The Firstborn (38 page)

Carson patrolled along the fence, watching for anything unusual, eyes peering through the darkness. There was a snapping sound in the distance. He crouched slightly, drawing his M4 Carbine to his shoulder, keying the safety with one smooth motion.

Carson took a long deep breath, his aim steadying. His ears strained to hear anything unusual—but only caught the sound of spring peepers in the night air.

He squinted, trying to focus on the world beyond—swells of mist rolling through the bluish light of the moon. His body turned slowly, side to side, like a turret, weapon pointing into the distance. Nothing fell into his slowly swinging sights, at least nothing he could see—probably just his imagination.

He stood, taking a step back—then looked to his left.

Domani Paramilitary—assault shotguns in hand, slipping quietly across the property. One looked up—they’d seen him.

Carson lifted the weapon, selected his first target on instinct, squeezed the trigger—

Devin stood in the tactical building, one hand propped against the table, the other running across the top of his head. He stared at a map, trying to see if there was something he had missed. Members of the Fallen scurried around him, jamming weapons and equipment into bags and boxes.

A sharp sound cut the relative quiet.

Automatic gunfire called out through the night outside—then was silenced with an orchestra of shotgun blasts.

“Everybody get out of here!”

A Domani Paramilitary squad of four moved through the tall wild grass, slick with night dew—one of a half dozen teams.

The squad was one. They were not individuals—they were one coherent whole, sharing thought and motion—their movements a precisely executed maneuver, moving in a tight diamond, bristling with shotguns.

First objective: the main house—a reasonable place to find the most targets.

They “stacked,” lining up to the left of the door. The leader moved up close to the hinges—waiting—the other three packing in tightly behind, each man pressing his kneecap tightly into the cleft of the knee in front of him. Shoulders pressed together, weapons down—like a tightly coiled spring waiting to burst.

The leader tried the knob, checking it softly—locked. He signaled silently.

The third man in the stack fell out, moving in front of the door, ejecting one of his shells, replacing it with buckshot. He lifted the SPAS twelve-gauge, muzzle hovering near the wooden door just between the knob and the frame—right over the lock itself.

He waited a moment—

The stack leader jammed his knee back into the man behind him, who did the same in turn. The jerk of the knee went snapping through the stack like a shock wave—

The shotgun blast slammed into the wood, splintering a chunk of door from its place—the door hanging slack on its hinges.

The knee jerk was instantaneous—the final man in the stack replying with a return snap. A whiplash of energy rushed to the front as the spring of men burst forward—the last man ramming ahead—sending the stack crashing through the door like a bulldozer.

The breaching man was last in, weapon raised high and to the rear, looking overhead in case of an elevated position.

To the right of the team a hostile moved down a staircase—he saw them, screamed an alarm. His voice was drowned out by a shotgun blast. He hit the wall, then lay on the landing—moaning in agony, clutching his side. One of the team moved in to subdue.

“Clear,” a team member shouted.

Down the hall, around the corner, and into the kitchen—two men caught off guard. A chorus of shotgun blasts sent the first sprawling into the refrigerator, the door swinging open, spilling its loose contents.

The second hostile went for his gun. The first slug hit him in the chest—ramming into the man’s armored vest. A round took him in the arm and he howled, grabbing at the stinging appendage. The leader of the breaching team approached—bringing down the butt of his SPAS on the man’s neck—the folding stock ramming hard.

The man dropped.

“Clear,” the leader declared.

Professor Saul Mancuso sat in his study, flipping through the pages of an ancient text. He heard the barking of weapons throughout the house—they would come for him soon.

His eyes scanned the page, then stopped.

Outside the door in the hall beyond he heard a floorboard creak—he’d been meaning to fix it for fifteen years now. He knew its sound intimately.

They were in the hall.

He set the text back in its folder and stood, placing his hands behind his head. He would go quietly.

The door exploded inward—soldiers spilling in.

He went to open his mouth—

But was silenced by shotguns staring him in the face.

John Temple threw himself to the floor of the tactical building, the sounds of battle singing all around outside in a treacherous opera of weapons fire.

“The lights!” Devin—the only other person in the room—shouted, pointing.

John’s mind crashed—what was going on? The shock of it all sent him into a tailspin as the world crumbled around him.

“The lights!” Devin screamed again, his finger pointing to the switch near the door.

John ran for the door, the heel of his hand coming down on the switch, plunging the room into darkness—the world outside the window blazing bright in the moonlight by comparison. Motion outside the window caught his eye—a group of four militiamen moved toward the building, weapons ready, extinguished flashlights fixed to the fore end of the shotguns.

He reached for the doorknob, twisting the lock. Maybe that would hold them a minute longer. He rushed back to Devin. “What do we do?” he demanded in panic.

“What did you see?”

“Soldiers—four of them.”

They looked back out the window, flashlights coming on outside—light crisscrossing through the barred windows.

John felt Devin’s hand clutch his arm. “Come on.”

Trista Brightling looked over at the other prisoner—Tariq. They’d thrown her in the cell with him when they’d discovered she was a traitor. He wasn’t threatening. He simply sat quietly in the corner looking sad.

Outside she heard the guns.

They were coming for her.

But maybe they wouldn’t be able to get to her in time—maybe John would show up and take her hostage. She’d have no choice but to stay a prisoner. It was an unspeakable option—but she couldn’t stop thinking about it.

The door squealed open and Trista stood. Militiamen flooded in, light burning into her eyes.

“Halt!” someone shouted.

“It’s me!” she shouted back. “Trista Brightling.”

A hand clutched her throat from behind—Tariq.

“Get away!” he screamed, intense and obviously afraid. “Get away from the door!”

“Let her go!” a militiaman shouted. Tariq clutched her tighter.

Trista’s self-defense training kicked in—sending an elbow to Tariq’s face. She broke away. A volley of blasts crashed into Tariq’s body—throwing him back.

He twitched for a moment—then stopped.

“Are you OK?” a militiaman asked.

Trista put a hand to her chest, trying to slow the beating of her heart. She nodded, gathering her thoughts, then knelt in front of Tariq. A fat bulging bruise was already forming on his forehead, bulbous and purple lined with sickly yellow. She touched his neck.

“He’s dead.”

Devin listened, intent on the noises overhead. The last of the militiamen left the armory, shutting the door behind—an odd gesture but probably force of habit.

He looked back at John, the man’s face flush with anxiety.

They stood in the underground armory a few moments longer, then pushed the overhead hatch up, sending it back with a weighty thud.

Outside there were still smatterings of intermittent gunfire playing out a drama of call and response—like a deadly game of Marco Polo.

Devin moved to the top of the steps and held, looking around to be sure. He stood, moving toward the window—he looked.

Two militiamen not five feet away, backs turned, talking.

Devin dropped, looking back. John was climbing out of the hatch. He motioned John back. This was no time to go taking chances by indulging curiosities.

There had to be a way out. But nothing was coming to mind.