The Firstborn (25 page)

John’s cell phone chirped.

“Yes?”

“John, it’s Bathurst.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m still at the Center—I’m running behind.”

“What happened?”

“Later—now Hannah’s on the move.”

“She’s following our terrorist.”

“You let her out of your sight?” Devin demanded, angrily.

“I couldn’t stop her. She—”

“She’s in danger.”

“What?”

“Find her, John—before it’s too late.”

Hannah moved through the urban sprawl of Washington DC, trying to remain calm. She caught a glimpse in a car windshield—he was gaining.

He was following her. He must have noticed that she was following him, waited for her at the top of the stairs—and now he was closing in, fast.

She hadn’t brought her can of pepper spray. Regardless, the stuff was useless if you didn’t hit them directly in the eyes. Her grandfather had taught her that. When she first moved to the city he tried to talk her into getting a concealed carry permit so that she could keep a handgun with her at all times. She’d turned him down. She didn’t want a handgun then—

—but she wished she had it now.

Hannah could swear she heard his footsteps now, getting closer.

She looked around, hoping to find something—fast.

There were people on the street—not many, but enough. She could scream at the top of her lungs. But he hadn’t done anything yet—and the thought embarrassed her. How ridiculous, she thought. A man was following her—a terrorist—and she didn’t want to scream because it was rude to call attention to yourself in public, to make a spectacle of yourself in front of everyone. It wasn’t logical—certainly not now, but it was ingrained in her down to her core. It was who she was—more concerned with respecting others than ensuring her own safety.

Forget it, she thought, and went to scream.

The sound caught in her throat like a ball. Her hands were shaking violently, her throat tensing—whatever pinched utterance was trying to come out of her mouth was hardly more than a squeak.

She wanted to scream, but she just couldn’t bring herself to complete the act. The air was squeezing out of her lungs. Hannah tried again—all that escaped was an anxious moan erupting from her private little hell.

She’d watched movies all her life with stupid women being chased by people, doing stupid things, ignoring obvious solutions. She’d mocked the screen and held those characters in contempt, but now she was that woman—stupid and doomed.

In the woods she’d done everything Snider had asked her, when Blake held her at gunpoint she didn’t fight back, and now she was letting this man gain on her, unhindered.

She needed to scream, to draw attention to herself so he wouldn’t try anything, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it.

Then she saw the next best thing—a coffee shop to her right.

Hannah pushed the door open, moving into the shop, moving toward the line.

There was a draft behind her as someone opened the door again. She looked back. He was entering into the shop—still following her. Hannah stood in line for a moment as he came closer and closer—too close for comfort.

She stepped out, heading for the back of the store—the ladies’ room. She pushed her way in and stopped, staring at the door.

No lock.

She waited—wondering if he had the audacity to enter into the women’s restroom.

She watched and waited.

“Help me, God,” John uttered audibly, trying to conjure up an image of where Hannah might be.

He shifted gears as he tried to move through Washington DC traffic.

Slow traffic.

So very slow.

One did not simply tear through traffic like an Indy 500 driver when he or she was in the nation’s capital. Squealing tires and knocking over trash cans belonged in movies—not the District of Columbia.

There was foul taste in his mouth—something horrid. He gagged, then—

Hannah in a coffee shop, her body relaxing, moving back into the shop.

Looking around.

Him.

John fought the stick, changing lanes without signaling. Someone honked. He could feel her—where she was. She was close enough that he might be able to get to her—but in time?

Hannah clenched her convulsing fists, tightened her chattering teeth, and stepped out of the ladies’ room. She looked around—then froze.

He approached, coming straight at her.

Her heart skipped.

“Excuse me,” he said to her, “my name is Tariq—Tariq Ali. I was wondering if you would permit me to buy you a cup of coffee.”

Hannah stared at him, speechless.

“I saw you on the Metro,” he said with a charming smile, his voice betraying only the faintest hint of an accent—European?

There was a moment of awkward silence.

“I figured I’d take a chance.”

She tried to say something, but all that came out was a soft, confused noise. He was hitting on her.

His smile wilted slightly as he examined the look of shock on her face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. It must seem creepy for a guy from the subway to do something like this.”

She shook her head, trying to think of something to say.

“It just felt like we shared a moment on the subway and”—he held for a moment, a look of embarrassment crossing his handsome features—“when I saw you in here—like I said, I figured I’d take a chance.”

Hannah remained speechless.

“Well”—he took a step back—“I won’t take any more of your time.” He turned to go.

“Wait,” she said quickly, words rushing from her mouth. “I’m Hannah,” she said with a smile, “Hannah Rice.”

She offered a hand.

He took it and smiled. “Hannah? That’s a very pretty name.” So handsome.

Blake Jackson looked at his watch.

He sat in front of the television, waiting for the news—the bombing of the Islamic Center in Washington DC.

He was watching one of the major conglomerate networks. Which one didn’t matter to Blake; he knew they all got the facts wrong anyway. Right now the most pressing issue in the nation was the president’s speech about universal health care.

He glanced at his watch again. Minutes now—that was all.

His eyes lazed down to the bottom of the screen, to the ticker that ran beneath the stories with good pictures. The words “Islamic Center” caught his eye—

Blake read.

A shooting. A thwarted bombing.

He picked up the phone and dialed.

“Yes?”

“We have a problem.”

John hit his turn signal, cutting right down an alleyway. His fist clenched the gearshift, slamming the car into gear. It was a straight shot—he could drive fast between the brick buildings, the silver sedan slicing like a blade.

A trash truck backed into his view, and he slammed on the brakes—screaming to a stop. The rearview mirror caught his eye—a trail of burnt rubber chasing after. The truck ambled backward, its repetitive warning beep sounding off pedantically.

John’s fist came down hard on the wheel, sending a shock wave of pain through his arm—a string of cursing erupting from his lips. He followed profanity with piety, breaking into prayer—

“Why, God? Why?”

It was like being late to work.

John hadn’t held a real job in years, but he remembered the feeling of being late to work—not being able to navigate the labyrinth of the city fast enough. He’d been fired for being repeatedly late on several occasions. But there was no getting fired if he didn’t make it in time—this was far more serious.

Hannah’s life hung in the balance.

“Lord Jesus Christ, Jehovah God, help me!” his prayer choked out of his mouth, blustering loudly through the car. “Forgive me for using bad words—but
help me
!”

The trash men finished loading the cans, and the truck began plodding forward again, moving out of the way.

He popped the clutch and the vehicle screamed forward, another trail of rubber slicing out behind.

Devin moved down the stairs of the subway, praying for the foresight to find Hannah. His phone buzzed.

“This is Bathurst.”

“Where are you?”

He recognized the voice. “Blake?”

“Where are you?”

“DC.”

“You disrupted the mission.”

“Alex Bradley bombing the mosque? Yes.”