The Firstborn (10 page)

The microwave continued its pedantic, tinny whine. The music continued its unpredictable, meandering rhythms.

His lifestyle gave him more time for work. He reached for the phone. Maybe someone was in the office and needed help with something. Devin dialed and waited a moment.

“You have reached the offices of Domani Financial. No one is currently in our offices; however, normal business hours are—”

He hung up, staring out the window into the night sky.

The microwave beeped, announcing that his food was finished warming. Devin scraped the contents onto a plate and set it on the dining room table.

He sat, bowing his head over the plate and folding his hands the way his grandmother had taught him and his brothers and sisters those many nights she had looked after them while their father worked extra hours driving a bus.

The Lord’s Prayer, muttered quietly under his breath. He concluded softly and reached for his utensils.

Devin Bathurst ate alone.

He was trying to decide if washers or screws would kill more people. At first he’d thought that screws would be the better choice—it was a simple conclusion to come to. Screws were sharp, like barbs. If he packed enough of them in front of the explosives they would make for truly lethal shrapnel. The washers, on the other hand, were flat, and he would be able to pack more of them on top of the explosives. It was a tough call.

He spent forty-five minutes arranging the tiny metallic objects in geometric patterns before finally deciding on an arrangement laid over the explosives, bound together in plastic shrink-wrap.

The next step would be to fasten them to the vest, then to wire the explosives. A detonator with a safety trigger, which would have to be held down for arming, and a detonating button on top to discharge the explosives would have to be set up for the vest to work properly.

He looked over the plans he had drawn up, partly inspired by what he had found on the Internet and partly inspired by what he had devised himself. But he knew, in the proper place, with the proper crowd, he could kill dozens.

It was too bad he didn’t live in Palestine—Hamas would have made sure that his family was taken care of for the rest of their lives for this. But the fact that they weren’t here didn’t stop him. Nothing would stop him.

Soon he would make a video recording, telling who he was and why he had chosen to die in jihad.

Joy filled his heart—soon American blood would be spilled on American soil.

They would pay for the murder of the imam.

Morris Childs staggered, nearly falling over as he braced himself against his desk.

“Are you OK?” Trista asked. He looked at his niece. She was blonde and strikingly beautiful. Morris sat in his chair. “Did you see it again?” she asked.

He nodded slowly.

She approached, holding a glass of water. He took a sip and felt the cool, refreshing liquid slide down his throat.

He sat for a moment. “I’m moving forward as planned,” he said with a sigh.

She put a hand on his shoulder to comfort him. “Are you certain it’s the only way?”

He sat for a moment, then nodded. “It’s the only way.”

Devin drove his car through the city. He was glad to be out of the snow, back in the real world, where spring had already set in.

His phone rang, chirping pedantically from the center console. He placed his wireless headset in his ear and activated the phone.

“This is Bathurst.”

“Stay away,” a garbled voice said through the headset.

“Pardon?”

“The doctrine of isolation was created for a reason—”

Not the doctrine of isolation again, he groaned inwardly. “Look, I’m afraid—”

“You drive,” the voice said calmly, “and I’ll do the talking.”

Devin frowned.

“Have you been keeping track of the news?”

“The murdered imam?” Devin asked, thoughts racing.

“That was the beginning. Now things are going to get worse. Much worse.”

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to clarify.”

“The Firstborn are in danger. Something is coming, something more terrible than anything we’ve seen in generations. Brother will turn against brother, order against order.”

“Who are you?”

“It’s more important now than ever,” the voice continued. “Stay away from the other orders. Stay away from the old man and his granddaughter. You don’t belong around them.”

There was a long pause.

“Do you understand?”

Devin sat for a moment, eyes focusing sharply on the street ahead. “Who are you?” he asked again.

“That doesn’t matter,” the voice said calmly.

“Why?” he asked, trying to understand. “Why doesn’t it matter?” The stoplight ahead blinked to red. The car slowed to a stop.

“Because,” the voice said firmly, “you can’t trust any of us.”

Then the line went dead.

Domani Financial had several offices. Chief amongst them was in Manhattan, thirty floors from the street below.

The elevator doors rolled open, and Devin stepped into his old familiar office, latte in hand. Devin liked the office. It was starkly furnished with a bold contrasting of black and white. Everyone was well dressed, well behaved, and things happened on time. It was his day job, and it made sense to him.

“Good morning, Mr. Bathurst,” the receptionist said from behind the counter.

“Good morning, Sharon,” he replied and opened a glass door set in a clear wall, leading to the main offices.

The floor was hardwood with offices lining the halls, all with glass walls where all activity could be seen. Financial planning and advising was what they did here. Venture capitalism, to be more precise. Putting people with money with people who needed investors. There was money to be made—if you knew what was coming.

“Devin,” a voice said from just down the hall.

He looked up from his copy of the
Wall Street Journal
and saw her. “Follow me,” Trista Brightling said crisply. “Mr. Childs would like to see you.” Morris Childs was actually her uncle, but Trista believed in maintaining clear boundaries between family and professional relationships in the workplace. Devin followed her to his boss’s office.

She was blonde and thin, beautiful by most standards. In fact, it had been said on more than one occasion that she could have been a model if she had chosen. No wonder that punk had taken such an interest in her—a debacle she was still recovering from.

Her face was fixed in a continual look of command and authority—nearly a scowl. She wore burgundy as was typical with her—a color that expressed both vitality and professionalism.

“Can I have Cynthia bring you anything?” she asked flatly, leading him to the office down the hall.

“No, thank you, ma’am.” “Very well.”

“Is your uncle expecting me?”

She stopped, looking at Devin. “Something has happened. Morris hasn’t left his office in days. Something has him scared.”

Trista’s face almost looked concerned—an expression she rarely had. In fact, she rarely ever gave any sign of emotion at all.

Something was very wrong.

Devin stepped into the big office and the door closed behind him, cutting off most of the room’s light with it. All the lights had been turned off, and the only source of illumination came from the tall window where the older gentleman stood, staring at the city beyond, back turned.

Morris Childs was tall, thin, bald as a billiard ball, and sharp as a tack. He always wore glasses and a crisp suit.

“How did your trip go?” Morris asked with his deep, commanding baritone voice.

“I killed someone,” Devin reported.

Morris nodded. “Was it unavoidable?”

Devin looked at the model F-4 Phantom on Morris’s desk—the craft he’d flown during the Vietnam War. Morris knew what it meant to kill or be killed.

“I believe it was.”

“What about the girl?”

“Recovered,” Devin said, considering if he should mention that it was Henry Rice’s granddaughter.

He looked at his superior again, examining the anguish that seemed to lift from his hunched shoulders. “What’s wrong?”

The older man looked down at the street, more than thirty stories below. “Something is coming,” he said soberly.

Devin joined him at the window.

Morris shook his head. “What God has shown me of the future is too little. There’s only so much I can do.”

“What do you mean?” Devin asked, “What’s coming?”

Morris stared out the window across the Manhattan cityscape. Devin followed the older man’s view to where there once stood—

“America is under attack,” he said with a sigh. “We have been for years. People who hate us because we’re different—because we value freedom.” He stopped, waited a moment.

Devin remained quiet.

“I lost friends in the World Trade Center attack,” Morris declared.

“So did I.”

“Then you understand,” Morris said with a nod. “I know you do. That’s why I gave you this job, chose to mentor you. That’s why I introduced you into the Firstborn as I did.”

Morris’s face became expressionless, nearly hypnotic as he stared out.

“We are a Christian nation, founded on the principles of mercy, love, and tolerance. But these jihadist extremists? They don’t understand that. All they know how to do is kill.”

“I don’t understand.”

Morris moved back to his desk, shoulders stooping as he braced himself against the edge. “There’s an attack coming,” he said, shaking his head. “Children,” he declared flatly. “They’re going to kill hundreds of innocent children. And I don’t know how to stop it.”

Devin moved to the side, looking the man over in profile.

“Where’s it going to be?”

“The attack? An elementary school, but other than that I have no idea.”

“Who are the suspects?”

“I don’t know.”

“What have you seen?”

Morris stood, turning around. He buried his forehead in a palm. “One man. He prays at a mosque, then enters a school wearing a bomb—”

“And kills people.”

Morris nodded. “Children. All in the name of his god.” “Do you know who the man is?”

“I never see his face. He could be anyone.”

“Do you know where the bomb is supposed to go off?”

“No.”

“You said he prays. Can you find this mosque?”

The phone rang. Morris picked it up.

“Yes?” A moment. “Put her through.” He looked up at Devin from the receiver. “It’s Audrey.”

Devin turned to go. “I’ll let myself out.”

“No, no,” Morris said, waving a hand, “this should only take a—hello, darling.”

Devin sat.

“Good,” he said with an obviously forced smile, “the grandchildren will love it.” He listened for a few more minutes. “Good,” he said again, “and Audrey—I love you.”

Morris set the phone back in the cradle.

“It’s my granddaughter Angela’s tenth birthday this weekend, and we’re throwing her a party. You’re invited, of course, as always.”

“Thank you, sir.”

There was a moment’s silence; then Devin leaned forward. “When is this attack supposed to take place?”

“I don’t know,” Morris said, polishing his glasses with his tie, “but soon.”

“Weeks?”

“Maybe.”

“Days?”

“Probably.”