The Firstborn (50 page)

“Another grenade,” he shouted in his native tongue.

Ibrahim pulled the pin, counted, tossed it down the stairs.

Whoever was downstairs let out a long, heavy burst of suppressing fire. They were simply shooting at air. Amateurs. But they were holding the stairs.

“Ibrahim.”

“Eh?” The young man looked back at him.

“Get downstairs. Use the back way. Cut them off from behind.”

Ibrahim stood, rushing to the next room.

An exchange of fire. Ibrahim back-pedaled fast, rushing toward Hassan. “Too late!” The door slammed shut behind—bullets instantly blowing holes through the wood.

Not good. They were outmaneuvering them. Hassan spun, falling to his backside, sitting on the floor, holding the AK-47 out in front, spraying a raucous volley of rounds at the doorway—raking the surrounding wall with bullets.

The weapon tried to leap from his hands. Bucking. Kicking. Raising off target. He fought the rifle down, the muzzle flashes obstructing his already stuttering view.

A line of bullet holes pierced at the wall into the room beyond.

“GOD IS GREATEST!” he screamed.

The far wall frothed with bursting holes, sending splashes of faded wallpaper bursting into the room in a thick cloud. The door was fraying—falling from its hinges.

Devin cut left, throwing himself down behind a dusty, withered couch. Somewhere to the right Blake slammed his back into a wall behind some kind of countertop.

The burst ended. Devin fell to his shoulder at the left end of the couch, opening fire, punching holes through the barricading door. Blake must have joined the fray also—a string of holes, in a steadily rising line, streaked across the wall from the right.

A second volley replied—two shooters this time, dozens of rounds.

The wall perforated. Pictures fell from the wall and an old clock exploded.

Windows shattered beyond the boards that kept out the light. A giant cardboard box began to disintegrate. Plumes of paper drifted through the air in a cloud.

Blake was resorting to his pistol, sending return rounds through the plaster.

A bullet punched a hole through the wall, streaking past Devin’s face to the sound of a zipper pulled too fast.

He reloaded and returned fire.

John stumbled through the hall. The world was blurring. Tipping. Undulating beneath his feet like a wave.

He fell, gripping the edge of a window frame. His shirt was soaked in blood, running from his neck. His hand clenched the wound, applying pressure.

He had to get downstairs. He could feel them—Devin, Hannah…
Trista
.

John gripped the pistol and pushed himself up.

Hassan pulled himself behind cover.

The wall they were shooting through was coming down in chunks.

They were surrounded. They were cut off. Something deep inside him told him that this was not a battle they would win as easily as he’d thought.

If he could get to the explosives and out to the subway, he could get to a target. He wouldn’t be able to kill as many as he had hoped—but the message would still be profound.

Ibrahim shouted in frustration at the other end of the room, firing madly at the wall. A deafening chain of bullets erupted in the action, lancing out at the wall. Then the gun snapped to a stop—

Empty.

Ibrahim was clawing at a nearby table for another magazine.

Hassan looked back at the wall.

Then something strange happened. For a split second all the gunfire stopped. There was no shooting. No explosions. No shouting. For a split second there was—

Silence.

The sound of a single stray bullet punched through the wall, sending a shower of debris through the air.

Hassan was looking down, reaching for his pistol, when he heard Ibrahim gasp. The edge of a gurgle ran at the front of the choking wheeze. Hassan threw his attention to the other man—

Ibrahim stood in the middle of the room, weapon tumbling from his hands—a bright red puncture wound glowing with crimson in the man’s right side, clasped beneath tightly clenched fists.

He watched as Ibrahim looked back at him with a look of shock and confusion, sucking air from an obvious lung wound—

Then fell.

He stared. The body didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. The pool of red began to spread across the floor.

Hassan turned back to the wall, raising his weapon. He screamed as he let loose a rapid succession of rounds.

Then he stood. He had to get upstairs.

There was only one thing left to do.

Trista was working the action on her weapon, trying to jam another magazine into place.

“I’m out,” Hannah announced, dropping her assault rifle, reaching for the pistol at her side.

They heard screaming. Someone coming down the steps—fast.

Trista couldn’t get the magazine to go in properly. She fought the angle.

“Stay here,” Hannah shouted over the shooting.

“What?” Trista looked up and saw Hannah throw herself into the hall, firing with the pistol—

There was a clatter of explosive shots, and something hit Hannah—she clutched her side. She tumbled back. Her body hit the floor.

Trista stared. Shocked. Confused.

The footsteps continued down the stairs.

“Trista,” Hannah murmured.

Trista fought the weapon.

The footfalls were off the steps now. On the concrete. Headed their way. Ten feet. Five feet. A cracking sound as the weapon cocked.

“Trista!” Hannah murmured again, near frantic.

Trista adjusted her weapon, shoving the magazine into place. It slipped into position with a snug click.

“
Trista!
” Hannah screamed.

Trista didn’t look. She simply threw her arm into the hall, weapon in hand, firing blindly.

The weapon sounded like a long roll of thunder echoing down the hallway, the jingle of brass following in a twinkling downpour.

The gun went quiet.

Something hit the floor.

Trista looked into the hall where Hannah lay clutching her side.

Hannah tried to prop herself up on an elbow.

“Are you OK?”

“The vest took the hit,” she replied, mostly shocked.

“What happened to the shooter?”

Hannah pointed toward her feet. Trista stood, craning her head into the hall.

Not two feet from Hannah lay a corpse, weapon in hand.

Trista thought she was going to be sick.

They must have hit one. The amount of fire had slowed considerably—the density lessening.

Devin checked his UMP—empty. He reached for his pistol. He stood, moving to the room beyond. Blake stood and followed after.

Devin moved toward the doorway, pistol raised, locked in place, aiming straight ahead. He edged toward the frame and in one fast move turned into the room.

A lone man was running out the far door, pistol in hand.

An exchange of fire. The sound of each pistol’s blasts merged with the sounds of the other. A bullet landed in the door frame, sending a cloud of sharp splinters ripping through the air. Devin gripped his cheek and dropped to the floor. The other man fled.

Blake shoved his way over Devin, making chase.

“Blake!” he shouted after. “Wait!”

Too late. Blake was trying to catch up with the lone gunman.

Devin looked around. His pistol was on the floor to the left. He must have dropped it. Devin grabbed his weapon and tore after Blake.

Through the doorway. A set of stairs to the right. He dashed up the steps to the sounds of running just ahead.

Shouting. Gunfire.

His shoulder hit the door that hung ajar, throwing it open. His pistol came to bear.

An empty room. He moved down the hallway, to the right, and into another room. Empty also.

Something was familiar about this place. A table sat in the middle of the room. Canvas covered a stockpile of ammunition and explosives.

Devin heard another outburst of screams and gunfire a floor above. He turned to go toward it, then something caught his eye—

The bathroom.

He recognized the place. It was where they had kept John.

Devin stepped toward it. This was where the beheading was supposed to take place.

He noticed a small puddle of blood on the floor, mixing with the thin film of water that covered the tile. Devin moved forward, into the bathroom. Overhead the light flickered off and on. A sickly amber glow filled the room.

This was the kind of place nightmares were made of.

A tripod stood in the corner, a camera perched on it. Devin walked toward it, mind racing. If they’d killed John, they’d have recorded it. He had to see. His hand reached for the power switch, flicking it to VCR mode, snapping the viewfinder into place. Devin’s stomach turned at the thought of what he might see.

Then he heard something in the next room.

Heavy footsteps, near the table, scooping up metallic objects—ammunition.

The view screen flashed blue, sounding off a joyful ping to announce its activation.

The person in the next room stopped, jamming a magazine into their weapon.

They were curious.

Footsteps approached, cautiously, to the side to stay out of the line of fire.

Devin thought about throwing himself into the doorway, firing wildly. His better judgment stayed his hand.