The Firstborn (29 page)
Hannah’s eyes fluttered open, seat tipped back, a spring-green world slipping past.
“Where are we?” she asked.
“Pennsylvania,” Devin said without shifting his gaze.
“What’s in Pennsylvania?”
“An old friend—Saul Mancuso.”
“Is he one of the Firstborn?”
“He used to be.”
“Used to be? What happened?”
Devin shrugged. “He fell away.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“He lost his faith—stopped believing in God. Saul moved to Pennsylvania to get away from the world and its superstitions.”
“Wait,” John said from the backseat, “we’re going to meet one of the Fallen?”
“That’s right, John.”
Hannah shook her head. “I don’t understand. Why would we go to a guy who lost his faith?”
“He’s not a true believer—not anymore. That means he’s above the politics.”
“That’s convoluted,” John said, shaking his head.
“He’s not one of us, so it’s highly doubtful that he’s one of them. We don’t know who we can trust in the Firstborn anymore, so we have to start looking outside of the Firstborn.”
Devin hadn’t been to the compound in years, but it still felt the same—inhospitable.
There was only one approach, down a long back road. It was nearly unidentifiable from the road and a mile and a half drive from the pavement to the front gate. The last half mile of the drive announced the coming of the compound with signs that read “No Trespassing,” among various other unwelcoming warnings.
The trees grew in a wild, thick collection, hanging over the road in a darkening canopy, blotting out the sun overhead. Patches of mist curled through the trees in ominous swirls.
“This is unsettling,” John said, peering out the windows.
Devin nodded. “I think that’s the idea.”
The car stopped at the front gate. It was the only entrance in through the set of double fences crowned with tangles of razor wire. More signs littered the front gate—all warning that trespassers would be shot.
Devin put the car in park, leaning out his open window. He pressed the button to the intercom and looked up at the security camera set atop a post.
“Who is it?”
“It’s Bathurst. We’re here.”
The intercom went dead.
“Saul?”
Silence.
“Professor Mancuso?”
Devin looked at Hannah and John, not certain what to say.
John leaned forward. “How good of a friend is this guy?”
“It’s been awhile. Maybe—”
There was a loud buzzing sound as the chain-link gate unlocked. The intercom crackled to life again. “It’s open.”
Devin signaled to John, and he exited the car, pushing the gate open, then returned to his place in the backseat, the gate sliding back into place on its own.
Devin drove slowly, glancing around. Not much had changed since his last visit. The “compound” consisted of a half dozen buildings, most decaying, scattered over nearly twenty acres of land, much of which housed expensive landscaping equipment and heaps of scrap. Security cameras were positioned everywhere.
The house was the biggest of the buildings. It was old, Victorian, and covered in a fading wash of yellow paint that flaked away in slivered lateral sweeps. In several sections the paint was completely gone, leaving only the gray tones of old decaying wood paneling. Further out was the second largest building—squatty and gray, consisting of cinder blocks and a tin roof.
Devin pointed. “That’s the tactical building,” he said.
“What’s that?” John asked.
Devin shrugged. “Don’t ask.” He brought the car to the house and got out. He stood in the open for several minutes, then realized that he wasn’t going to be greeted. He moved to the front, opening the ancient screen door with a whining squeal, and knocked on the hardwood door beyond.
Inside there was the sound of dogs barking at the door as someone came forward, their footsteps reverberating through the door. The handle turned and the door opened.
“Devin?”
Devin nodded. “Hello, Carson.”
Carson was in his thirties—tough as nails and grubby. He wore a blue plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up, his face smudged with soot from welding. The man tried to look around Devin at his companions.
“Carson, this is John Temple—”
Carson shook his hand. “Didn’t you fool around with Morris Childs’s niece?”
John looked away. “Something like that.”
“And this,” Devin said, motioning, “is Hannah Rice.”
Carson shook her hand. “Do you know a Henry…”
“He was my grandfather,” she said quickly, cutting him off.
“We’re here to see Saul,” Devin interjected.
Carson nodded, motioning them in.
They were led through the house, which smelled like wet dog. The walls were sparsely decorated with only a few pictures, mostly of ships. Carson stopped at a nearby door and knocked.
“Yeah?”
“They’re here.”
There were some disgruntled noises from beyond the door. “Come on in.”
The door opened and Devin moved in, the other two following behind.
“I’m going back to work,” Carson announced and shut the door behind them.
The room was a library—big with walls covered in books, mostly tattered. The smell of pulpy paper hung in the air. The only window was covered by yellow curtains that diffused the light, filling the room with a dark amber hue.
In the center of the room was a man hunched over a desk, a reading light bent over the text that he scanned intently. His hair was white, his face craggy. He wore thick reading glasses that bounced off the lamp’s glow like a set of spotlights. He didn’t look up but continued reading.
“Professor Mancuso,” Devin said, trying to keep his voice soft.
The older man lifted his right index finger to quiet Devin, tracing the lines of the page with his left. A moment later he finished the page—held for a moment, took a breath, then closed the book, setting it aside. He looked up at them—a dark silhouette accented by two glowing lenses in the black.
“It finally happened, didn’t it?” he said, sitting up straight, voice gravelly and harsh. “The Firstborn went too far.”
Devin nodded. “Yes, sir. Some of them.”
“Which ones?”
“As of yet we still don’t know the extent of the conspiracy, but Blake Jackson appears to be running things, and Alex Bradley was involved too.”
“Too bad about Alex—I heard about his wife. The news says he tried to blow up a mosque.”
“That’s true.”
“You were the one who stopped him, weren’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“The news said a security guard got him, but when I heard it was Alex I knew only a Firstborn would know how to stop another Firstborn.”
“That’s correct.”
“So,” Saul said, standing up and removing the reading glasses from his face, “let’s see what you’ve got going on that makes it so important for you to seek out a crotchety old man like me.”
He followed them back through the house, out to the car. Devin held out his keyless remote and clicked.
The trunk popped loudly, swinging upward fast. Devin gestured. “Meet Tariq Ali.”
The light hit Tariq’s face and he began to thrash, attempting to hit someone.
Saul Mancuso looked in the trunk and nodded. “I see. What’d he do?”
“He was going to set off a suicide bomb in DC.”
“Uh-huh. And why didn’t you hand him over to the proper authorities?”
“They’ve got Morris.”
“And they want to make a swap?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“They want to kill him
their way
.”
Tariq’s eyes grew large.
Saul looked over the detainee. “You go to that swap alone and they’ll kill you. It’s that simple.”
“Wait a minute,” John interjected. “Do you really think the First-born are capable of something like that?”
Saul nodded. “Yes, I do. They think that they’re God’s secret agents on Earth, and that gives them the right to do whatever they please. They’re not just capable of it—that’s their desire. If trying to blow up an internationally funded religious center wasn’t enough to prove that to you, then you’re not very bright.” He turned to Devin again. “If you plan to go to that swap, you’ll need to make sure they behave. So my question is—you and what army?”
Devin shut the trunk. “I was hoping you could help with that.”
Saul looked into Devin’s eyes, trying to read him. Then he visibly straightened himself.
“OK. We have to prepare for an exchange—and we have some things to find out. Devin, come with me. John, find Carson. He’ll show you where to put Tariq. Hannah, see what you can scrounge up in the kitchen. I imagine you’re all starved. We’ll gather in the house for supper in an hour.”
He turned, and Devin followed Saul across the yard to the tactical building. Saul entered a room where a few couches faced an old battered television. A rug was thrown across the floor, covered in grainy dust.
Saul moved to the middle of the room and kicked the floor rug out of the way with his foot, revealing a metal hatch in the floor. He knelt, pulled the hatch open, and signaled Devin to go down into the darkness below.
The steps leading down were steep, nearly vertical. He stepped onto solid floor and looked around. The room was pitch black.
“There should be a switch to your left,” Saul said, and Devin groped until his fingers glided over the wide plastic stub.
He gave the industrial switch a push, and a loud popping sound thundered through the darkness as the overhead lights fluttered on, filling the place with a sickly fluorescent glow. His eyes adjusted to the light.
Guns.
Racks and racks of guns lined the tiny room.
Shotguns, rifles, pistols. Boxes of ammunition.
To his right he saw a row of Colt M4 Carbines—the fully automatic little brother to the M16.
Devin moved to the top of the stairs again, looking at Saul, dumb-founded. “Are you preparing for a war?”
“I’ve been preparing for this.” He looked Devin squarely in the face. “You know what you’re getting yourself into, son?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you’re prepared to see it to the end?”
“Yes, sir.”
Saul considered for a moment. “I’ll make some phone calls.”
J
OHN LOOKED AT
T
ARIQ
Ali.
He and Carson had moved the young Palestinian to a room in the tactical building. This was where they would keep him until further notice. Not an ideal option, but it was the best they could do with such short notice.
John had spent nearly thirty minutes in the building, just trying to get some feeling of the young man they’d captured. Anything at all—anything that might tell him what to do next.
He felt nothing.
John stared at Tariq through a metal grating welded in place in the door frame, guarding what now served as a makeshift prison cell. Tariq sat on a chair, saying nothing. John put a hand on the grating and looked at the other man, trying to study his face. For the first time since he’d stepped into the building he could feel something—Tariq was holding something back.
“You said something about the others. What others?” John asked, hoping for some kind of visceral response, some kind of giveaway that he could feel.
Tariq looked away, and John felt a surge of emotion coming from the man—he was definitely hiding something.
“Is something else going to happen? Is there another attack being planned?”
No reply.
After twenty minutes of getting nowhere, John sighed and walked away. Time for a shower. And supper.