Without Mercy - Lisa Jackson [177]
“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.
Hot pain sizzled through Trent’s shoulder.
Before the kid could get off another shot, Trent rolled across the floor.
Spurrier howled in pain as flames crawled up his pants. “Help! Oh, for the love of God, help me!”
The kid turned toward his leader.
Pain rattling through his body, Trent rolled toward the kid and swept Bernsen’s feet out from under him.
Crack!
The rifle fired again as the kid went down with a heavy thud. “You bastard!”
The bullet went wild, ricocheting through the room.
Bernsen scrambled to his feet.
Spurrier was yelling in pain, the flames climbing up his body. Howling, digging at his eyes, he fell to his knees, a burning pyre.
“Oh, God!” Horrified, a true coward, Zach crawled frantically toward the kitchen. Abandoning his leader, leaving the damned gun rifle on the floor, he ran.
Trent lunged at the fleeing kid.
Zach dodged quickly. Terrified, the TA took off through the back door.
And straight into the muzzle of Frank Meeker’s gun.
“Stop. Police!” the deputy ordered, Bert Flannagan at his side. Trent, trying to climb to his feet, witnessed it from the hell of the living room.
Zach was pinned against the porch wall. “Oh, fuck!”
“You okay?” Flannagan asked Trent, sliding by Meeker, unintimidated by the wall of flame in the living room.
Trent turned to Spurrier. “I’ll live,” he said, forcing himself to his feet.
“Help!” Spurrier, blinded, screamed. Fire climbed up his clothes and caught in his hair. Anguished howls erupted from his throat.
Trent spied the fire extinguisher under a flaming chair and dived for it.
“Don’t!” Flannagan warned. “It’ll blow!”
“We can’t let him die!” Trent grabbed the cannister, the hot metal burning his hands. Spurrier was trapped behind an ever-climbing wall of flame, his body afire, his face a blackened, horrified mask, his shrieks of pain echoing over the roar of the flames.
“Oh, hell, let me.” Flannagan ripped it out of Trent’s hands and turned the hose on Spurrier and the surrounding flames. CO2 filled the air.
Spurrier fell to the floor where he screamed and writhed. “Take me, Father,” he cried desperately as the smell of burning flesh rose to the heavens.