The Firstborn (51 page)
The barrel of an AK assault rifle peeked through the doorway, waist height, flagging the position of the incoming individual.
A mistake.
Devin capitalized, his foot lifting high, slamming into the front end of the weapon. The gun went off, sending a bluster of gunfire into the far wall. The gun hand recovered, trying to swing back into position. Another kick. The gun pinned against the frame.
The rifle went off like thunder—the muzzle flash flickered in the dimness, bullets ripped at the wall. The porcelain toilet exploded. The room blossomed with shards of white. The pipe burst, sending a torrential spray of water blasting through the room. Water touched one of the fluorescent bulbs overhead, and it exploded in a downpour of sparks.
Devin leaped forward, pistol blasting—the shot sent wide by a swinging fist.
The big man lunged into him. Thin by proportion, but a foot taller. Long curly hair. Scruffy mustache.
Devin took a blow to the face.
His world spun in the tumult of water and sparks, the only remaining light flickering like a strobe.
Devin’s foot slipped on the wet floor, and he went hurtling backward. A solid kick sent the pistol from his hand, sliding behind the destroyed toilet. He flipped to his front and onto his hands and knees to push his way up in the swirling inch of water.
Brawny hands grabbed the back of his shirt.
Devin felt himself being lifted, then plunged beneath the surface of the bathtub’s water.
Bitter cold water.
Chunks of ice floated around his ears.
The hands pulled him back—then dunked him again.
Devin held his breath. The hands pulled him back again.
He moved with the force of the pull, throwing his head back. The hard bone in the back of his skull connected with the man’s face, and he stumbled back, clutching his nose. Blood slicked the tumbling drops of water that clattered to the floor.
Devin spun and kicked at the back of the guy’s knee. The big man recovered fast. Devin punched hard, striking the already bloody face.
The man’s head snapped back—whiplashed by the force of the punch. Long curly strands snapped backward, water cascading from them.
Three vicious blows. Rapid succession. The big man began to buckle from the onslaught.
Devin felt brawny hands grab his collar—his body was shoved back, slamming into the wall, forming a crater in the plaster. An ancient calendar—open to July of 1972—fell from the wall.
Devin punched again.
The man stumbled back.
Another blow. And another. And another.
A heavy fist took Devin across the cheek. Strong fingers curled around his neck. His body shifted hard as his weight was thrown against the sink, hitting it with his hip. The wind escaped him. The man focused on Devin’s throat, squeezing.
A swift blow from each side landed hard on the sides of the big man’s head. He let go with his strangling hand. An elbow to the man’s forehead—the terrorist’s skull connected with the medicine cabinet. The glass mirror fractured with a caving smash, the glass giving way in a spider-webbing crater.
Pills, bottles, and toiletries spilled from the shelves into the sink.
The big man shoved Devin back, and he fell against the claw-foot bathtub, his head hitting the hard metal. He howled in pain.
Devin tumbled to the tile floor, rolling to his chest. He looked up.
The terrorist was in the doorway—AK-47 in hand.
The weapon was leveled at Devin’s chest.
The gunman aimed deliberately.
Devin knew what was coming next.
The sounds of gunfire bounced off the walls, echoing through the bathroom.
The bullets punched through the newspapers, shattering the glass, shredding the amber-hued coverings.
The world went still.
Devin braced himself against the bathtub as he watched the man drop to the floor.
Where once had stood the big man now stood another figure—
John Temple, pistol in hand—battered and bloody.
Devin stood, moving toward the other man.
“Are you OK?”
John looked down at the weapon, an expression of horror on his face. He dropped the pistol on the floor—stumbling against the door frame, propping himself up.
Devin looked at the body, then looked back at John.
A realization struck him that he didn’t want to admit. He looked at the other man.
“You saved my life.”
John looked into Devin’s face, the ruddiness leaving his cheeks.
“I know,” he said soberly. He put a hand on Devin’s shoulder. “I know,” he said again.
Then Devin felt it—a gnawing in his stomach.
He pulled John’s arm over his shoulder.
“We have to get out of here.”
Blake came around the corner, weapon raised high. The fourth and final floor. Nowhere else to run.
He saw a man standing there, stacking explosives into a briefcase.
The window was open to the left. The fire escape clung to the side of the building just outside. The man still intended to carry out his plan.
Blake raised his weapon. His finger moved to the trigger. The sights drifted over the man’s chest.
Then he felt it.
Something warm in his chest.
His name is Hassan.
A beautiful woman.
A valiant pursuit.
Young love.
A beautiful wife.
A husband.
School.
A doctor.
The arrival of his first child.
Hassan crying with pride and joy.
A father.
Three children.
A family.
Love.
Violence.
His children killed before his eyes.
His wife dying in his arms.
Pain. Anguish. Fury.
Bloodshed.
Blake looked at the man and saw himself.
No separation. Just two men.
Hassan’s eyes lifted.
Blake’s weapon lowered.
He wanted to hold the man, to let him sob and weep on his shoulder. So much pain. So much loss.
Blake didn’t want this man to die. He didn’t want to kill him. He saw the world through this man’s eyes—and it was bitter.
Hassan looked at Blake, eyes following the weapon as it lowered. Something softened in the man’s eyes. Hassan clutched something in his fist—cylindrical—a detonator?
Then he said something. Loud. Strong. Unwavering. Sincere in belief.
“
ALLAHU AKBAR!
”
God is the greatest.
S
UNDAY AN EXPLOSION WENT
off in an abandoned building in Washington DC.” Devin Bathurst fastened a gray tie around his neck, listening to the radio as he prepared for his meeting. “While there are no eyewitness accounts available at this time, preliminary findings indicate that it was the headquarters of a terrorist cell working out of the District of Columbia.”
Devin examined the tie in the mirror, removed it, and reached for another, the hotel shower dripping in the background.
“The blast completely destroyed the top floor of the building, causing the eventual collapse of the building. Currently it is believed that the explosive devices that were being built there went off accidentally, killing the occupants of the building. The FBI and Department of Homeland Security have not been forthcoming with additional details. While sifting through the wreckage, the FBI and the Department of Homeland Security both have stated that the remains of five individuals have been found. Three of them have now been identified by dental records, and so far all three have been confirmed to have had ties with Middle Eastern terrorist organizations.”
Devin looked at the assortment of ties he’d laid across the bed. None of them were right. His eye was caught by a yellow tie with blue stripes that had been given to him as a gift. He suddenly imagined John Temple wearing it—exactly the kind of thing he would wear.
He thought about what was going to have to be said to these people. The things that needed to be done. Reckless things.
Devin reached for the yellow and blue tie.
“Today we have Allen Feinstein, a representative from the FBI with us. Allen, tell me about what the FBI and the Department of Home-land Security have found so far.”
“Well, there are a lot of things I’m not allowed to talk about, but I can say that as of yet we are still piecing together what did happen, and at this point there is still a lot of speculation. And I’m guessing personally that we will probably never know exactly what happened in Washington DC this last Sunday, but I think I speak for everyone who has been involved in this investigation, that we are all very lucky and very blessed that things happened the way they did, instead of the alternative.”
Devin fastened his tie in a double Windsor knot and turned off the radio. He had a meeting to get to.
A group of children scurried in circles around the jungle gym, moving as quickly as their fledgling legs would take them across the sand.
All were safe. None were harmed.
Laughing. Smiling. Living.
John Temple sat on the park bench watching, elbows resting on his knees, fingers clasped casually. High-pitched shrieks of joy lifted from the children’s play as they carried on without care for the dangers that daily passed them by.
He smiled at them. So small. So reckless. So free.
They were what he had spent these last days fighting and bleeding for—children. The legacy of the past. The joy of the present. The hope of the future.
Someone sat down next to him.
“Trista?”
“Devin told me you were here,” she said. She wore a blue sweater and faded blue jeans. Her hair was down, and a single blonde strand fluttered across her face. “How’s your neck?”
“Seventeen stitches,” he said, touching the puffy pad on the side of his neck, the swelling bruises on his face throbbing. “I’m going to be fine.”
John looked back at the children, a single giddy squeal rising from the gaggle. He cleared his throat. “I heard you were going to be leaving the country.” He looked at her and she nodded.
“I figured it would be good to get away from everything for a while.”
John nodded. “Where do you plan on going?”
“South America.”
“How long are you going to be gone?”
“Awhile. I can’t say for certain when I’ll be back.”
“When do you leave?” John gulped, trying to keep his voice from cracking.
“Tonight,” she said firmly. “This is something I have to do. I plan to do some missions work. Get back to what I love.” They were quiet for a moment. “Besides, I haven’t left the country since you and…” She stopped, her face turning to him with a pained expression. “John,” she began hesitantly, “there’s something I wanted to discuss with you.”
John nodded empathetically.
“These last few days we’ve spent some time together—”
“I know”—he shook his head—“I know.”
“Really?”
“I’ve done a lot of thinking,” he said slowly. “I was wrong to pursue you when I knew you weren’t available. I was wrong to walk away without an explanation, and I was wrong to bother you now.”
“Oh,” she replied.
“It’s taken me a long time to realize it, but I was wrong. I should have left you alone.”