After my in-laws turned my 11-year-old daughter’s puppy into her dinner, my mother-in-law forced her to the table. “That dog is gone! Stop crying and eat your dinner!” she sneered. When my little girl showed me the note taped to her bedroom door, the color completely drained from my face.

I held the chef’s knife with both hands, my knuckles white, stepping back into the narrow corridor that led to the bathroom where Lia was hidden.

“The police are already on their way, Arthur,” I said, keeping my voice as steady as a stone wall. “They know you tampered with your monitor. You have maybe three minutes before this building is surrounded.”

Arthur let out a wet, barking laugh, closing the heavy front door behind him with a sharp click. He locked it from the inside, dropping the crowbar into his left hand while reaching into his heavy canvas jacket pocket with his right.

“Three minutes is a very long time, my dear,” Arthur said, stepping onto the dark hardwood floor of the foyer. “Do you know what thirty years in civil engineering teaches you, Nora? It teaches you that when a structure is corrupted, you don't repair it. You tear it down to the foundation. You destroy everything built on it.”

He pulled his hand out of his jacket.

He wasn't holding a gun. He was holding a heavy glass mason jar filled with a thick, amber-colored liquid, with a rag stuffed tightly into the top soaked in clear fluid. A commercial butane torch lighter was strapped to his wrist with electrical tape.

A Molotov cocktail.

My blood ran cold. He didn't come here to kidnap Lia. He didn't come here to negotiate. He came to burn us alive on the twelfth floor, knowing the high-rise building’s emergency response time would make escape impossible.

“You destroyed my family,” Arthur hissed, his eyes wide and vacant with pure malice. “You disgraced my name in the paper. You turned my son into a pathetic, weeping coward. If the Sterling legacy ends, it ends in ash. All of us.”

He raised his thumb, clicking the butane torch. A sharp, bright blue flame burst to life in the dim hallway, casting demonic shadows across his hollow cheeks.

“Arthur, don't!” I screamed.

He didn't hesitate. He brought the blue flame directly to the soaked rag. The rag ignited instantly, heavy yellow flames leaping up toward the ceiling, filling the foyer with the sharp, chemical stench of gasoline.

He drew his arm back, preparing to hurl the burning glass jar down the narrow hallway toward the bathroom door.

In that split second, every instinct, every fear, every ounce of motherly self-preservation collapsed into a single, blinding flash of pure violent intent.

I didn't retreat. I didn't scream for help.

I lunged forward.

Before Arthur could release the burning jar, I drove my body weight directly into his chest. The collision caught the old man completely off balance.

The mason jar flew from his hand, crashing onto the hard tile floor of the foyer.

FOOM!

A wall of bright, blinding fire exploded across the entrance, engulfing the front door, the rug, and Arthur’s heavy canvas jacket in a roaring sea of flames.

Arthur shrieked in shock and pain as the fire swept up his left sleeve. He stumbled backward into the burning foyer, thrashing wildly to beat out the flames on his arm.

The fire alarm on the ceiling began to blare with a deafening, rhythmic screech: BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! The overhead emergency fire sprinklers burst open, showering the hallway in a heavy, cold deluge of water that filled the corridor with thick, choking white steam.

Through the blinding mist and smoke, Arthur rose up like a demon from hell, his face blackened with soot, his jacket smoking. His eyes were fixed on me with murderous rage. He lifted the heavy iron crowbar with both hands and swung it wildly at my head.

I ducked. The heavy iron bar shattered the glass wall-sconce behind me in a shower of sparks.

The momentum of his swing carried him forward. I stepped into his stroke, driving the eight-inch stainless-steel knife forward with every ounce of power left in my body.

The blade sank deep into the thick leather of his belt line, biting into flesh.

Arthur let out a wet, gasping choke. He dropped the crowbar. The heavy iron tool hit the wet tile floor with a loud clatter.

He stared down at me, his eyes wide with absolute, stunning disbelief, his heavy hands grabbing my shoulders as he tried to push me away.

“You... you...” he gasped, blood bubbling at the corner of his lips.

I didn't let go of the hilt. I held it firm, looking dead into his dying, hateful eyes through the raining water and thick smoke.

“Max sends her regards,” I whispered into his ear.

I pulled the blade back and shoved him hard.

Arthur Sterling stumbled backward, tripping over the burning remains of his own jacket, and collapsed heavily onto his back in the center of the flooded foyer. His hands twitched once, twice, and then went completely still, his eyes staring blankly up at the flashing red fire strobe on the ceiling.

A second later, the front door was shattered inward by a massive hydraulic ram.

Four heavily armed SWAT officers with tactical visors and automatic rifles burst through the smoke, followed closely by Marcus Kane holding a drawn handgun.

“POLICE! DOWN ON THE GROUND! DON'T MOVE!” the lead officer screamed, sweeping the room with his weapon light.

The beam of light landed on Arthur’s lifeless body, then moved to me.

I was standing in the center of the drenched hallway, drenched in sprinkler water and covered in soot, holding the bloody chef’s knife loosely at my side.

I slowly let my fingers open. The knife dropped to the floor, splashing into the puddle of pink water around my feet.