few feet away. “I’m certified to fly. I can have us there in time. But only four of us will fit in the plane.”
“Four?” someone asked. “What do you plan to do with just four people?”
“We can try,” Devin announced. “So now we have to decide—besides Blake and I, who else is going?”
Trista felt a kind of involuntary twitch. She turned toward them. She stepped forward.
“I’m going,” she stated loudly.
A dozen heads turned to look at her.
Blake shook his head. “Ms. Brightling, I would hardly say that you’re—”
“I’m going,” she said flatly.
“It’s John Temple we’re talking about here.”
The world seemed distant. Her body shuddered. She touched the corner of her eye, brushing away something wet.
“He’d do it for me.”
The group remained quiet.
“I’m going too,” another voice announced.
Hannah Rice stood at the edge of the group.
“Hannah,” Devin said, shaking his head, “are you sure you want to—”
“I wasn’t made for a life of comfort. None of us were.” She shrugged. “It’s time for me to do this.”
Devin considered for a moment. “OK,” he said.
“I don’t believe this,” Blake balked. “I know it’s not politically correct to say, but combat is no place for women—no offense, ladies.”
Trista felt Devin’s gaze drill into her. There was something probing about the way he looked at her, as if to ask if John were still important to her. She tried to speak back through her own gaze, using her face as if to say she felt nothing for the young man—that he was nothing more than a faded artifact of her distant past.