The Firstborn (34 page)

“Why me?” she asked, mind racing. “Why would they want me to confirm that Morris Childs is alive?” Her chest began to tighten—her heart speeding. “It doesn’t make sense. I don’t even know him.” Her mind filled with all of the possibilities—of shooting and violence—more trauma as she fought for her life.

“They don’t think you’re a threat. You won’t try anything.” Devin looked away.

Her hands began to shake and twitch, adrenaline flooding her system, the edges of her vision going gray. “I don’t want to do this,” she stammered.

“I won’t make you,” Devin replied.

Hannah shook her head, looking out the window to the vehicles beyond. “Why?” she asked. “Why should I be special?” She heaved a sigh, body still shuddering. “Everyone else is going—why should I escape this?”

For the first time ever Devin Bathurst looked torn to her—as if some part of him disagreed with the other. For once she saw pain and anguish crossing his features as his strong facade weakened.

“I’ve seen your future,” he said blandly, trying to sound unaffected. “You don’t have to be one of us. You can still live a normal life. You can get married and live in a big house in the suburbs and spend the rest of your life in relative comfort. But if you come any deeper into this world, I’m afraid you won’t be able to get back out.”

She listened to his words, taking them in. What if she really had a chance to have comfort—to belong? Could she pass that up?

Hannah looked down—her whole life spreading out before her. She could choose comfort—because that was the natural choice. Or she could choose pain and service—but why?

“What if this is what God’s calling me to do?” she asked quietly. “What if this is what I was made to do?”

Devin nodded. “Then you’ll ask God—because I won’t make you do this.” He took a step back. “We have to go now.”

No more time. No more future to plan for, no more present to indulge in. There was only this choice—one that she would have to live with for the rest of her life.

Devin nodded again. “I’m getting in the car. I’ll let Blake know you’re not coming.” Then he walked away, closing the door behind him.

Hannah stared at the door, body trembling. She had never been good at praying—she’d tried the traditions of formula and the free-flowing personal prayers, but she’d never found a rhythm to praying that she especially liked. All she could do was fill her mind with the dazzling blur of panic and fear that flooded out of her heart in directed chaos.

Was this what God was asking of her? Was this what she was made for? Could she trade her happiness to fulfill her purpose?

The room was silent.

Could she ever be happy without fulfilling her purpose?

Devin climbed in to the driver’s seat of the car and dialed the phone.

“Yes?” Blake replied.

“Hannah won’t be doing the confirmation.”

“No deal.”

“We already have someone else.”

“I said Hannah Rice—you give me Hannah Rice—got it?”

“I’m afraid that won’t work,” Devin replied.

“Then this exchange isn’t going to work.”

Devin held his anger in. “Blake—you have to understand—”

The car door opened and Hannah climbed into the passenger’s seat. She looked Devin in the eye—young, foolish, resolute.

“I’m going,” was all that she said. She reached for her seat belt.

“Bathurst?” Blake demanded over the phone.

“Hannah’s with me now. She’ll do the confirmation. We’ll be right there.”

Devin snapped the phone shut and slipped the vehicle into drive.

The cars moved down the road in a convoy, like a stream of ants gathering into their hill. Taillights slipped into the darkness and headlights washed the pavement with light.

A left turn—dirt roads.

Billows of dust lifted in the darkness, splaying out from the grinding of the tires as they tumbled and turned over the road.

Almost there.

Devin Bathurst looked out the window of the sedan at location two. It was an empty field in the middle of nowhere. There were no lights. Good; they’d beaten Blake’s crew to the exchange. They would have control of the ground—

He hoped.

The cars stopped in a row behind him. He got out and looked around. Devin had drilled the plan into them. They took their places behind their vehicles, using them as cover as they waited for the incoming enemy.

The night air was cool and smelled of dewy sweetness. It was hard to believe that just a few weeks ago he’d been knee-deep in snow at the epicenter of a spring blizzard, and yet here, half a continent away, it felt like early summer.

He popped the trunk, donned his bulletproof vest over his dress shirt, scooped up an M4, and threw the sling over his shoulder. He had considered putting on combat fatigues for convenience, but this was a business meeting. The bulletproof vest and the gun would explain that he was serious, but keeping a dress shirt and slacks made him look reasonable—a delicate balance to strike while staring a dangerous enemy in the teeth.

Hannah stepped up next to him, wrapping her arms around herself for warmth. “Are they coming?”

“They should be here any minute.” He reached into the trunk and handed her a vest. She strapped it on. His eyes lingered on her for a moment until she looked at him.

“Is everything OK?” she asked.

Devin steeled himself, then nodded. “I am,” he said. “I have to be.” Five minutes—five agonizing minutes—passed before they saw the first of the headlights loping over the curvature of the terrain.

“Here they come,” Devin announced, and light spilled over them. The first vehicle looked like an SUV or truck, but it was impossible to make it out with the blinding lights boring into their eyes. It stopped a hundred yards away. A second vehicle joined the phalanx, followed by a third, a fourth, and a fifth. They left their engines running, rumbling in the night.

The parade continued for several minutes, the sounds of car doors opening and slamming shut—boots on dirt. They couldn’t see a thing—just headlights. Fifteen sets of headlights.

John turned his head to Devin. “I think we’re outnumbered.”

Devin nodded, analytical. “Maybe we are—or maybe we’re only supposed to think we are.”

The bright cascade of light that sliced through the night was broken by the silhouettes of five figures walking toward them.

Devin nodded. “That’s our cue.”

They stepped forward into the brightness, squinting as they tried to make out the shapes. A moment later they arrived almost halfway between the two lines of vehicles—ten feet from one another.

Blake Jackson stood in the middle of the group, wearing a thick down coat over a bulletproof vest, flanked by two men on either side—both sets wearing SWAT gear, one set blue, the other set brown camouflage.

“Bathurst,” Blake said through the dark, “glad to see you could make it yourself.”

“Likewise.”

“And you brought the girl as your representative.”

“I see you brought friends.”

Blake nodded. “Domani Paramilitary and Prima Militia. I even have members of the Ora Strike Force—compliments of Clay Goldstein.”

“The Ora Strike Force is a joke,” Devin replied definitively.

“It doesn’t matter—I still have all the power of the Firstborn on my side.”

“How did you get Goldstein on your side?” Devin asked.

“Overseer—it’s been passed.”

“And you’re the new leader of the Firstborn?”

“Interim—until we find someone else.”

John balked. “And by interim you mean indefinitely?”

“Watch it,” Blake warned.

“How did you get the Domani and the Prima to agree?”

“Morris Childs is missing and Henry Rice is dead—it wasn’t hard to do.”

“And they agreed to come after me?”

Blake nodded. “You’re holding and protecting a terrorist.”

“
You
are a terrorist.”

Blake said nothing. He simply motioned to one of the Domani Paramilitary and removed his helmet and gun, stepping forward. “Brock will be performing our confirmation.”

John Temple came alongside Brock. The man was four inches taller than John and noticeably bigger. He looked like he’d played college football or something—dark hair and blue eyes.

This was the man John would be responsible for. Devin hoped he was up for it.

Hannah looked at Devin, almost concerned. He nodded at her, and she moved toward Blake and his men.

“At your request Hannah will be performing our confirmation.”

“Good,” Blake said with a nod. “Then let’s get started.”

Hannah stepped forward, face turning back to Devin—one last look at something resembling sanity before the plunge.

Her eyes still dazzled by the headlights, she was met just ahead of the vehicles by a group of three men who looked like soldiers. One approached with a black cloth bag.

“We’re going to have to put this over your head,” he announced over the rumble of the engines.

She eyed him skeptically, trying not to shake.

“It’s for your own safety.”

Then he reached out with the bag, lifting it over her head—

And her whole world was plunged into darkness.

Once again, Hannah tumbled through the disorienting tumult of sensory deprivation. They drove for who knew how long; she tried to count the passing seconds, but her thoughts froze up in fear.

Suddenly the SUV stopped, and they pulled her out. She groped hopelessly at her world.

“Are we there?” she asked.

“No—just changing vehicles.”

“Why?”

“A precaution.”

They frisked her a second time, loaded her in another vehicle, and continued the drive—deeper into the darkness.

John looked in the rearview mirror as he drove from the exchange spot, thoughts of being ambushed on the way back to the compound filling his mind. He took a long, slow breath and looked at the man in the backseat. Brock sat perfectly still, blindfold over his eyes.

John reached for the car radio, turning it on. “What kind of music do you like?” he called to the back.

Brock grunted. “What do you listen to?” “Mostly worship music.”

“Why?” Brock laughed.

“Because I like it.”

“Whatever,” he scoffed. “It’s your business.”

John felt awkward. He turned the radio to a classical station and continued driving. After what felt like an eternity, he arrived back at the compound. There was a long buzz as he pressed the button at the gate.

Trista spoke through the intercom. “Who is it?”

“It’s John,” he said as he looked up into the camera positioned near the floodlight.

“Come on in.”

There was a buzz, and John got out of the car, moving to the fence, pushing the gate away, driving toward the building where they held the terrorist.

Darkness—that was all Hannah could see, a shroud covering her head. They had switched cars again. Maybe she was back in her original vehicle. They were driving in circles now, trying to confuse her—making sure that she couldn’t find her way back.

It was like being kidnapped all over again—that same living hell—moving, seeing, and knowing only at the whim of another. She was completely dependent upon them. Her body shook, but she didn’t struggle—passive acceptance was what she’d heard it called, the act of giving in to the will of another and not fighting back.