Page 108 of The Final Contract

Cormac prowls in front of me, his smile stretched wide, casual as sin. The flick of his silver Zippo clicks open, closed, open again—flame flaring before he snaps it out with a flick of his wrist. He toys with it like a boy with a new prize, waiting for his moment.

“Ledger, Ledger, Ledger,” he muses, voice echoing off the stone. “All those fine ladies and gents blowin’ to kingdom come. Wonder if they were still scrubbin’ their faces in the spa when the fire kissed ’em. Or maybe mid-fuck upstairs—burnin’ with their cocks still out. Ah, poetic, aye?” He laughs, sharp and cruel. His men chuckle too, low and mean, though their eyes keep darting to the flames dancing from his lighter.

My stomach knots. I jerk against the bindings, chest heaving, eyes scanning the dark corners of the basement. Dust. Stone. Broken pews, cobwebs strung like shrouds. Nothing I can use. Nothing to save me. The scant light comes from the crackling lighter and then—a crash above. Shouts.

We all freeze.

Boots pounding, voices raised, echoing down through the floorboards. Gunfire comes sudden and sharp, rattling the ceiling dust down into my hair.

Hope bursts inside me like oxygen.

Killian.

It has to be.

Cormac stiffens, then snarls, spitting orders over his shoulder. “Go! Don’t let him near. Put him in the fucking ground!”

Two of his men rush for the stairs, weapons drawn, boots thundering upward. That leaves him. Him and three shadows lingering at his flanks.

Cormac turns back to me, grin returning slow and vicious. He steps close enough that I can feel the heat of the flame he coaxes to life again with his lighter, the tiny fire that promises so much worse. His eyes glitter with hate and triumph.

“Let’s give him a proper welcome, eh?” He winks, almost tender in its mockery?—

—and flicks the burning Zippo down into the dry kindling at my feet.

The pyre answers with a hungry roar.

The fire crackles—hungry, eager—curling up the brittle edges of the stacked wood. Smoke begins to sting my eyes, acrid and sharp, searing my lungs with every gasp. The heat licks closer and soon will be chasing up my legs. The air is heavy with ash and the stink of old rot and burning mildew.

Cormac lingers, arms folded like he’s watching a stage play instead of orchestrating my death. His expression is smug, satisfied, the flames mirrored in his eyes. “Beautiful,” he murmurs, like this is art.

I wrench against the ropes until they tear my skin raw. My wrists are slick with blood, but the knots hold. My throat tightens around a sob. This is it. This is how I die.

And then—a sound.

Low. Rough. A growl that doesn’t belong in any church, not even one blackened with sin.

The edges of the room seem to darken, a burst of shadow swallowing the meager light. Two flashes explode in the dark—gunfire—and one of Cormac’s men drops with a wet grunt, body folding into the dirt.

Then he’s there.

Killian.

He barrels into another guard like a battering ram, the two of them crashing into the stacked timbers. They go down in a brutal tangle of fists and fury. Another guard yanks his weapon free, muzzle sparking as shots ring out. Bullets ricochet, stone spits dust, the sound deafening in the close chamber.

“Get in there, you useless shite!” Cormac roars, shoving the gunman toward the fight.

Then his attention slides back to me.

He snatches a length of wood from the pyre, its end already lit and spitting embers. With deliberate care, he thrusts it into the voids around me—dark corners of stacked timber that the fire hasn’t yet touched. Flames crawl greedily over fresh fuel, climbing higher, closer, eager to swallow me whole.

Panic claws through me. I cough, lungs raw, heat blistering against my shins. My mind races for escape, for hope.

But maybe… maybe the stale, dank air of this basement will be my saving grace. Maybe the smothering dark, the lack of breath, will keep the fire starving—will buy me the seconds Killian needs.

If it doesn’t—no. I can’t think of that.

The fight crashes around me, violent and unrelenting. The guns run dry, and the men are fighting with their fists now.