The Firstborn (28 page)
His fingers wrapped around the weapon, ripping it from its place, dashing out the door. They were still in the building. He could catch up with them if he was quick.
His thoughts focused. The elevator—they were in the elevator. He went for the stairs, pulling out his phone.
Devin rode the subway. His phone buzzed.
“This is Bathurst.”
“Devin, it’s John—Hannah’s with him—our terrorist. He has a bomb, and he’s going to set it off wherever he can.”
“Do you know where his target is?”
“I don’t know, but he isn’t going for plan A. I think there’s more of them.”
“How many?”
“I don’t know, but he’s desperate. He isn’t going to risk giving away the others. He just wants to kill as many Americans as he can while he dies.”
“Where are he and Hannah?”
“Close.”
“Do you have a plan?”
“I have a gun.”
Devin paused. John with a gun? It was almost more frightening than a terrorist with a bomb.
“Where are you?” Devin demanded.
John gave him a street address. “I’m headed for the elevator. I should see them any—”
Gunfire barked into Devin’s ear through the phone.
“
John!
”
Bullets—three of them—pocked the walls as John threw himself back around the corner.
John shoved his arm around the corner, aiming as best he could from cover. He pulled the trigger—it wouldn’t budge.
A chunk of wall shattered nearby as he threw himself back around the corner.
He looked at his own gun, examining the mechanisms—the safety. Of course, he knew about those. Near the cylinder there was a switch. He pushed it and it snapped into place, the ridges digging into his thumb.
John threw his upper body around the corner again and fired three times, fast.
The weapon roared in his hand, throwing itself. He wasn’t prepared for that. The bullets punched through wallpaper—completely missing. Shooting was harder in real life than it was on TV.
The sounds of return fire cracked back, snapping past. A bullet passed inches from his head as Tariq dragged Hannah back into the elevator with him, using it as cover.
John threw himself back behind the corner, body shaking.
This was insane. Where were the police? Surely someone had to have called this in by now. But this was Washington DC, murder capital of America—gunshots were simply ignored half the time.
“John!” Devin called through the cell phone. “What’s going on?” John leaned out, firing at air. Nothing there.
Standing, he moved into the hall, inching forward, pistol ready.
She huddled in the corner of the elevator watching as Tariq glanced into the hall. He pulled back fast as a gunshot rang out.
Tariq reached into his sweatshirt, pulling out the detonator.
He was desperate. Trapped. It wasn’t what he wanted, but he was going to die his way. His thumb reached for the top button—
Something broke in Hannah—tearing from the pattern of everything she’d ever done before. She lifted her leg and sent a strong kick into Tariq’s jaw. He fell to the side, then looked at her—confused.
Hannah lunged for his gun. She’d shoot him before she would let that bomb go off.
He grabbed her hair and threw her away, then ducked into the hallway, running.
She came to her knees, and a moment later John came around the corner.
“Are you OK?” He knelt near her.
“Get him,” she said fiercely, staring him in the eye. “Just go get him.”
John stood slowly, backing away from her, then went down the hall after the bomber.
This couldn’t be over soon enough.
Tariq ran down the street as fast as his legs would carry him.
The subway—he had to get to the subway. There were people there, lots of them, in swirling eddies. He could take out dozens martyring himself.
He looked back—the man was chasing after him, two hundred yards back.
His legs thundered as he pushed forward, explosives rattling against his body, hindering his sprint. The Metro station was ahead, the escalators going down below the street.
Tariq looked back again—still being pursued. His head swung back ahead toward the people coming out of the station, and he saw a man, black skin, expensive suit, rising from below. The man’s eyes seemed to drill into Tariq as he stepped in front of him.
Tariq didn’t stop—he threw his weight into the man, and they went tumbling down the escalator. Steps, lined with grooves, dug into Tariq’s side, the man grappling with him.
The world tumbled. Spun. Swirled.
Then went dark.
John raced to the bottom of the escalator toward where Devin and Tariq lay.
“Are you OK?”
Curious onlookers began to swarm.
Devin stood. “I’m fine.” He checked Tariq’s pulse.
“Is he…?” John didn’t finish.
Devin nodded. “He’s just unconscious.”
A woman approached. “Should I call an ambulance?”
“No,” Devin said, lifting one of Tariq’s arms over his shoulder, signaling to John to join. “We’ll take him.”
D
EVIN LOOKED
T
ARIQ OVER
, bound and gagged with duct tape, and slammed the car trunk down, shutting him in. He got in the car and looked at Hannah sitting in the passenger’s seat.
“Is he safe back there?”
Devin considered; he himself had been locked in a trunk and escaped just a few weeks prior. But Devin hadn’t been tied up. “It should hold him for a while. We’ll check on him every so often.”
He started the car.
“I don’t understand,” John said again. “Why aren’t we turning him over to the police?”
“Blake and his people want him.”
“What for?”
“Don’t worry about that. They have Morris, and they’re willing to make a swap.”
They drove in silence for several minutes before they reached the highway.
“Where are we going?” Hannah asked.
“To an old friend.”
Devin dialed as he drove down the interstate, placing his hands-free set in his ear. The phone rang for a moment.
“Yes?”
“Blake, I have your terrorist.”
“Where is he?”
“Don’t worry about that. Where’s Morris?”
“He’s alive. You’ll have him as soon as we have our terrorist.”
Devin nodded to himself. “Fair enough.”
“We’ll give you instructions about where to leave him, and we’ll give you Morris when we have our terrorist.”
“No,” Devin said flatly, “a direct exchange on open ground.” There was silence on the other end of the line. “Got it?”
“Fine. We’ll call you with specifics.”
Devin began to protest, but the line went dead.
This was going to be dangerous. Swapping valuable goods was always dangerous—especially when neither party trusted the other. If they’d grabbed Morris to begin with, then they had a purpose for him before this had ever started. That meant that they wouldn’t want to give him up if they didn’t have to. And if Devin knew human nature, they wouldn’t. They’d show up, shoot Tariq on the spot, and drive away. In all likelihood, Morris wouldn’t even be brought to the exchange. But
everything
—a successful exchange, living through the situation at hand, and anything resembling an acceptable outcome—was contingent on having a bigger army.
Devin looked around the car. Hannah was asleep in the passenger’s seat, and John was scribbling in his Bible in the back.
They needed allies.
He dialed the phone again.
Someone picked up on the other end. “What do you want?”
“Hello, Saul; it’s Devin.”
