Crave (Fallen Angels 2)

His eyes finally focused properly, and well, what do you know. Matthias's number two needed an X-ray, a cast, and maybe a couple of screws: His humerus protruded out of his skin like a snapped-off, bloodied stick, the arm broken and then some.

Isaac jumped off and backed up against the chain link, his breath pumping in and out of his mouth. His opponent was on his feet nearly as quickly and he held the hand that flopped casually, like he had nothing more exciting than a bug bite wrong with him.

As their stares met and the guy smiled in that way of his, Isaac thought . . . shit, this fight had been nothing but a warning shot across his bow.

A message that they were on him.

An invitation to run.

Fine. Fuck Matthias. And that compound fracture was his response: They could take him out but he was going to do some serious damage on his way to the grave.

Isaac didn't hang around. He popped up onto the links and sprang himself over the lip. Fortunately, the crowd knew better than to get too close, so he was able to quickly head for Jim--

He slammed right into his public defender.

"Christ!" he barked, jumping back from the woman.

"Actually, it's Childe. With an `e.'" She cocked an eyebrow. "Thought I'd try the taxi offer again--you need a ride back to Boston? Or are you not heading in that direction?"

Momentarily forgetting his manners, he bit out, "What the hell are you doing here?"

"I was going to ask you the same. Considering that one of the provisions of your bail is that you not participate in illegal cage fighting. And that realllllly didn't look like a game of Parcheesi you just played. You broke that man's arm."

Isaac glanced around, wondering what the quickest way to the door was--because she did not belong in this group of roughnecks and he had to get her out of here. "Look, can we go outside--"

"What are you thinking? Showing up here and fighting?"

"I was going to come to see you."

"I'm your attorney--I should damn well hope so!"

"I owe you twenty-five thousand dollars."

"And I'll tell you how you can settle the score." She planted her hands on her hips and leaned forward, that perfume of hers getting into his nose . . . and his blood. "You can stop being a stupid ass and show up for your hearing in two weeks. I'll give you the time and date again, if you've forgotten to write it down."

Okay . . . she was totally hot when she was pissed.

Annnnnnnnd that was so not an appropriate reaction under the time-place doctrine. Among other things.

At that moment, Jim and his boys approached, but Grier didn't spare them a glance--even though Jim was staring at her hard. And didn't that give Isaac an idea of what she'd be like in a courtroom. Man, she was incredible when she was focused and angry and ready to serve someone up on a plate.

"Two other things," she bit out. "You'd better pray that guy whose arm needs to be set in plaster doesn't call the police. And you need to see a doctor. Again. You're bleeding."

Just to fill in the gap, even though there wasn't one, the promoter came up with what looked like a couple thousand dollars. "Here's your cut--"

Abruptly, Grier's eyes turned pleading, even as her beautiful face remained tight. "Don't take the money, Isaac. And come with me. Do the right thing tonight and it'll save you a whole lot of misery later. I promise you."

Isaac just shook his head at her and stuck his hand out to the promoter.

"Oh, for f**k's sake."

As she cursed and turned away, he was momentarily struck dumb by the fact that she'd dropped the f-bomb.

Snapping back into action, he reached for her arm, but the promoter stepped in the way. "Now, before I give this to you"--he slapped the bills on his palm--"I want you to come fight two nights from now."

Which would be a no-go. He was hoping to be out of the country by then. "Yeah. Sure."

"It'll be here, assuming we got no problems. You were frickin' amazing--"

"Just shut up and gimme the cash."

Isaac rose up onto the balls of his feet and stared over the milling heads, watching Grier's fancy-dancy hairdo march out toward the back door. By and large the men got out of her way, but then, given her mood, she was probably capable of castration.

Just by force of will.

Drowning out the promoter's jock-sniffer ass-kissing, Isaac grabbed the money, shoved his feet in his combats and took his sweatshirt and windbreaker back. As he ran off after his public defender, he buried the green in his pockets and double-checked on his guns, the silencers and his plastic bag piggy bank.

"Where the hell are you going?" Jim said as he and his boys followed at a jog.

"Wherever she goes. She's my attorney."

"Any chance of talking you out of this?"

"Nope."

"Fucking hell," Jim said under his breath as he shoved some guy out of the way. "FYI, Matthias's number two left."

"Black sedan," the man with the piercings cut in. "The quarter panels were dinged and the thing was dirty as shit, but the tires were brand-new and there were electronics in the trunk."

That was XOps for you, Isaac thought. Incognito and state-of-the-art at the same time.

As he broke free of the exit, the sound of cars and trucks starting up and taking off turned the night into a traffic disco. Amid the growling engines and flashing headlights, he looked around for her car. She'd drive something foreign, he was guessing. A Mercedes, BMW . . . Audi . . .

Where was she?

Chapter Eleven

Undisclosed location, OCONUS

Matthias was well aware he was an agent of evil in the world.

Which didn't mean he was totally bad. In large measure, the billions of innocent people on the planet were not on his radar screen and he left them alone. He also did not take candy from babies. Or shave cats. Or give the e-mail addresses of people who'd pissed him off to European sex-toy sites.

And he had, once--back in 1983--walked an old lady across a busy intersection.

So he wasn't all bad.

That being said, if, in the process of getting a job done, he had to accept certain collateral damage or sacrifice an "innocent" or two, that was the way shit went: In those cases, he was no different from the car accident or the cancer or the lightning strike, nothing but life's lottery lost for the given inpidual.

After all, everyone's clock was ticking, and he'd played Grim Reaper enough to know that firsthand.

As he repositioned his broken body in his leather chair, he groaned. At the age of forty, he felt more like a hundred thousand years old, but being a survivor would do that to you.

At least he didn't have to shit in a bag and still had one eye that worked.

In front of him, on the glossy desk, were seven computer screens. Some showed pictures, others streamed data, and one told him where each of his operatives were on the planet Earth. With what he was in charge of, information was mission critical. Which was an irony of sorts. He was a man with no identity operating a team that didn't officially exist in a world of shadows--and intel was the only concrete thing he had to work with.

Although even that, like people, could fail you.

As his cell phone rang, he picked up the thing and looked at its little screen. Ah, yes, perfect timing. Matthias was looking for two men--and he'd sent his second in command after one of them.

The other . . . was complicated. Even though it shouldn't have been.

He accepted the call. "Have you found him."

"Yeah, and went a few rounds with him in the ring."

"He's alive, though."

"Only because you want him to be. By the way, his lawyer showed up at the fight--and guess what. She happens to be the daughter of a friend of ours."

"Really. What are the chances." Actually, they were a hundred percent, because Matthias had gone into the Suffolk County court system in Massachusetts and purposely had retired captain Alistair Childe's surviving offspring assigned to the case.

They'd needed to get that traitor Isaac Rothe out from behind bars so they could kill him and keep his body for future use--and good old Albie's little girl was just the ticket: She was a fine attorney with a bleeding heart that led her into places she didn't belong. Perfect combination.

And clearly it had worked: Rothe was free less than twenty-four hours after his arrest.

Christ, it had been that easy to find the bastard. But then, who'd have thought he'd use his own last name?

Huh, Matthias thought. Maybe he was taking candy from a baby here.