He made no noise as he slung his body over the banister and let himself free-fall two stories down, catching himself on a just-in-time grab and then swinging his torso up and over. He landed in a silent crouch and didn’t wait even a heartbeat before he took the last set of steps in a leap and hit the exit. As he broke free into the cold April wind, he scared the crap out of the smokers by the door before leaving them in the dust.

Falling into a run, his path took him up through a dark maze of buildings and then down past all the jewelry stores, as well as Macy’s and Filene’s Basement. Rush hour meant the streets were teeming with professional people disgorged from the Financial District, all of them filing into underground T stops or streaming like ants across the park. Fortunately, there was less foot traffic in Chinatown, although more cars—which improved his time.

As he gunned for his place, the exertion helped with the fact that he had nothing but a muscle shirt on, although the wet chill in the air did keep the bruises and the cut on his forehead from pounding too much. When he got to the block where he stayed, he was almost disappointed to slow down—exercise was good for calming his mind and taking the kinks out.

Approaching the three-story house from the rear, he wound in and out of the shallow yards of the neighbors and stopped about thirty feet from the back door. The lights were on in the landlady’s crib and the second floor, but everything was off on his level.

When he was reasonably sure he hadn’t been followed, he bent down and picked up a stone. Staying in the shadows, he closed in, then hauled back and snapped out a throw, clipping the dangling head of the bald bulb over the stoop and putting the exterior lighting to sleep.

Isaac waited, hanging tight right where he was: Speed was often your friend, but that wasn’t always the case. Sometimes going slow was the only reason you woke up the next morning.

Downstairs, a shadow got up and passed from window to window, then made a return trip to the flicker of the television. Not good news, but not a surprise. Mrs. Mulcahy never left her roost except to go get food—and she was the kind of pesky landlord who made him consider the benefits of park benches. Tonight, however, she wasn’t the reason he was sneaking into his own place: Chances were damn good that with his name in the penal system, his address had been popped by XOps, and that meant this location was no longer secure.

He had to get in and out of there fast.

Ten minutes later, it was a case of over to the back steps. Key in the lock. Ghosting up the stairwell.