That being said, if, in the process of getting a job done, he had to accept certain collateral damage or sacrifice an “innocent” or two, that was the way shit went: In those cases, he was no different from the car accident or the cancer or the lightning strike, nothing but life’s lottery lost for the given individual.

After all, everyone’s clock was ticking, and he’d played Grim Reaper enough to know that firsthand.

As he repositioned his broken body in his leather chair, he groaned. At the age of forty, he felt more like a hundred thousand years old, but being a survivor would do that to you.

At least he didn’t have to shit in a bag and still had one eye that worked.

In front of him, on the glossy desk, were seven computer screens. Some showed pictures, others streamed data, and one told him where each of his operatives were on the planet Earth. With what he was in charge of, information was mission critical. Which was an irony of sorts. He was a man with no identity operating a team that didn’t officially exist in a world of shadows—and intel was the only concrete thing he had to work with.

Although even that, like people, could fail you.

As his cell phone rang, he picked up the thing and looked at its little screen. Ah, yes, perfect timing. Matthias was looking for two men—and he’d sent his second in command after one of them.

The other . . . was complicated. Even though it shouldn’t have been.

He accepted the call. “Have you found him.”

“Yeah, and went a few rounds with him in the ring.”

“He’s alive, though.”

“Only because you want him to be. By the way, his lawyer showed up at the fight—and guess what. She happens to be the daughter of a friend of ours.”

“Really. What are the chances.” Actually, they were a hundred percent, because Matthias had gone into the Suffolk County court system in Massachusetts and purposely had retired captain Alistair Childe’s surviving offspring assigned to the case.

They’d needed to get that traitor Isaac Rothe out from behind bars so they could kill him and keep his body for future use—and good old Albie’s little girl was just the ticket: She was a fine attorney with a bleeding heart that led her into places she didn’t belong. Perfect combination.

And clearly it had worked: Rothe was free less than twenty-four hours after his arrest.

Christ, it had been that easy to find the bastard. But then, who’d have thought he’d use his own last name?

Huh, Matthias thought. Maybe he was taking candy from a baby here.

“You should have let me kill him in the ring,” his second in command bitched.

“Too many witnesses, and I want him flushed out of Boston.”