Free Rising Phoenix by Kyle Mills

was looking for somewhere to run or for CIA agents hiding behind the furniture.
    “I have my orders. Well make it worth your while. Ten thousand dollars and a lifetime supply of top-qualityheroin. Poison-free, of course.” He punctuated his words by pulling a wad of bills from the bag at his feet and slapping them down on the sofa next to him.
    “No way, man. There’s no way you can make me help you. I got rights.” The last part sounded more like a question than a statement.
    “Of course you do,” Hobart said soothingly. “This is a great deal, though, if you think about it. We’re going to do this with your help or not. So why not make it easy on yourself?”
    “No fucking way, man!” The spit that sprayed from his mouth mingled with the dust in the air.
    Hobart looked down at his feet, where a can of lighter fluid sat. His old informant didn’t seem like the barbecuing type. No doubt the stuff was used to manufacture some kind of high.
    He reached down and picked up the greasy can, studying it. Manion was hugging his knees again, rocking back and forth, mumbling as though in prayer.
    “You know, Peter, I was watching an interesting show on PBS last night. It was on those monks in Vietnam who set themselves on fire to protest the war. Remember them? I saw one of ’em do it when I was over there. Nasty.” He turned the can and began reading the back. “They said that burning is the most excruciating way to die. They also said that a person’s sense of smell is the last thing to go. Do you believe that?”
    Manion shook his head miserably, sweat dripping down his forehead. Hobart was starting to enjoy himself.
    “Awful smell, burning flesh—must be even worse when it’s your own.” Hobart picked up a steak knife from a half-empty plate on the floor and put it to Manion’sthroat. With the other hand he squirted the lighter fluid on his head. Manion buried his face in his knees, protecting his eyes. The knife pressed to his neck kept him from rising.
    “Last chance,” Hobart advised, tossing the nearly empty can behind him and pulling a lighter out of his pocket. Manion’s face came out from behind his knees at the familiar sound of the sparking lighter. He looked like he was about to scream, and Hobart pushed harder with the knife, diminishing the cry into a pathetic whimper. He held the lighter a safe distance from Manion, whose eyes were locked on the quivering flame.
    Hobart fully intended to kill him if he didn’t agree. He’d be forced to pick a less dramatic method though. A screaming ball of flame running around the house was bound to attract attention.
    Manion closed his eyes and began sobbing quietly.
    Hobart was getting impatient. “C’mon, Petey, what’s it going to be?”

5

Near Cumberland, Maryland,
November 1
    J ohn Hobart set the cruise control at sixty-six and leaned his seat back into a more comfortable position. It was a beautiful night. Cool, but not cold, and crystal clear. The new Jeep rode as smoothly as a Rolls-Royce down the empty highway, allowing him to gaze through the glass sunroof at the stars. He occasionally glanced back at the road to confirm that he wasn’t straying over any important lines.
    He’d left Peter Manion’s house just before seven o’clock, maneuvering through the thickening city traffic and onto the highway out of Baltimore. City had turned to suburbs, and finally the suburbs had given way to the grassy hills of rural Maryland. The radio was beginning to fade, erupting in loud static every few minutes. He fed a classical CD into the dash.
    It was almost another hour before he saw his exit rushing to meet him. He tapped out the complex rhythm of the last concerto on the CD as he swung his car off the highway. It wasn’t an exit ramp in the truesense of the word, more of an ill-kept asphalt road breaking off from the main thoroughfare. The night closed in on the car as he sped away from the interstate. The faded gray asphalt climbed a steep grade