Without Mercy - Lisa Jackson [176]
“You killed her.” Damn, but Trent hadn’t even had Spurrier on his radar until tonight, until he’d read Lynch’s files.
“I killed no one, you Cretin!”
“’Course not,” Trent said, coughing. “You’re a coward! You sent one of your crazy followers to take care of it for you.”
“You don’t know anything!” Spurrier raged.
“So where’s her body, huh?”
The heat was intense, flames soaring, smoke roiling upward. Trent could barely breathe.
“Her death was an accident.”
“Come on, man! This is insane!” Zach was heading for the kitchen and the back door as the front entrance was now engulfed, the heat sweltering.
“A convenient accident. Right,” Trent mocked, goading the ego-maniacal bastard. “She tossed you over and you killed her. You’re no great leader, Spurrier, just another idiot whose woman dumped him. Maybe she didn’t want to be with a hypocritical killer. Probably found a better lover.”
“You idiot. You’ve got it all wrong!” Spurrier swung his foot back and kicked, hard. The toe of his boot was aimed straight for Trent’s face.
Trent rolled.
Heavy leather bashed into his shoulder. “Ooof!”
He wrapped his hands and arms around Spurrier’s pant leg and threw his weight the opposite direction.
The pilot hopped once, then fell, landing hard on his back.
Thud!
The house rocked.
Flames shimmied.
Spurrier sent up a howl of pain.
Trent flung himself upward and rolled atop the pilot. Balling a fist, he let fly, smashing Spurrier’s jaw, jarring his own hand, the two of them wrestling over broken glass and flames.
“Oh, shit! Oh, shit, oh, shit!” Bernsen edged through the archway and leveled his rifle at the two of them. “Stop it! Let him go! Holy goddamned shit!”
Trent ignored the TA and his damned weapon. Furious, his fists punching wildly, he straddled Spurrier as he would have a fifteen-hundred-pound Brahman bull.
“Get him off me!” Spurrier ordered, eyes rolling toward his minion.
Trent slammed his fist into Spurrier’s nose.
Crack!
Bones splintered. Cartilage became mush.
Blood sprayed from Spurrier’s nostrils.
The pilot writhed and screamed.
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