by Fox, Logan
Finn could feel Lars glaring at him as they crept over the glowing sand that stretched between them and the beach house, but he didn’t make eye contact. Lars stopped walking, but just as Finn came to a stop outside the beach house’s bedroom window, he heard the man’s footsteps start up again.
Lars of all people should know he couldn’t be trusted right now. Not with so much at stake. He’d fuck it up. Cora would get hurt, maybe killed.
And he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if that happened.
* * *
Bailey had no reason to be so pissed off, but that didn’t make his indignation vanish. Made to keep look out like the fat kid in gym class who never made the team; what the fuck was Finn thinking?
Then again, Finn had never liked him to begin with. It had probably been easy for him to agree with Kane.
Bailey glared after the three men, stiffening his neck when he saw Kane head back his way.
The fuck did he want?
“What are you doing?” Bailey murmured when Kane was in earshot.
“Making sure you don’t go anywhere.”
Bailey snorted through his nose. “Fuck off. Just because—”
Kane pistol whipped him.
The jungle’s shadows lunged at him, all claws and teeth and hissed promises of eternal sleep.
* * *
The kitchen window opened without a sound. Lars lifted his head and peeked through, studying the dimly lit appliances and counters. There was no light inside the kitchen itself, but an ambient amber glow from the living room painted the room with just enough light to pick out the edges of furniture.
Lars hoisted himself up and slid through the window on his belly. It opened above a countertop, and luckily nothing lay on it that could rattle or clatter.
He twisted around, silently setting his feet on the floor. A quick glance showed the room to be empty. He could see a sliver of the living room’s one wall; the light in there was much brighter, but failed to illuminate anything of importance.
On his second step, the floorboard creaked under him. He winced, halted, and waited for the fall out.
Nothing.
Another step, another low creak.
Jesus Christ, whoever’d built this house should be drawn and quartered.
Creak. Creak.
His heart was pounding so hard, he wouldn’t be surprised if that drumming was louder than the dodgy floorboards.
If he hadn’t been straining so hard to hear, he would have missed the shuffling sound coming from the hallway.
Finn or Kane?
His arms prickled as he drew nearer to the hallway. Another creak, this time not his, down the hall to the left.
The bedroom.
Goddamn, Finn would give them all away if he tried to walk down the hall. But perhaps he’d realized it, because Lars couldn’t hear any more sounds coming from that side of the hall.
Kane sounded as if he was drawing closer; a gentle brushing, like fabric against a wall. As if the man had his back pressed to it.
Maybe that’s why his floorboards didn’t creak.
Finn attempted another step.
The board creaked loud enough that Lars stopped breathing.
“Why don’t you three gentlemen come join us?” came a voice from the living room.
Christ, he almost screamed like a little girl. Lars reeled back, a hand on his heart as if he could somehow stop it tearing through his chest and landing in a wet, bloody pile on the floor.
Finn growled from down the hallway. Floorboards didn’t creak anymore—they shrieked in agony.
Lars bounded forward, barely catching Finn before the man burst into the living room.
Kane was already there, standing to one side with a rapt look on his face. If this hadn’t been real life, he’d have thought Zachary had cast some kind of hypnotic spell on him.
And then he saw Cora, and it all made sense.
47
Unholy Fire
Of the three men, the fake DEA agent looked the most surprised at seeing Eleodora. She was a little shorter than Zachary, but he huddled down so her body acted as a shield.
A wet, shivering shield, but a shield nonetheless.
Her hair dripped ocean water onto the back of his hand where he held her neck and the bundle of electronics he’d removed from their casing. Too bulky, otherwise. Too easy to spot. He didn’t mind the constant drip-drip-drip of that water as much as the feel of her frantic breathing, though. She’d been struggling just before they arrived, but the pistol he’d pressed into the small of her back seemed to have elevated her urge to escape.
Little Elle.
She was responsible for so much of the pain in his life. The pain of losing Angel. Ailin. Rodriguez.
She’d been living on borrowed time; fourteen years of it, in fact. A festering thought to carry for close to a decade and a half. She was a perpetual itch he could never scratch, no matter how hard he tried. An itch that had slowly transformed into a yearning over the years.
And only recently, after he’d seen her flawless skin and her pretty eyes, had he realized how sick that diseased longing had made him. It had driven him to a kind of madness, one he’d tried to stamp down with authoritarian rule.
But the cracks had begun to show. That tainted miasma had spilled out and infected him.
It was all so clear now. What he had to do. How he had to right the scales this little cunt had tipped in her favor.
Lady’s tail whisked against the bare wooden floor. The dog was gazing up at everyone like she couldn’t believe her luck at meeting so many new friends in one day.
But Zachary’s command for her to stay overwhelmed her need for human interaction.
He looked down at her and felt nothing.
No compassion.
No fear.
None of the gut-wrenching hurt he knew should come with the thought of an animal in pain.
Not that Lady was in pain.
Not yet.
But she would be.
They all would be.
And he was ready to welcome it, to let it envelope him and take him to a place where he would never feel pain again.
No loss.
No heartbreak.
Nothing.
Just absolution. Oblivion. A painless void after a life were nothing had existed but pain. In the fire, they’d all be cleansed of their sins.
Even Eleodora Rivera—the biggest sinner of them all.
48
Consummation
It was almost anti-climactic being this close to the infamous Zachary West. The El Lobo of PoP — a man so rife with insanity that he’d become a way to scare small children into brushing their teeth. Because, if they didn’t, El Lobo would come to them in the middle of the night and cut out their tongues. Tongues that he’d then feed to his hellhounds.
But Zachary West was just a man. Not even striking man. Kane could have walked past him on the street and not have noticed him.
If he hadn’t caught sight of his eyes, of course.
It was the center of Zachary’s madness. A tiny gleam that had nothing to do with the crackling fire or the orange light splashing over the walls, especially since Zachary had his back to the fire. El Lobo held Eleodora in front of him as a shield, and the dog sat in front her like a guard.
The dog made eye contact with Kane, and it was as if a charge of electricity jolted him. Such loving eyes; the same chocolatey brown as Zachary’s.
No madness there, only eager anticipation as it waited for the start of whatever strange game these humans were playing.
Hoping it would be part of it.
Hoping it would last forever.
Kane’s eyes fled away from that intrusive stare. It took in the wooden walls of the beach house. A camera affixed in one corner. A tablet computer, satellite phone, and a casing of some vaguely familiar electronic device on the side table.
Five empty glasses on the coffee table. Two bottles of wine.
Just for
show, of course, so they’d know Zachary had seen them coming. That he’d been prepared.
But just how prepared had he been? For how many hours, days had he known they were coming?
Kane’s mind raced back.
Zachary’s pilot had been so eager to help them. Kane had thought it was the large amount of cash they’d paid the man to snitch…but they’d forgotten something crucial.
Zachary didn’t tolerate snitches. And everyone who worked with Zachary knew that very well.
Unless…
His eyes flashed back to that shell of plastic. A round hole, perfectly sized for a button. No, not a button—a trigger for a remote detonator. He’d seen them before, shopping online for his gadgets. It would be difficult to conceal something of that size. Except if you removed it from the casing, making it easier to—
“He’s got a bomb!” Kane yelled.
“No!” Lars barked to one side, the same instant Finn lifted his pistol.
A shot went off.
Cora screamed.
The dog barked once, very loud.
Zachary laughed.
Fire burst from the hearth.
An incendiary agony enveloped Kane. His body struck something that broke apart under him. His head slammed against something even harder, but it didn’t give way.
Heat splashed over his skin, licking, licking, licking.
He could smell hair burning. Flesh cooking.
Fire.
Zachary loved fire.
He used it to cleanse. To kill. To maim.
A dog whimpered, almost inaudible above a penetrating whine.
He lifted a hand and touched his ear. Wet. Blood.
His face was too tight.
Sunburnt.
Another whimper, the only sound except for the hungry gnaw of the fire consuming the tinder box they’d so carelessly walked into.
Accelerant.
In his eagerness to get close to Eleodora again, he’d dismissed that faint scent lingering in the air.
A mistake he’d never make again.
49
Absolution
Finn slammed into the wall. A wave of flames washed over him, singing his hair and his face. Heat clung to him and clawed into his flesh.
He fell to the floor, already rolling to put out the biting flames. He struck the back of the couch, and for a moment that small space was an oasis; no smoke, no flames.
Cora’d been standing right in front of the fireplace.
Finn grabbed the back of the couch, ignoring the way its upholstery clung to him like burning oil, and hauled himself up.
The air was gray with ash and smoke. Flames danced over the fabric of an overturned armchair. It was consuming a wooden bookshelf, the books nothing more than a few blackened spines. The room was black, walls covered in soot from the explosion.
He could see no one. Hear nothing except an insistent ringing in his ears.
Thundering forward with legs that belonged to someone else, Finn swiped at the air with a hand as black as the walls. Smoke churned, and he caught sight of a jumbled shape on the floor.
Cora.
He roared, anguish tearing through him as he grabbed her limp body.
Another lay nearby, twisted and ghoulish, burnt beyond recognition.
Fabric crackled against his seared palm as he hoisted Cora’s body up and over his shoulder.
She didn’t cry out in pain.
His mind tore back to that day at the river, when he’d dragged her cold, dead body from the water.
Leave her behind. Dead weight. Save yourself.
He expected to hear those words again, but they never came. Perhaps it was because his beast was too busy howling instead, mourning a loss so great it was tearing them apart.
Finn stumbled toward the hallway. Thick smoke billowed out of the living room with him, clinging to him as he tried to force rubbery legs toward the front door.
Dim pain encroached on his muscles and arms. It grew stronger. Became agonizing.
He groaned, took a last thundering step, and pitched forward.
Cora’s body should have struck the ground, cushioning his fall. But something snatched her away before he could crush her under him.
Hands drew slivers of agony over his skin as they grappled him, but he fought free. He came to his feet, lungs aching as they pulled in nothing but suffocating smoke.
Then, cold air washed over him.
Oxygen sped into his lungs.
He coughed, retched, and tipped forward into soft sand that soothed his burning flesh. But there was still something chewing at his back. Dribbling acid saliva over his skin. If he could have moved, he would have tried to roll onto his back, but his body had become unresponsive.
Something wet, cold, heavy draped him. Stinging pain replaced that agonizing ache of fire before it returned threefold.
His beast howled. It writhed and twisted as it tried to get away from that all-encompassing pain.
But it couldn’t.
It was trapped here, with him, in his mind.
Its howls rang through Finn’s head, drowning out the ringing from the blast.
His lips stretched, cracking, oozing too-hot blood down his chin.
No, it wasn’t his beast howling.
It was him.
50
She’s got the fire
Kane was on his hands and knees, urgently hunting for a way out, but it was impossible to see anything inside the inferno the living room had become. There was a draft, air shifting around him as if it had found an exit and couldn’t leave fast enough.
So he followed it, forcing arms and legs that felt too tight.
If his fingers hadn’t brushed over human hair, hadn’t tangled in those locks, he would have moved right past Lars without ever knowing the man was there.
Which made him realize he had to drag him out.
Why else would he have stumbled on him?
Kane caught a hold of a collar. It tore at first, the fabric weakened significantly how it had been scorched, but he renewed his grip, twisted, and dragged that heavy body out with him.
No one deserved to be consumed in a fire of Zachary’s making.
Not like this.
He’d make sure the tall man would have a decent burial. Christian like, under a tree or some shit.
Something whimpered nearby. For a moment, a horrible, gut twisting moment, he thought it was Eleodora.
He lost his grip on Lars, falling forward and yelling out in pain as his tender skin scraped on the hot floor boards.
Why did he feel torn in two? One half of him wanted to grab her and pull her out with Lars, knowing it was impossible but willing to try. The other laughed as it screamed for her to die in the fire along with Zachary. That the death of two capos was always, always, better than one.
But reason interrupted that frantic train of thought.
Not human. Canine. It was the dog whimpering, not Eleodora.
Kane reached out a hand. If he encountered the animal in that single stretch, he’d bring it with him, because he was meant to.
But if he touched nothing but air…
His fingers brushed jagged fur. Moist, weeping wounds. A collar.
He slid his fingers under that strip of leather and pulled.
A yelp of pain shot through the air, followed by more whimpering.
Yeah, you and everyone else, you mutt.
Kane gritted his teeth, tasting blood and ash in his mouth as he strained forward on his knees.
Heavy billows of smoke obscured the hallway. They barreled past him, drawn to the open front door by a draft that might have come from the back of the fireplace; if the blast had been significant enough—and fuck, it had definitely felt significant to him—then it might have blown out the back wall.
Which might have been what saved him.
Because, if they had built this beach house with concrete or brick walls instead of wood, it would have contained that blast much better.
; He’d have been a pulp.
The dog but a smear on the carpet.
Blood and ash painted the walls a reddish black.
Ahead, something appeared from the smoke like a demon.
Finn — clothes blackened, hair singed, open wounds on his arms. A shape dangled over one broad shoulder.
What remained of Eleodora Rivera.
He caught barely a glimpse before urgent smoke piled between them, but it had been enough to know Finn was about to pitch forward.
Kane released Lars and the dog. He forced himself to his legs with a cry of pain, and surged forward.
He tried to grab Milo, but he got a handful of Eleodora instead. Warm. Slippery. She slithered off Milo and onto him. He pushed her off with a hissed oath, and made another grab for Milo.
This time, he latched on. But the man found his balance and tore free a second later, only to fall down in the sand outside.
Where Kane could see he was still on fire.
He spun around and battled back through the smoke, running headlong into a bed before his streaming eyes could focus. He dragged a quilted cover from the mattress and into the en-suite bathroom. Water chugged from the taps, but everything was taking too long, too fucking long.
He clawed out the scarcely wet blanket and stumbled down the hall, coughing so hard he saw spots every time he blinked.
The blanket hissed when it fell over Milo’s unmoving body. Pale steam rose, a testament to the sudden dousing of those incandescent flames.
Footsteps scraped on the wood behind him.
Kane twisted around. He’d expected Zachary to be standing there. Nothing but a burned husk, but still alive. Grinning at him with a skull’s perpetual smile.
Lars tottered to the side, stumbled, and crashed to his knees. The dog he’d been carrying in his arms like a child yelped and went still.
Kane wrestled the now warm blanket from Milo and threw it over Lars where he lay on the porch.