First to Kill (Prologue), by Andrew Peterson

The warm glow from the cabin's window told a lie. The scream from within told the truth. Bound to a chair with baling wire, the federal agent had been thoroughly battered: eyes swollen shut, fractured cheek bones, chipped teeth, and worse. Kicked aside, six severed fingers lay scattered on the plank floor. The air reeked of cigar smoke and charred flesh from dozens of burns that marched up the man's arms and across his chest like tiny cattle brands. Where he'd struggled against the wire, his wrists and ankles were torn and bleeding.

"He's out again." Ernie Bridgestone grabbed the naked man's hair and yanked his head back. Bridgestone, a former Marine drill instructor, was tall and lean, with a thin mustache, cropped hair, and acne-cratered cheeks.

"Leave him be. He's had enough." Leonard Bridgestone towered over his younger brother and outweighed him by sixty pounds. Aside from their clothing — blood-spattered t-shirts, woodland fatigues, and combat boots — they looked nothing alike, except for their pale blue eyes, a gift from their mother's side. They never talked about their father's gifts.

Ernie released him. "I'll give the dumb son of a bitch credit; he lasted longer than I would have."

"Let's hope you never have to find out." Leonard was also ex-military — Army Ranger — but unlike Ernie, he'd been decorated from the first Gulf War with a Silver Star, two Purple Hearts, and a Navy Cross for rescuing a downed Hornet driver. He began sloshing gasoline out of a five-gallon can around the cabin's stark interior — a pine table and chairs, a brass lamp, two bunk beds. He saved the last two gallons for human flesh, tipping the can just above the agent's head, letting gravity do the rest. The man shivered and moaned under the stinging fluid.

As the smell of gasoline fouled the air, the rain intensified. The windows flashed white. Once. Twice. Half a second later, thunder rattled the glass.

"Damn shame to torch this place," Ernie said.

Leonard parted the curtain and glanced out the window where morning twilight crept across the Sierra Nevada Mountains. "I figure we've got three days, max. He said his last check-in was five days ago, and they expect to hear from him at least once a week."

"But Les saw him in town yesterday. He could've reported in already."

"Naw, he would've told us. It only took two fingers to verify he was FBI. Nobody can take what we did to him — not for five hours. No way."

Ernie spat in the man's face. "I still can't believe this asshole set us up."

Leonard nodded. "Kinda evens the score a little, doesn't it?"

Ernie grunted and grabbed the bloody pliers, wire cutters, and ice pick from the table.

"Leave those."

"They're perfectly good tools."

"Leave 'em. Don't let the anger cloud your thinking. This isn't about revenge."

"The hell it isn't."

"Let it go, Ernie."

"Easy for you to say." He hurled the pliers across the room.

Leonard knew his brother's anger well. In Ernie's third year in the United States Disciplinary Barracks at Fort Leavenworth, several inmates had beaten him to the brink of death for stealing a pack of cigarettes. He'd spent fourteen weeks in the infirmary — the first two in a coma.

The fed stirred in his chair and moaned. Leonard approached and crouched down like a catcher.

"You got something more to say?"

"Kill nee... kill nee firss."

Leonard looked at his brother.

"Fuck him. Let him feel it

"He's been through enough." Leonard stepped back, pulled his forty-five, and took aim. But before he could finish the man off, Ernie shoved him aside, an entire book of matches lighted in his hand.

"Then I'll do it."

"Ern, stop!"

But his brother tossed the matchbook, casually as dice at a craps table. The whoosh of ignition was chilling.

The burning man leaned his head back and howled.

"Dear Lord." Leonard raised his pistol again, but before he could pull the trigger, Ernie grabbed him, and yanked him toward the door.

It was too late anyway. They retreated from the gathering inferno, down the porch steps and out to the Bronco. Leonard got behind the wheel, but Ernie stood in the rain, watching the fire until the heat forced him into the cab.

Leonard started to speak, but Ernie cut him off. "You're wrong," he said, his eyes glittering with flame. "It's always about revenge."