Pyro

Chapter 25

Proditio offered us a slightly different plan than usual.

The target was an auction, as usual. But instead of Zoe accompanying me, she'd accompany Kaz to free the kidnapped. Proditio claimed there would be a plethora of guards stationed outside, so Kaz required extra assistance.

Kaz would disguise me as a an attendee, and like the other times, I'd raze the place to the ground. But I'd do it alone: The plan hinged on me.

Not to mention this was the last job. If I screwed it up, I'd lose Rebecca. Forever.

Nerve wracking. Very nerve wracking.

As the car pulled up to the auction, hosted in a seaside warehouse, lapping ocean water flanking it on one side and other dilapidated warehouses flanking it on the other, I tugged at the collar of my shirt. In the car mirror, I caught a glimpse of myself; my white, sweaty skin harbored a pallid pallor, and I stopped to take deep breaths. In, out, in, out.

But no matter how much I tried, I couldn't shake the image of Rebecca. I saw wisps of her brown hair, and her inescapable gray eyes that gripped you and never let go. Most of all, her radiant smile that could thaw the coldest of hearts, my own included.

Rebecca... This was the last act I'd need to commit to get her back.

That imbibed me with the vitality I needed and I sprung out of the car, sparing a glance at the moon, full, bulbous, and a luminous silver. The portent night sky loomed over me, almost accusing. It felt like everything was tensed: the sky and moon watched from their perch above, and the ocean held its breath, and the swaying water ceased to a dull roar in the background. Even the very air hung heavy with tension.

Something felt off.

The driver, a dark-skinned man with dark hair and eyes, patted me down before shepherding me inside. Waiting for me was a throng of nondescript guards keen to give me their own pat downs and scrutiny.

The Traders then labored through an arduous process of checking my identity, which Proditio acquired for me. They passed the ID around, all of them nodding their approval. They eventually allowed "Winston Jole" into the auction

I entered, body tensed. Something definitely was wrong here. I considered sending a message a Wais, but refrained. This is the last job, I thought, clenching my teeth. We can't screw it up.

I was seated near the front of the auction and given a paddle for bidding. The "auction" consisted of unfolded metal chairs set up in a dimly lit, vast room. A make-shift stage, concocted of wood, sat in the front to address the audience. A few dozen guests uttered their disapproval, mumbling things like, "This is really shabby" or, "It's because of Pyro."

The cold metal of my seat seeped into my suit, chilling me. Or maybe it was because I was lounging in enemy territory brimming with people all whispering about me. Pyro enamored them. Pyro confused them. Pyro scared them.

Most of them laughed me off, making augury threats like "If he shows up he's got another thing coming" and other derivative variations. I almost snorted; these guys couldn't skirmish with a fly, let alone me. But I allowed them to proclaim their phony threats, denounce Pyro/Henry Jacobs, because all of them were about to face an abrupt awakening.

I paused. My irritation completely overshadowed my skepticism.

My dubiousness bubbled back to the surface when the speaker bounded up to the stage, brandishing a microphone. "Hello everyone. Welcome to our auction. I assume all of you have grabbed a paddle?"

My gaze flitted to my paddle. The splintered wooden stick, biting into my skin, was topped by a plastic disk proclaiming my number. My blood froze as I turned it over.