“Long enough to cook this piece of chicken.” He turns the jet pipe on Caitlin and curls two fingers into the trigger mechanism. The hiss of the pilot flame sounds like an angry viper in the room, and oily fire drips from its opening.

Regan practically licks Caitlin with his eyes. “Scorched on the outside, pink on the inside.”

As Brody moves farther away from her to avoid any backsplash from the pressurized fuel, a bolt of instinct flashes through my brain: Shoot the gas tank! But which one? One of the two cylinders probably contains inert propellant, the other the gasoline and tar mixture. The upper tank looks smaller than the lower one. Which one holds the fuel? Top or bottom?

“Hey, Brody!” cries Regan, astonished by something. “Look at this gimp motherfucker.”

He’s pointing at Henry Sexton, who has begun crawling slowly toward Caitlin, his bloody cast leaving a scarlet trail across the floor. “You want me to shoot him?”

Brody stares, fascinated, as the reporter reaches a bare support pole, grips it with both hands, and begins to pull himself erect.

“Unbelievable.”

Regan aims his semiautomatic at Henry’s head.

“Put down your gun,” Brody commands, like a boy watching a mortally wounded animal. “Let’s see what he does.”

Once Henry regains his balance, he staggers across to Caitlin, leans against her for a few seconds, then turns and faces Brody as a human shield.

“I’ll be damned,” Royal says with obvious admiration.

“You will,” I promise, shamed by the bravery of Henry’s hopeless act.

Sobbing softly, Caitlin says something to Henry that I can’t make out, nor can I tell whether Henry understood her. To my surprise, she seems to be praying.

There are no atheists in foxholes, my father always said. Trust me, I’ve been there.

But I’m not praying. I’m wondering if a .22 slug in the proper tank could turn Brody Royal into the Human Torch. As the old man braces the pipe against his hip and aims at Henry and Caitlin, the hiss of the gas pilot brings every hair on my body erect.

“Do it,” Regan urges, pumping his fist in the air. “Cook her!”

I step to the limit of my chain, then extend the derringer, sighting along its two-inch barrel toward the larger of the two cylinders. With Brody standing in profile, I can only see the heads of the cylinders in cross-section—a vanishingly small target, considering my weapon. But I have no choice.

“Drop it, Cage!” Regan shouts, turning his pistol on me. “I’ll blow your shit away, I swear to God!”

As I start to depress the trigger, Henry says, “No,” in a clear and distinct voice. “No more.” Then he starts walking toward Brody.