The Firstborn Read Online Free PDF Page A

to embrace it.
    Days in a dark basement had driven her back to the faith of her childhood; now it filled her entire heart and mind.
    She was coming home.

    The gunshot was loud, hammering in her temples as if a hole had been punched in her eardrums. A single round fired in the stillness of the snow, echoing endlessly through the trees.
    Snow dropped from branches. Birds took off into flight. And the blast rolled through the world.
    She stood for a moment, waiting to feel it, but all she felt was the chill in her feet and in her lungs. Hannah looked down. No wound.
    Slowly she turned around and saw Snider clutching his chest, bleeding from a steaming wound. He coughed, face confused, and a trickle of blood ran down his lip. The man hit his knees and went face-first into the snow.
    The body lay there, steam rising from the hot wound. Beyond stood a man—tall, handsome, black skin—a pistol in hand raised expertly, face blank, a single twist of smoke rising from the muzzle of the weapon.
    He approached Snider’s body, weapon pointed down, kicking the Beretta pistol away. Kneeling down, he checked for a pulse. When he was satisfied, he put his own weapon on safety and looked up at Hannah.
    “Are you hurt?”
    She shook her head.
    “Good.” Then he took her by the arm and led her away.

Chapter 2
    H ANNAH STARED OUT THE window, the world passing by.
    Her forehead was cold as it pressed against the glass. She curled up in the seat, pulling her rescuer’s olive-green sport coat close.
    Her rescuer didn’t speak. He sat at the wheel, eyes forward, hands set precisely at two o’clock and ten o’clock. His grip loose but obviously in control. His breaths were long and deliberate.
    “Who are you?” she asked slowly.
    “Pardon, miss?” he said. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to speak up.”
    “Who are you?” she asked again.
    His eyes remained on the road as he reached into his wallet, pulled out a business card, and handed it to her.
    She scanned the card. “Devin Bathurst?”
    He nodded. “Correct.”
    “Financial planner and advisor?”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    She paused as her eyes met a familiar design. “What’s this?”
    “Pardon?”
    “This.” She pointed, and he glanced from the corner of his eye.
    “Family crest.”
    “It looks like a symbol my grandfather uses.”
    “Much of heraldry looks similar to the untrained eye.”
    She shook her head. “No, this is identical. Except my grandfather’s is blue.”
    He was quiet for a moment. “What did you say your name was again?”
    “My name’s Hannah. Hannah Rice.”
    He turned his head, looking at her. She felt as if he were seeing her for the first time.
    “Did you say Rice ?”

    Henry Rice ripped the phone from the hook mid-ring, hand trembling.
    “Yes?” he said into the receiver.
    “Mr. Rice?”
    “This is he.”
    “This is Devin Bathurst.”
    Henry paused, heart skipping. “How can I help you, Mr. Bathurst?”
    “You have a granddaughter named Hannah, correct?”
    The old man gripped the phone with all his arthritic might. “What’s this about?” he said, trying not to shout in anger. “What do you want?”
    “I’m taking her to the hospital to be examined.”
    “She’s safe?”
    “Yes.”
    Henry sat, relief washing over him. “Where are you?”
    “Colorado.”
    “Colorado?” Henry asked, eye lifted. “She’s here in Colorado?” “Yes,” Devin announced. “Once she’s given her statement I’ll bring her to you.”
    “No,” Henry insisted. “Tell me what hospital you’re taking her to, and I’ll come pick her up.”
    “Good,” Devin said in his typical flat, heartless tone. “Because we need to talk.”

    The carpet in the hospital’s chapel was cranberry red and soft to the touch.
    Devin lowered to his knees, hand steadying himself against the floor. Back straight, hands clasped—the way his grandmother had taught him to pray. Head bowed, eyes closed. He took in air and held it, releasing it