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3:08 A.M.
Dylan jerked awake.
He wasn't sure exactly what had roused him, but his street instincts were kicking in, warning him that something wasn't right.
He peered around the darkened sitting room where he and Sabrina had fallen asleep. She was curled on her side on the rug, her breathing deep and even. The apartment was silent. Everything seemed fine.
So why did it feel like it wasn't?
He got up, moved restlessly around the apartment, checking doors and windows, then verified that the burglar alarm was on.
It was. Everything was in order.
He went back to the sitting room, lay down beside Sabrina and wrapped an arm around her, drawing her close. She murmured something unintelligible and snuggled against him, obviously not sharing his sense of unease.
Fine, so it was his imagination working overtime.
He shut his eyes, finally drifting into a light doze.
3:50 A.M.
This time no one was around.
No cops cruising the area, no late-night pedestrians. Nothing. He stood there for ten fucking minutes to make sure. But the street was deserted. And with the cops having just driven by, it'd be a while before they did a repeat performance.
He had enough time to do his thing'.
But he sure as hell wasn't wasting any of it.
He pulled the two whiskey bottles out of his knapsack, unscrewed the caps, and retrieved the two rags he'd brought. He doused the rags in the gasoline he'd filled the bottles with, then stuffed them into the mouth of the bottles.
Okay, he thought. Here goes.
One more quick scrutiny of the area. All cool. Action time.
Reaching into his knapsack, he groped around, pulling out a lighter and a piece of steel pipe. He had only one chance to get this right. And he wasn't going to blow it. The stakes were too high.
In one unbroken motion, he lit the rags, then smashed the pipe against the window pane, shattering the glass. He flung the bottles into the apartment, one after the other, aiming for the short wall by the door to get the greatest possible impact.
He heard the glass splinter, saw the fire engulf the wall.
By the time the blaze spread, flames licking at the carpet and climbing up the drapes, he was gone.
Dylan jolted upright the instant the window shattered and the burglar alarm screamed to life. He vaulted to his feet in time to hear the crashes—one, two—and the boom of an explosion.
He grabbed his pants as the smoke detector began a shrill screech.
He smelled the gasoline, saw the eerie glow flickering from the hallway. And he knew damned well what it was.
"Sabrina!" He shouted her name, even though she was already struggling to a sitting position, looking tousled and disoriented.
"Dylan?" She blinked, shoving her hair out of her eyes. "What's going on?"
"The apartment's on fire." He grabbed his shirt and tossed it at her, as he zipped up his pants. "Put that on. Hurry. We're getting out of here."
"Oh my God." She was instantly wide awake. Even without looking, she knew Dylan was right. She could smell the flames. Flames and gasoline. And the heat was getting stronger, closer.
She yanked on the shirt.
