“No!” she shrieks, voice raw with terror. “Please! Titan, please! I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!”
I don’t respond. I start dragging them both back toward the burning clubhouse, one in each hand like they weigh nothing at all. The battle still rages around us. Gunfire cracks from multiple directions, but I tune it all out and focus only on putting one foot in front of the other.
Marcus tries to fight. He twists in my grip and swings his fist weakly at my ribs, but the blow has no strength behind it. He’s too far gone, too broken.
Mona cries and begs. “Please, Titan. Please. I made a mistake. I was angry. I didn’t think?—”
I drag them through the front entrance of the clubhouse and into the main hallway. Smoke hangs thick in the air, stinging my eyes and burning my throat. Flames crawl up the walls on both sides, consuming old photographs and club memorabilia. The heat is tremendous—like walking into an oven.
The building groans above us. Support beams are failing. This whole structure is going to collapse soon.
Perfect.
I haul them deeper into the smoke and flames, searching. There—a door to my right standing partially open. I kick it wider and see a large office beyond. Big mahogany desk. Leather chair. Trophy cases lining the walls. Must be Marcus’s office.
I throw Marcus through the doorway, and he hits the floor hard, bouncing once before coming to rest on his side. He lies there groaning and bleeding from a dozen different wounds, his broken leg twisted beneath him.
Mona stumbles in after him and falls to her knees. Her mascara runs in black streaks down her cheeks, and her whole body shakes with sobs.
“Please,” she begs again, looking up at me with desperate eyes. “Please don’t do this. I’ll tell you anything. I’ll give you anything. Please let me go. I’ll disappear. You’ll never see me again. I swear?—”
I walk past her to the desk and grab the crystal decanter sitting there. Amber liquid sloshes inside—expensive whiskey that Marcus probably saved for special occasions.
“Titan, please!” Mona’s voice climbs higher, more frantic. “I made a mistake! I was jealous! I didn’t mean for it to go this far! Please!”
I don’t answer. I lift the decanter high and smash it against the edge of the desk.
Glass explodes outward in a shower of glittering shards. Whiskey splashes across the hardwood floor, soaking into Marcus’s clothes and pooling around Mona’s knees. The sharp, alcoholic smell fills the room immediately, mixing with the smoke.
Mona’s eyes go wide. She understands now what’s about to happen. “No. No, please. Titan, no?—”
Marcus tries to speak. His mouth works and blood bubbles at his lips, but all that comes out is a wet, gurgling sound.
I pull my lighter from my pocket and flip it open. The flame catches on the first try, small and bright in the smoky darkness.
“This is for my brothers,” I say, looking down at both of them sprawled on the whiskey-soaked floor. “For my old lady. And for my child.”
I drop the lighter.
It tumbles end over end through the air and lands in the puddle of whiskey with a soft splash. The alcohol ignites instantly. Blue and orange flames race across the floor in every direction, following the trails of liquid. They catch on Marcus’s cut first, then spread to his pants and shirt. Within seconds, he’s engulfed.
Mona screams—high and piercing and full of absolute terror. The flames reach her knees and climb higher, consuming her clothes and hair. She tries to stand, to run, but slips in the whiskey and goes down hard.
Marcus tries to roll. To put out the flames or crawl toward the door. But his broken leg won’t cooperate, and he only managesto spread the fire further across his body. His screams join Mona’s, a horrible duet of agony.
I turn and walk toward the door, while the screaming continues—desperate, agonized, inhuman sounds that echo off the walls and follow me into the hallway.
I stride toward the exit without looking back. I reach the front door and step out into the cool desert air. Behind me, I hear the office door slam shut with a solid thud, cutting off the screams.
Then silence.
I stand there for a moment, breathing in air that doesn’t taste like smoke and death, and watch the clubhouse burn.
It’s done.
34
BONNIE
