The Firstborn (35 page)

The car stopped—another exchange?

“We’re here,” the driver announced.

Someone opened her door, letting her out. They guided her by the arm, moving her across wet ground—they were outside; that was something to go on. The darkness of her world was accented by a glow of light filtering in through her head covering.

The bag slipped off of her head.

She was inside a big canvas tent the size of someone’s living room, and at the center of the room was a chair—and a man dressed in black, his own head covered as hers had been. A soldier reached out, removing the black bag—

Morris Childs.

He lifted his eyes and made a relieved noise. “Have you come for me?”

She nodded, removing a cell phone from her pocket. “We’re making a trade right now.”

“Good.”

She held up the phone and took a photo of the two of them together. Then she sent it to Devin.

John let Brock out of the car, searching him again—no weapons, no wire, no tracking devices. He almost let him continue, but this was too important to let anything slip. John checked him a third time just to be sure.

John couldn’t find a thing.

He led the bigger man by the arm, taking him into the tactical building, moving into the sickly light toward the makeshift cell.

Trista approached. “Are you ready?” she asked, coming up alongside John.

He nodded nervously as she moved alongside Brock, much closer to him than John was comfortable with, fearing Brock might grab her. They brushed against one another—then separated.

Inside the cell Tariq was sitting in the corner, clutching his knees. John reached up and removed the blindfold from Brock’s face.

Brock looked at Tariq, then John and Trista. “Is that him?”

John nodded. That was the bitter young man who had decided tragically to heap his pain upon the world—now being sentenced to an equally bitter and unjust fate. “That’s him,” John said.

Brock nodded. “Good.”

John watched as Brock reached into his pocket—presumably to remove the cell phone he’d put there, but when his hand lifted there was something different—

A gun—

The weapon snapped upward, leveling at Tariq through the grating. John couldn’t see it, couldn’t feel it—but it was happening. Brock was going to kill Tariq now—and they’d never have to give up Morris.

The moment took over, with everything happening fast.

He threw his weight into Brock’s arm, sending his arm swinging wide.

The blasting of a cannon reverberated through the room.

Trista screamed.

Brock shoved back, trying to aim. John grabbed his wrist—wrestling for the pistol, another blast stabbing at the quiet of the room.

John howled—Brock jerking his hand in an unnatural twist. John crumpled to his knees. A savage kick and he went sprawling back—hit the cement hard.

John eyes focused through the pain—Brock was aiming at Tariq once more. John lashed out. A merciless kick to his opponent’s knee. Brock doubled, clutching his leg.

John was on his feet—faster than even he expected. He grabbed at the handgun—wrestled with Brock’s brawny grip. The gun swung wildly. Trista was ahead of them—shouting loudly, the gun waving in her direction—

The weapon discharged.

John screamed in horror.

The bullet burst off the far wall in a cloud of concrete—missing her by inches.

John’s elbow came down on Brock’s gun hand, blowing a hole in the floor. John sank his teeth into Brock’s skin—clamping down with ferocity. The gun hit the floor.

Something went wrong. A fist plowed into John’s stomach and the air ripped from his lungs. A sickening pain boiled through his body, shaking him to the core—he felt like he might die—and landed him on his knees.

A set of meaty hands grabbed John by the collar, lifting him to his feet.

Civility left him and he screamed, lashing out with every ounce of malice he could call up. His attacks were brutal. Brock brushed them all aside, grabbing his throat with an iron clamp of a hand, shaking him like a rag doll.

John’s back slammed onto a nearby table—the air escaping him—moist salty sweat bleeding from his pores. Blood boiled in John’s ears—his heart thundering in his lobes. He was in a fight for his life—

And he was losing.

John’s hands searched blindly across the tabletop and found something hard—he swung at Brock’s head and broke free.

He hit the floor—battered and abused. He looked up—Brock was bearing down on him fast. A kick to John’s stomach—air screaming from his lungs.

Another kick to the stomach. John screamed without air—a sickly sucking from the pit of his bowels.

“Stop it!” Trista shouted as if he might listen to her. “You’re going to kill him!”

Brock didn’t reply—he kicked again, then waited.

John lifted to his hands and knees trying to crawl away—a big, fleshy hand grasped the back of John’s sopping head, sinewy fingers curling around his hair, clutching a handful of sticky-wet follicles. It felt like the back of his head was being torn off as the brawny arm lifted him to his feet.

John moaned in agony—turning—throwing a punch at Brock’s middle. The fist bounced off Kevlar body armor.

A blur of motion and John felt himself rammed into a cement wall—shoulder blades slamming hard.

Brock lifted a fist, and it balled in front of John’s eyes. He tried to break loose, shaking his whole body in futility. John took the fist and his sight blurred—blinded by pain.

“Stop!” Trista shouted again.

The brawny fingers wrapped around John’s throat—squeezing with intent.

“Brock, listen to me!”

He glared viciously into John’s eyes. The picture of Brock’s angry, aggressive, violent face choking him to death dipped further and further out of focus. John could feel himself dying—

BLAM!

A bullet hole exploded on the wall—the sound of a brass casing bouncing in a twinkling jingle off the concrete floor. Brock turned his head—his grip relaxing slightly.

Trista stood in the middle of the room holding Brock’s pistol expertly, the weapon leveled at the man’s head, her voice steely. “Brock, let him go.”

Brock’s hands released and John hit the floor as he stepped away—moving toward Trista.

“Give me the gun,” Brock said.

John watched from the floor, battered and fatigued, unable to get up or help or move.

“No.” Her voice was firm but accented with a tremolo of fear.

“Give it to me!” He was angry now.

John lifted himself slowly, body hunched as he tried to move forward. Every bit of his body screamed out against him, trying to stop him from moving—

“Give me the gun!” he shouted again.

“No, Brock—”

He twisted her hand—a quick blow to the side of Trista’s face—The pistol dropped.

Anger flared in John and he stood—dizzy and beaten—hands reaching for Brock’s shoulders. He grabbed, ripping the big man back. Brock wasn’t expecting it.

They hit the ground.

The pistol clattered to the floor. Brock clawed for the pistol—fingers touching it.

The gun went sliding—Trista kicking at it hard. The weapon spun across the floor, hitting the wall.

Brock turned his attention to John, grabbing him by the throat again—squeezing hard. John’s vision blurred—filling with red and white blotches as air and blood were cut off from his head. The big man’s teeth bared, snarling, shoulders hunching over him.

John tried to fight back—coughing and choking. Brock was killing him—there on the cement floor. His body went tense, trying to ward off death. The big man’s fingers curled tighter and tighter—

Thunder cracked and Brock screamed, grabbing at his arm. A bullet wound gaped from his bicep.

He stood, turning to Trista. “You shot me!” he blustered, incredulously.

“Don’t come any closer—”

“I should—” He took an ominous step toward her.

She fired until the gun was empty.

Devin looked at his watch. He’d received the photo from Hannah. But what about John? He should have sent confirmation by now—it was that simple.

“Is something wrong?” Carson asked.

“I hope not.”

The rumble of engines was all anyone at the exchange point had heard for minutes on end. Devin tried not to reveal his anxiety, but something was wrong.

At last his phone buzzed, and he removed it from his pocket.

“This is Bathurst.”

“It’s John.”

“Temple, what’s wrong?”

“They never intended to give up Morris. Brock snuck a weapon in somehow—he tried to kill Tariq.”

“Where’s Brock now?”

There was a momentary pause. “Trista took care of it.”

Devin looked up, eyeing the bright lights across the field, wondering how much firepower was behind that veil of lights.

“Devin, it’s a trap—get out of there, now!”

Devin nodded and ended the call. He turned to Carson. “Get ready to run—it’s a trap.”

“What?”

“Do it.”

Devin went back to his phone.

Hannah looked Morris over—he didn’t look mistreated, not like she had been when she had been kidnapped.

They’d left her alone with him in the tent for a moment. It seemed unwise, but they had enough firepower that it didn’t appear to bother them.

Her phone vibrated. A text message from Devin:
Trap. Get out now.

Her heart skipped. This wasn’t possible.

She looked around, scanning the tent, then leaned close to Morris, reaching for his bindings. “Mr. Childs.”

“Yes?”

“It’s a trap. This whole thing is a trap—we have to get out of here.” He looked her over, appearing more confused than scared. “What makes you think it’s a trap?”

“I just got a message. Something must have happened.”

“Oh,” he said, hesitantly. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

“We have to do something,” she said.

He considered for a moment, then nodded.

“What’s the best way out of here?”

Morris took a long, deep breath and looked at her with pained eyes. “I’m sorry, Ms. Rice. I truly am, but I’m afraid that we can’t do this.”

“Escape?”

He nodded.

“Why?”

“Because,” he said, almost apologetically, “this is my operation.”

Her mind raced. “What?”

“I’m the one who saw the coming attack in Washington DC, and I’m the one who contacted Blake to stop it.”

“But you were kidnapped!”

He nodded. “For the sake of appearance I created the illusion of my abduction.”

“To shift blame?”

“Until I was certain that I could gain the kind of support I needed.”

“Overseer?”

“Yes,” he said with a paternal nod. “I needed something to shock the Firstborn into action—to get them to unite under one leader. That was the only way to fight the evils of this world.”

She stepped back. Everything that she was afraid of—everything that Devin Bathurst had feared for her—was coming true.

“You have to understand,” he said, his voice grandfatherly and soothing, “I was doing it for the good of America—for the Firstborn.”

She shook her head, trying to get him out of her thoughts.

“I’m a patriot,” he said. “Do you know what people like that terrorist want to do to America?”