To get an extra grand, he had to make sure they lasted more than three minutes.

Walking around, he counted in his head to five. Then he came back at-

The knife swung in a fat circle and sliced across Isaac’s forehead, catching him just at the hairline. Blood streamed out and effectively clouded his vision-the kind of thing he would have called strategic if the guy had had a clue what he was doing. Given the way those punches went, however, it was obviously just a lucky strike.

As the crowd booed, Isaac flipped into business mode. An idiot with a blade was almost as dangerous as somebody who actually knew what he was doing with one, and he wasn’t about to get a nip and tuck from this motherfucker.

“How’d that feel?” his opponent hollered. Actually, it came out more like, “Hof thath fill?” given his fat lip.

Last three words the guy said in the ring.

As Isaac spun a kick into the air, his own blood splashed the crowd and the impact blasted the weapon from the guy’s grip. Then it was a case of one, two… three punches to the head and all that swagger went down harder than a side of beef at a packing plant-

Which was precisely when the fine men and women of the Boston Police Department swarmed into the warehouse.

Instant. Chaos.

And, of course, Isaac was locked into the octagon.

Jumping over his dead-fished opponent, he clawed up the six-foot-high side of the ring and vaulted over the top. As he landed on both feet, he froze.

Everybody was in full scramble except for one man who stood just off to the side, his familiar face and tattooed neck speckled with Isaac’s blood.