The Firstborn (32 page)
“Tariq, this is about children,” John pleaded.
“It’s about freedom!” Tariq stood. “When people are denied their freedom, they must fight back—and none of the world will support Palestine, so Palestine must fight for itself.” He moved toward the grating. “Maybe once America has lost a fraction of the children whom they have killed they will start to see reason!”
John was flabbergasted. “Tariq, do you realize what you’re saying? You’re talking about murder. Do you really hate humanity that much?”
Tariq threw his hands at the grating. “I love humanity. I love the children of this world.” Tears began to flood his eyes. “I have a family and friends and loved ones. I don’t want to kill, but we have been given no choice. That’s why I must become a martyr.”
“Do you really want to die that badly?”
“No!” he shouted, shaking the grate. “I want to live. I want to have a family and friends and peace—but as long as innocent people are being murdered in my homeland, then none of this is possible.”
“But you’re an American!”
“It’s my Muslim brothers and sisters who are being murdered—I can’t turn my back on them. The world hates us and wishes to kill us all. They love to make us die—so we learn to love death as much as they love life. Do you understand? You can’t murder the willing.”
John shook his head. “You can’t possibly think that this will bring you freedom.”
“But it has. A man who is not afraid to die is free indeed.” Tariq glared into John. “Are you afraid to die?”
“No,” John said.
“Why?” Tariq demanded.
“Because I know that I’ll go to heaven. I’ll be with Jesus forever.”
Tariq continued his stare, eyes narrowing. “You are afraid to die.”
“No, I’m not. I have security in Christ.”
“Words. With you everything is a show. You are afraid to die—because you don’t really believe what you’re saying. You simply decided to become a Christian, like all Americans, and then never had the guts to consider the world from another perspective.”
“That’s not true,” John said, backpedaling. He was being read, just as he did of others so often. Tariq was looking into him, seeing the soft spots, pushing the buttons.
“You settled on a religion—a way of seeing the world—because it was convenient, and you know it. You don’t really believe what you claim to believe until you are willing to die for it. So let me ask you—what are you willing to die for?”
John said nothing. He simply walked away.
I
T WAS MORNING
.
John sat on the treads of a backhoe, staring into the trees. What Tariq had said the night before shook him.
It was the “golden hour,” as his friends in the film industry referred to it. A soft amber haze settled on everything, twinkling through the leaves. None of this was a comfort to John. He rubbed the back of his neck, kneading the flesh, trying to work out the knots. He hadn’t slept well on the guest bed, one of many Saul had in his outbuildings.
“I heard you were out here,” a female voice said softly.
“Hannah?” He turned.
Trista. His heart seized in his chest—he tried not to let on. “I heard you were coming.”
She shrugged. “They have my uncle, and I wanted to help.”
John stood, walking to her. She was dressed more casually than usual—designer blue jeans and a burgundy sweater—he was used to seeing her in a skirt. Her features were commanding, yet feminine as ever, not a hair was out of place—her posture was perfect. “Did Saul call you?”
“He made a call asking if I had any leads regarding Morris’s whereabouts.”
“Do you?” John asked.
“No. But when I found out what was going on here I wanted to be part of it.”
“Did you come from New York?”
She nodded.
John put his hands in his pockets. “I’m sorry I tried to talk to you in San Antonio. It was tacky.”
She shook her head, eyes apologetic. “None of that matters now. You’re working to help my uncle—that’s all that matters.”
“Doing this wasn’t my idea.”
“But you’re still here.” Her eyes dropped. She reached out, taking John’s hand by the fingertips, lifting her eyes again. “Thank you.”
“No problem.”
Her eyes wandered again. “I’m sorry for barging in on you like this. You wanted to be alone, didn’t you?”
“No,” he said, cradling her hand in his own, drawing it to his chest.
She looked up at him, breath laboring, eyes softening. “John, I—”
He leaned in to kiss her.
Her expression soured. “What are you doing?” she demanded, pushing away. “John, I thought you understood. We can’t do this. It would never work.” She backed away slowly, shaking her head. “I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong impression. I shouldn’t have come out here.”
She walked away, leaving John hanging his head.
Looking over their tiny army late afternoon, Devin waited for Saul to explain the situation.
In total, there were fifteen of them in the living room—four First-born and eleven Fallen men. Women lost faith and left the Firstborn as well, but the stereotype was men, and that was precisely what Saul had found: ten angry men, the bitterness that came from years of coercion and manipulation rising to their faces now.
Of course there were many more Fallen whom Saul knew and had contact with. But not all of them could be helpful. Not all of them could have made it in time. But these men—these especially angry, dedicated men—were the people whom Devin would have to rely upon.
Saul stood at the front of the room. “All right,” he said gruffly. “Doubtless you’re all up to speed, but I’ll recap.
“Thursday night at the annual conclave in San Antonio it was discovered that Blake Jackson was planning to destroy a major mosque in Washington DC. While that attempt was thwarted, his target, a Palestinian and would-be terrorist, Tariq Ali, was apprehended by Mr. Bathurst and his companions.
“Jackson also made apparent that he has kidnapped and is holding Morris Childs—patriarch of the Domani. With the recent death of Henry Rice, patriarch of the Prima, Morris’s death would certainly plunge the Firstborn into chaos, and that will be bad for all of us.”
There was chattered agreement.
“It’s time for us to tell the Firstborn what they needed to hear back when we all left—that they’re not always right. They are not perfect, and they can’t push people around.”
A swell of agreement rose into the air.
“Blake Jackson called us Thresher.” There were groans and growls. “I say that if he considers us Thresher, then that’s exactly what we’ll be.” A round of applause shook the room. “Now, we have some preparing to do.” He turned to Devin and nodded for him to begin.
“We’re down to five locations,” Devin said, pointing to the map, “here, here, and here. All are good locations. We’ll give them ten minutes to decide—which will provide them with enough time that they won’t back out of the deal but not enough time to plan an ambush.”
The room of Fallen listened intently as Devin continued—sleeves of his dress shirt rolled to his elbows, top button undone. He felt under-dressed for a briefing, but he was getting tired.
“I’ve been over all of this several times before, but I’ll say it all again: I want you all carrying weapons. We hopefully won’t need them, but it should be a deterrent if they decide to try something. I also want you in body armor. There are bulletproof vests with the weapons—be sure to have one.” He stopped for a moment, looking over their faces. “Do you all understand?”
It was serious. Devin knew that. The danger was real, and the people here stood a good chance of getting shot if something went wrong. He wanted them to know that, and from the looks on their faces it appeared the message was sinking in.
“We’ll be breaking down into three teams—one small team to stay here and monitor the confirmation made by Blake’s man, one team to drive him there and back, one team to stay at the drop in a show of force, and someone to make the confirmation. John?”
“Yes?”
“I want you to keep an eye on Blake’s man when he comes to make his confirmation.”
John nodded. “OK.”
“This is a big responsibility; are you sure you can handle it?”
John nodded again. Devin knew that John was more likely to act on instinct than think something through. Normally it was what he disliked about John Temple, but in this situation it was exactly what they needed.
“Mr. Bathurst?” a female voice asked.
“Ms. Brightling?”
Trista stood in the corner, but even that couldn’t seem to keep her presence from flooding the room. “I’d like to join John in that duty.”
John was overcome by obvious surprise.
“Why?” Devin asked. He didn’t like the two of them together.
“I don’t have military or police training like a lot of these men do. I doubt I’d be much use at the exchange—either for looking menacing or shooting back if it comes to that.”
Devin nodded. “Fine. You can stay here with John and Hannah.” The meeting adjourned and the room cleared. Devin gathered the maps and the papers.
“Devin?”
He looked up. “Yes?”
It was Hannah, arms crossed, face pained. “Thank you for keeping me here.”
“I don’t want you near danger—I’ve already put you too close to these things already.”
“It’s just that…” She hesitated. The expression on her face seemed so tortured, almost like guilt. “My grandfather died trying to stop Blake—I think I should probably help.”
“No,” he said definitively. Every moment she was closer to this whole thing the further she’d be dragged into this dark and violent world. He considered telling her that she still had a shot at a future, but he held off. She was young—she’d fight him out of pure youthful indiscretion. “You’re staying here and that’s final. Understood?”
She nodded, relief plain on her face. Whatever emotions of guilt and duty she had been experiencing were beginning to subside—and that, Devin told himself, was good.
“Relax while you can,” he ordered, giving her a terse nod. “Get some rest.”
Devin strode out of the house, gearing himself up for confrontation. He approached Tariq’s makeshift cell and opened a door. Devin stood in the threshold, stance wide, hands clasped in front of him.
Tariq huddled in the corner in his boxer shorts under blazing bright lights, sweat dripping off of him.
Devin adjusted his collar. They’d put a half dozen space heaters in the hall to make Tariq’s cell unbearably hot.
“Are you ready to tell me what I need to know?” Devin asked, taking a step into the cell, shoes clipping on the cement floor.
No reply. Tariq remained huddled in the corner, unmoving.
“Do you want water? I would be more than happy to provide you with water in exchange for some information—a sign of good faith.”
Tariq’s head lifted, slick and sweaty. He pushed himself up with an arm until he was standing. “Do you want to kill me?” he asked, taking a step toward Devin. “Then kill me. I’m not afraid to die.”
It still amazed Devin—the young man was strong, good-looking, intelligent, almost no accent. Under other circumstances he’d have befriended him.
Devin took a seat in the hallway and stared at the young man. It was a waiting game now. See who would crack first. Making prisoners stand in the corner without rest had proven to be a highly successful method of gaining information in other circumstances. They didn’t have the time to wait for that, but he could still wait for the kid to crack. He would eventually.
Devin found a book—a grimy paperback novel about the Napoleonic war—and placed a chair in the hallway, taking a bottle of water from a nearby compact fridge. He sat, appearing as casual as possible.
“You look hot,” he said in Tariq’s direction.
Tariq didn’t respond. Only the belabored rising and falling of the young man’s rib cage indicated to Devin that Tariq was even still breathing.
“There are bottles of cold water in the refrigerator right here. Let me know when you want one. I’d be happy to discuss a trade.”
Devin took a sip of the ice-cold water. It tasted like the plastic bottle it was kept in, something that canteen usage had allowed him to grow accustomed to, but he made as much of a show of it as he could without breaking from his usually calm demeanor. He wanted Tariq thirsty—and as far as the kid was concerned, the contents of Devin’s bottle was the purest chilled water on the planet: melted ice from the peaks of the French Alps.