When he came to the landing, the front door down below creaked as if it were being opened. Palming his guns, he was ready to pounce—until he heard Jim’s annoyed voice rising up.

“What are you doing here?” Heron demanded.

“You texted us.”

Isaac frowned at the sound of the pierced man’s voice.

“No, I did not.”

“Yeah, you did.”

At that moment, the Life Alert went off with a subtle shimmy in Isaac’s pocket.

All instincts firing, he ducked quietly into the guest-room he’d stayed in. Holding the transmitter in his palm, he activated the device, and this time there was no delay in response.

Matthias answered right away. “I have your girl at her dear old dad’s place. Get out here. You have a half hour.”

“If you hurt her—”

“Time’s wasting. And it goes without saying that you come alone. Don’t keep me waiting, or I’m likely to get bored and have to fill my time. You won’t like that, I promise. Be here in thirty.”

The light went out, the transmission ending sharply.

When Isaac wheeled around to leave, he jumped back. Jim had somehow made it up the stairs and through the closed door to stand right behind him.

“He has her,” Jim said flatly. “Doesn’t he.”

“I’m going solo or he’ll kill her.”

Shoving the man out of the way, Isaac jogged downstairs. The body in the front hall had been frisked for weapons before it had been gift wrapped, but car keys were another thing.

Bingo. Front pocket. Ford.

Now to find the bastard’s ride.

When Isaac stood up, he realized everything was totally silent and nobody was in the front hall. Glancing around, he had the feeling he was alone in the house even though he hadn’t a clue how they’d moved out so fast.

Whatever—fuck it. And fuck them.

Isaac lit for the door—but at the last minute, he pivoted in the archway and went back to the body to strip it some more. Then he shot out into the darkness.

The unmarked that he’d watched from the Pinckney Street house the day before was parked a block up, and the dead guy’s key got him in. Engine started just fine and the GPS was functional, so he quickly plugged in the address Grier’s father had given them all.

“Bat out of hell” described the trip.

He went flat-out on the Mass Pike, pushing the speed limit until he busted the fucker into pieces. Even still, it felt like he was moving in slow motion—and that got worse when he left the highway and tried to get through some town that was filled with stop signs and curvy roads.

Fortunately, the GPS took him exactly where he needed to go, his destination fronted by a pair of stone markers that sat on either side of a pale, glowing drive.