The Firstborn (48 page)

Her eyes must have said something different. Devin let a small smile form at the corner of his mouth. Devin didn’t make a habit of smiling. He looked at Hannah. And nodded.

“The ladies are coming with us. The future looks optimal with them along.”

Blake didn’t protest. He simply stared, then nodded.

Devin looked at two of the nearby guards. “We’re going to need guns.”

The floor was littered with droplets of water, polluted with granules of rust and debris. Cubes of ice scattered across the floor like scattered blocks left by playing children. The black and white tiles of the bathroom floor were sprinkled with dust and drywall. An amber hue washed over everything, tinted by the color of faded newspapers fastened in front of the windows.

John lay curled in the corner.

How long had he been here?

How long since the message of hope first entered his mind?

Long, he thought. Too long.

He lay on the floor, nearly in the fetal position, body shaking from pain and cold. His lungs convulsed with a violent spasm in his chest. Droplets of water trickled down his lips, the bitter taste of copper sliding along with them.

They were through the doorway. Standing. Talking. Arguing.

This was how it went. First boldness in bullying. Then failure to achieve. Then panic.

John was not well known for his foresight, but he knew what came next—

Murder.

All it took was for one of them to panic—to worry. Death always seemed like a quick fix. That thinking had always made suicide popular.

John didn’t understand the words, but he understood the thoughts. Hassan wanted him alive—for now. As long as there was information to be had, Hassan wanted to try to gain it—the big man, Jean-Paul, agreed. The one called Ibrahim was advocating violence—painful death. The fourth, one simply called Ali, stood aside.

John rolled on to his back. In the next room men were arguing about when to kill him. It was still a new experience for him. Something in him wanted to laugh. He still wasn’t used to this kind of thing. John rolled on to his side again, reaching out to pull himself across the floor into a more comfortable position.

Jean-Paul looked up and saw John. He shoved past the others, moving fast. The big man dealt John a fast, brutal kick. Then he turned around, walked back into the hall, and slammed the door behind him.

All that was left was the sickly glow of amber light.

Devin sat in the passenger seat of the small aircraft, watching the world pass beneath him.

One plane. One pilot. Three passengers. One duffel bag—contents: four assault rifles, four pistols, and more than a hundred rounds of ammunition.

Devin looked at his watch.

It was all taking too long. They had to get to John before—

He didn’t even like the man.

There was more to this than one man. But somehow he still felt responsible. Maybe he would have liked John Temple in a different life, if he’d simply been Devin’s shoe salesman, or waiter—or even just a friend. But there were politics involved.

Devin touched a fingertip to his bowing forehead.

They’d been turned against each other. Their single greatest source of strength was their unity, and they’d allowed themselves—for hundreds of years—to be torn apart.

He felt the future.

The screaming. The thrashing. The water. The blood.

Devin clenched his fist in frustration. They had to make it to John in time.

Hassan sat at the table, eyes wandering over the slick gray fabric of his expensive suit.

A beautiful weave, he thought.

Too much time had been spent on the American. They’d wasted nearly two and a half hours trying to get answers that weren’t going to come.

The mission should have begun already, but they were still trying to find out what had happened to Tariq. Every moment they spent here was another moment they might be found.

Maybe they were under surveillance.

Maybe the operation was already in jeopardy.

Maybe it wasn’t.

Perhaps the smug young man really didn’t know anything, in which case he was no longer of any use.

“Ibrahim,” Hassan said calmly.

“Yes?”

“Get the video camera. I want to record it when we cut off the American’s head.”

The plane hit the runway with a squeal, the tires dragging across the black asphalt.

“Will the car be ready for us?” Blake asked.

Devin nodded. He had made sure the rental would be ready when they landed. It would be easier that way.

Five minutes later they were out of the plane, four figures moving across the runway in the morning light. Their destination would take some time to get to. He could feel it. For the first time in his life Devin Bathurst could feel exactly what was happening right then.

The morning air tickled his skin. The sun warmed his face. And the dangers pulled him forward.

The duffel bag, filled with weapons, dropped into the trunk, and the hatch slammed shut. Devin climbed into the driver’s seat and turned the key. Midsize sedan. Manual transmission. Silver.

If he was going to drive toward the valley of the shadow of death, then he was going in style.

John lay on the floor.

The doorknob turned slowly, squealing. Light sliced in through the widening gap as the door opened. His eyes—accustomed to the dark—stung under the flood of new light.

Feet entered, wreathed in an angelic glow that hugged the blurry outline of an expensive dress shoe. A shadow fell across him, salving his eyes from the bitter sting of the blazing light—a moment of relief, soured by the knowledge of its source.

Hassan.

The man stood over him, watching with a kind of predatory hunger.

John tried to pull himself up, tried to fight his way to his feet.

A harsh kick sent him back to the floor.

Ali, the fourth man, entered. Three rough kicks in rapid succession. John went limp. Zip ties clasped around his wrists, holding him in place.

Ibrahim entered. A tripod. A digital camera.

The big man—Jean-Paul. He had something in his hand.

A hacksaw.

John tried to back away.

Jean-Paul stopped.

Hassan knelt. “There are things we want you to say for the camera.

Do you understand?”

John snarled through the blood and rusty water that drizzled from his lips. Droplets sprayed from his mouth.

“One last time. What happened to Tariq?”

John let his eyes droop. They were going to kill him. All that was left was to buy time.

“He’s dead.”

Hassan nodded. “I don’t mourn him. He died as a martyr. To mourn him would disgrace his memory.”

“They’re coming,” John said defiantly.

“Excuse me?”

“There are more of us. And they’re coming here to stop you.”

“Then we’ll simply have to move quickly. There is a subway station less than a block from here. Our target is only a few stops away. And even if they catch up with us before then, we are more than capable of setting off our explosives in the trains themselves—killing hundreds.”

“That’s not your target.”

“But a potent message, no less.”

“They’re going to stop you.”

Hassan laughed. “Really? And you can tell the future?”

John laughed in return. “No, that’s Devin’s job.”

“And who is Devin?”

“A man you don’t want to meet.”

Hassan nodded. “Then I’ll make sure that I don’t.” He motioned for Jean-Paul, then pointed to Ibrahim. “Start the camera.”

The man with the hacksaw approached.

“They’re almost here,” John said, realizing it himself as if for the first time.

Hassan balked. “That’s ridiculous.” He pointed at Jean-Paul, motioning the man to perform his task.

The big man moved forward, grabbing John by the hair, pulling it back hard, thrusting his chin into the air, exposing his neck.

John looked forward, into the eyes of the man in front of him.

Death was all he saw.

The desire to cause death. To experience death. To die.

He remembered what Tariq had said—that they loved to die as much as others loved to live.

How unfortunate.

Jean-Paul placed the sharp, fanglike teeth of the hacksaw against the left side of John’s neck and pushed forward—

Skin split, tearing apart in a slicing line.

Pain shot through his body—no—not pain—the warm sensation of cutting flesh, then the terrifying feeling of dead skin hanging from his neck to either side of the bleeding divide.

Blood sprayed from the laceration.

Screaming was all that John heard.

His own horrified screams.