It’s almost magical.
Most of the documents are in Russian. Surprising.
Checking my watch, I see I have eight minutes left. I’m going to have to deviate from my accelerants pattern and set one in Kyle’s office, rather than Marlena’s down the hall. Her office is the least structurally sound and would have created the flashpoint more quickly… but it’s important to know when to pivot.
While the hacker program on my phone downloads the rest of the Frostbite files, I set up the canister of my own potent cocktail of heavy fuel next to the door. This canister will ignite at a mere 200 degrees, so the first hint of vapor from the blaze on the first floor will light this office up like an acetylene torch. That will set off the thirdcanister I’ll set in the drop ceiling in the meeting room across the hall, which then ignites the roof.
My phone vibrates, letting me know the download is finished. I pull the cord free, tuck away my phone and I’m across the hall and planting the last of the accelerants with three minutes and twenty seconds to spare.
Last step. Empty the building.
Blue Oyster Cult’s “Don’t Fear the Reaper” blasts from the corner of the parking lot when I press a button on my phone to remote start the MP3 player nestled in a planter there. The guard should be heading out the back door to investigate in…
“Hey! You asshole kids! We don’t have any weed here!” The guard is storming out the door and heading to that corner of the parking lot. I’m guessing this isn’t the first time he’s had this issue.
Good. He’s nearly at a safe distance from the blast. I’m taking the steps three at a time down the back stairs to get to my first malignant creation on the ground floor, just waiting to come to life when I spark the fuse. I’m back on schedule.
The blaze inside me is swirling into an inferno as the first canister erupts, sending a reverse waterfall of flame up the wall and covering theceiling.
Humming along with the music, I stroll down the hall. Opening the front doors will send in the next surge of oxygen to propel the blaze through the first floor.
I can feel the eager surge of the wind as it pushes past me as I throw the glass doors open wide, soaring toward an embrace with the blaze racing down the hall. Goosebumps form on my skin even as I feel the first blast of heat on my back.
And then I hear it.
“SCARLETT!Fire it’s on fire oh god, Scarlett get out!”
Tadger – Scottish slang for a penis.
Chapter Six
In which the world is an inferno.
Scarlett…
This could be it.
I've successfully logged on to Marlena’s computer, she’s gotten more suspicious and changes the password every couple of weeks.
It takes so much longer than it should to go through her files. There are thousands of them, most of them stuff for her inspiration boards, video downloads of sexy guys from OnlyFans - she’s definitely in her Hot Lifeguard phase - and shopping lists. A lot of the files are encrypted, but if you’re on the company’s network, you have access to the encryption key… if you know how to dig around a little.
Murder Mittens sits on the desk, glaring at me. She sneezes when we are in here because my Wicked Stepmother has doused every surface in the office with her “signature scent,” an eye-watering combination of Chanel No. 5, Yves Saint Laurent Libre, and something that I swear smells like pepperoni.
“I know, babe,” I smile apologetically at her resentful, furry face. “This is important, though.”
There’s a whole cluster of files on her hard drive that I’ve never been able to access. I know there’s something there that will help me. Financial transfers,somethingthat will connect her to the crash that killed my father and left me…
Don’t think about it. Don’t.
Checking my phone, I groan. I’ve only got another thirty minutes or so before I’ll have to re-set the servers and erase my activity. Then, I’m back to scrubbing the break room microwave, which is more disgusting than a hockey locker room floor. Rubbing my eyes, I try to focus on the encrypted data on the monitor. Is that an international banking code?
I smell it first, creeping tendrils of smoke from the air vent in the corner. Fingers stilled on the keyboard; I stare at it stupidly. Is Maury smoking?
Maury doesn’t smoke.
There’s muffled shouting outside, and I push away from the desk, hurrying toward the window. Maury’s there in the middle of the parking lot, racing toward the building and screaming, his face beet red and wide, terrified eyes.
“...oh god… get out! …F-”
