The Firstborn (23 page)
Alex moved up the short set of steps, under the arches, toward the courtyard beyond. Thirty feet to go and he’d be at the front door of the mosque.
He didn’t acknowledge the security guards ahead, hoping to slip past. “Excuse me, sir,” one of them said. “What’s in the bag?”
Alex kept moving forward.
“Sir?” another one added.
He felt them closing in on him. One stepped in front of him.
He paused in the middle of the courtyard, the minaret towering overhead, the walls closing in around.
“I’m sorry, sir, but you need to let me see what’s inside the bag.”
Alex looked at that man’s black shoes. “My gym clothes.”
“Do you mind if I take a look?”
Alex held his breath. How was he going to get out of this? His mind raced—panic began to overtake him. He stopped—felt the weight of USP .40 hanging from his hip. He’d planned for this.
He looked up—the man was middle-aged, bald, and rotund. A black mustache crossed his face.
“Certainly.” He knelt down.
“Where do you work out?”
“Huh?” Alex asked, confused.
“Your gym clothes,” the guard said. “Where do you work out?”
His mind raced—he’d rehearsed this contingency. “There’s a workout room at my office.” He put his hand to the zipper, hoping he could talk his way out of this.
“That must be nice. Now let’s see what’s in the bag.”
Alex dragged the zipper across the top of the bag, the flap opening.
The guard gasped, stepping back.
It was the moment Alex needed.
The pistol snapped forward, blasting the guard in the chest—the man was dead before he hit the ground—thrown back like a rag doll.
Alex swung his torso—pointing at the guard to his left.
The pistol bucked and the man went down—a wound to the stomach.
A lousy shot. Shrieking lifted from the street.
Alex stepped forward as the wounded, bleeding guard reached for his radio, keying it to speak. Alex raised his pistol, looking across the plane of gun metal toward the man’s forehead.
The gun went off as something slammed into his side.
The shot went wide, blasting at the stone wall.
Alex hit the ground, the gun going off again. He turned his face, saw his attacker—
Devin Bathurst? How had he gotten involved in this? Devin came at him fast—the man’s entire weight slamming into his middle.
Alex came down hard with his fists, trying to fight Devin off of him, ramming a hand into his face—his dark features slick with an instant glistening of sweat. Alex kicked his opponent in the stomach as hard as he could.
His opponent went tumbling, and Alex brought the gun to bear—
Devin was already up, facing him—a fast move grabbed Alex’s wrist. The pistol twisted in his hand—Hard. Fast. The ligaments strained as if they would rupture and snap—his hand released and Alex felt the weapon spill from his hand.
Just feet away the wounded guard choked on his blood, screaming with pain.
Devin moved like lightning, snapping under Alex’s arm, grabbing him from behind. A hard knee rammed into Alex’s back and he ripped around. A swift move and he had Devin in a headlock, jerking him around by his neck.
Their bodies spun in unison, and they tumbled to the floor. Alex’s body slammed into the stone, painful and sudden—he could feel the blood vessels just below his skin bursting—big purple and yellow bruises would form shortly.
Alex felt his opponent scramble over him like a jungle cat tearing at the soft underbelly of its prey. He couldn’t get his bearings—Devin was behind him, arm around his neck, squeezing tight.
He hacked out a violent cough. A blood choke—standard military combat training.
In a few moments he would pass out—
mission failed
.
He felt Devin’s legs swing around his waist from behind, holding him in place while the choke took effect. He threw a swift punch over his shoulder, smashing into the soft skin and hard bone of Devin’s face. His opponent hesitated—
good
.
Alex kicked loose, flipping onto his stomach—Devin on his back now.
The pistol was ahead, lying on the floor. He reached for it, clawing at the tile. His fingertips touched the blue steel—
A sharp blow came down hard on the small of Alex’s back, and he flattened with a howl. Devin was up—in front of him—Devin’s foot kicked the pistol skittering away.
Alex rolled onto his shoulder again as fast as he could, sending a series of wicked pedal kicks into Devin’s leg, chest, and shoulder. His opponent recoiled for a moment, and Alex clawed to his feet with every ounce of speed he had.
His face ripped side to side, eyes darting—
the bag
.
He scrambled for it.
Devin felt the air escape from Alex’s body as he threw himself into a full-bodied lunge, tackling the other man hard. His elbow hit the stone first, sending a shock wave of splintering pain shooting through his whole left side.
Alex broke free with a vicious chop to Devin’s throat—he hacked, trying to catch a breath, vision blurring, stomach turning. The bomber clawed at the gym bag, reaching into the flap.
Devin threw his arm around Alex’s neck again, trying to resume his blood choke. Alex came around fast. He saw stars—an elbow plowing into his face like a piston. Devin rolled onto his back, face bleeding, vision blurry.
He looked up, eyes focusing again.
Alex was on his knees, gripping the detonator, a cable running to the bag.
Devin lunged.
The would-be bomber was ready for him. Devin was caught in a swinging motion—his own momentum used against him—and his chest was pinned to the ground.
Devin tried to get up—tried to throw off the weight of the other man. Something long and thin dropped below his chin and pulled tight—the detonator cable strangling him. He felt the cable jerk him upward by the throat, choking him as it did.
The corners of his vision began to go pasty white. He gasped for air. Out of the corner of his eye, through the haze, he saw a hand holding the detonator itself—a detonating button on top and an arming trigger in front.
Devin grabbed the wrist that held the detonator and twisted—fighting with all his strength. A finger pulled the trigger.
A light inside the bag lit up.
—
armed
—
Devin threw all his weight back, slamming Alex to the ground. He heard the gargled sound of sucking air near his right ear.
The detonator tumbled.
He lunged for it, grabbing at the plastic handle—
A solid kick hit him in the ribs, and Devin rolled away, body flung by the force of the blow.
He lifted his eyes—and saw the bag.
Alex staggered to the detonator, picking it up. He held it. Squeezed the trigger.
“The sword of the Lord and of Israel,” he declared, then keyed the detonating button—
—click—
Nothing happened.
He keyed it again—
And there was a sound like thunder.
J
OHN DOWNSHIFTED AND PULLED
to the side of the street as police cars tore past, flashing red and blue lights. He looked at the clock.
“Are we too late?” Hannah asked.
“I think so.”
He looked at the sky—no smoke, no fire. Just police cars.
Maybe it wasn’t too late.
Devin watched as Alex Bradley hit the ground, bleeding from his chest.
The wounded security guard held the USP .40 in his hand.
Alex moaned as he lay there. Devin looked down. He held the detonator cable in his hand, yanked from its place in the C-4 bricks. He let go and pushed away. Without the cable connected to the explosives, the detonator had become nothing more than a fancy toy.
Three police officers moved up the steps, weapons drawn—obviously brought by the sound of gunshots.
Devin rolled onto his stomach—hands on the back of his head. Best not to be confused for the shooter when there were cops involved. Someone put handcuffs on him—a precaution.
The mosque doors opened. Hundreds of people, scared and confused, filed out. Devin watched as they paraded by, directed by the police around the bleeding men as EMTs worked to save them.
Then he saw a young man walking with the crowd. He had long, dark curly hair. Blue jeans and a tight T-shirt. Muscular and attractive.
He felt a soreness from his limbs, not from the fight but—
The young man at home. Finishing a bomb.
Meeting with others.
An elementary school. Screaming children.
Devin shook his head violently, trying to stop the thoughts, but the images kept coming.
Crying. Shouting.
Teachers murdered. Children massacred.
Blood and rubble.
Devin tried to stand but felt the knee of a police officer jam into his back. This would only last a moment. They would hold him until they had regained control of the situation, then they would take his statement and let him go.
But right here, right now, he was staring a terrorist in the eyes—and he was getting away.
There were police ahead, redirecting traffic.
“What happened?” Hannah asked.
John shook his head. “I don’t know. But it doesn’t look like a bomb went off.”