Prologue

 Got to hurry, got to hurry!

            John Whirley ran through his large Victorian-style mansion, sweat pouring off of his bald head. His glasses fell off and shattered into a million pieces on the expensive tile floor, but he didn't stop to pick up the pieces. He didn't have time.

            He flew open the door to the closet on his left, pushing aside the expensive dress shirts and three-piece suits, revealing another door. Inside he went.

            The secret room was his secret office, filled with piles and piles of receipts from his business arrangements. On a desk in the corner, his laptop was filled with recipes of the product his men cooked and sold on a regular basis.

            Drugs.

            Whirley pulled a box of expensive matches, opened it, and struck a match on the match paper on the side. The head was an orange glow of fire like the sun. He dropped it on a stack of papers on the ground, which were engulfed in a sea of fire, while turning into a charred pile of black ash. He did the same to the rest of the piles of paper.

            He took the laptop and pulled out the hard drive and threw it in one of the flames, then threw the laptop on the ground, the bits and pieces flying into the air. Then, the air began to smell thickly of smoke. He turned around, as the rug began to catch on fire. Quickly grabbing a fire extinguisher, he pulled the pin and pulled on the handle, when he heard a sound that startled him nearly to death.

            "Police, open up!"

            Whirley looked out of the window, only to see his long driveway filled with cop cars, the lights flashing and sirens wailing. Then, he remembered that he didn't lock the door to the room, and he hadn't closed the door to the closet.

            The flames had crawled up the wall and had begun to burn the ceiling. The cops were making their way through the house. There was no way out.

            He waited to burn.