Struggling, we managed to haul the smoking ladder up and out through the skylight, holding on to it for dear life, as we lay, for a moment, gulping in air, our backs to the flat roof. When we got our second wind, we eased the ladder over the rim and leaned it against the burning building. This time, I went first, but only because we didn’t have time to argue about it. Another ladder climb, another opportunity to end up dead. Whip and I hit the street, coughing, bleary-eyed, and took off running as far away from the chop shop as we could get. We’d just made it across the street, a safe distance away, when the flames went nuclear. Something inside—the car, the paint cans—exploded and the roof of the building blew off and rained down onto the street. Whip and I watched in horror as the fire ate the chop shop alive.

Whip doubled over, gasping for air. “That almost sucked.”

I turned to face him, wheezing, both our faces covered in soot and grime. “Almost? What part of that didn’t suck?”

Despite his distress, he began to chuckle, then laugh. It had to be nerves. No sane person could find humor in what we’d just gone through. I eyed him curiously. We’d come uncomfortably close to burning alive, which had to be the worst way to go out, and I was in no laughing mood. Whip collapsed onto the curb, watching the fire, rivulets of sweat and tears streaming down his face. I squinted toward where I thought I’d parked the car and headed that way. I needed my cell phone to call 911. Halfway, I flinched and ducked as, presumably, another paint can went up.

Somewhere close, a car engine turned over and I reeled to see a black SUV screech away from the curb up the street and disappear around the corner. I didn’t have to guess who’d just tried to bake us like an Easter ham. Nick Spada was getting desperate, which made him ten times as dangerous as before. The taunting was beginning to get under my skin, though. He was playing me, and I didn’t like it. He left those things behind for me to find, knowing I wouldn’t live long enough to tell anyone about them. He’d underestimated me.

I retrieved my phone, staring at the angry flames, kicking myself over the loss of the rope and note. Spada was wrong. He hadn’t won, not yet, not ever. I was alive and I was coming for him.

Chapter 45

Chapter 45

My head lay nestled in the soft center of a giant marshmallow as I drifted along on a cloud. Time meant nothing, space either. I had nowhere to be. I closed my eyes, breathed, and took it all in, falling off to a contented slumber fit for baby angels . . . until someone dropped a hammer.