What kind of war were they fighting? Isaac thought. Was there another organization past XOps? He’d always assumed Matthias was the shadiest of the shady. But maybe here was another level. Maybe that was how Jim had gotten out.

“Where’s Heron?” he asked them.

“He’ll be back.” The one with the piercings returned the vinegar. “You just stay where you are and take care of her. We got you.”

Isaac waved his gun back and forth. “Who the hell are you?”

Mr. Braid, who seemed the leveler of the pair, said, “Just part of Jim’s little group.”

At least that made some sense. Even though they’d clearly been in a rough-and-tumble, neither seemed bothered at all. No wonder Jim worked with them.

And Isaac had a feeling he knew what they were doing—Jim might just be after Matthias. Which would certainly explain the guy’s desire to get involved and play Orbitz with the plane tickets.

“You need another soldier?” Isaac asked, only half-joking.

The two glanced at each other and then back to him. “Not our call,” they said in unison.

“Jim’s?”

“Mostly,” Mr. Braid replied. “And you’ve got to be dying to get in—”

“Isaac? Who are you talking to?”

As Grier walked out of the kitchen, he wished like hell she’d stay inside. “No one. Let’s head back into the house.”

Turning to good-bye Jim’s boys, he froze. Nobody was around. Heron’s wingmen were gone.

Yup, whoever and whatever they were, they were definitely his kind of soldiers.

Isaac went up to Grier and walked them both back inside. As he threw the lock and turned on one track of lighting waaaaaay across the room, he grimaced. Man, the kitchen didn’t smell much better than those two out back had: burned egg, charred bacon, and blackened butter were not a party for the ol’ sniffer.

“Are you all right?” he asked, even though once again the answer was self-evident.

“Are you?”

He ran his eyes down her from head to foot. She was alive and he was with her and they were safe in this fortress of a house. “I’m better.”

“What’s in the backyard.”

“Friends.” He took his gun back. “Who want both of us to be safe.”

To keep himself from dragging her into his arms, he sheathed both guns in his windbreaker and picked the pan off the stove. Dumping the remains of her almost-dinner in the sink, he washed the thing out.

“Before you ask,” he murmured, “I don’t know anything more than you do.”

Which was essentially true. Sure, he had a leg up on her when it came to certain things—but as for the shit in the backyard? Fucking. Clueless.

He popped a dish towel off a hook and . . . realized she hadn’t said anything for a while.