The Firstborn (45 page)
She looked up at him. “No, Blake,” she said softly. “I just…don’t think I can.”
“You have to choose, Hannah. Yes, you could have had a normal life, but you’re neck-deep in this thing now, and the only chance you have to keep from becoming a lonely, embittered, pathetic wreck like Devin Bathurst is to let me protect you from all the bad things in this world.”
Hannah looked him over. He was dead serious.
“I’ll see to it that you’re sent to the best college with a nice place to stay—a big house all to yourself—with friends nearby. You could have a car and nice clothes and money to spend. And when you finally find a guy that’s good enough for you, I’ll make sure you have the biggest wedding a girl could hope for—and a big house to share your life with him in.”
He put a hand on her shoulder.
“Right now you’re standing in the middle of a violent, dangerous, and tumultuous world where everything and everyone you love can be ripped from you in a moment. Tomorrow I can make all of that go away and give you the life you deserve, but today you have to make a stand.” His tone was somehow sincere and commanding. “Will you stand with me?”
“I…”
“Don’t answer. Just think about it.”
Then he stood and left.
J
OHN
T
EMPLE SAT IN
the kitchen chair, a hand zip-tied to the radiator. The slotted contraption was cold, obviously inactive for quite some time. Whatever this place was, it was falling apart.
The men stood in a huddle ten feet ahead of him, chattering in a foreign language of some kind. He could feel their motives—using a foreign tongue to keep their conversation private. But he could feel it all.
There were four of them. They were well dressed—upper middle class.
There was an argument about what to do with John. They chattered quickly, interrupting one another. Every once in a while the one named Ibrahim would look back at John, scanning him.
The leader was named Hassan—John had caught that much—and despite his calm demeanor, he was frothing with anxiety. He was nervous, and his thoughts kept bending toward how best to kill their unwelcome guest.
John took long, deep breaths as they chattered, trying to reach some consensus about how best to get rid of him…and when.
One of them, a big man he’d heard called Jean-Paul, looked at his watch and announced his thoughts.
“…Tariq…”
It was one of the few words John actually understood with his ears. They wanted to know where the fifth member of their party was. It was 6:00 a.m., and Tariq still hadn’t arrived. Eight thirty was zero hour, Jean-Paul announced in something other than English. Something must have happened to Tariq.
Four heads turned to John in unison.
He stared back.
They said nothing.
“Where’s Tariq?” Hassan asked, brushing a fleck of debris from the arm of his gray suit jacket.
John wanted to scream. His pulse snapped forward a beat, his veins crackling as he tried to keep his fingertips from trembling. His eyes didn’t move from the men. The one named Jean-Paul took a step to the left to gain a better vantage.
Four sets of eyes probed John’s features.
Hassan examined the thin piece of debris, holding it between his thumb and forefinger. “Where is he?”
John felt the muscles in his abdomen tighten, holding his bladder at bay.
Hassan, handsome and well groomed, stepped toward John. The man scratched the back of his head casually as he approached, then squatted down in front of John, reaching onto the table where they had placed all of their captive’s things. He picked through the wallet, staring at one of the cards held in the slender plastic sleeve.
“Jonathan Eric Temple?” he asked, reading from the driver’s license.
“I know what you’re planning to do,” John said, shaking his head.
“Born July 15?”
“Don’t do this.”
“You’re an organ donor,” Hassan said with a nod. “I’m impressed.”
“They’re children.”
“There are children in Palestine too. Are American children somehow more special than the schoolchildren murdered with bullets bought with American dollars?”
John’s mind wandered for a moment, trying not to get drawn too deeply into the moment. He had to fight the urge, or he would strangle in the immediacy of it all. Think about the future, he said to himself. Somewhere in the tangle of thoughts a prayer tried to form itself.
“Do you believe in God, Mr. Temple?”
“Yes,” he announced, voice cracking slightly, “and He loves you.”
A heavy smack sent John’s face whipping to the side.
“Don’t preach at me, Christian.” Hassan’s voice was sharp and his words stinging in their sincerity. “Where’s Tariq? Why is he late? Are there more of you? Where are they?”
John glared, defiant.
“My entire mission could be at risk,” Hassan said gently, as if teaching a young boy to fish. “One of my holy warriors is missing, and I’m looking into the face of a man who has been snooping in my safe house.” The squatting man examined his manicured fingernails. “What do you think I should do?”
John let out an exasperated sigh, eyes drifting to the side.
A sharp cracking sound brought John’s eyes forward again, responding to the snap of Hassan’s fingers. “We serve the same God, Christian. Do you know that? Why are you trying to block the plans of our God?”
“My God doesn’t murder children.”
“Yes?” Hassan said, as if surprised. “Exodus—the angel of death, sent by your God, slays all the firstborn of Egypt. Jericho—your God commands the Jews to slaughter all the citizens—women
and children
—as well as all the inhabitants of the Promised Land.”
“That was different.”
“How? No different. Your God killed children because He knew the power of that message. He knew the only way to turn Pharaoh’s heart was to strike deep into it. It was the murder of innocent children that has awoken the sleeping lion of our wrath. It will be children who bring America to its senses.”
John shook his head. “What do you hope to accomplish?”
Hassan put a hand on John’s shoulder. “Do you know why the Middle East is a slave to the demand for Western oil?”
No reply.
“Because the caliphate, the Islamic world, will not stand together. They have grown cowardly and complacent with Western decadence. Cigarettes. Movies. Depictions of women as objects of sexual desire. The glorification of alcohol. The people of the Middle East have lost sight of Sharia—the laws of God. They will not stand together—and so they have become slaves to the West.”
“And how will killing children fix that? Revenge?”
Hassan stood. “When America has been sufficiently angered, it will plunge once again into the heart of the Middle East—and then the Muslim world will be forced to unite.”
John Temple felt his heart rate slow. For the first time he understood it—the feeling he was drawing from this man. It was like little boys playing soldiers—only these little boys were used to death and thought nothing of it. They were prepared to die, just like little boys dying in a game of cops and robbers, throwing themselves to the ground in spasms, enjoying the attention of their flailing appendages as they hit the floor.
He smirked.
“Is something funny?” Hassan asked casually.
John shook his head. “No.”
“Really?” Hassan stood, thumbs thrust through his belt loops, striking a pose like a fashion model.
In a flash the suited man’s hand struck the table, snatching something—
A knife.
Hassan swept the blade past John’s face, reaching for his wrist. The blade slipped between the hard plastic of the zip tie and the soft flesh of John’s hand.
A quick jerk and the plastic popped loose.
John cradled his hand, squeezing the place where the double-edged blade had slit him.
Hassan walked away, moving back toward the men behind him. He looked back at John. “Get up.”
John cradled his hand. He didn’t move.
Hassan leaned close to Ibrahim and whispered something in his ear. The man nodded and moved away. John hadn’t heard it and was too focused on the pain to feel it. Hassan looked at him again.
“Get up, Mr. Temple.”
He remained seated.
Hassan nodded. Then stepped forward.
Three big steps and he was on John, towering over him like a colossus.
John’s world spun as the heel of an expensive shoe slammed into his chest. He went sprawling back, air fleeing from his lungs as he was flung and ripping from his chest as his back hit the floor.
He stared at the ceiling—cracked and yellowed from time, black blotches outlining islands of water damage.
The sounds of footfalls rippled through the floorboards as the three of them approached him. Someone grabbed his ankle.
John kicked.
A toe connected with his side.
Hands reached for him, groping at anything they could grab—ankles, wrists, biceps, hair. He felt them pull in tandem across the floor, a splintering board slicing into his leg. John tried to fight, but he felt his form glide across the wood, dragging toward some ill fate.
Halfway out the room.
A hand came loose, and he took a swing at someone—a weak hit at best.
A retaliatory strike.
The doorway.
John’s hand scrambled across the wooden frame, grasping at the edges. The lip of the frame seared into his flesh, cutting hard. They threw their weight into the pull, but his grasp held, fingers throbbing.
A heel crushed into his fingertips, and his grip came loose, his body tumbling across the bathroom floor—a loose tile cutting at his arm.
He was bleeding.
Body aching. Muscles tingling.
He heard the sound of squeaking metal and a throaty gurgle in unused pipes. His eyes lifted as Ibrahim continued twisting the valve on the bathtub faucet. A husky grumble coughed from the valve—then a quick spurt of dirty water came hacking from the ancient, unused pipes.
Hands grabbed his shoulders, heaving him upward, shoulders slamming into the heavy metal rim of the old claw-foot tub. A bay of windows covered in decaying newspapers shed the only light into the room, filling it with a nauseating shade of amber.
They forced his body back, his head thrusting beneath the spout. A splash of frigid, dirty water hit his face.
One last squeak and the valve opened wide, the faucet belching out a heavy gush. Water filled his mouth. His nose. His eyes. The taste of rust, caulk, and decay filled his mouth, cheeks bulging from the pressure.
A sharp punch to the diaphragm, and his lungs sucked for air—
Flecks of copper piping tumbled down the back of his throat, ejecting out as fast as he coughed them out.
Panic overtook him.
He was going to drown. He was going to die. His lungs were going to burst.
Strong hands yanked him from beneath the rushing flow, and he hit the black and white tile floor with his face.
John didn’t try to get up. He choked. Gagged. Sobbed. His muscles were weary and his eyes burned.
Hassan knelt down next to him, removing his jacket and rolling up the sleeves.
“We have time, Mr. Temple,” he said with a nod, lifting his head by a fistful of sopping hair. “You’re going to tell me everything I want to know.”
T
HE
SUV
BUMPED DOWN
the back roads, the dappled spring greenery of upstate New York rolling past. Hannah’s eyes relaxed as she stared out the window, letting it all blur together. She hadn’t slept well, and she still wasn’t fully awake. Her eyes lifted toward the front seat. “Where are we going?”
Blake turned his head from his place in the passenger’s seat, looking back at her. “We’re going somewhere private so we can talk with Mr. Bathurst.”
“Where is he?”
“He’s in one of the other vehicles.”
“How many are there?”
“Vehicles?”
“Yes.”
“Enough for everyone.”
“Everyone?”
“Yes. I want everybody to see this.”
Hannah sank back into her seat and let her eyes fall lazily back toward the passing world beyond the glass. Fifteen minutes passed in silence before the SUV rolled off the back road, through the trees. A moment later they stopped, the driver climbing out.
