Except in one place.

A small portion in the bottom right corner. There, the glass was sparkling clean, as if someone had cleaned it today.

Striker leaned closer for a better look. What he saw made him reach for his pistol. Positioned on the other side of the glass was another camera.

They were being filmed.

Forty-Six

The Adder finished covering the front door with the wood varnish, then threw the last of the empty cans into his burlap sack. He removed his leather gloves and snapped on a fresh pair of latex, covering up the red rash of his skin.

Smiling, he stood back and examined his work. The door was so wet it glistened in the cold winter sun.

It was beautiful.

Unfortunately, there was no time for enjoying his work. He grabbed the lighter from his pocket – a long, ten-inch one for lighting barbecues. With his fingers trembling from the excitement, the Adder took a half step back. Raised the lighter. And pulled the trigger.

The entire front door exploded with a soft whoooosh! sound, and white-hot flame crawled up the front of the building like a living beast.

It was beautiful, the Adder thought again.

So undeniably beautiful.

Mesmerizing.

He fought to pull his eyes from the blaze. With the operation complete, he regained his focus, grabbed his burlap sack from the ground, and hurried back across the road to the Command Room. Minutes were critical now. He needed to be out of sight when the cops and fire crews arrived. And more important than that, he needed to be sure the video feed was being properly transmitted and recorded.

That was essential.

He climbed back inside the ground-level apartment and pulled the drapes closed. The moment the outside light was blocked, a sense of relief spilled through him.

It was done.

The job was complete.

He glanced over at the computer screen, saw that the video was recording – saw the two detectives moving through Sarah Rose’s suite – and an excited sound escaped his lips. Outside, smoke was already flowing strongly from the fire – the dark angry tail of the beast snaking around the west side of the building. The sight filled the Adder with a sense of heavenly calm.

It was here. It was here. It was here . . .

The Beautiful Escape had arrived.

Forty-Seven

Striker whirled away from the camera.

‘Someone’s here!’

He drew his gun and scanned the area all around them. As if on cue, four tiny red lights turned on, one at each corner of the ceiling. Like the glowing red eyes of some angry creature. Striker raised his gun to fire, then stopped as he realized what he was looking at.

More cameras.

‘There’s smoke!’ Felicia said.

Striker saw it, too. He searched through the black haze that was unfurling. At first, in the dimness of the basement area, he had thought the smoke was leftover residue from the burned coffee grounds in the kitchenette. But now as he looked at the thickening mass unrolling around them, he realized the truth of what was happening.

The place was on fire.

They’d walked right into a trap.

Gun out, he hurried back into the hallway that led to the stairs, and then the front door. All he could see down at the far end was a smear of puffing blackness. A crackling noise now filled the air. And it was growing louder.

‘Come on!’ he screamed to Felicia. ‘We have to get the hell outta here!’

She ran to his side and they moved back down the long narrow corridor together. The closer they got to the stairs, the more the blackness thickened – to the point where it was difficult to breathe. The air was hot, irritating Striker’s eyes and choking his lungs. Felicia began coughing, and raised her arm to cover her mouth.

When they reached the first step of the stairs, Felicia tripped and almost fell, but Striker snagged her. He pulled her with him, up the stairs. When they got halfway, Felicia tugged at his jacket.

‘It’s too hot,’ she yelled above the noise. ‘We’re running right towards the fire – we have to turn back. Find another way.’

Images of the floor layout flashed through Striker’s head; the entire apartment was below ground level, and the only windows he had seen were small and barred.

‘There is no back,’ he yelled. ‘This is the only way out!’

Without waiting for a response, he pushed on up the stairway, pulling her with him. They reached the small alcove of the inside foyer. Here, the heat from the fire was immense, palpable through the front door. Without thinking, Striker reached out and grabbed the doorknob—

And yanked his hand back.

The knob was blisteringly hot. He quickly stripped off his jacket, wrapped it around the knob, turned it and pushed hard.

The door wouldn’t budge.

Felicia shone her flashlight on the door. With the thick smoke billowing all around them, it was almost impossible to see.

She pointed at the plate. ‘It’s a one-way lock!’

Striker said nothing. He just stepped back and gave the door a couple of solid kicks, once at the bottom and once in the middle. The door barely budged. He shoved hard at the top, then stepped back, coughing.

Smoke was flowing heavily through the cracks now. Like something liquid. Soon the air around them would be too thick to see anything, and they’d be scrambling in darkness.

Blind.

There was no time.

Striker aimed his gun. ‘The lock! Shoot out the lock!’

Felicia said nothing; she just raised her pistol and pulled the trigger. Bang!-bang!-bang!-bang! – rapid fire on the door. She shot all twelve bullets, until she had emptied her entire magazine. Then she reloaded.

Striker did the same, concentrating his fire on the lock and plate. By the time his clip was out of ammo, over twenty-four bullets had punched through the oak. Breaking it. Splintering it apart.

He stepped back and gave the door a few hard kicks. The lock and wooden frame surrounding it broke outwards, but the door remained strong. Intact.

‘Make the hole bigger!’ Striker yelled.

Felicia was already firing before he finished his sentence. She blasted eleven more rounds into the wood, then reloaded her last mag. Striker did the same, then gave the door a few more hard kicks.

This time the entire middle of the door broke outwards.

At first, Striker felt a sense of relief, and Felicia let out a cry. But then smoke billowed through the hole, and the cracking and popping sounds of the fire became amplified.

Flames curved inside the hole of the door.

‘Get back, get back!’ Striker yelled.

The smoke was hot with specks of burning ash. It burned his skin and throat. Made it difficult to see.

Striker grabbed Felicia, pulled her close. ‘The frame!’ he screamed. ‘Shoot six inches above the lock! One spot so we can kick it through. Shoot! ’

Felicia opened fire with her last clip, the explosions of the rounds overpowering the roar of the fire. Striker followed suit, emptying his last magazine.

‘I’m out of ammo!’ Felicia yelled.

Striker said nothing. All in all, they’d put a total of sixty-eight rounds through the door. Trying to weaken one area enough to create a hole and expose the beams behind.

It had to be enough.

He leaped forward and kicked the door with everything he had. The entire structure rattled and something wooden let out a snapping noise.

Felicia began kicking the door, too.

They hit the door again and again and again. Eventually, after what could have been twenty or forty kicks – Striker would never know – something gave way. The door broke outwards and came toppling down with a loud shrieking snap! Striker saw smoke and ash and flame – and a glimpse of blue sky.