Oliver's smooth asshole baritone droned into Harris' ear. "The only thing that will satisfy me now is that one of you dies. You have one shot at convincing Agatha that it shouldn't be her. Do you want to try?"

"Yes!" Harris leaped up. Yes, yes, yes, a thousand times! The deal sucked, and he'll take it.

"Follow my instructions. Are you smart enough to decipher that if you deviate, she dies?"

"Yes."

"Good. Get into your truck."

"On it."

Where there was Oliver, there was fire.

Harris grabbed the nearest fire-retardant overalls and tucked them under his arm. He had no clue what, where, when, or how Oliver hacked everything. So he would keep his mouth shut, but risk a quick detour.

Had to, because there would be fire.

Harris turned off into the locker room, his shoulders relaxed, eyes forward, breathing controlled. Like he didn't have a care in the world aside from being sacked. Like it was perfectly alright to remove the gear from the fire station to carry it toward his personal truck in the middle of the workday. Like—

"Sarkisian!" Lt. Jung blocked his exit.

Busted! The boss knew every rule, so he stood a zero chance of bullshitting his way out of it. "Sir!"

"Sarkisian, where do you think you're going? Colin's all set for you."

Colin! Hearing! That other life, when Agatha was all that mattered. His heart thumped loudly in his ears. Once. Twice. "I... I will be there shortly."

Lt. Jung's bushy brows creased, and that frown spurred Harris' sluggish brains on. He stared at his boss' face with the intensity of a hypnotist.

"Sir! I just want to pick up cinnamon buns, then I'll be right back. You know how much I love cinnamon buns! Adore them! Can't get enough of it."

Sweat drenched Harris' back from the effort to make Jung understand he was in a hostage situation without stretching the pauses between the keywords longer. If he'd heard someone speaking in such a manner before, he'd order a drug test. But Jung wasn't him. The lieutenant always made the right calls. Just one more, right here, right now, and Harris wouldn't ask for anything else ever again.

"There were cinnamon buns in the break-room in the morning, and they smelled so good, I barely sat through counseling. Alas, all gone! I'll buy enough for the next shift too."

Come on, come on! There were no buns in the break room, and Jung must remember the latte incident. The lieutenant was so pissed by it, and it happened only a few short weeks ago. Mind you, emergencies and life-threatening situations filled these weeks, but... Please!

Harris drilled his gaze into his boss, willing him to read the call for help in his eyes. Remember that I hate cinnamon and threw a hissy fit.

"Who am I to stand between a man and the cinnamon buns?" The steely gray of Lt. Jung's eyes belied his joking tone. "You go on now. We'll see what we can scavenge around here in the meantime. Ha-hah."

The manic laughter wouldn't win Jung any awards, but they weren't in Hollywood. This shit was real. When Harris whispered, "Thank you, Sir," a tear in his eye wasn't acting either. To keep the ruse going, he didn't hug Lt. Jung to his chest, but some weight lifted off it. Just enough to let him breathe again. Today, this was enough.

"I'll be quick, Sir." Harris stopped only to glance over his shoulder at Lt. Jung.

With the active investigation into arson, Jung cooperated with the PD and knew as much as Harris did. Surely, Jung would consider the possibility that Oliver hacked the police dispatch. Hopefully, he would go straight to Lonita or her partner. That's what Harris' would do. And Jung would too. Right?

Jung leaned against the wall, squinting, but he gave Harris an almost imperceptible nod.

Harris' knees weakened making his next step wobbly. Whatever happened at the station was out of his hands now. He had to count on his team to get things right.

Harris had been a cautious driver since Dad's accident.

This time, though, he ground his teeth, as sweat trickled down the back of his neck from the effort of keeping his foot from the gas pedal. He itched to stomp on it. If his truck was a Batmobile, he'd engaged the jet turbines. Anything to be with Agatha already... but he had to stay a mile under the speed limit. Any attention from the cops, even accidental—and there was no telling what Oliver would do to her.

At this glacial speed, Harris' mind had time to puzzle out what Olive had marked by the checkered flag on his GPS. Once Harris had it, he had to grip the steering wheel till his finger joints cracked. Otherwise, he'd pound the dashboard with his fists. "Mother fucking asshole! No fucking way! Fuck you, Oliver!"

But yes, way. The damn thing had been on the news for the last two years, and it was any megalomaniac's wet dream.

A developer snapped up a block between downtown's east side and the industrial park. All ready for gentrification, except a crappy seven-story building from the 50s right in the middle of everything. When they tried to tear that monstrosity down, it turned out the engineers had reinforced it with steel worthy of a skyscraper. Nobody knew why they did something so stupid and wasteful. Same went for why it only came out after an epic fail of a demolition. It was on the plans, after all.

Because of this calamity, the building stood tall, more or less intact, as the company scrambled to bring it down completely without going bankrupt. In the meantime, the rest of the block had to be cleared out, since the tower could be structurally unsound.

Before Harris, it jutted out like a giant's tooth from an expanse of dusty gravel and weeds. Overhead, the thunderclouds gathered like the sky wanted to remind Harris of his Singapore fiasco. There, Oliver won. So, this was like a triple failure came together in this spot: the building, the demolition, and Harris.

"This isn't Singapore," Harris yelled at the clouds. This was Milwaukee, Wisconsin. His home turf. He'd be damned if he let Oliver beat him here.

The shafts of afternoon light broke through the clouds as if in response. They intensified the colors of graffiti on the building to blazing and super saturated shades, the kind one could only see before the storm. Most of the art was crap, some bands' or gangs' names painted over one another. But one dare-devil artist climbed all the way up and painted tropical flowers pouring out of the seventh story window. This masterpiece glowed toxic red, yellow and green at Harris, promising him something if not beautiful, then at least bright.

"That's better." Harris abandoned his truck at a preposterous angle to the curb. There was no shortage of parking, so he prayed for this to be like his smoke signal to the cops.

A chain-link fence ran all around the place. On it, old bill-boards advertised the tree-lined boulevards of the lovely neighborhood that had never come into being.

Near the washed-out daydreams, the newer signs screamed in red at the passersby. Electrical hazards, open holes, gas leaks... Don't go near it! It will kill you! Stay away!

"Yet the fools never do," Harris said with a sigh. "We never learn." And sometimes, there was no other choice.

He pulled overalls on and walked along the fence. It didn't take long to find a leaning section, allowing a man of Harris' proportions to squeeze through between the posts. Gravel crunched under his steel-toed boots bringing out a sigh of relief out of him. It was ridiculously quiet here, to the point of haunting, not like Milwaukee at all. No lake water splashes, no traffic, and no emergency sirens.

Next, Harris had to get inside. While the blast might not have brought the stubborn building down, it broke the windows, so wherever the glass had been, there was plywood boarding up all access. Even the main entrance door had that, looking well-shut.

With his breath hitched, Harris pulled the handle—and the door swiveled out, letting him inside a small pen separating it from the other set of doors. An intercom with a couple of faded name tags occupied the right wall, and Harris pressed a button on impulse.

Nothing. Of course it was nothing. The thing had been disconnected for ages, and even Oliver wouldn't think to wire it so Harris could announce his arrival. Just a thought of the villain's mocking cold voice coming out of that stupid intercom sent a jolt of rage up Harris' spine. He burst through the second set of doors and the stink of urine intensified three-fold. Garbage and a ridiculous amount of rat droppings told Harris that the doors stood unlocked like this for a while.

He wandered along the dark hallway, yelling on top of his lungs. "The Fire Department! Abandon the building! Now!"

"Oliver! I'm here!" This one was pointless. Oliver already knew Harris was here. His skin prickled, sensing the villain's spying devices on him.

"Agatha!" Her sweet name echoed in this giant, dirty space. Critters scuttled under the old pizza boxes, tattered blankets and plastic bags. "Agatha!"

Dammit. Oliver would wait for him by the seventh floor window, the one painted over with the toxic flowers. It was as certain as Oliver watching his every move and laughing his ass off.

Climbing seven flights of stairs wasn't what Harris' burned side and leg needed, but if he could make love to Agatha, he could climb stairs. "Oliver, I'm coming for you!"

On the fourth floor, Harris caught a whiff of smoke upstairs. The acrid taste at the back of his throat spurred him on, peering into every ugly corner, checking for trip wires. All he found there was dried shit. Which was better than a giant explosion into his face and Oliver's cackling like 'gotcha!' If Harris had his wishes, after today, nobody ever would have to listen to Oliver's laugh again. The thought brought a grim smile to his lips.

Two more flights.

The strands of smoke reached into the stairwell from under the metal door on the fifth. He tried it. Locked. But Oliver wouldn't be hiding behind the locks when he'd invited Harris to come.

Nope, Oliver would be on the seventh. The absolute worst? Harris was sure of it, because he started thinking like Oliver, and it sucked balls that from all the people it had to be the man he despised the most.

Sixth floor. More smoke. Another locked door.

Seventh wasn't barbequing just yet, but it would be soon. The door to the common hallway was wedged with a fresh block of wood. Footprints criss-crossed the dust on the floor. Man's boots. And a woman's sandals, so light Harris could barely see the imprint of the toe and the heel. But these faint lines in the dust were enough for a dull needle to stub through his heart. It twisted, and he bent over in half.

"Agatha!" With a broken breath, his cry came out muffled, even if Harris didn't stifle it because he caught a murmur of another male voice. Straightening, Harris stumbled for the hallway door, ears pricked, eyes fixed on its handle, and opened it a crack.

Yes, this was Oliver's voice. "That's what I'm offering! What I'm throwing by your feet! You're going to be in the Forbes' '30 under 30'. You'll soar and they'll fall, cut down by a seraph's flaming sword."

Agatha's reply was immediate, brittle, and firm. "I don't want vengeance, Oliver. Only justice. If my uncles ordered my parents' murder, as you say, I'll see them arrested and tried, not blackmail them with you."

"Listen! If you accumulate all their shares and your cousins' shares—"

"I'll hold the control package. I understand." She sounded more and more tired with every syllable.

Forgetting the stitch in his side and the burning in his chest, Harris charged down the hall toward the source of the voices, the corner apartment. That door had been ripped off its hinges and thrown aside. Some of the wall around the doorframe was torn away too, giving the place a much more open concept than anyone would ever want in their place. About twenty square feet of the roof caved in, covering the floor with chunks of concrete and rusty, bent rebars sticking out. The sky, plastered with gray and black clouds, gaped through a jagged hole above. What was left of the ceiling rested on a lone structural steel post.

He must be at the ground zero of when the wrecking ball had hit the building. The damage looked devastating, but Harris wasn't an engineer, just a fireman. Only a man chasing down another man over a girl. A girl chained to the steel post.

"Agatha!"

She lifted her head. Despite the giant opening in the roof, the stink of smoke and gasoline hung thick in the room. Agatha hadn't passed out of the exposure yet, but she looked so sick, Harris lunged toward her blindly.

Oliver, who stood on the mound of concrete, drywall with shreds of wallpaper, and shingles, waved his gun at Harris. "Back! Or I'll shoot her."

Harris had already determined Oliver would do that, would harm her, but Agatha gasped, like it was news to her. Her gasp turned into a coughing fit, with a line of drool trickling down the corner of her mouth. More water tracks streaked her dusty cheeks. The needle in Harris' heart twisted again, a thousand times more painful than before. The asshole was already killing her, slowly, with poison.

"Let her go!" Harris yelled from where he'd frozen on the spot. "If you hate me half as much as I hate you, just fucking kill me, and let her go!"