As he stepped inside, Jim and the guy’s two buddies were tight on him and he had to wonder why Heron wasn’t wearing a hat to hide his face or anything to disguise who he was. Dumb son of a bitch. Gets free . . . only to come back in.

Crazy.

Fucking nuts.

But he had his own problems to worry about, and God knew, Jim was an adult and therefore allowed to be a moron when it came to his own life.

While Isaac went along, the rear hallway of the abandoned office building was an obstacle course, thanks to countless empty drywall buckets and a thousand half-drunk bottles of Mountain Dew and Coke. But it had been a while since anyone had lifted a finger here—there was dust all over the debris.

Clearly, the money had run out just as the screwdriver-and-monkey-wrench crowd had come in: Naked electrical wires snaked across the unhung ceiling, along with partially completed HVAC ducts and plumbing pipes. Illumination came from battery-operated lanterns placed every five feet on the floor, and the air was cool to the point of being cold. At least until they got into the huge lobby of the place. In spite of the cathedral ceiling, the fifty or so guys milling around on the raw concrete floor kicked up the temp, thanks to body heat.

It was clear why this was a perfect place to fight: The architects had planned some kind of glass extravaganza for the front entrance, but like so much else, it hadn’t been completed. Instead of a whole lot of see-through panes, there were plywood sheets nailed onto the girders.

So the lighting and the crowd were hidden.

The octagon had been set up in the center of the space, and as soon as Isaac walked into the crowd, the cheering started. As strangers slapped him on the back and congratulated him for getting out of jail, cell phones flipped up to all kinds of ears, the network going to town, with news that he was good to go even after the bust.

The promoter rushed up to him. “Holy fuck, they’re going wild already! This rocks . . . !”

Blah, blah, blah.

Isaac scanned the faces as he went over to the far corner and settled in to wait. As Jim eased into a lean beside him, he found himself saying, “Last night, an old friend of ours showed up.”

“Who.”

“And what do you know,” Isaac said grimly, “he’s back.”

Over where the bouncers were taking the gambling money and the fighting fees, Matthias’s number two was getting a wallet out of his pocket. As cash changed hands, the guy looked over and smiled like a crocodile.

Then he pointed right at Isaac’s chest.

“You’re not getting in that ring,” Jim bit out, stepping in front and blocking the sight line.