Page 10 of Spitfire

Heat floods my face, and I clench my jaw so hard I hear a popping sound. "I'm protecting..."

You're following.

"They need me," I growl with defiance.

Listen to yourself, you're pathetic. Another step, another harsh laugh. You wait for scraps now.

Pain blossoms behind my eyes, sharp, blinding, and glaring white. The alley tilts sideways as I squeeze my temples. "They're... not..."

Say it.

"I'm not..."

Say it. Go on now.

"I'm not anyone's lap dog. You're wrong!" Silence greets my declaration.

Good.

The approval feels worse than the insult. I'm not now, nor have I ever been, weak or pitiful. Those who dare to underestimate me have all paid the price with their lives. I force myself to take in deep breaths filled with the scent of smoke. One. Two. Three. Focus, now.

I turn towards the burning embers of George Weston. The fire has already begun dying. No, not dying, failing. Ashmaker never leaves a scene unfinished. Never. The pretty flames crawl lazily over George's remains, struggling against the rain. Too little accelerant used and too much haste.

My pulse quickens with the knowledge that the FBI will recover far more than they should: evidence and patterns.

Mistakes.

"Ashmaker doesn't make mistakes," I scoff. Not unless they're unraveling, or the Bureau is right.

It will only be a matter of time before they're caught. They've become sloppy, a liability, one that will get us caught with them. Leave.

"No." The words ring true, even if I refuse to acknowledge them. I can't allow that to happen. I won't.

Let them burn with their own mistakes.

"No."

Kill Ashmaker yourself.

The words stop me cold, as every muscle locks, and rain drums softly against the waterproof fabric of my hood. "You don't mean that." I refuse the thought before it finishes forming. My fate is bound to theirs now: Ashmaker’s and her. We're one woven rope, tightly constructed, that can no longer be parted, perhaps not even in death. Somewhere along the way, the line disappeared, and I no longer remember where Ashmaker ends, and I begin. Perhaps there never was one. Then there's her. She ties us all together.

Don't I?

I stare at the dying fire with a sense of growing hopelessness spreading through my chest cavity. All my thoughts race, causing bile to rise at the back of my throat, but I force it back down.

If Ashmaker falls…

"No." I can't allow that to happen, and I refuse to allow anyone or anything to poison me against them. I shrug my backpack from my shoulders and retrieve the bottle of lighter fluid. The flames greet the fresh fuel greedily, roaring back to life as if they, too, refuse to allow Ashmaker to fail. "There..." I whisper to the fire, "I've got you." Always.

The heat bites through my damp body as I crouch beside George. His face has already begun surrendering to the flames. My gloved hand reaches forward and grabs his face, the skin melting like fat from an expensive chicken, as I pry the mouth open and inspect it for its prize. "It's there, firmly placed, exactly where Ashmaker intended." A proud smile tugs at my lips. "See, they didn't forget. They were careful and diligent. They completed their task, they're still perfect," I whisper into the cold air around me, and relief floods me so completely my knees nearly give out.

Perfect? The voice laughs again. You're the one finishing their work.

A bolt of agony tears through my skull, momentarily blinding me as he attempts to take control. I crumple beside the fire, one hand clawing at the pavement. "No..."

Walk away.

"No! I... have to finish... I have to... protect... Ashmaker."