Armstrong's POV
The smell of smoke clung to my suit. Not woodsmoke. The acrid, chemical stink of melted plastic and burned paper. It was in my hair, in my pores. It was the smell of my future, going up in flames.
I stood in the middle of the house, my mind going over all that had happened.
Stephanie. Cane. Those little rats.
This wasn't an attack. It was a message. A declaration. They weren't hiding. They were laughing.
"Boss." Marcus's voice was careful behind me, like a man approaching a rabid dog.
I didn't turn. "Get out."
"Boss, don't you think we need to...
"GET OUT!" The roar tore from my lungs, echoing in the hollow, ruined space. "All of you! Get the hell out!"
I heard the scuffle of feet, the relieved rush as they evacuated. The door clicked shut. Silence, broken only by the drip of water from the fire suppression system.
