As the crowd booed, Isaac flipped into business mode. An idiot with a blade was almost as dangerous as somebody who actually knew what he was doing with one, and he wasn’t about to get a nip and tuck from this motherfucker.

“How’d that feel?” his opponent hollered. Actually, it came out more like, “Hof thath fill?” given his fat lip.

Last three words the guy said in the ring.

As Isaac spun a kick into the air, his own blood splashed the crowd and the impact blasted the weapon from the guy’s grip. Then it was a case of one, two . . . three punches to the head and all that swagger went down harder than a side of beef at a packing plant—

Which was precisely when the fine men and women of the Boston Police Department swarmed into the warehouse.

Instant. Chaos.

And, of course, Isaac was locked into the octagon.

Jumping over his dead-fished opponent, he clawed up the six-foot-high side of the ring and vaulted over the top. As he landed on both feet, he froze.

Everybody was in full scramble except for one man who stood just off to the side, his familiar face and tattooed neck speckled with Isaac’s blood.

Matthias’s second in command was still tall and built and deadly . . . and the fucker was smiling like he’d found the golden egg on Easter morning.

Oh, shit, Isaac thought. Speak of the devil. . . .

“You’re under arrest.” The cop’s hi-how’re-ya came from behind him, and less than a heartbeat later, he was in cuffs. “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a . . .”

Isaac spared the officer a glance and then searched out the other soldier. But XOps’ number two was gone as if he’d never been.

Son of a bitch. His old boss knew where he was now.

Which meant the fact that a Boston PD unit was all over his ass was the least of his problems.

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 2

Caldwell, New York

As Jim Heron stood on the front lawn of the McCready Funeral Home in Caldwell, he could picture the inside sure as if he’d already been in the brick two-story: Orientals on the floors, paintings of foggy flower arrangements on the walls, bunches of rooms with double doors and lots of floor space.

From his limited experience with them, funeral homes were like fast-food restaurants—they all kind of looked the same. Then again, he guessed that made sense. Just like there were only so many ways to doctor up a burger, he imagined dead bodies were likewise.

Shit . . . he couldn’t believe he was going in to see his own corpse.

Had he really died just two days ago? Was this now his life?