The Firstborn (27 page)

“No,” Hannah said, squeezing his shoulder, “it’s OK. I’m sorry about your family.”

He shook his head. “I want to show you one of my other paintings, not sad ones.” Tariq began to move toward the next room. “Stay here; I’ll be back in a moment. I have paintings of the Mediterranean coast I’ll bring out and show you.”

He moved through a doorway and was gone.

Hannah looked around, scanning over the paintings. So much pain. So much hurt. So much agony and misunderstanding.

There was a crawling over her skin—moving from her fingertips up her arms.

Tariq, in this room.

Toiling, hunched over a nearby table, hands toying with wires.

Concentrating. Checking the plans.

A small handle. Explosives—all strung to a vest.

Placing it all in a cabinet at the base of a nearby workbench.

This couldn’t be. Not Tariq.

She opened her eyes and looked around. She saw the bench, the cabinet, the reality of them both. Hannah stepped forward, quietly, trying not to make any noise. She inched toward the cabinet, crouching down near it.

The door didn’t want to budge, swollen shut. She gave a tug and it opened.

Hannah looked in—reached into the darkness of the space. She stood, holding it in her hands—a vest of explosives bound together beneath packages of washers. Her mouth fell open.

There was a creak in the floorboards.

She turned around.

He was there.

There was a twitch above John’s eye, like blood pumping through his forehead. There were no images this time, just a feeling.

Hannah was with
him
; he was angry and desperate.

John felt them—exactly where they were. He worked the clutch and raced forward—not much time now.

“Tariq?” she stammered. “What is this?”

He approached, eyes sharp. “You were following me, weren’t you?”

“I—”

His fists wrapped around her biceps, squeezing tight, shaking her hard. “Who sent you?”

“No one. I—”

“Liar! Who sent you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He ripped the vest from her hands, moving to the window, scanning the street below. “Who else is with you?”

“I’m alone,” she whimpered.

“Rubbish. Who are you with? The FBI? Homeland Security? Who?” He shook her again.

“No one. I’m with no one.”

His eyes became fierce. “Are you wearing a wire?”

“What?”

“A wire. You’re bugged, aren’t you?”

“No, I—”

“Put your hands on the bench.” He shoved her forward, frisking her roughly.

“I told you, I’m not with anyone.”

“Shut up!” he shouted.

There was a noise outside the window—a car.

He stopped, moving back to the window, pulling her with him roughly. Hannah looked—a silver sedan parking at the curb. Someone got out.

“John?”

“I knew it!” Tariq shouted. “What is he? Police?”

“He’s a friend.”

Tariq let go of her, throwing the encumbered vest over his shoulders. “He’s a dead man.”

John rushed up the steps, leaping—the shock running up his legs, grasping at the stair rail, hands slick with sweat.

Up three flights—maybe another three to go.

He saw everything that was happening. Another step. Another image.

Hannah.

Tariq.

The vest.

The detonator.

Explosives.

Shaking.

Shouting.

Shoving.

Screaming—“Help!”

A handful of her hair.

Ripping her to her feet.

John could feel them in his pounding chest. They were close—so close.

The top of the steps.

The door ahead.

He twisted the knob, shoulder slamming into wood.

The chain shattered—the door bursting open.

John stood in the doorway, seething, hair soaked with perspiration. Sweat streamed down his face as he tried to catch his breath.

“
Stop!
” Tariq shouted, whipping around, Hannah clutched by his right arm, detonator in his left hand.

John held.

He couldn’t hope to win this. His shoulders sank, weary hands resting on his knees, steadying his breathing.

“I have a bomb!” he shouted. “I’ll blow you all to kingdom come if you come any closer!”

It made him mad, but John tried to remain calm and detached. How would Devin handle this?

He breathed slowly, drawing in air through his nostrils.

Help me, God.

John could feel the young man—his thoughts and feelings blossoming like an open book. He felt a cocky smirk cross his features.

“Who are you with?” Tariq demanded, shouting at John.

“Look,” John said, spreading his hands diplomatically, “you don’t want to set off that bomb—not here.”

“I’m going to be a martyr!” he said back, voice becoming calmer. “I will die in jihad.”

“But this isn’t how you want to do it.”

“Don’t tell me what I—”

“You don’t want to set off a bomb in some random apartment building. You want a quality target.”

“I’ll blow you up if you come any closer.”

“But you don’t want to—not here at least. You’re willing to tolerate me for the moment in order to get to a better target.”

It was true—he could feel it. Tariq didn’t want to die like this. He wanted to send a message—to make headlines. This wasn’t the way.

Tariq’s eyes shifted to the left, eyeing a cabinet. John felt something else.

“Now you’re wondering if you can get to your gun in time. But it’s hidden behind a box of paints so that no one will find it.”

He could feel the anger and frustration welling up in Tariq.

Don’t push it, John.

Tariq was getting desperate. He needed hope of getting out of this building and to a quality target, or he’d blow the bomb right here.

A delicate balance.

“Look, Tariq—”

“How do you know my name? Who are you with? Who’s been watching me?”

John relaxed his shoulders, moving his eyes to Tariq’s chest. He wanted to look at the man, acknowledge him, without challenging him.

“Tariq, you’ve done nothing wrong. Why don’t you take off the vest, and the two of us can sit down and talk—”

“Are they watching the others?”

John stopped. “What others?”

A flash of emotion erupted invisibly from Tariq—he’d betrayed something important. It was like fire and ice, chilling and burning. A feeling slung from Tariq’s soul like a dart, desperation overtaking him like a tiger clawing from a cage.

There were more of them—Tariq wasn’t in this alone—and he would kill and die to protect them.

John knew he was in trouble—

Hannah felt herself tumble forward as Tariq shoved her.

She hit the floor and looked back to see Tariq ripping a box from a cupboard.

Submachine gun in hand, he pointed it in the direction of John—who threw himself through a door to the right of the apartment’s entrance. The tiny submachine gun ripped noisy holes in the far wall—debris raining to the floor.

Smoking cartridges jingled on the floor like bells.

Tariq stood cautiously. He aimed the weapon at the wall and held the trigger.

The patter of gunfire pelted the wall for a brief moment—then stopped.

He turned back to her. The smell of burning sulfur hung in the air—the unmistakable odor of discharged firearms.

Hannah looked at the wall—no sign of John. Was he hit? Bleeding? Dead?

Tariq threw a hooded sweatshirt over his suicide vest and thrust a small pistol in his belt, a spare magazine in his pocket. He grabbed her by the arm. “Come on,” he said, dragging her toward the front door, weapon ready.

Tariq snapped his attention to the bathroom door as they passed it. John was on the floor, covered in chunks of drywall. John gave the door a solid kick from the inside, and it slammed shut.

Tariq squeezed the trigger—perforating the wooden door with a spray of bullets.

Click—

Empty.

The weapon clattered to the floor, a curl of white smoke rising from the ejection port.

Tariq seemed to panic. He didn’t check to see if John was dead; he simply pulled Hannah into the hall toward the world beyond.

John lifted himself, debris covering him. Wreckage tumbled off him as he stood, drywall slipping off his body like rain, adding to the hazy cloud that already filled the tiny bathroom.

His forehead stung. He touched it with his fingertips—blood. A tile had burst off the wall and struck him.

He staggered into the room, preparing to follow. His eyes scanned the floor quickly. He saw the open cupboard—

—and a handgun—like something from an old-time detective show.

He walked toward the weapon, eyeing it like a rattlesnake. John had never fired a gun in his life or even held one, for that matter. It was rare that he was even near them. They made him nervous.

Reaching down, he touched the metal—it was like a shock wave rippling through his body. Could he shoot it? Could he shoot at a person? Could he kill?

His thoughts shifted to Tariq, moving toward a crowd of innocents, preparing to kill as many as he possibly could.

There was no time to think.