Before the airbags deployed, before the headlights smashed and his head and body were thrown violently against the seat belt and seat, he saw Paul, who hadn’t put on his seat belt, thrown sideways, out of his seat.

The switchblade was still clutched in his fist. Sebastian used it to puncture the bags so he could see the road clearly.

The front part of the Bugatti had been smashed, turned into an accordion of steel, the windshield gone. The wind, as hot as the exhaust from a blast furnace, blew across his face, smoke filling his lungs and irritating his eyes. He quickly got his bearings—saw that he’d been thrown sideways from the impact, the Lamborghini somewhere behind him. Sebastian didn’t turn around to look, focused on seeing if the car was still drivable.

It was. He drove back up the road, the Bugatti wounded, the transmission groaning, causing the vehicle to buck. He got just enough distance between him and the fire, and then parked the car. He had to make sure Paul couldn’t escape. He had to make sure.

Sebastian was banged up, but he could move. He opened the door and got out, legs shaky from adrenaline. Where was the AR rifle? There, on the passenger-side floor. He reached back inside the car and grabbed it.

Paul was heaving himself out of the totaled car’s missing driver’s-side window.

Sebastian brought up the AR as Paul landed face-first on the ground. Through the smoke, he saw Paul’s powerful arms push him up, but all of his strength, all his time spent in the gym, wouldn’t get him to stand. His left leg had been badly fractured, the foot twisted and nearly torn off. There was no way Paul could stand, let alone run.

Sebastian had an idea. He churned it in his mind for a moment, then decided, Yes. Do it. He had time.

He had all the time in the world now.

Sebastian lowered the AR-15, grinning, and walked up to Paul. He stopped a few feet away and took a knee, Paul coughing and struggling to move, Sebastian close enough to see the lacerations covering Paul’s face and scalp, his hands.

“Son,” Sebastian said, “you don’t look so good.”

Paul didn’t answer—didn’t even look at him. He was trying to catch his breath and doing a piss-poor job of it, Sebastian wondering if one of Paul’s lungs had collapsed, or maybe Paul had broken a rib or two.

“I’ve decided not to kill you,” Sebastian said. “I’m going to let nature do that.”

Paul eyed him, coughing from internal injuries, possibly, or maybe from the smoke. The heat of the surrounding fires was growing more intense with each passing moment. Soon, it would get to the point where it could melt skin from bone.

“Feel that wind?” Sebastian said. “That’s the infamous Devil’s Winds blowing behind you, fanning the flames. They’re going to eat their way across these fields—across you.”

Sebastian saw the knowledge hit Paul, saw the fear explode in his eyes. The joy bursting inside Sebastian’s chest was better than any combination of sex, booze, and drugs he had ever taken.