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Trent hit him again, his fist aching.
“Enough!” Bernsen, eyes round with terror, pointed a rifle straight at Trent’s head. “Get off him! Now!”
In that moment’s hesitation, Spurrier rolled to one side, bucked up, and landed a fist against Trent’s jaw, knocking him back. Trent swung again.
Bam! The rifle’s barrel cracked into the back of his head. He collapsed.
Spurrier disentangled himself, climbing on wobbly legs. “Good job,” he said. “I was afraid you would shoot him.”
“You said to make it look like an accident. Let’s get the fuck out of here!”
“Yeah!” Spurrier scowled down at Trent. “Don’t you know you can’t thwart God’s will?” He was sniffing, trying to staunch the blood gushing from his nose.
On the floor, Trent moved slowly, his hands surrounding a piece of glass from the lantern. It was a struggle to sit up, and the hot glass cut his hand, but it was his only chance, his only weapon, a lousy piece of glass in this hellish inferno.
His fingers tightened over curved glass probably from the bell of the lantern. Miraculously, it still held enough oil to leak through Trent’s fingers. He held on tight, trying to keep the precious liquid from drizzling out.
The air was thick with smoke, flames rising higher. Bernsen was frantic. “Come on, man, let’s just break the fucker’s legs and get the hell out of here!”
“We can’t be blamed for this! It has to look like an accident,” Spurrier insisted, coughing, his fury radiating in waves as Trent watched from the floor.
“It will,” Bernsen insisted. His eyes moved restlessly, anxiously watching the ever-growing fire. He grabbed the wooden club again. “I’ll crack his knees. He won’t be able to move. Then everything will burn here. No evidence. An accident. Like you said. It’ll look like he tripped and fell, hit his head on the table, and, trying to get out, broke his damned legs. Then we get the fuck outta here before anyone comes.” Hyped up on adrenaline and fear, Bernsen was practically bouncing on the balls of his feet.
“I’ll do it,” Spurrier insisted, regaining some of his power over the kid as the fire crept closer, across the floor. Enraged, he spat a broken tooth toward a window, then wrested the club from Bernsen’s hand.
To Trent, he said, “Here’s an example of God’s will you’ll appreciate.”
“God’s will? Oh, yeah, right. One more murder on your hands. Lauren, Drew, Nona, and Maeve aren’t enough. God would be so proud.”
“I already told you that wasn’t me. Why would I bother with Prescott and Vickers and, what, now Mancuso? I had nothing to do with them.” His eyes burned bright with a rabid fervor. “They weren’t part of the mission.”
“We have to go!” Bernsen was frantic.
The flames were closer, circling. Burning crazily.
With the rifle still trained on his heart, Trent watched as Spurrier squatted, the chunk of bloody oak in one hand, flames gathering around him. “One at a time, Trent,” he promised, loving the power he was wielding. “You’re gonna hear each of them shatter. The pain will be excruciating.” He grinned with the satisfaction of the truly self-deluded.
“Again, God’s will,” Trent taunted, fingers clutching the glass so hard he felt his own blood flowing.
Spurrier’s temper flared. “You’ll be thankful to die, rather than suffer.”
“Will I?” It was Trent’s turn to grin. “Don’t bet on it!” Striking as quick as a rattler, Trent flung the piece of glass and its oily contents into Spurrier’s face.
“What the fuck!” Bernsen cried.
Spurrier recoiled, dropping the chunk of oak, his hands going to his eyes. Blinded, he backed up toward the fully engulfed mattress. “Kill him!”
Bernsen hesitated. “What?”
“Kill him now!” Spurrier ordered.
“Gladly!”
Trent slid to one side.
Bernsen fired.
Blam! The report rocked the building.
