Crave

It was past ten o'clock when Grier parked her Audi out in Malden and cut the engine. She'd manuevered the sedan around on the packed dirt so that it was facing out and was away from most of the other cars--although it wasn't as if the "parking lot" had any dedicated exit or entrance or spaces.

As she'd driven by the address Louie had given her over the phone, she hadn't been sure she was in the right place. The office park had been empty as far as she could tell, the dozen or so matching five-stories spiraling off from an unlit main drive like schoolchildren lined up for a head count. Evidently, the development had been intended for high-tech companies, at least according to the sign that read, MALDEN TECHNOLOGICAL PARK. Instead, it was a ghost town.

Louie never steered her wrong, though, so she'd turned in and gone all the way to the back . . . and found about twenty-five trucks and cars behind the building farthest from the main road. Made sense. If she were trespassing to put on an illegal cage fight, she'd have made sure she was as hidden as possible, too.

Getting out of her car, she went over to the fire door that was propped open by a cinder block, and walked in. The deep, buzzing growl of a crowd of men boiled down the hallway, the testosterone forming a wall she practically had to push through. As she headed toward the sound, she wasn't worried about the meathead quotient--which was clearly going to be high. She had Mace in one pocket and a stun gun in the other: The former was legal in the state of Massachusetts if you had a valid firearm identification card and she did. The latter . . . well, she'd pay the five-hundred-dollar fine, assuming she ever had to use the thing.

If she could walk into a crack house in New Bedford at midnight, she could handle this.

As she emerged into an atrium of sorts and got a gander at the six-foot-high, chain-link walls of the fighting octagon, she was well aware she could have just called the cops on the match tonight--but then Isaac, assuming he showed up, would either be arrested again or take off. And in either of those cases, she might not have a chance to get to him. Her goal was to have him stop and think long enough to see what he was doing. Running away was never the solution, and if he went that route, he'd have a warrant out for his arrest, more charges against him, and the beginnings of a record.

Assuming he didn't already have one: That murder in Mississippi worried her--but it was, like all of his other stuff, something for the proper authorities to deal with. As his defense attorney, she had to try to get him to stay and face the music on his current charges. It was the right thing for society--the right thing for him as well.

And if she couldn't get him to see the light? Then she was going to resign from the case and tell the authorities everything she knew about him. Including the guns and the details of that security system. She wasn't going to become an accessory to crime in her pursuit of doing the right thing--

She froze as she saw her client, her hand coming up to the base of her throat.

Isaac Rothe was standing alone in the far corner, and though the chain links of the cage separated them, there was no mistaking who it was . . . and no diminishing the effect of him: He was a menace, his size and the hard expression on his face turning the other men into little boys. And whereas she'd been struck by his politeness back at the jail, now she got a true picture of who he was.

The man was a killer.

Her heart beat fast, but she didn't falter. She was here to do a job of sorts, and damn it, she was going to talk with him.

Just as she stepped forward, some smarmy guy with gold teeth monkeyed up one side of the cage. "And now . . . what you're waitin' for!"

Isaac took off his sweatshirt and his combats, leaving them on the floor, and then he prowled the ring, his chin down, his eyes glaring out from under his brows. His shirt stretched tightly across his pecs, and his arms were carved with power even as they hung loosely at his sides. Heading into the fight, he was all muscle and bone and vein, his shoulders so wide he looked like he could bench-press the damn building.

As he clawed up the cage and landed on bare feet inside, the roar of the crowd rang her head like a bell and turned her spine into an adrenaline conductor. In the glow of the eight camping lanterns that hung off the support poles, her client was part gladiator, part animal, a deadly package ready to do what he'd clearly been trained for.

Unfortunately, the opponent who swung over the top and landed across from him was nearly a mirror image of him: same brutal build, same height, same deadly look--even dressed the same way, his muscle shirt showing plenty of the snake tattoo that wound its way around his shoulders and neck. And while the audience hollered and closed in, the two circled each other, looking for an opportunity, arms and chests and thighs tensed.

Isaac went in first, his body swinging around, his foot snapping out and catching the other man in the side with a blow so vicious, she was willing to bet his target's ancestors felt it in their graves.

It all happened so fast. The two fell into a rhythm of strikes and dodges, their muscle shirts quickly dampening around the neck and down the back, the buttery yellow lamplight making it seem as if they were fighting in a ring of fire. The contacts, when made, were the kind that sounded like gunshots, the hard, resonant impacts carrying over the churning, restless crowd. Blood flew--from the cut on Isaac's head that was quickly reopened and then from a split in the opponent's lip. Neither fighter seemed to care, but the kibitzers loved it sure as if they were vampires--

A hand on her ass whipped her head around.

Moving back sharply, she glared at the guy with the wandering palm. "I beg your pardon."

He seemed momentarily surprised, and then his bouncing stare narrowed. "Hey . . . what you doing here?"

The question was posed as if he'd recognized her.

Then again, he could have been talking to Santa Claus and taking it seriously--his face was slick with sweat and half of it twitched like he had an electrical short in his cheek. He was obviously tweaking--and God knew she was an expert in making that diagnosis.

"Excuse me," she said, walking away.

He followed. Just her luck, the one idiot in the place who was more interested in hitting on her than in the fight he'd come to see.

He grabbed her arm, pulling at her. "I know you--"

"Get your hand off me--"

"What's your name--"

Grier snapped herself free. "None of your business."

He jumped at her in the space between one heartbeat and the next: The three feet between them abruptly became three inches. "You're wicked touchy. You think you're better than me, bitch?"

Grier didn't budge her body, but took the stun gun out and slipped the safety pin into the grip. Putting the weapon within striking distance of the front of his jeans, she bit out, "If you don't get the hell away from me, I'm going to shoot six hundred and twenty-five thousand volts through your jewels. On three. One . . . two . . ."

Before she got to trigger time, he shuffled back and held quaky hands up. "I didn't mean . . . I just thought I knew you. . . ."

As he wandered away, she kept the stun gun out and took a deep breath. Maybe she had met him during her searches for Daniel--but he was clearly out of his mind and she was in enough hot water already.

Refocusing on the ring, she looked up--

Just in time to see Isaac go down like a stone. Fighting Matthias's second in command was a pleasure. Isaac had never trusted or liked the guy, and having a shot at the bastard had been an unspoken career goal.

Ah, the irony. Just as he was getting out, he got his chance--

Wham!

As right hooks went, the fucking thing was a bulldozer, and it caught Isaac square in the jaw, kicking his skull back and causing all kinds of trouble: Given that the brain was nothing but a loose sponge in a snow globe, his mental matter went haywire, banging around its hard bone home and rendering him senseless and off balance.

All things considered, he'd been more worried about a weapon of the metal variety, but knuckles worked. Fuckin' hell, they worked--

That was the last thought he had as the floor of the octagon leaped up to greet him, its hi-how're-ya just as much a rocket as his former comrade's fist.

Good thing he was the Energizer Bunny.

He was up a second after he back-flatted--even though his legs were numb and loose and his vision was like a TV that needed its knobs adjusted. Lunging, he was all instinct and will, proof that the mind could override the body's pain receptors--at least for a little while. He tackled his opponent around the waist and drove him into the ground; then flipped him over onto his stomach and wrenched his arm back, pulling the thing like it was rope.

On a crack, something gave out and Isaac abruptly had to catch himself from falling.

The crowd went nuts, all kinds of fuckin' A ricocheting around the half-finished lobby until a shrill whistle cut through the roar. At first, he assumed the sound was just an extension of the chaos in his head, but then he realized that someone had stepped into the ring. It was the promoter, and for once, the bastard's face was a little pasty.

"I'm calling the fight," he yelled as he grabbed Isaac's wrist and yanked it into the air. "Winner!" Leaning in, he hissed, "Let go of him. "

Isaac couldn't figure out what the guy's problem was--

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 fuck'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?