The Firstborn (46 page)

She reached for her seat belt.

“Hannah?”

She looked up at Blake, who was nearly turned around in the seat in front of her. It was just the two of them in the vehicle now. “I need you to do me a favor—something that will help both of us.”

“What is it?” she asked cautiously.

He heaved a sigh, scratching his chin. “If we’re going to let you off the hook for helping Bathurst, then I need you to show everybody that you’ve changed sides.”

“I…”

“And it needs to be a pretty bold statement.”

“Blake.” She looked his face over. “This isn’t…”

He pushed his jacket to the side, reaching to his hip. There was a snapping noise, and he brought his hand back, holding a pistol.

Hannah didn’t know the name of the weapon, but she’d seen them in movies about World War II—a classic American model. Blake turned the weapon, holding it by the barrel, extending the grip to her.

“Colt 1911,” he announced, “forty caliber, seven rounds plus one in the pipe.”

She looked the gunmetal over, examining the rough texture of tiny raised pyramids that checked the back of the grip. Her voice was small. “What are you asking me to do?”

“I’m sorry,” he said, shaking his head, “but if Devin Bathurst refuses my offer, I’m going to have to make an example of him. If I’m going to protect you, then you’re the one who’s going to have to do it. Got it?”

Blake reached for the door handle, beginning his slide from his seat.

“Blake,” she stammered, “I don’t think I can.”

He stopped, staring out the car door, then looked back at her. “Then pray Devin sees reason.”

Devin Bathurst climbed out of the SUV’s trunk, hands bound behind his back, two guards pointing weapons at his chest.

“This way,” one of them announced.

He stepped forward and saw the collection of people, all standing in a wooded clearing. Armed guards—Domani Paramilitary, Prima Militia, Ora Strike Force, all surrounding the Fallen who stood, ragged and defeated, in a small cluster.

The two escorting guards shoved Devin in front of the gathering of people, and he stared back at them. He recognized most of the faces—all of the Fallen, including Dr. Saul Mancuso, who crossed his arms, defiantly glaring at the guards around him. To the far right stood Morris Childs, a look of concern crossing his features, with his niece, Trista Brightling, standing next to him.

“Devin Alexander Bathurst,” Blake announced, approaching from the left, standing at the edge of the small crowd, “do you know why you’re here?”

Devin took a breath and put his shoulders back.

“Do you?” Blake asked again.

Devin said nothing.

“You’re here because you have knowingly and deliberately defied the office of Overseer—a position created by God. You have engaged in conspiracy against the Firstborn and engaged in deliberate sedition. Do you acknowledge these charges?”

Devin wanted his hands to be free. He wanted to step forward and deck the cocky punk. Instead, he said nothing.

“I’m prepared to pardon you, Mr. Bathurst. I just need to know whose side you’re on. Are you with us?”

Devin’s muscles tightened. His face began to grimace. “No,” he said flatly. “I’m not with you.”

“Mr. Bathurst,” Blake began, his voice rising, his tone straining, “I don’t think you understand what you’re saying. If you don’t give up your childish defiance of God, then you are going to be judged by God.”

“There’s a difference between you and God.”

“I know the truth—which you defy.”

“Is there a chance you’re wrong?”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“What if you’re wrong and are just too stubborn to admit it? What then? How many people have to suffer to feed your ego and your intellectual comfort? How many people—”

“That’s enough, Mr. Bathurst!” Blake shouted.

“No,” Devin announced again, “we’re all different.”

“But we’re united!”

“Under one man—one way of thinking and seeing.”

“Mr. Bathurst!”

“If we approach each other with smug arrogance, then how can we ever love each other?”

“You have a lot of nerve,” Blake started.

Then Devin felt it—a glistening up his spine, like a thousand tiny spider legs. That old familiar feeling.

The future.

John Temple. A bathroom. Lights snapping off and on.

Chaos.

Water. Plunging beneath the surface—back to air, then down into the darkness again.

Screaming. Frustration. Video camera.

The hacksaw. John’s neck. The arm rocking back and forth. Dirty water filling with blood.

Crimson swirls.

Devin looked up at Blake as the man finished saying something with a growl.

Blake stopped.

Silence.

A bird chirped in the woods.

“Who cares?” Devin asked.

“Excuse me?”

“Who cares if either one of us is right or wrong? If one way of seeing is better than another?”

The crowd stared.

“If we can’t even love each other—then what do we stand for?” Blake was silent.

Devin held for a moment. They were all looking at him now. “Who cares if we take care of the people who are like us, who agree with us? Everybody does that. Even dictators take care of their friends. But if we can’t love the people who are different from us—respect them for who they are and how they see the world—then how are we any better than killers ourselves?”

The crowd remained silent. At the far right Morris Childs nodded, smiling.

“There are things here that are far more important than our stubborn pride. There’s a world out there that has to be dealt with—even if we don’t agree on how, we still have to be there for each other.”

“Mr. Bathurst,” Blake growled.

Devin turned his back and dropped to his knees, the way his grandmother had taught him. His wrists were bound, so he couldn’t clasp his hands in front of him, but his head bowed, eyes closed.

And he began to pray.

Hannah watched as Devin lowered his head.

The way he had in San Antonio—the prayer of a lone man.

Blake turned to her, face snapping her direction. He grabbed her arm. “Hannah—it’s time. You have to be the one to do this. You have to make sure everyone knows what happens if they defy God.”

She felt him lead her to the front of the small crowd and push her forward. Hannah stood there, pistol in hand.

“Mr. Bathurst,” Blake began again, “because of your repeated refusal to admit your failings and your constant defiance to the office of Overseer, you have been judged.”

Blake turned to the others.

“I want everyone to know that this is what happens when you defy God.”

He turned to Hannah, motioning her toward Devin.

She looked down at the firearm in her hand, turning it over. She held her place.

Blake stepped forward. “What is it?” he whispered in her ear.

“I can’t do it.”

He gripped her shoulder hard. “You have to. There’s no other way.” She shook her head.

“I won’t.”

“Hannah Rice, do this and it will be the last thing you ever have to do for me. After this you will never have to be part of the Firstborn again—but we have to show these people that you’ve earned it.” He patted her on the shoulder. “Now do it.”

He took a step away from her toward the crowd.

She looked down at Devin. He had to know what was going on—yet he remained calm.

“No,” Hannah said with a small voice.

Blake stopped. “What?”

Her eyes lifted, staring him in the face. “I said no. I won’t do it.”

“Hannah Rice—do not defy me!”

“I’m sorry, Blake.”

“Hannah, do it!”

“No!” she said flatly.

The world stared in disbelief. She felt a small tremor run through her chest. This wasn’t her.

“I’m ordering you as Overseer—”

“Do not make me choose between you and God—because you will lose. I don’t care if you can offer me comfort and simplicity—that’s not what I was made for.”

“I was appointed by God. This is His judgment on Devin Bathurst.”

She stepped forward, took Blake’s hand, and pressed the firearm into his palm. “If you’re so sure you know the mind of God, then you’re going to have to shoot Devin Bathurst yourself.” Hannah turned around and stepped toward Devin. “And that means you’ll have to shoot me too.”

Hannah knelt down to Devin’s right and bowed her head, folding her hands in front of her.

Morris Childs watched as Blake stood, seething. It was obvious—Blake’s plan wasn’t working.

His panicked face looked into the watching crowd. The whole point of this expedition was to send a message—but the message being conveyed was one of weakness.

Blake began shouting at the crowd, trying to explain why he was going to have to do this. Morris simply watched the back of Devin’s head. The young man was like a son to him—a son he had betrayed, plotted against, and deceived, but a son nonetheless.

Blake turned toward Devin, lifting the pistol, angling at the back of the man’s dark head. Morris felt it—a tingling on his tongue, almost a sour taste—

The gun going off.

The round exploding from the muzzle.

The hole punched through the back of Devin’s head.

The body, slumped forward, weeping blood.

The future—seconds away.

Morris stepped forward, saying nothing. Blake must have heard him. He turned, pistol in hand.

“What are you doing?”

Morris felt a hand press into his chest, blocking his way. He eyed his spot next to Devin.

“I’m standing where I belong,” Morris said with a nod, and shoved past.

“I won’t let you do this!” Blake shouted.

Morris shook his head and continued walking. “I don’t follow you.”

Behind him Morris heard Blake moving, shifting. A mechanism clicking.

Then he heard something else—

The gunshot exploded through the silent air of the forest clearing.

Blake watched as Morris Childs went sprawling forward, back arching, arms flailing, chest striking the dirt.

Dust rose in a cloud.

The body lay still.

The sound of the echoing gunshot rolled through the trees.

Blake looked down at the pistol in his hand—smoke curling from the hot barrel and ejection port, rising like steam. He looked back at the gathered crowd. They stared at him in disbelief. Trista Brightling rushed forward, kneeling at her uncle’s side, checking him, making panic-stricken noises.