Speaking of intel—it was time for some clarity in that department: Although he could see how and why Isaac might be up next on the list of seven souls, a little face-to-face time with his English dandy of a boss was the only way to be certain.

Lot of pressure off him if it turned out saving Isaac’s ass had a larger purpose.

He swiveled his head toward Eddie. “Tell me how to get over to the Four Lads. Do I have to die again?”

If he did, he had a Beretta on him and he already knew what kicking the bucket from a gunshot was like. Snore.

“Don’t bother.” Adrian cracked his knuckles. “They’re not going to tell you anything. They can’t.”

What the fuck? “I thought I worked for them.”

“You work for both sides, and they’ve given you all the help they can.”

Jim looked back and forth between the two angels: Each of them had the tight expression of a guy with a shoestring noosing up his balls.

“Help?” he said. “Where’s my goddamned help?”

“They gave you us, asshole,” Adrian snapped. “And that’s all they can do—I’ve already gone over and asked them who’s supposed to be next. I figured it would help you, you ungrateful bastard.”

Jim popped his brows at the Mr. Thoughtful routine. First time through the park with Adrian, the guy had silver-plated Jim to the enemy—to the point where he’d ended up fucking Devina in the parking lot of a club. In his truck. Without knowing she was a demon.

“Times have changed since then,” Ad said gruffly. “You know they have.”

In a flash, Jim remembered what the guy had looked like just a day or so ago after Devina had finished using and abusing him in a variety of ways. He’d given himself over to her so that Jim had had half a chance at winning the first round.

“Yeah, they have.” Jim offered his knuckles in guy-speak for, Sorry I insinuated you’re dog shit.

As Ad gave them a pound, Eddie said, “We’re technically against the rules.”

Jim shrugged. “If it’ll help me win, I’ll take it. Rules are relative.”

Which was why he’d been chosen, wasn’t it. He was hardly a frickin’ Boy Scout—

Jim’s head snapped around at a metal-on-metal squeaking sound. The portable octagon had been dismantled and was being shoved through the door by four guys who then carried it over to a U-Haul van. Next trip in and out they were carrying the eight concrete corner weights and poles and then no one was left but him and Eddie and Adrian.

Which was a metaphor for the sitch he was in, wasn’t it.