Oliver's smooth, asshole baritone drones into Harris' ear. "The only thing that will satisfy me now is that one of you dies. You have one shot at convincing Agatha that it shouldn't be her. Do you want to try?"

"Yes." Harris jumps to his feet. A thousand times, yes! The deal sucks, and he'll take it.

"Follow my instructions. Are you smart enough to decipher that if you deviate, she dies?"

"Yes."

"Good. Get into your truck."

Where there's Oliver, there's fire. Harris pulls the closest set of the fire-retardant overalls from its hanger, balls it up under his arm. He has no idea what and when Oliver has hacked and how he keeps tabs on them. He'll keep mum, but he has to risk a minor detour. Because where Oliver is, there's fire.

Harris turns into the locker room and collects gear that can come in handy.

He keeps his shoulders relaxed, his eyes forward, like he hasn't a care in the world. Like it's perfectly alright to remove the gear from the fire station and carry it toward his personal truck in the middle of the workday. Like—

"Sarkisian!" Lt. Jung blocks his pass. He was born knowing every regulation, so he is bound to notice that Harris is up to no good. "Sarkisian, just where do you think you're going? Colin's all set for you."

Colin! Hearing! That other life... His heart thumps. Once. Twice. His mind claws its way out of the tunnel leading straight to Agatha. "I... will be there shortly."

Jung frowns and that frown spurs Harris' sluggish brains on. He looks into his boss' face with the intensity of a hypnotist. "I... Sir! I just want to pick up cinnamon buns, then I'll be right back. You know how much I love them! Adore them! Can't get enough of it."

Sweat drenches his back from the effort to make Jung understand without stretching the pauses between the keywords longer. If he'd heard someone speaking in this affected manner before, and was in a position of authority, he'd order an illicit drug test. But Jung is not him. The lieutenant has a penchant for making the right calls.

Please, make the right one this time as well. Harris won't ask for anything else ever again.

"There were cinnamon buns in the break-room in the morning, and they smelled so good, I barely sat through counseling. Alas, all gone! I'll buy enough for the next shift too."

Come on, come on! There were no buns in the break room, and Jung must remember the latte incident. He was so pissed, and it happened only a few short weeks ago. Weeks filled with emergencies and life-threatening situations, but... Please!

Harris stares at his boss willing him to read the call for help in his eyes.

Remember, dammit! Remember that I hate cinnamon and threw a hissy fit.

"Who am I to stand in the way of the cinnamon buns?" Jung's gray eyes burrow through Harris' skull, belying his joking tone. "You go on now. We'll see what we can scavenge in the meantime. Ha-hah."

The bellicose laughter at the end wouldn't win Jung an Oscar, but this isn't Hollywood. This is a Fire House, and the matter of life and death. So when Harris mutters, "Thank you, Sir," his eyes water.

In the interest of conspiracy, he doesn't hug Lt. Jung, but the weight lifts off his chest. Not completely, of course, but enough to breathe. He'll take it.

"I'll be quick, Sir." He trudges on and stops only to glance over his shoulder at Jung. Hopefully, his boss will consider the possibility that Oliver plugged into police dispatch. Hopefully, he gets to Lonita, because Lonita knows how devious Oliver is.

Jung leans against the wall, his tall forehead creased, but he gives Harris an almost imperceptible nod.

Harris' knees weaken. Whatever happens at the station is out of his hands now. He has to count on his teammates to get things right.

***

Harris has been a cautious driver since the accident involving his dad. This time, his right foot hovers over the gas pedal, itching to stomp on it. His jaw is set, teeth grind, sweat trickles down the back of his neck from the effort to keep his truck a mile under the speed limit. Any attention from the cops, even accidental—and Oliver could snap.

The checkered flag for the address Oliver gave him draws closer on his GPS map. Harris wills his fingers grip to the steering wheel instead of pounding the dashboard with his fists. "Mother fucking asshole!"

It has been on the news for the last two years. A developer bought out a block squeezed between the downtown's east end and the industrial park. It seemed perfect for gentrifying, except a dilapidating seven-story apartment building from the fifties smack in the middle of it.

When they tried to tear it down to allow for new construction, it turned out it was over-engineered, reinforced with steel worthy of the Empire State Building. Nobody knew why. Same for why the developer had only found it out after their unsuccessful attempt at the demolition.

Because of this calamity, the building gloated over Milwaukee as the company scrambled to bring it down without going bankrupt. In the meantime, the rest of the block had to be cleared out, since the tower was structurally unsound. And standing tall.

It juts out like a giant's tooth from an expanse of dusty gravel and weeds. Overhead, the thunderclouds gather like on a cue, to remind Harris of Singapore. Things didn't go too hot for them in Singapore. There, Oliver won. But this is not Singapore. This is Milwaukee, Wisconsin. His home turf. He'll be damned if he lets Oliver beat him here.

The shafts of afternoon light break through the clouds and intensify the colors of graffiti on the building. Most of it is crap, one band or gang name painted over another. But one dare-devil got all the way up and painted tropical flowers pouring out of the seventh story window. This masterpiece glows red, yellow and toxic green at Harris, despite the best efforts of the weather to wash it away.

Chain-link fence circles the site. Faded boards advertise the fantasized buildings and tree-lined boulevards that never came into being. The newer placards advertise the real dangers. Electrical, open excavations, gas, trespassing, falling debris—just stay the hell away, they warn the passersby. Yet the fools never do.

Harris abandons his truck at a preposterous angle to the curb; there is no shortage of parking. Maybe it would signal to the police his whereabouts.

He pulls overalls on and walks along the fence. It doesn't take long to find a leaning section, allowing even for a man of mature proportions to squeeze through between the posts. Gravel crunches under his steel-toed boots bringing out a sigh of relief out of him. It's ridiculously quiet here, not like Milwaukee at all. No lake water splashes, no traffic, and no emergency sirens. Oliver picked the location for their showdown well.

The blast didn't bring the building down, but it broke the windows, so wherever the glass has been, there's plywood, even the main entrance door. With his breath hitched, Harris pulls the handle—and the door swivels out, letting him inside the security pan separating it from the other set of doors. There is an intercom with a couple of faded name tags still clinging to it to his right.

The second door also opens without a struggle. The stink of urine intensifies three-fold. Garbage and a ridiculous amount of rat droppings tells Harris that this door stood unlocked for a while.

He wanders along the dark hallway, yelling, "Milwaukee Fire Department! Abandon the building!" and "Oliver!" and "Agatha!"

His voice echoes through the cavernous space. Critters scuttle under the old pizza boxes, tattered blankets and plastic bags. He cusses at them until he finds the stairway. Of course Oliver will be by that seventh floor window crawling with flowers. Don't ask him how he knows, but he does. He just does.

Climbing seven flights of stairs isn't what his side and leg needs, but dammit! If he could make love to Agatha, he could climb stairs. Four flights up is when Harris gets the first whiff of smoke from somewhere above him. The acrid taste at the back of his throat eggs him on. Where there is Oliver, there's fire.

Despite his haste, he peers into every ugly corner, checking for trip wires. He doesn't fancy repeating the experience of the Avantgarde. So far—nothing but garbage and dried out shit.

Two more flights.

The strands of smoke weave into the stairwell from under the metal door on the fifth.

He tries it—locked. But Oliver wouldn't be hiding behind the locks. No, Oliver is waiting for him on the seventh. The worst thing? Harris is sure of it, because he's thinking the way Oliver thinks, and it sucks so much that from all the people it has to be Oliver.

Sixth floor. More smoke. Another locked door.

Seventh isn't barbequing yet.

The door to the common hallway is wedged with a fresh block of wood. Footprints criss-cross the dust on the floor. Man's boots. And a woman's sandals, so light he can barely see the toe outline, the imprint of the heel.

"Agatha! Agatha!"

His breath breaks, because of exertion, so his cry isn't loud enough.

As he opens the door a crack, an incomprehensible murmur becomes Oliver's voice. "That's what I'm offering! What I'm throwing by your feet! You're going to be in the Forbes' '30 under 30'. You'll soar and they'll fall, cut down by a seraph's flaming sword."

Agatha's reply is brittle, exhausted, and firm. "I don't want vengeance, Oliver. I only want justice. If my uncles ordered my parents' murder, I'll see them arrested and tried, not blackmail them with your evidence."

"Listen! If you accumulate all their shares and your cousins' shares—"

"I'll hold the control package. I understand."

Forgetting the stitch in his side, Harris charges down the hall toward the source of the voices, the corner apartment.

The door has been ripped off its hinges and thrown farther down the hall. Some of the wall around the doorframe is torn away too, giving the place a much more open concept than anyone would ever want. That's where the wrecking ball must have hit the building. The damage looks devastating, but Harris is not an engineer. Just a firefighter. Just a man.

About twenty square feet of the roof caved in, covering the floor with the uneven chunks of concrete with lengths of rusty, bent rebars sticking out. The sky, plastered with gray and black clouds, gapes through the jagged hole. What's left of the ceiling rests on a structural steel post. Chill crawls down his back—Agatha's still chained to it.

Despite the opening in the roof, the stink of smoke and gasoline hangs thick in the room. Agatha hasn't passed out yet, but she looks so sick, Harris lunges toward her instinctively.

Oliver, who stands on the highest pile of concrete, drywall with shreds of wallpaper, and shingles, waves a gun at him. "Back! Or I'll shoot her."

Harris has already determined Oliver will do that, will harm her, but Agatha gasps. The gasp turns into a coughing fit. A line of drool trickles down from the corner of her mouth. More water tracks streak her dusty cheeks. The asshole is already killing her, albeit slowly.

"Let her go!" Harris yells, pacing in the spot. "Just fucking kill me, and let her go!"

Oliver tut-tuts, swinging his gun between Harris and Agatha. "Language! We're in the presence of a lady."

"Are you for real?! Stop this fucking... masquerade!" There's no other word for it. Oliver dressed like an astronaut or a diver in a catsuit, with weirdo cylinders strapped to his back. Golden spandex hugs his head and body so tightly, it increases the madman's resemblance to a diver. "Are you playing some fucking superhero?"

"I said—keep the civil tongue in your mouth," Oliver growls, menacing Harris with his gun.

Harris shuts up and raises his arms in the air. Anything to get Agatha away from this maniac. Anything!

Oliver's blue eyes shine with glee. "There he is, Ablaze. Your ape, in his full glory! This louse for whom you whored yourself after refusing to consummate our sacred union! Look at him."

The first explosion goes off somewhere beneath their feet.

Once the rocking and roaring stops, Agatha juts out her jaw. "There was no union."

Harris has no idea anger can sharpen her features so much.

"You used my grief and tricks to manipulate me into believing that you were a higher being," she spits out, "but you were a pervert preying on a child, a disgusting, foul creature."

Oliver isn't listening to anyone but himself. "Look how low you have fallen by laying with a common man! Funny, I contemplated taking you to a safe place when they released you from a hospital, saving you from base temptations. But I thought—let the dirt of the world touch her. Let it—and I shall singe it with fire! Yet you were so pure, you didn't let the dirty animal touch you then. I rejoiced!"

A maniacal cackle erupts from Oliver's mouth. It doesn't look like rejoicing to Harris, more like Hollywood villain material.

Just like a movie villain, Oliver doesn't know when to shut up. "Oh, how I was mistaken! Your cravings weren't refined; they were too low. Base! You fornicate with a man whose entire people know only how to haggle at bazaars!"

If only Oliver's rant came with the arm waving and twitching! But no, the gun remains steady in the asshole's hand. His king-of-the-hill position lets him aim at Agatha and keep Harris in his view at the same time. Doesn't mean he has to listen to the insults in silence.

"We, the Americans, value freedom and trade, prick," Harris says. His right arm quakes, as he's overtaxed his wounded side beyond endurance. Sweat that has coated him in the stairwell trickles down his face.

Oliver points at him; alas, not with his gun. "Look at him sweat! They're like cockroaches, sticky and pungent! This one is a brute who doesn't overburden himself with—"

Another explosion booms downstairs, interrupting the litany of Harris' shortcomings.

This booby trap explodes closer, enough to shake off molding from the edges of the broken ceiling above their heads.

"I love him," Agatha says. No explosion, thunder or gunshot is louder than her soft confession.

It wrenches the heart clear out of Harris' chest, sending it flying to her. "I love you too."

Oliver twitches. "Leave! Get out!"

"Not without her, I won't."

"Harris!" The last act of defiance sapped the last of Agatha's strength. She slumps all the way to the floor. "Harris, leave! He'll burn us alive."

Drizzle comes from the sky, chilling Harris' flushed face. They need a downpour, because this is going to be a furnace soon, but even that might not be enough, since Oliver is so fucking competent.

There's no death scarier to a firefighter than in a fire. He'll burn us alive... Harris knows what it'll feel like; he's tried it for size already.

"I was ready to offer you a lifetime, but I'll take minutes," he swipes the private smile meant for Agatha to a smirk.

She'll understand in a second, or he prays she would later, when she has time to think. When she lives.

"Every minute I can think of the sweet, sweet, little, wet pussy of yours."

"Shut up!" Oliver screams. His mad gaze swings to Harris. With it—his gun.

Harris doesn't wait for the muzzle to point at his forehead all the way—deranged or not, Oliver is no slouch—he lunges.

Agatha's scream and the gunshot ring together, half-deafening Harris and throwing him back half-a-step. Like hell he's stopping for a bullet! He's immune to pain for one precious moment of adrenal rush.

Agatha struggles against her restraints. The banging of the handcuffs on the steel pole brings home the futility of her efforts. She sinks down; her face broken by weeping. "Harris!"

Like nothing else, her tears push Harris forward. He chops Oliver's wrist, sending the gun flying. The asshole doesn't watch it go. His spittle sprays Harris' face. He hammers Harris' shoulder at the same time as the pain of the gunshot wound cuts through to Harris' brain.

The world disappears in a flash of white, threaded through by some red wiggle. Harris' nails blindly claw at fabric, scrape at metal on Oliver's back.

A siren blares outside, breaking through the hum of the growing fire and the hissing of the rain. The sirens. Police and fire department. The best sound in the world: they found him.

"Truck Twelve is coming," Harris says. It has to be Truck Twelve.

Oliver yells and kicks him down to the floor, steps on his groin, but a beatific smile bends Harris' lips.

"Run while you can, prick!" he spits out a cuss along with bloody saliva. Watch his language, hah!

Oliver cackles, stomping on Harris, but does not retrieve his gun from the burning debris and shoot Agatha. Thank God.

"I'll fly away on fiery wings, imbecile." Oliver hoists Harris' half-way up, grabs his hair and twists his head so he looks at the opposite wall. Fire has reached there, licking it with its tongues. Getting closer to the loaded gun, another mortal risk, but keeping it out of Oliver's reach.

Oliver drops Harris back onto the litter pile. "You may crawl away, maybe, but they won't make it in time for her. The fire shall cleanse her!"

The first of the sirens cuts off right at the base of the building. More, so many more, are converging on their location.

Oliver fumbles with the controls of his gismo. Fiery wings, his ass! The contraption on Oliver's back is some crazy personal flying device, a jet pack or a drone. Probably a prototype from Singapore, the city of the future.

Then, with no warning, fat drops of water pelt down the dust. Their hiss becomes a drumbeat. The drumbeat speeds up to a sound like from a machine-guns' rounds—all in the space of one second.

The glorious downpour has broken out over Milwaukee. The two-three inches per hour, the keep-fire-back from Agatha, downpour.

Oliver swipes water out of his eyes, pushes back hair that doesn't look so good when it's plastered to his forehead. "What the fuck is this shit?"

Harris lies on his back, as the heavy drops hit his face, laughing. Water overflows his mouth, he spurts it out, laughing, laughing, laughing. "You're a seraph, you should know a miracle when you see it!"

It's their miracle, Agatha's and his.

"Fuck you!" Oliver yells.

"Language!" Harris scoffs. His instincts scream to roll away and protect his shoulder when Oliver lifts his leg for another kick. Instead, he grabs Oliver's spandex-clad knees to anchor him to the ground.

Alas, his hands are numb.

Oliver launches into the sky, and Harris flops on the ground like an overturned turtle. He spits more rain out, because like Hell he'll die by drowning after all that has happened.

In response to his spit, a fireball booms. Red, orange and white Armageddon of burning gas expands above him, where Oliver's figure hovered a moment ago. Like watercolor on wet paper, the burning man stretches, breaks, then comes down as smoking hail.

"I killed him," Harris rasps, though he can't hear himself with all the noise. "I killed him!"

Apparently, he has a few good laughs left in him. His chest shakes, spilling dry cackles. He killed the creep! Not by spitting at him, no. He's not that delusional yet.

He killed Oliver when he grappled half-consciously with his foe. He must have loosened a wire on the jet-pack and in this electricity-charged air, a spark plus even a minor fuel leak... Ka-boom!

Another explosion rocks the building, shaking the floor underneath him, making the ceiling crumble.

Shit! Oliver, even dead, is determined to accomplish what the city engineers could not—bring down this crabby old building. Shit. Shit. Shit.