Page 95 of The Devil's Scars

Fire smelled like death.

Fuck that. Nobody dies today.

He avoided something burning on the floor (part of the ceiling? Oh, God), and coughed into the wet shirt, praying for the first time in twenty years… praying that Keira was passed out peacefully. Praying that that was why there was no screaming coming from the crib that he now saw.

The crib that was on fire.

“Fuck!” he mumbled. “C’mon, God… c’mon now… don’t do this to Zoe…”

He ran through a wall of flame, ignored the intense burning on his upper back, and peered into the crib.

Empty.

Relief smashed through him, until he remembered that voice over the baby monitor… and he knew that whoever had Keira had gone out the back door.

To the second parking lot.

He sprinted through the office, exploded into the back room, tripped over something solid, and landed heavily on his elbows… and there was a man on the floor.

Passed out cold. Or dead.

Scars didn’t care and he didn’t check – whatever had happened here at Blue Dragon, Scars knew that this prick was 100% responsible. Let him die, then let his stinking soul rot in hell. Scars had other priorities than hauling a full-grown murderous asshole out of harm’s way.

“Keira!” Scars said, wildly and stupidly, as though she’d respond with ‘Over here!’. “Keira!”

Unbelievably, he heard a sharp little wail, and he followed the sound through the smoke, crawling on his hands and knees now, noticing that the smoke was much thinner closer to the floor. And there she was – sitting on her bum and lodged under a shelf, clutching her bunny. Whole. Not visibly burned. And pissed off as hell.

“Oh, my God.” Scars scooped her up, immediately wrapped the wet shirt around her tiny body, making sure to cover her face. “I’ve got you, little peach. We’re getting the fuck out of here now, OK? You good with that?”

She screamed in response, and he took that as a good sign. He also took it as enthusiastic agreement.

He crawled in the direction of the storage room door, the door to the back parking area, the door that meant that they were mere feet from salvation and sunshine and goddamn air… he wrapped his hand in his long jacket sleeve, reached for the door handle, twisted it to open, and…

Nothing.

Panicking now, he turned it the other way, pushing his massive shoulder against the door as he did.

Still nothing.

Goddamn it.

Scars lay on his back, Keira tucked into his side, lifted both legs to his chest, plowed his boots forward into the metal door. It stayed resolutely closed, so he kicked again. Again. Again. That was when he saw that the frame was bent, buckled, deformed, undoubtedly by the heat. His heart fell into his stomach, as he clocked that this escape route was shut to them.

Motherfucker. You’ve got to be kidding me.

Seconds, seconds, seconds.

Tic. Tic. Tic.

Go.

Scars took a deep breath and shot to his feet, paused long enough to cover Keira more securely with the damp shirt, then ran back through the now-blazing office. Through the main tattoo work space, where jagged, burning pieces of ceiling were falling like snow, setting the lower legs of his jeans aflame. He hunched his whole body and gathered Keira to his chest as he ran, feeling chunks of wood and plaster hit his broad back, fire burning through his shirt, searing his skin, but he barely felt it and he didn’t slow, not even a little bit. Scars just nailed his eyes on a tiny sliver of bright blue sky that he saw thirty, forty feet above them, just held onto that blue like a talisman.

We’re gonna make it, little peach. You’re goddamn right we are.

**

For the rest of her life, Zoe would remember the second that Scars came bursting out through that wall of smoke and flame.

---