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Several weeks ago...
The man who had once been Quinton Zane watched the fire from a safe distance. The vehicle was fully engulfed now, a blazing torch that lit up the desert night. The flames riveted him. They filled his world, obliterating the view of the glittering lights of Las Vegas in the distance.
He was alone. There was no traffic on the empty stretch of road at this hour. There was no need to suppress or conceal the electrifying excitement that flashed through him. He did not have to pretend to be appalled. There were no other witnesses to the spectacle. He was free to savor the glorious act of destruction.
Fire aroused all of his senses. Fire ignited an overwhelming sense of euphoria and sent shock waves of power through him. Fire was the most potent drug he had ever known; infinitely more satisfying than sex or cocaine.
Running a successful con was the only thing that even came close. True, he got a rush in that moment of triumph when he closed down a project and walked away with the money. It was gratifying to see the stunned expressions on the faces of the marks who were left to deal with the financial wreckage and the shattered lives. But not even a billion-dollar con could provide a thrill that was remotely close to the one he got from fire.
If he were normal—one of the weak members of the herd—he would probably worry about the quirk. But he wasn't normal. He wasn't weak. He wasn't a part of the herd. He was the predator they feared but never recognized until it was too late.
The flames were starting to fade now. He should probably leave. There was always the remote possibility that someone might notice the fire and decide to investigate. He did not want his rental car to be observed driving away from the scene.
Still, he hesitated. He could have stood there on the side of the road and watched until there was nothing left but blackened metal and a body that was burned beyond recognition. The thing about fire was that it had such a wonderfully cleansing effect. It could wipe out anything, including the past.
But he had not come this far only to start making mistakes. He forced himself to turn around and walk back to his car. Mentally he ran through the details of his grand project, making certain he had covered everything. It would probably take the authorities a while to announce a positive identification of the body. But soon they would conclude that the remains found behind the wheel of the burned-out Mercedes were those of the registered owner, Jessica Pitt. They would be right.
Jessica had been stunningly beautiful, smart and ambitious. Each of her three divorces had left her wealthier than the previous one. But, like everyone else, Jessica had craved something so desperately that she had believed him when he had promised to deliver it. She had, in turn, given him exactly what he needed in order to carry out the important first steps of the project.
Jessica had been quite talented, not only in bed but in far more crucial ways. He had enjoyed their time together but he no longer needed her. In the course of their relationship she had learned too much for her own good. He could not allow her to live. He was ready to move forward.
Jessica Pitt was just one more fiery sacrifice on the altar of his greatest project.
He got behind the wheel of the rental and drove away from the fire, into the night.
The exhilarating rush of excitement that had accompanied the explosion and fire was already evaporating. When it was gone he was left with only the old, familiar rage, one of the few emotions he could experience fully. He opened himself to the sensation. He knew that the inferno that burned at his core was the source of his strength.
He focused his attention on the next step in his plan. He had understood from the beginning that the smart way to pursue his objective was the tried-and-true strategy of divide and conquer. It had always been clear that when the time came to make his big move, Jack Lancaster would have to be taken out first.
Most people would have said that Jack Lancaster was the least dangerous of Anson Salinas's foster sons. Lancaster had spent a portion of his career in the academic world. These days he wrote books for a living. He did not have any military training and he had never worked as a cop. He could probably pull the trigger of a gun—hell, anyone could pull the trigger of a gun—but there was no indication that he owned a weapon, let alone that he was proficient with firearms.
Lancaster was not a martial arts expert like his foster brother Cabot Sutter. He lacked the profiling experience and the connections with the FBI and certain clandestine government agencies that his other brother, Max Cutler, possessed.
Lancaster had never even managed to hold a teaching position for very long, and he had never married. Over the years his name had popped up in the supposedly private online records of various psychiatrists and sleep disorder experts. There had been no clear diagnosis or even a detailed description of his problem. The term delusional had been used in some of the notes, however.
Whatever his sleep disorder was, it had evidently been enough to keep his personal life limited to a series of short-lived affairs. A year ago one ex-lover had even gone on social media to label him crazy.
But the man who had been Quinton Zane knew the truth about Jack Lancaster. A little over twenty-two years ago he had seen that truth in Lancaster's eyes.
Lancaster had been a twelve-year-old kid at the time but it had been clear even then that when he became a man he would not merely be dangerous. He would be downright scary.
So, yes, Jack Lancaster had to be the first of Anson's sons to go down.
And he would go down in flames.