17. Ember #3
The thought that Nolan Madden could do something so heinous to people who once worked for him makes me want to hurl. In his mind, I’m sure Blaine’s crew are traitors. But a surprise attack with no opportunity for escape is downright inhumane.
Through the approaching squeal of multiple sirens, urgency pushes me onward to catch up to Blaine. The third and final van is in better shape. A little smoke-damaged with blown-out tyres and caved-in windows, but still semi-intact.
“Blaine!”
“He went around.” Gunnar juts his chin towards where he last saw him.
“Stick close. I don’t like how exposed we are.”
“I’m not leaving your side, 768.”
We sneak around the vehicle on light feet, prepared for anything. Only there’s no masked assailants or array of trained guns awaiting to ambush us on the other side. No, it’s far worse than that.
On his knees, Blaine crouches over something twisted and limp. It takes a breathless moment for me to process the scene. His body trembles while his hands hover mid-air, seemingly unsure what to touch first.
“Blaine?” I whisper, fear making it even harder to breathe than the smoke-clogged air.
Shoulders curved down, his head falls. “We’re too late.”
“It’s a body,” Gunnar says in a whisper.
Creeping forward only confirms the truth. Against the side of the van, the gnarled object isn’t an object at all. Skin—bloodied and blackened from fire—is revealed through haphazardly torn clothing.
And pink hair.
Bright. Crimson-soaked.
Unmistakable.
My limbs lock tight, growing roots to ensnare me in place. Any closer, and I know I’ll see her face, slack and lifeless. A woman who enjoyed making my life hellish whenever possible, but a human being nonetheless.
“Oh, Raye.” Blaine smooths down her singed, pink hair. “I’m so sorry.”
A hand nudges my arm. “Go to him, I’ll cover you both.”
Words fail to rise as I leave Gunnar to defend us and approach the heartbreaking scene. Blown, glassy eyes peer up at me from beneath a tangle of blood-caked hair. She’s already gone. Not a single sign of life.
“The evil bastard left her here for me to find.” Clasping her limp hand, Blaine shakes his head. “Propped up like some fucking trophy of his success.”
“Bla—”
“I did this! I let my people down!”
At the lightning crack in his raw voice, a full breakdown advances into position. The shakes develop into body tremors as Blaine seems to cave inwards, his whole posture slumped over the corpse of a friend he entrusted his whole life to.
My legs buckle, carrying me to the ground at his side. I don’t know where to touch, what to say or do. Not for this. Mere inches away, Raye’s ragdoll body stares at us in clear accusation.
You’ve failed.
It’s all I can do to rest my hand on top of Blaine’s shaking fist, now marked with Raye’s still-wet blood.
“He’ll pay,” I swear, quiet but firm. “We’ll avenge her.”
“He never should’ve gotten to them.”
“I’m sorry, Blaine. You did your best.”
“But it still wasn’t enough!”
More erupting flames and collapsing rubble permeate his words. The cacophony of sirens are close now, descending on our location. Hudson will only be able to hold them back for so long.
As I open my mouth to try to urge him upright, shouting causes us all to startle. Figures break through the murk, running from around the other side of the blaze. Well, more like stumbling. Something huge and heavy weighs them down.
“Archer and Kyle!” I gasp. “They’ve got someone!”
We both stand, keeping Raye safely hidden behind us. Archer and Kyle duck billowing flames to converge on our position. They’re practically dragging the figure slumped between them, head periodically lolling forward and feet unresponsive.
Gunnar keeps his gun locked in position, only now it’s pointed at the semi-conscious body. He doesn’t lift the barrel from its point-blank range, even when they stutter to a halt to lower the figure between them.
“Oh my God.” I clutch my chest, wishing I could calm the organ inside.
Blaine surges forward. “Spyder! Is he alive?”
“Barely,” Archer grunts in exertion.
The big guy gets rolled onto his back, revealing a chest barely pumping oxygen. Black smudges stain his face and cheeks, while a nasty-looking burn contorts his left arm, shoulder and part of his throat.
But as Blaine stops at his side, two swollen tomatoes flicker open where his eyes should be. Spyder sucks in a rattling breath, snagging the sleeve of Blaine’s undershirt.
“What happened here?”
“F-F-Firebombed.” Spyder’s tenor is stripped bare by smoke inhalation. “Out of b-blue. No warn-ning.”
“Are there more survivors?”
“A f-f-few inside… Others taken.”
“Taken?” I track over his injuries, lit by encroaching blue lights.
“M-Madden… here.”
“In person?” Blaine clasps his hand in solidarity.
“Yes. M-Message.”
“What message, Spyder?”
His eyes flicker behind half-closed lids, streaking tears carving a path through soot and ash. “For y-you.”
With the authorities swarming on our location and multiple fire crews assessing the blaze, I’m forced to crouch on Spyder’s other side to catch the next words from his mouth.
“Madden s-said… to my s-son.” After a wet-sounding cough, he continues. “I w-want my throne b-back.”