The Firstborn by Conlan Brown Page A

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