The Firstborn (37 page)

Maybe there was a traitor among them.

And Morris, he thought. Hannah had insisted that Morris was behind it all.

Of course he was. He was the one who had first warned about the attack—he was the one who had organized this whole thing.

—the head of the serpent.

Trista must have suspected something. Maybe that was why she was helping them now. Or maybe she was the traitor.

He considered the possibility for a moment, but it just didn’t seem to make sense.

“Devin,” John said, standing in the doorway.

“Yes?”

“There’s a problem.”

He followed John back to the planning area, where a speakerphone sat in the middle of the table. All the Fallen gathered around.

“We got to the outbuilding,” a voice crackled over the phone through an exceptionally weak signal. “Maxwell and Danny were dead. It was a trap. They knew we were coming. There was a firefight—I’m pretty hurt, and Michael is missing.”

“Slow down,” Devin said in the calm voice he had. “Can you get back to the compound?”

“I think I’m being followed. I don’t want to lead them back to—”

The sentence was cut short—blistering gunfire pattering across the line, the sounds of tumbling impact reverberated through the speakers—crunching distortion spilling out from the phone at the center of the table.

“Cory?” Devin asked, voice strained.

No reply, only gunfire.

“
Cory!
”

Then the shooting stopped and the line went dead.

No one spoke. Awkward silence hung like a veil.

A grating dial tone rose from the phone, reverberating throughout the room. Everyone stared at the squawking receiver as if something would magically change.

Saul reached out, turning off the phone, and the room went completely silent. No one spoke for the better part of a minute. Devin was the first to speak, and only one word came out of his mouth: “Morris,” he said, face hard.

In a slow cascade every eye in the room lifted, looking at Devin.

He looked back, studying their faces. He was about to make a statement that would change his life, one that would undo everything that had defined him since he had first entered into the world of the Firstborn.

“We have to kill Morris,” he said definitively.

No one replied at first.

Saul was first to speak after a few awkward moments. “What will that accomplish?”

“I received a call from Hannah before she was grabbed. This whole scheme, from the very beginning, was Morris’s. He was the one who saw the terrorist attack coming; he masterminded the mosque bombing, brought in Blake—and saw to it that he became Overseer.”

“And you think that killing Morris will solve everything?”

“Cut off the serpent’s head,” Devin said with a nod.

“There’s still Blake.”

“We may have to take care of him eventually, but for now Morris will have to do.”

There were nods, some hesitant, others emphatic, but it was the prevailing understanding that Morris was the cause of it all—and had to go. Even Trista Brightling, his own niece, was nodding her head.

Saul nodded, then looked at Devin. “Let’s get to work on a plan.”

John watched her. Maybe it was habit or compulsion. Maybe there was something dysfunctional about him.

Trista stood, nodding as they considered all of the possible places that Morris could be—the properties where he was most likely to be, the protection he was likely to have, all of it.

As the discussion slipped into redundancy, he heard her whisper, “I need to get some air,” to someone nearby, and then slip out of the room. She didn’t usually tire of these kinds of meetings the way he did. Was it Brock? How did it feel to her—to know she had killed a man? To know her own uncle was behind all this?

He thought of her, alone outside, wrestling with it all. She needed someone. And that someone was going to have to be him. John moved to the door and stepped out.

He saw her standing less than twenty feet from the tactical building’s door.

“Trista,” John said softly, “are you OK?”

She turned around, looking back at him through the darkness of night. “I was just getting some fresh air.” She sounded flustered.

“Do you need to talk?”

She didn’t reply.

John moved closer. “Does it bother you what they’re planning to do to your uncle?”

Trista wrapped her arms around herself, hugging her elbows close. She gave a small nod.

“I don’t like it either,” he said, putting a hand on her shoulder—

—her shoulder.
He’d forgotten the way it felt, the electricity that coursed through his tendons when he touched her there.

She put a hand on his, gently pushing off his touch as she rolled her shoulder away.

John put his hands in his pockets, trying to pretend that nothing had happened. “Come on,” he said with gentle insistence, “they’re going to need you inside.”

Devin braced himself against the table.

“Here’s what I couldn’t figure out,” Saul whispered musingly, leaning close. “How did Brock get a gun in here? He was checked three times, and yet he still got a weapon past John.”

“Don’t ask my opinion about John Temple,” Devin grumbled.

“So I looked at the gun.”

“What about it?”

“It’s one of mine from the arsenal.”

Devin lifted his eyes, looking at Saul, then scanned the room to see if anyone else had heard. “Why did you wait until now to mention this?”

“Because there are only two possibilities—either we have a complete incompetent—”

“Enter John Temple.”

“Knock it off,” Saul insisted. “John’s more capable than you give him credit for. He made some stupid mistakes, but in the end all he did was embarrass himself—let the politics go.”

Devin touched his fingertips to his forehead, “What’s the other possibility?”

“That we have a saboteur. A mole. A spy.”

“Do you think John—?”

“He may be brash, but he’s loyal. That leaves one other person.”

Devin looked at Saul, then looked away. He didn’t want to consider it. But he had to.

His head swung up as John came through the door, holding it for Trista. The room went silent—all heads turning to stare.

“Where were you?” Devin asked.

“I was getting Trista,” John said.

“No,” Devin continued, looking past John, “you, Ms. Brightling, where have you been?”

She frowned, slightly defensive. “I had to use the restroom, then I was getting some air. That’s all.”

“May I see your phone?”

Trista looked startled. “My phone?”

“Did you make any calls?”

Her mouth hung slack. “What are you suggesting?” She looked to John, eyes darting all over his face. “John, help me. You know I was just getting some air.”

John looked back at Devin. “She’s telling the truth. I was with her.”

“The whole time she was out there?”

John’s face firmed up. “Yes,” he said, “I was with her the whole time she was out there.”

“Then you won’t mind if I look at her phone, right?”

He frowned. “That’s not necessary, really.”

“It’s just a precaution.”

“Devin, I don’t think—”

Devin moved toward them fast, reaching for Trista’s purse.

“Devin!” John shouted, trying to step in front of Trista. “Listen to me. You have got to trust her.”

Devin grabbed John’s collar and shoved him into the nearest wall. “I will trust her—once she shows me her phone.”

“John,” Trista began, voice strained.

“She doesn’t have to show you anything.”

Devin’s nostrils flared, eyes narrowing as he glared long and deep into John, fists pressing hard into John’s chest, pinning him in place. Devin’s attention turned back to the woman. “Hand your phone to Saul.”

“Trista!” John shouted, trying to break loose.

Trista complied, walking toward Saul, handing him her phone. The professor took the device, holding it in one hand, punching buttons with his thumb. “Call history,” he announced, examining the tiny glowing screen. “Your last call ended less than five minutes ago—a call to Blake Jackson.”

Trista didn’t argue; she simply looked down. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“I count ten calls,” Saul continued. “She’s been calling him regularly since she got here.”

Devin let go of John and turned toward Trista, marching toward her fast.

“Devin, I’m sorry. I was trying to—”

He grabbed her roughly by the wrists. “You’re a traitor!” he shouted, shaking her hard. “You’ve betrayed us all!”

“Stop it!” John shouted, moving to her defense. “Let her go!”

“What did you tell them?” Devin demanded. “What do they know?”

“
Devin!
” John shouted again, putting a hand on Devin’s shoulder. Three nearby men grabbed John, arms wrapping around him as they pulled him away.

Devin continued his shaking. “What do they know?” he barked, spit arching from his mouth like venom, his nose nearly touching her own.

“They know everything,” she cried. “They knew where you’d be. They knew your positions, how many of you there were. I told them everything.”

Devin straightened, voice calm. “I should kill you,” he said with an icy indifference. “Where are they operating from?”

“Morris Childs’s home, in New York,” she stammered, her voice trying to stay calm, “Get out of here!”

“What?”

“Leave. They know about the compound. They know where you are. And they’re coming
now
.”

Devin snapped into action. “Move everything we need,” Devin ordered, pointing to a nearby collection of firearms. “I want everything out of here in twenty minutes.”

Bodies flooded through the room, all trying to find the items they were responsible for. It would only take a few more minutes at this rate, then they would be gone, leaving Saul’s compound behind. They’d have to find a new base of operations, but that was manageable—being overrun was not.

Saul Mancuso walked up to Devin, hands in his pockets. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”

Devin waved a hand absently. “Just get whatever you need. I’ll make sure we have everything else to keep this operation moving.”

“I’m not going with you,” Saul announced without prelude.

Devin stopped, turning to his old friend. “What?”

“Devin, I’m getting too old for this kind of thing. I’m no use in a fight, and I’ll only slow you all down.”

“Absolutely not,” Devin replied, firm in resolve. “You’re coming with us, and that’s final.”

Saul cleared his throat, putting a hand on Devin’s shoulder. “We don’t have time to argue about this; do you understand?”

“Professor, I—”

“I’ll be in my study. That way, when they ask me which way you all went, or what I saw, I won’t be able to tell them—no matter how persuasive they are.”

Devin grabbed the older man’s arm, squeezing hard as he leaned close, whispering with intensity, “I won’t allow this. You are coming with us. I’m not interested in arguing with you.”

Saul removed Devin’s hand. “You of all people should know the value of distributing misinformation. And you know that no one can do a better job than me.”

“Saul,” Devin growled, “I’m not going to argue with you about this.”

Saul shook his head. “Have you ever been able to change my mind, Mr. Bathurst?”

Devin stared for a moment, nodded in understanding.

“Hurry up,” Saul said. “You’re wasting time you don’t have.”

Devin watched as Dr. Saul Mancuso turned around and walked out of the tactical building, knowing it would probably be the last time he ever saw the man.