The Firstborn (33 page)
Tariq’s shoulders heaved under the onslaught of unbearable heat, skin slick with an oily sheen of dripping sweat. Tariq didn’t budge.
Devin opened the novel in his hands and began to read.
He was halfway though the novel before he began to worry. Time slunk along. Tariq didn’t move. The novel was tedious, filled with sketchy facts, unnecessary detail, and nauseating melodrama. Just the kind of thing Professor Saul Mancuso would read.
Devin closed the book, then looked at his watch—less than an hour until the exchange. Not even sixty minutes to learn everything he could from this young man before he’d have to trade him.
Anger overcame Devin. He’d wasted his time trying to be humanitarian with a man who had no respect for the idea. Now his time was nearly up. He’d squandered what chances he’d had to capitalize on this moment by giving this obstinate punk the chance to do the right thing—something he obviously wasn’t going to do on his own.
“Mr. Ali,” Devin said, standing, his voice as solid and commanding as he knew it could be, “look at me.”
Tariq turned his head, looking over at Devin, acknowledging his presence with an attitude of contempt.
“Mr. Ali, I’m done with you. You are a member of a terrorist cell whose aim is to kill children—I will gain information from you. Do you understand?”
Tariq glared for a moment, then turned around, walked back to his corner, and curled into a ball.
Devin took a step back, then turned, walked out of the cell, and shut the barred door.
“Fine,” he said to himself. “We do it the hard way.”
John was moving through the hall when he looked up and saw Trista from behind. Hair up, shoulders back.
“I don’t understand,” John said, approaching Trista from behind. She stopped, obviously holding her breath. “Why did you request to work with me?”
She hung her head—clearing her throat as her face turned toward him slightly. “I have my reasons, John. You don’t have to read into everything.”
He stepped up next to her, circling in front. Her eyes were turned away from him. His hand raised to her chin, fingertips gently drawing her face toward him. Trista’s eyes lifted to meet his, surprisingly wide.
Blue. Her eyes were blue. He’d nearly forgotten that.
He could feel a shock to his lungs, like he’d been dropped in a pool of frozen water. “You talk like you don’t even know me,” he said with a twinge of tremble in his voice.
Trista didn’t seem to breathe for a moment. She cleared her throat and seemed to instantly transform, breathing normal, face businesslike. Trista reached up, removing John’s fingertips from her chin. “I thought I knew you,” she said with a flat nod, “but you lied to me, John Temple. You put me at the center of a scandal that ruined my reputation. Then you left me hanging while you hid in Asia.”
He was quiet for a moment. “Do you remember the time we took the train into the mountains in Barcelona and got lost?”
Her frosty look stayed for a moment, then broke as she let out a small embarrassed laugh. She looked away, nervously chewing a fingernail.
“We were supposed to be gone for three hours,” John said warmly, leaning closer. “Four wrong trains, and we nearly made it to France.”
She tried to hide her smile. “You’re supposed to be the traveler.”
“Hey,” John said, feeling an impish smile on his face, “it was your idea.”
“But you,” she said, smiling as she jabbed a sharp fingernail into his chest, “were supposed to be navigating.”
“We spent eight hours on trains that day—nonstop.” John looked at his feet, suddenly feeling exposed. He lifted his head, looking her in the eyes with every ounce of boldness he could summon. “I think it may be my favorite memory.”
Trista took a step back, crossing her arms, trying to regain some of her seriousness. “Of us?” she asked.
John didn’t blink. “Ever.”
Trista remained silent for a moment, expression enigmatic and pensive. She nodded after a few moments. “I remember that day too.”
He looked at the wall, examining the cinder block walls, nodding.
Silence.
John scratched the back of his head. “I loved you; you know that, right?”
Trista’s warmth evaporated, her jaw setting, expression scathing. “Don’t say that, John. It’s not fair.”
“I did love you,” John insisted, putting a hand on her arm.
She pushed the hand aside and took another step back. “Don’t lie to me and then tell me you love me, John. It was never meant to be,” she said, turning and walking away, “and that just hurts too much.”
“Wait,” John called after her. “Trista?”
She didn’t look back.
A power drill. Three speeds. Reversible, with a forest of bits waiting to be locked into place.
The plastic case came open with a snap, and Devin lifted the device from its nest. He gave the trigger a pull—a shrieking buzz, the bit’s grooves blurring like a twister, the pistol grip shivering mechanically in his hand.
Good, it worked.
He let go of the trigger and released the bit from its place. His fingertips slid over the collection, touching them each in turn.
That one.
A spade bit, used for drilling holes through walls—a wide bit with a spike protruding from its flat middle. It looked menacing—good. It would also be effective, and that was equally good.
It would punch a hole through the back of a man’s kneecap.
“What are you doing?” a voice asked from behind. He looked back and saw John Temple standing there. The man saw the drill in his hands—eyes suddenly startled.
“Tariq is going to talk. It’s simple mathematics. Hurt a man badly enough and he’ll tell you everything you want to hear.”
“Even if it’s not the truth?”
“There’s more to it than that,” Devin replied, adjusting the bit.
“How?” John growled. “How could it possibly be more complicated?”
Devin looked down at the drill in his hand. He shook his head. This would never work. They would never be able to return Tariq to society—they’d have to kill him.
His phone buzzed in his pocket.
He set the drill down and snapped the phone open. John watched him intently. “This is Bathurst.”
“It’s nine thirty,” Blake’s voice announced. “What are the locations?”
Devin moved to the nearby table, picked up a list of locations, and read them off. “You have ten minutes to make your choice. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
“Good.”
He hung up and stepped into the next room. “We’ll have a location in ten minutes.”
The room remained quiet.
“It’s time to get ready, people.”
John stood at the doorway of the outbuilding, light spilling out behind him into the dark of night. Saul approached and stood next to him.
John shook his head. “I just walked in on Bathurst. He had a drill. He was going to use it on Tariq—luckily his phone rang and he didn’t have a chance to use it.”
Saul nodded.
“What a heartless thug,” John spat.
“No,” Saul said, shaking his head. “He is what he is, and you can’t understand it any more than he understands you.”
“I’m not deranged.”
Saul considered for a moment. “Would you shoot a man if he was going to kill a child?”
“Yes.”
“Then what would you do to save a hundred children?”
John sat in silence. “Are you saying he was right?”
“I’m saying he was willing to do what you weren’t—what needed to be done. The world needs people like him.”
“I don’t know—”
“And you stopped him, because you are his conscience—and people like him need people like you—despite the fact that he doesn’t want to hear that.”
“Is that your point?”
Saul shrugged. “I’m just an old man with too much time on his hands. I’ve read too many books and lost too many friends—what do I know? But if you ask me—the world needs everyone.”
“Even the people we don’t like?”
“Especially the people we don’t like.”
M
4 C
ARBINES DISLODGED FROM
their racks, clutched by the hands of the Fallen.
Weapons loaded.
Actions cracked.
Body armor strapped into place.
“OK, people,” Devin said, standing at the front of the room, “are you ready?”
A collective shout.
“Bow your heads.”
Many faces dipped in reverence—others simply remained silent out of respect.
“Heavenly Father, be with us tonight as we go to face an enemy that seeks to destroy. We ask that You be with us. Lord, give us the strength to stand our ground and to fulfill Your will. In Your holy name—”
“Amen.” The word thundered in chorus.
Minutes later they were leaving. Vehicles were loaded in twos and threes. Engines revved and headlights flashed on.
Devin stood with Trista in the dark of the outdoors. He turned to her.
“Keep an eye on Temple when he gets back—don’t let him do anything irrational.”
“Understood.”
“Good.”
As Devin climbed into the driver’s seat, his phone buzzed. “This is Bathurst.”
“We’ve decided on a location.”
“Where?”
“Location two.”
“Understood. We’ll meet you there.”
“And one more thing.”
“What’s that?”
“I want Hannah to be the one to make the confirmation on Morris.”
Devin’s heart dropped. “No,” he said flatly. “I won’t let you pull her any deeper into this. She still has a chance at a life outside of all of this.”
“That’s not your choice, Bathurst. Tell her to do it and see if she does the right thing.”
“Fine,” Devin replied with a snarl. “I’ll ask her.”
“Good.”
He stepped out of the car and walked to the armory in the tactical building.