The Firstborn (6 page)

Devin climbed into the silver rental car and looked around. The keys were still in the ignition. He turned them and heard the rush of air—

The woods. The girl.

Snider, aiming his pistol deliberately.

“Please don’t kill me. Please!”

The girl, back turned, walking away.

Death.

Devin set the sedan into reverse, easing into the gas. He felt the tires grip and begin to slowly roll out of the snow—couldn’t rush it or he’d get stuck. He turned the car around, working the wheel to the left.

Devin pushed the gearshift forward, locking it in place, and fed the gas. The car began to move forward, gaining speed, then took off, blazing down the snowy road. His eyes glanced at the dashboard—a mile ticked over faster than it should have for the conditions. Then another. And another.

“Please don’t kill me. Please!”

The words played over again in his mind, frantic and desperate.

He was driving much, much too fast for the conditions. The back end slipped, and he adjusted the gearshift. The car was fishtailing. Too fast, he thought again, but he had no choice now. No other option. Not now. Not with the future racing toward him.

He recognized the landscape. From the other side, but this was it: his turn was just ahead, where he’d hit the drift before.

Devin’s fist wrenched the emergency brake skyward.

He spun the wheel.

The car snapped to a ninety-degree angle, sliding to a stop—right in front of the long drive.

First gear. The sedan leapt into action.

The engine snarled.

Second gear. He laid into the gas.

Over a small hill.

The house ahead.

Like the chiming of a bell announcing the drawing of midnight, the words repeated in his mind:

“Please don’t kill me. Please!”

No more time. The future was becoming the present.

The gas pedal touched the floor. The car began to fishtail, the front end nosing to the right. Devin overcorrected as control of the car slipped away from him. He fought the vehicle as he felt it tipping inexorably out of control. Something slipped beneath the car, the tires losing all traction—he was completely out of control, the car swerving perpendicular to the long drive. His foot pumped the brake, but the wheels were no longer propelling the car, only the force of gravity pulling him down the incline—screaming across a layer of slippery packed snow—careening toward a tall embankment at the end of the drive.

Devin braced for impact, and his entire body shuddered as the silver sedan plowed into the drift. The seat belt snapped tight, constricting against his chest as the force of the blow threatened to throw him out the far side of the car. The shock wave subsided, and he reached for the door handle with a disoriented hand.

Devin threw the door open and got out, Glock pistol in hand—raised in anticipation of trouble.

He stared down the iron sights at the front door of the house, only feet away. Devin moved from the car with purpose and speed, eyes locked on the front door, weapon held out in front of him as he moved up the steps.

Devin turned the door handle and gave a hearty kick, sending the door flinging in. He charged across the threshold and paused, weapon ready, arms locked in place, body turning with the pistol. He moved in.

Left turn—one sharp movement as he glared down the iron sights.

Nothing.

To the right—same.

Devin moved into the kitchen. On the counter was a black and white monitor—a room. Chair, bonds—that was where he’d seen the girl—but the room was empty.

Then he saw it—something more shocking. Next to the monitor was a lapel pin. A royal crest—he recognized the symbol. The Trinity knot—a triquetra—under a crenulated label: the sign of the Firstborn.

No color—simply the symbol itself. It didn’t have any of the distinctive colors: the red of the Domani, the gold of the Ora, or the blue of the Prima. But it was the symbol of the Firstborn—that was simple enough to see. And more disturbing than anything else he could consider.

A cool draft played against his cheek, and he turned. The sliding glass door was slightly ajar. Devin moved forward, looked through the glass at the distant trees—

And saw them.

Hannah screamed again.

Snider shoved her into the trees. She fell down, and he reached for her, grabbing her hair roughly with a fist.

“Do
not
make my life more difficult than it has to be. Do you understand?”

She quavered.

“
Do you understand?
”

Hannah nodded, and he pulled her to her feet. They kept walking, deeper and deeper into the trees.

Snider stopped in a clearing, a hundred yards beyond the tree line. She went to her knees. He lowered himself down to her ear, whispering.

“That way,” he said, pointing deeper into the trees. “Start walking that way, and don’t look back.”

She turned and looked at him. Her first thought was that he was letting her go, then she looked him in the eye and felt—

He’d killed before—

A deal gone bad.

A job gone wrong. Intimidation gone too far.

To survive in prison.

To repay a debt.

For money.

For safety.

For revenge.

For convenience…

She saw it all—

He was going to kill her too.

“Get up.” His voice soft but stern.

She stood and looked into his face. “Please don’t. Please don’t kill me. I won’t tell anyone. I promise.”

“Start walking,” he said flatly, “and don’t turn around.”

She held for a moment.

“Now.”

Hannah turned slowly, facing the snowy trees ahead of her, and began to walk. One foot in front of another, waiting expectantly for it to happen any moment. She turned her head, saw the man in the corner of her eye still standing there, pistol in hand.

“Keep going,” he instructed.

Another step. Another moment of life.

Another step—

Crack!

Her entire body went stiff and she looked down—she’d stepped on a twig.

“That’s good.”

She stopped, turning back to Snider.

“I didn’t tell you to turn around,” he reprimanded, as if she were a child. As she looked back into the trees she sucked air, slowly.

She looked at the trees. So beautiful. The snow and the early-morning sun. Her heart slowed. Her muscles relaxed. If this was going to be the last thing she ever saw, she was going to embrace it.

Days in a dark basement had driven her back to the faith of her childhood; now it filled her entire heart and mind.

She was coming home.

The gunshot was loud, hammering in her temples as if a hole had been punched in her eardrums. A single round fired in the stillness of the snow, echoing endlessly through the trees.

Snow dropped from branches. Birds took off into flight. And the blast rolled through the world.

She stood for a moment, waiting to feel it, but all she felt was the chill in her feet and in her lungs. Hannah looked down. No wound.

Slowly she turned around and saw Snider clutching his chest, bleeding from a steaming wound. He coughed, face confused, and a trickle of blood ran down his lip. The man hit his knees and went face-first into the snow.

The body lay there, steam rising from the hot wound. Beyond stood a man—tall, handsome, black skin—a pistol in hand raised expertly, face blank, a single twist of smoke rising from the muzzle of the weapon.

He approached Snider’s body, weapon pointed down, kicking the Beretta pistol away. Kneeling down, he checked for a pulse. When he was satisfied, he put his own weapon on safety and looked up at Hannah.

“Are you hurt?”

She shook her head.

“Good.” Then he took her by the arm and led her away.

Chapter 2

H
ANNAH STARED OUT THE
window, the world passing by.

Her forehead was cold as it pressed against the glass. She curled up in the seat, pulling her rescuer’s olive-green sport coat close.

Her rescuer didn’t speak. He sat at the wheel, eyes forward, hands set precisely at two o’clock and ten o’clock. His grip loose but obviously in control. His breaths were long and deliberate.

“Who are you?” she asked slowly.

“Pardon, miss?” he said. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to speak up.”

“Who are you?” she asked again.

His eyes remained on the road as he reached into his wallet, pulled out a business card, and handed it to her.

She scanned the card. “Devin Bathurst?”

He nodded. “Correct.”

“Financial planner and advisor?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She paused as her eyes met a familiar design. “What’s this?”

“Pardon?”

“This.” She pointed, and he glanced from the corner of his eye.

“Family crest.”

“It looks like a symbol my grandfather uses.”

“Much of heraldry looks similar to the untrained eye.”

She shook her head. “No, this is identical. Except my grandfather’s is blue.”

He was quiet for a moment. “What did you say your name was again?”

“My name’s Hannah. Hannah Rice.”

He turned his head, looking at her. She felt as if he were seeing her for the first time.

“Did you say
Rice
?”