He opened the second e-mail. Another e-file to crack and another ticker in the bottom corner that was triggered when he did. This time he just had a picture of the guy, only now the face was battered, with a split in the forehead that had let loose a tidal wave of blood. He wasn’t a victim, though. His knuckles were wrapped for fighting and there was red chicken wire behind his head and shoulders.

The image the solider was a scan of a flyer for an underground mixed-martial-arts fighting group. Area code was 617. Boston.

The name the soldier was going by was both cheesy as fuck and pretty goddamn accurate, assuming he hadn’t changed: Fist. His real one was Isaac Rothe.

This file lasted only a hundred and eighty seconds, and Jim hung out, staring at that face. He’d seen it a number of times, on some occasions right beside him while they worked together.

Dog nuzzled his way into Jim’s lap and curled up, putting his face on the keyboard.

Yup, Matthias wanted the guy dead because Isaac had bolted from the fold—so it was a standard job and standard rules applied. Which meant if Jim didn’t do it, someone else would—and the chaser would be that Jim woke up dead in the morning, too.

Pretty damned simple.

Jim ran his hand down Dog’s flank and worried about who would feed and care for the little guy if something bad happened. Shit, it was weird to have something to live for…but Jim just couldn’t deal with the idea of the animal lost and alone, hungry and scared again.

Lotta cruel motherfuckers in the world who couldn’t care less about a scruffy ugly-ass dog with a limp.

And yet the idea of killing Isaac was repugnant. God knew Jim had wanted out of the service bad, so he couldn’t blame the guy for leaving: A life that was led in the gray borderlands between right and wrong, legal and illegal, was a hard one.

If only the idiot had had the sense not to do anything with a public presence, even an underground one.

Then again, they would have found him eventually. They always did—

The twin sounds of Harley engines pulling up to the garage brought both his and Dog’s heads around, and Dog immediately started wagging his tail as those growls silenced down below.

As boots came up the stairs, the animal leaped off the bed and headed for the door.

The knock was loud and it struck only once.

Dog paddled at the door, his excitement making him appear even scruffier than usual, and before the poor thing expired from ecstasy, Jim got up and walked over.

As he opened the door, he met Adrian’s cool eyes. “What do you want?”

“We need to talk.”