But Jax was fueled by pain and rage; he managed to pin my arms, his heavy fingers wrapping around my throat, squeezing the air from my lungs.
As my vision began to blur, the dark edges of unconsciousness creeping in, I remembered my father's face, the torn green jacket, and the promise I had made to protect him.
With a final, desperate surge of strength, I reached down to my boot, my fingers finding the small ceramic blade stitched into the lining.
I pulled it free and drove the blade deep into Jax's forearm, the sharp ceramic cutting through muscle and tendon with ease.
He screamed, his grip on my throat loosening instantly as he fell back, clutching his ruined arm.
I scrambled to my feet, gasping for air, but when I looked around, Raymond was gone—and so was my motorcycle from the pine trees.
I looked back toward the town, my heart stopping as a bright, orange glow began to illuminate the dark, rainy horizon in the direction of the diner.
The midnight deadline had passed, and the Scythes had already sent someone to finish the job.
I didn't look back at Jax; I turned and began to run through the blinding rain, my lungs burning, my mind filled with a single, terrifying thought: *Pop is still inside.*
The heat hit me before I even reached the edge of the diner's parking lot, a wall of blistering, orange air that smelled of burning pine, old grease, and gasoline.
The front windows of Vance’s Cozy Corner were entirely gone, replaced by roaring sheets of flame that licked up the white clapboard siding toward the second-floor apartment.
The heavy black SUV I had seen earlier was parked crookedly across the gravel lot, its doors flung wide, the engine still running.
I fell to my knees in the wet gravel, gasping for air, my chest heaving, the cold rain doing nothing to cool the terrible, radiating heat of the fire.
"Pop!" I screamed, the sound torn from my throat, disappearing into the roar of the flames and the crackle of collapsing timbers.
I scrambled to my feet, my muscles screaming in protest, and ran toward the back entrance of the diner, where the kitchen door was hanging off its hinges.
The smoke inside was a solid, black wall, thick and choking, hot enough to singe the hairs on my arms the moment I crossed the threshold.
I pulled the collar of my wet black hoodie up over my nose and mouth, dropping to my hands and knees to find the thin strip of clear air near the floor.
"Pop!" I choked out, crawling through the kitchen, the stainless-steel prep tables hot to the touch, the grease on the floor slick and dangerous.
I could hear coughing—a dry, hacking sound coming from the main dining room, followed by the unmistakable, metallic click of a gun being cocked.
I crept forward, peerng through the smoke to see a scene that looked like a vision of hell itself.
The dining room was a ruin of burning vinyl booths and falling ceiling tiles, the air filled with a thick, yellow haze.