Excerpt of The Last Move by Liz Sinclair

FIRE CHIEF JACK Sullivan was about to die a hideous death . . . and he knew it. “Ironic, isn’t it, Jack?” The serial arsonist Jack had been pursuing for two years and had dubbed the Chessman smiled. “You’ll be dying at the hands of the one thing you’ve been fighting all your life—fire.” He slipped on protective latex gloves and then took a can from the small black bag at his feet. Slowly, he poured until the liquid formed a large puddle on the floor near the warehouse wall. The distinctive, almost sweet odor of acetone made its way to where Jack sat on the opposite side of the room, his hands and feet bound with duct tape. Jack’s blood went cold. “Ah, you recognize that smell. Smells like . . .” The Chessman sniffed the air like a demented puppy. “. . . death.” “Why in hell are you doing this?” His captor recapped the can and turned to Jack, brows furrowed. “Oh, let me see. Because you couldn’t let it go? Because you deserve it? Because you’re not the super fireman you think you are?” Then he grinned. “Maybe . . . I’m doing it . . . just because I can.” The Chessman dug into the bag and hauled out a light bulb, an electrical cord, an eye dropper, and a small jar of pinkish liquid—gasoline. All the makings of an incendiary device that, once it ignited in the pool of acetone, would blow Jack’s ass to hell and back. Cold dread washed over him. He tried to edge backwards, but the wall at his back blocked any escape. “Is that fear I see on the great Jack Sullivan’s face?” The crazy bastard sniffed the air again and sighed contentedly. “Yup, I can smell it. You know exactly what all this is, don’t you, Jack?” He flashed a twisted grin. “Gonna make a hell of a fire.”