The Firstborn (39 page)

Blake sat in the front passenger seat of the SUV as they approached the compound.

A member of the Ora Strike Force stood at the gate waiting for them to arrive—shoving the chain-link gate out of the way as they approached. The compound was theirs, completely overrun.

A moment later they pulled up to the holding area—about ten hostiles on their knees handcuffed behind the back, heads down. Guards stood around them in a circle making sure they didn’t try anything.

They were all alive, shot with rubber bullets—an invention used frequently for crowd control. Rubber slugs would strike a target, knock them down, even incapacitate them, all without killing the target—assuming, of course, that one was not hit in the head. They needed to be taken alive—even if he didn’t know how much longer he wanted to keep them that way.

The SUV stopped and Blake climbed out, looking them over. His eyes moved from figure to figure, taking their faces into account. “Where’s Bathurst?” he asked after a moment.

One of the Domani Paramilitary scanned the prisoners. “It looks like he’s not here.”

“Find him,” Blake ordered calmly. “Nobody lets their guard down until Devin Bathurst is found. If he’s around here, he needs to be found.”

A stack of troops began to move out.

“And one more thing,” Blake added. “With Devin, shoot to kill.”

Chapter 21

J
OHN STOOD IN THE
corner of the arsenal room. They’d retreated back into it when they realized they were surrounded.

“What next?” John asked, trying to make sense of the situation.

Devin stood beneath the hatch overhead, face turned up, listening intently for the sounds of approaching soldiers.

“Devin?”

He turned to John, throwing him a harsh look, hushing him fiercely. “Quiet.”

“What are we going to do?”

“We wait them out, then get away from here.”

“And then what?”

Devin looked John over, face sober. “I’m following through with my plans.”

John held for a moment, thoughts reaching. “What plans?”

Devin turned back. “I’m going to find Morris Childs.”

“And?”

“I’m going to kill him,” Devin announced, unapologetic.

The ghostly fluorescent tubes hummed overhead, giving off an occasional ticking sound.

John nodded, trying not to clench his fists. “You really think that will fix everything?”

Devin nodded. “Yes,” he said with an eerie calm, “I do.”

“But,” John began, frustrated, “he’s been like a father to you.”

“More than a father,” Devin announced with a huff. “He’s the only person I’ve got.”

“Then why?” John shouted, stepping in toward Devin.

“Because this has to stop,” Devin announced, stepping back.

“Not like this it doesn’t. Not with more death.”

“This is exactly how it needs to end,” Devin spat. “You’re just too weak to accept that.”

“It’s not weakness,” John blustered, grabbing Devin’s shoulders, trying to implore with him. “We’re becoming weaker all the time!”

“What are you talking about?”

“Think about it,” John beseeched. “When was the last time you had a vision? We’ve been surrounded by danger for hours. We’ve been shot at, ambushed, betrayed—and we never saw what was happening, never saw it coming. Think about it, Devin; our gifts aren’t getting stronger. They’re getting weaker!”

“
Hmm
,” Devin uttered, almost sarcastically, “what are you saying? That God has forsaken us?”

“I’m saying we’ve forsaken each other—which means we have forsaken God.”

“I don’t believe this—”

“What do you believe?” John demanded, shaking Devin as hard as he could. “Do you honestly believe that fighting the Firstborn will make the world a better place?”

“Morris Childs isn’t one of us, not anymore.”

John felt his body sag, his mouth open, shoulders heaving with anxiety, eyes darting from one stern feature to another. “Do you hear what you’re saying?”

“John, listen to me, you have to—”

“
No
, you listen to
me
! There are terrorists out there, and they’re going to kill children. Children, Devin! And you want to murder Morris Childs?” He shook his head in weary sorrow. “There are people out there who want to kill us, people with complaints and legitimate pain, because they think that somehow it will make things better—just like you want to kill Morris Childs.”

“We’ll fight them when the time comes—”

“When the time comes? What time do you think this is? How can we fight an enemy when we’re so busy fighting each other?”

Devin broke away, trying to walk off. “I’ve heard enough.”

“You haven’t heard a thing I’ve said!”

“Keep it down, will you? You’re going to bring Blake’s people down on us.”

John grabbed at Devin’s arm. “They’re people, Devin.”

“Blake’s soldiers?”

“Blake’s soldiers, the Fallen, everybody!” John’s face burned with anger. “Sunnis and Shiites, Christians and Muslims, Domani, Prima, and Ora. We’re all people trying to make it in life.”

“And some people have to be stopped.”

“Fine,” John growled, hand squeezing around Devin’s bicep.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m stopping you before you do something that can’t be undone.”

Devin shoved John back, getting ready to strike, then stopped. He lifted a hushing finger.

John paused. “What is it?”

Overhead there was a sound—nothing much, just a simple shock wave as the weight of something came down on the concrete overhead. The sound came again, and again in a slow, predictable rhythm—

Boots, walking across the floor above.

They were back, checking the building.

Devin reached out, killing the lights.

“Devin?” John whispered.

He reached out, grabbing John by the face, a hand clutched over his mouth.

“
Shhh!
” Devin spat.

Silence.

Long, deafening silence.

Then the boots continued, moving toward—

The hatch.

John took a long breath, held it. He didn’t even want his lungs to make a sound. Not here, not now.

The boots stopped. Stayed.

A click. A creak. The hatch began to open—

The slam of the door striking concrete thundered through the underground arsenal.

They were trapped like rats. Nowhere to go. No escape to be seen. The darkness was all they had—a thin veil of darkness that wrapped itself around them, blocking them from the prying eyes of the intruding force.

A flashlight snapped on from outside the hatch—the blade of light cutting through the protective blanket of darkness.

John felt naked as his covering was slashed to ribbons by the unwelcome light.

The beam remained static for a moment, granules of dust and chipping paint fluttering downward, defining the contours of the radiant shaft that probed into their hiding place.

Then the light shifted—no longer a static force of nature, but a living thing, clawing into their refuge, its slow travel across the floor cutting deeper and deeper into their haven.

They pushed back, away from the intruding rays as best they could, feet trying to get away from the probing spotlight that crept and slithered across the floor.

John’s body wanted to gasp—an involuntary response, like a knee jumping under the tapping of a doctor’s hammer. His heart beat fast. His mind raced.

He knew what was happening. His body wanted to survive and was preparing to fight a tiger—but he couldn’t.

Adrenaline flooded his system, pupils dilated, heart rate thundered, pumping blood through his pounding heart, oxygenating his muscles. His lungs expanded to draw in more air for his blood—a swelling vacuum that would draw into it whatever oxygen it could—a gasp that would give him away, leading to death or capture.

He drew air in through his nostrils, slow and steady. Not fast enough—his body shuddered as his muscles took over in desperation, dragging air into his lungs.

A warbling, panic-stricken swarm of air filled his chest, warm and refreshing—

The beam stopped.

The soldiers talked among themselves—voices incoherent.

Then the light turned away from the gap above. Only incidental flashes drizzled from overhead.

John heaved a sigh—

Devin’s hand grabbed his shoulder, throwing him around the corner of a metal gun rack, slamming John to the floor.

A boot came down on the top step. Then another.

The light returned—not from overhead anymore, but slicing laterally across the landscape of the armory, the blade cutting a swath through the darkness, painting the wall with the mangled outline of the rack’s shadow, waving side to side as the beam scanned across the room.

John felt like a turtle stranded on its back, its shell made useless—a predator tearing into his soft, unprotected underbelly.

He turned to look at Devin—

Gone.

He peered through the crisscrossing metal of the rack toward the blistering bead of light that flooded the room, its master veiled by the brightness. The boots continued their descent—another step further down.

Then he saw Devin, creeping up alongside the stairs from the other side, hidden in shadows, directly beneath the flashlight. In his hand Devin held something he hadn’t had before, something he must have just picked up here in the armory. What was it?

—a combat knife, wide and long with jagged teeth for serrations along the back.

Devin was about to kill…
one of his own
.

“Hey,” a voice shouted loudly from above, “everything’s been checked twice. We’re packing everybody up and getting out of here, so hurry up.”

“OK,” the flashlight man replied, “just a second.”

“Is there anything down there? Because we need to go.”

A momentary pause.

“No,” the flashlight man announced, then flicked off the light, plunging the room back into its warm cloak of black. “There’s nothing down here.” The boots moved up the stairs, and a moment later the hatch came slamming back down.

A moment of silence. Total darkness. Then a loud
click
from across the room. A single yellow bulb, encased in a round plastic cage, came on. A backup light that hung in the corner. Dimmer than the overhead fluorescents, but better for staying hidden.

John watched as Devin walked from his place near the power strip where he’d turned on the lights and approached a metal cabinet, opening it and removing something that captured his full attention.

“What is that?” John asked.

Devin glanced up. “HK Mark 23 pistol.” He twisted a thick black cylinder into the muzzle of the weapon. “And this is a homemade silencer. Illegal, like most of the collection down here, but effective.” Then he began to walk toward the steps.

John stood, marching after Devin. He got close, grabbing at a shoulder.

“Wait a minute.” No response. “Bathurst, wait!”

Devin spun into John’s right hook—fist striking hard. He came back again fast, face confused—then angry.

John felt a hand grab him, trying to throw him away. He held on—if he was going down, Devin was going with him—the concrete’s surface slamming into him.

The world exploded with lights and globs of color as the pain whipped through his body. John shoved upward, pushing away from the floor. Devin came at him from the right.

A hand grabbed the back of his neck—

John unleashed the full fury of his body into Devin’s side, but his opponent sidestepped, shoving him down by the scruff of his neck.

A sharp-toed shoe hit the back of John’s knee, and as he went down he felt a hand, like a blade, slam hard into his side.

John lay on the floor for a moment, staring upward through blurry eyes.

He choked. Hacked. Coughed. Then felt his aching chest heave and fall as his body clawed for air.

“Are you finished?” Devin demanded.

John looked up at Devin, looming like a tower. He reached out, grabbing at the other man’s ankle. “Devin,” he moaned, hacking painfully, “what are you doing?”

“This needs to be done,” Devin replied, voice lowering as he started to walk away. “I’m sorry. It’s not what any of us want—but it’s what we all need.”

John’s body collapsed, rolling onto his back. “Need,” he said to himself. “It took me a long time to realize it, but the world needs people like you, Devin Bathurst.” Devin stopped. “We need people who see the world in black and white, who know what needs to be done in order to deal with the problem at hand. People who see a solution…and can execute it with resolve, even when it’s not pretty.”

“Especially when it’s not pretty.”

“That’s right. The world needs people who can do the terrible, unspeakable things,” John said from his back, studying the contours of the ceiling overhead, “but not today.” His eyes lazed over the imperfections, eyes moving over each and every bump that swelled and retreated from the level plane of the cement above. “Today,” he said slowly, “the world needs us to forgive—because if we can’t forgive each other, then how can we ever love each other?”

Devin remained silent, holding at the steps.

“And if we can’t love the people who are supposed to be our friends, then how can we ever love anybody else? If we can’t love the world, then what right do we have to save it?” John swallowed hard, still recovering from his ordeal. “And if we can’t love the world, then how can we ever love our enemies? And if we can’t love them, then what did Christ die for?”