Free Fallen Angels 02 - Crave by J.R. Ward Page A

fast was the speed. Whisper quiet was the way.
    Out of the kitchen. Into the front room.
    He took one look at his stuff and knew Grier had rifled through it—the shift in the pile of clothes was so subtle only he would notice, but the folding system he‟d developed was designed precisely for that purpose.
    He put on the sweatshirt he used as a pillow, slipped his two forties into the fat center pockets in front and changed into his combat boots. Ammo, hunting blade and his cell phone went into his pants, and then he put on the black windbreaker that was all he had, coat-wise.
    Down to the bedroom. Into the closet.
    There had been twenty-seven thousand eight hundred and fifty-three dollars in his stash, so he should have a little something left over after the bail.
    He popped off the panel and reached in—
    “Fuck.”
    He didn‟t have to open the Star Market bag and count; by weight alone, he knew that Grier hadn‟t taken even a dollar out of the rolls of hundreds and twenties or the fluffy scruff of the unbundled.
    But she had been here—Matthias would have taken the weapons to make him less dangerous. And waited around to shoot him in the head.
    Shit…the cash-intact crap meant either there was a bondsman involved…or she‟d bailed him out with her own money. And when he‟d been processed, there had been no disclosure about a third party posting the benjamins. So she must have.
    Damn it .
    Snapping back into action, he took the bag and replaced the section of bead board. Then he went around to the windows and doors, flicking off the receptors with his knife and putting the metal plates into his pockets. No more than three minutes later, he left the way he‟d come: out the back and quiet as smoke.
    The five hundred dollars he left on the counter in the kitchen was going to have to cover the fact that he was breaking his lease, and Mrs. Mulcahy would have to figure out herself that he‟d left when there was no sign of him after a couple of days.
    The less contact with him, the safer she was.
    Same with his attorney.
    God damn it.
    Down below, in the backyard, Isaac‟s senses were razor-sharp as he whispered around to the side of the apartment house and resumed his jog. He didn‟t slow his pace until he was a couple of miles away.
    Ducking into an alley, the call he made was answered on the second ring: “Yeah.”
    “It‟s Rothe.”
    46

    Crave
    The fight promoter perked right up. “Jesus Christ, I heard you were in jail. Listen, I can‟t bail you—”
    “I‟m out. We fighting tonight?”
    “Shit, yeah! We was gonna have to move from that location anyways. This is awesome .
    How‟d you pull it off?”
    “What‟s the address and how do I get there?”
    The location was some six miles away in a town called Malden, which made sense—the cops in Southie were obviously dunzo with having fights on their turf. And how the promoter hadn‟t gotten pinched was a mystery. Unless, of course, he was the one who‟d given the tip and gotten out in time.
    You never knew with people like that guy.
    After Isaac hung up, his next move was to find a bus shelter with a schedule. When the right ten-wheeler monolith trundled along, he boarded it and sat by the emergency exit window.
    As he stared out at the apartments and businesses and buildings that passed by, he wanted to scream.
    He was getting out of XOps because he‟d found his conscience, and that meant he couldn‟t take off with Grier Childe having covered him to that extent. She‟d looked rich, but twenty-five grand was a lot of cash no matter how much you were worth. Hell, he wouldn‟t have felt comfortable with even an anonymous bail bondsman eating that bill. But that elegant woman who he‟d lied to? And sent on a dirty errand?
    Nope. He wasn‟t about to leave her in the lurch.
    And didn‟t that just complicate everything.

    Two hours after she left the jail without her client or any clue where he had gone, Grier stood in the middle of a shindig full of