He was going to be goddamned if Devina got her claws into Isaac—in whatever form she was currently copping to. Isaac was his boy, and the idea of that man falling into his enemy’s hands was not acceptable—especially if that demon happened to be wearing a familiar face.

Which just happened to have an eye patch.

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 13

Isaac had been in the Boston vicinity only twice, and both times had been for pass-through trips on his way overseas—the kind of thing where all he did was walk across a tarmac at Otis Air Force Base down on Cape Cod.

That being said, as Grier hung a left off something called Charles Street, he didn’t need to have had a guided tour of the city to know they were in prime real estate-land. The town houses on both sides of the hill they went up were all pristine brick with glossy black shutters and doors. Through clean windows, he could see interiors that were antiqued up to within an inch of their lives and had enough crown molding to crush a king’s head.

Clearly, he was in the natural habitat of the blue-blooded Yankee.

As ancient Saturday Night Live sketches of Dan Aykroyd doing Kennedy impressions about “chowdah” rolled through his head, Grier took a left into a small square that was demarcated by a wrought-iron fence and brick lanes on all four sides. In the middle, its little park had graceful trees with tiny buds already showing, and the surrounding walk-ups were the best of the best in this bestest-ever neighborhood.

So not a surprise.

After she parked her Audi parallel to the fence, they both got out. She hadn’t said much on the trip here, and neither had he. But then again, he wasn’t a big talker to begin with—and she had a fugitive for a passenger. Not exactly a so-how-about-this-weather? kind of gig.

The house she indicated was hers was a bow-front on the corner and had white marble steps up to its black front door. Fluted black planters the size of Great Danes sat on either side of the entrance, and the brass knocker was as big as his head. One light glowing on the third floor; several on the exterior. And as he surveyed the area, there appeared to be nothing out of place—no unmarkeds trolling by, no sounds that were wrong, nobody suspicious lurking.

As they walked over the uneven bricks of the street, he wanted to reach out and steady her, given her heel situation—but he didn’t dare. First of all, she probably still wanted to slap him . . . and second, he had palmed up both his guns inside his windbreaker on a just-in-case.

He was always careful with himself. Having her in tow? He took vigilance to a whole new level.