J Ward - Crave

Isaac stepped out of the waiting room and into a hall that had just a bank of elevators and a fire exit.

“Let me give you a ride,” she told him as she punched the down arrow. “I know where you live, remember? And it’ll be hard for you to get a cab at rush hour.”

True enough. Plus he only had five dollars in cash on him. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Exactly. By letting me drive you. It’s cold and you don’t even have a coat, for God’s sake.”

Also true. He’d lost his sweatshirt in the rush of getting cuffed. But like everything else about him, that was not her problem.

When she turned away, as if the decision had been made, he stared at the complicated swirls of her hair. He couldn’t see any pins or anything, and yet it didn’t look shellacked.

Magic, he thought.

Without being aware of it, he reached up with his busted punching hand like he was going to touch the nape of her neck. He caught himself in time, though.

And he was gone a moment later, ducking soundlessly into the stairwell.

Which had an open square layout. Perfect.

He made no noise as he slung his body over the banister and let himself free-fall two stories down, catching himself on a just-in-time grab and then swinging his torso up and over. He landed in a silent crouch and didn’t wait even a heartbeat before he took the last set of steps in a leap and hit the exit. As he broke free into the cold April wind, he scared the crap out of the smokers by the door before leaving them in the dust.

Falling into a run, his path took him up through a dark maze of buildings and then down past all the jewelry stores, as well as Macy’s and Filene’s Basement. Rush hour meant the streets were teeming with professional people disgorged from the Financial District, all of them filing into underground T stops or streaming like ants across the park. Fortunately, there was less foot traffic in Chinatown, although more cars-which improved his time.

As he gunned for his place, the exertion helped with the fact that he had nothing but a muscle shirt on, although the wet chill in the air did keep the bruises and the cut on his forehead from pounding too much. When he got to the block where he stayed, he was almost disappointed to slow down-exercise was good for calming his mind and taking the kinks out.

Approaching the three-story house from the rear, he wound in and out of the shallow yards of the neighbors and stopped about thirty feet from the back door. The lights were on in the landlady’s crib and the second floor, but everything was off on his level.

When he was reasonably sure he hadn’t been followed, he bent down and picked up a stone. Staying in the shadows, he closed in, then hauled back and snapped out a throw, clipping the dangling head of the bald bulb over the stoop and putting the exterior lighting to sleep.

Isaac waited, hanging tight right where he was: Speed was often your friend, but that wasn’t always the case. Sometimes going slow was the only reason you woke up the next morning.

Downstairs, a shadow got up and passed from window to window, then made a return trip to the flicker of the television. Not good news, but not a surprise. Mrs. Mulcahy never left her roost except to go get food-and she was the kind of pesky landlord who made him consider the benefits of park benches. Tonight, however, she wasn’t the reason he was sneaking into his own place: Chances were damn good that with his name in the penal system, his address had been popped by XOps, and that meant this location was no longer secure.

He had to get in and out of there fast.

Ten minutes later, it was a case of over to the back steps. Key in the lock. Ghosting up the stairwell.

And on his way to the top floor, he avoided the squeaking steps-which eliminated three out of every four of the bastards.

The door to his flat opened without a sound because he’d oiled the hinges the night he’d moved in, and with a quick twist of the dead bolt, he locked himself inside. A fast listen told him that there were no sounds other than the television below, but he stayed where he was for a minute and a half just to be sure.

When there was nothing out of order that he could sense, he got down to business.

Lightning fast was the speed. Whisper quiet was the way.

Out of the kitchen. Into the front room.

He took one look at his stuff and knew Grier had rifled through it-the shift in the pile of clothes was so subtle only he would notice, but the folding system he’d developed was designed precisely for that purpose.

He put on the sweatshirt he used as a pillow, slipped his two forties into the fat center pockets in front and changed into his combat boots. Ammo, hunting blade and his cell phone went into his pants, and then he put on the black windbreaker that was all he had, coat-wise.

Down to the bedroom. Into the closet.

There had been twenty-seven thousand eight hundred and fifty-three dollars in his stash, so he should have a little something left over after the bail.

He popped off the panel and reached in-

“Fuck.”

He didn’t have to open the Star Market bag and count; by weight alone, he knew that Grier hadn’t taken even a dollar out of the rolls of hundreds and twenties or the fluffy scruff of the unbundled.

But she had been here-Matthias would have taken the weapons to make him less dangerous. And waited around to shoot him in the head.

Shit… the cash-intact crap meant either there was a bondsman involved… or she’d bailed him out with her own money. And when he’d been processed, there had been no disclosure about a third party posting the benjamins. So she must have.

Damn it.

Snapping back into action, he took the bag and replaced the section of bead board. Then he went around to the windows and doors, flicking off the receptors with his knife and putting the metal plates into his pockets. No more than three minutes later, he left the way he’d come: out the back and quiet as smoke.

The five hundred dollars he left on the counter in the kitchen was going to have to cover the fact that he was breaking his lease, and Mrs. Mulcahy would have to figure out herself that he’d left when there was no sign of him after a couple of days.

The less contact with him, the safer she was.

Same with his attorney.

God damn it.

Down below, in the backyard, Isaac’s senses were razor-sharp as he whispered around to the side of the apartment house and resumed his jog. He didn’t slow his pace until he was a couple of miles away.

Ducking into an alley, the call he made was answered on the second ring: “Yeah.”

“It’s Rothe.”

The fight promoter perked right up. “Jesus Christ, I heard you were in jail. Listen, I can’t bail you-”

“I’m out. We fighting tonight?”

“Shit, yeah! We was gonna have to move from that location anyways. This is awesome. How’d you pull it off?”

“What’s the address and how do I get there?”

The location was some six miles away in a town called Malden, which made sense-the cops in Southie were obviously dunzo with having fights on their turf. And how the promoter hadn’t gotten pinched was a mystery. Unless, of course, he was the one who’d given the tip and gotten out in time.

You never knew with people like that guy.

After Isaac hung up, his next move was to find a bus shelter with a schedule. When the right ten-wheeler monolith trundled along, he boarded it and sat by the emergency exit window.

As he stared out at the apartments and businesses and buildings that passed by, he wanted to scream.

He was getting out of XOps because he’d found his conscience, and that meant he couldn’t take off with Grier Childe having covered him to that extent. She’d looked rich, but twenty-five grand was a lot of cash no matter how much you were worth. Hell, he wouldn’t have felt comfortable with even an anonymous bail bondsman eating that bill. But that elegant woman who he’d lied to? And sent on a dirty errand?