Marcus stood near the back wall, holding a red plastic gas can in his right hand.

His hair was plastered to his forehead, and his expensive leather jacket was soaked and stained.

In his left hand, he held a silver windproof lighter, its flame dancing in the draft.

Blake stood three feet away from him, his boots planted wide, his hands raised in a calming gesture.

“You don’t want to do this,” Blake said. “The fumes in here are too strong. You’ll blow yourself up.”

“You don’t know what’s at stake,” Marcus yelled, his voice cracking with panic. “If those zoning maps are verified, the whole deal is dead.”

“The deal is already dead, Marcus,” I said, stepping off the last stair.

Marcus spun around, his eyes wide and bloodshot in the flashlight beam.

“You,” he spat, pointing the lighter at me. “You always had to keep your nose in everything.”

“Put the lighter down,” I said, taking a cautious step forward. “The smell of gas is everywhere. One spark is all it takes.”

“Good,” Marcus said, though his hand shook. “Let it all go up. The house, the land, the graves. It’s just dirt.”