He nodded down at the thing. “Point and shoot using both palms. Safety’s off. We clear?”

When she nodded, he kissed her again because he just had to; then he moved her back into position in the shelter of the floor cabinets. From that vantage point, she could see anyone coming in from the front or the rear, but also cover the interior door that he had a feeling led to the basement stairs.

Palming his other gun, he exited in a quick shift—

His first breath brought an unholy stench into his sinuses and down the back of his throat. What the . . . ? It was like a chemical spill—

From out of nowhere, one of the pair who’d been with Jim appeared. It was the guy with the braid and he looked like he’d been spray-painted with WD-40—and had dry ice shoved in all his pockets: Tendrils of smoke were steaming up from his leather jacket, and shit . . . the smell.

Before Isaac could what-the-fuck him, Jim’s boy cut the question off. “Do us a favor and stay put. Coast is clear for now, though. If you understand what I’m saying.”

As Isaac met the man’s eyes, there was no question that even though they were strangers, they spoke the same language: The guy was a soldier.

“You want to tell me what the hell just happened out here?”

“Nope. But I wouldn’t mind some white vinegar if she has it?”

Isaac frowned. “No offense, but I think making salad dressing is the least of your concerns, buddy. Your jacket needs a hose-down.”

“I’ve got burns to take care of.”

Sure enough, on the side of his neck and on his hands there were raw, red patches on his skin. As if he’d been hit with some kind of acid.

Hard to argue with the steaming bastard, considering he was injured. “Give me a sec.”

Ducking back in the house, Isaac cleared his throat. “Ah . . . do you have any white vinegar?”

Grier blinked and then pointed with the gun muzzle to the sink. “I use it to clean the hardwood. But why?”

“Damned if I know.” He headed for the sink and found a huge jug with a Heinz label on it. “But they want some.”

“Who’s they?”

“Friends of a friend.”

“Are they okay?”

“Yeah.” Assuming the definition of okay included a section for roasty-toasted.

Outside, he handed over the stuff, which was promptly thrown around like cool water on a sweaty football player. It did kill the smoking and the stench, though, on both Braid Guy and the pincushion.

“What about the neighbors,” Isaac said, glancing around. The brick-to-window ratio on the backs of the buildings worked in their favor, but the noise . . . the smell.

“We’ll take care of them,” Braid Guy answered. Like it was no biggie and something they’d done before.