by S. E. Lund
Within five minutes, several men in dark suits approached us and while I watched, police began escorting customers into corners to speak with them about what happened.
One black-suited man came to us, his dark hair short, his glasses thick-rimmed. He looked me over suspiciously and then turned to McCall.
"I'm Sergeant Mahoney of the Boston Major Crimes Unit. I'll be the officer in charge. Who are you?" he asked, turning to McCall, who stood beside me.
"I'm the bank manager, George McCall," he replied and extended his hand. "Glad to see you and your crew."
"Which one of you called this in?"
McCall turned to me, his hand on my shoulder. "This young man," he said and squeezed. "He saved the day."
Mahoney eyed me suspiciously. "So you're the hero," he said, eyeing me up and down, trying to place me. "You took this one down?"
I nodded. "I did. There were two others with him, but I didn’t get a chance to restrained them.”
“We caught one of them on foot, but the other got away. What's your name? You cop or military?" he said, extending his hand.
"Hunter Saint." We shook hands, his grip firm, his glance discerning. "Former Marine. Special Operations Forces."
When he heard my name, he didn't show any recognition and I wondered whether he was merely a good actor, or really didn’t recognize my last name. Saint was not a common name in Boston, and given the recent arrest of my uncle and death of my brother, I was surprised he didn’t say more.
He nodded thoughtfully, his eyes narrowed. "So, you thought you'd be a hero and stop a bank robbery in progress?" He shook his head. "You got balls, but not much brains."
The head bank teller turned away to hide her smile.
"Pardon me," Mahoney said, noticing her response. "Let me rephrase that: You got more guts than brains. You could have been killed or worse, got these citizens killed."
I shrugged. "I didn’t. They weren't."
He turned to McCall. "We have to question you and your customers, take their statements. You'll have to close the bank so we can do our investigation."
"I know the procedure," the manager said, his voice weary. He turned to me before he left. "I appreciate what you've done and your service, whatever they say. And whoever you are," he said. I didn’t miss the emphasis on his last words.
We shook hands and I smiled. "Thanks."
Another detective escorted the two of them to the manager's office. I was left standing with Mahoney.
"As for you, Mr. Saint," he said and turned to me, "you're coming with us to the precinct."
"You can't take my statement and let me go like the rest of the bank customers?"
"You were more than just a customer," he replied. "With your training and experience, you have tactical intel you could share with us on this crew. It might help us figure out who they work for. We think they're responsible for a string of armed robberies in Boston over the past month."
I sighed, resigned to the fact I'd have to spend time at the precinct.
"No good deed goes unpunished," I said sarcastically.
"Tell me about it," the detective replied, his tone matching mine. "I'll be the one working late at night to wrap up the paperwork on this."
"That's why they pay you the big bucks," I quipped.
He laughed and that was the first crack in his façade.
Then he spoke into a cell turning away so I couldn't hear what he said. He listened to the response and then turned back.
"Let's go."
"Okay," I said. "I need to make a call first." I pointed to my cell and he nodded.
"Make it fast."
I stood off to the side of the room and called the gym. Cath answered, her voice nasally from her cold. "Hey, Hunter. What's up?"
"I'm going to be late getting back to the gym," I said, watching as the cops queued up the bank customers in front of a desk so they could interview them.
"Is there something wrong?"
"The bank was robbed while I was here," I said. "They want to take statements. I'm fine but I'll be late getting back. Oh, and the bank's closed so I'll have to use the night deposit."
"As long as you’re fine," she said. "I'll tell your father."
"I'm fine. No worse for the wear."
I ended the call and turned back to Mahoney, who was speaking with another detective.
He came over to me, smiling wryly. "So, my partner pointed out that you're the nephew of Donny Saint. I didn’t get it when you said your name."
"That's right," I said. "You're not from Boston, I take it."
"Recent transfer from Queens, New York." He nodded. "My condolences about your brother."
I frowned, surprised that a police detective would offer condolences on the death of Sean. I’d expected to be treated with derision once they found out who I was.
"Thanks," I said, trying to be gracious, unsure if he really meant it.
"I just want to say that Boston PD wasn't involved in your uncle's case or what happened. That was all the feds."
"I understand," I said.
Mahoney spoke briefly with another detective and then turned back to me.
"This is Detective Brand," he said and Brand extended his hand for a shake. He had a pasty complexion, thinning hair, and a belly that suggested he liked donuts more than an exercise bike.
We shook and then Mahoney gestured for me to follow them. We left the bank and walked to a black sedan waiting at the curb.
When we got to the sedan, Mahoney held open the door to the back seat.
"If you don’t mind," he said and motioned inside.
We drove off through the streets of downtown Boston and I had a few moments to think about the attack and what I'd say.
Before we arrived at the precinct, Mahoney's cell rang and he answered while we were stopped at a red light.
"Yeah, he's here with me."
A pause.
"Are you sure?"
Another pause.
"Okay, we're on our way."
He ended his call and glanced at me in the rear view mirror.
"It's your lucky day," Mahoney said, his voice slightly amused. "Seems your name lit up the system and the big boss called. Chief of Police wants to see you in his office."
I shrugged. "I'm at your disposal." I didn't relishing being interrogated by the chief of Boston PD about my actions in the bank but resigned myself to the fact that my day wouldn't be my own.
Chapter 2
HUNTER
I said no more during the drive to the precinct and Mahoney and Brand seemed uninclined to make small talk.
Within fifteen minutes, we arrived and I was ushered into a small interrogation room with no windows but with a big and very obvious two-way mirror across from where I sat. I smiled and waved, then sat back and waited.
Mahoney said I was there to meet the Chief of Police himself, so why I was put in an interrogation room was a question I hoped would be answered sooner rather than later. I'd seen the Chief on television before during press conferences, so I knew what to expect. Short and pug-faced, Barlow was a bulldog of a man with a presence so strong that conversations hushed when he walked into the room.
Time passed, and I began to be impatient. I checked my watch, which indicated I'd been waiting for twenty minutes.
"Hello?" I said into the mirror. "I have a life to live."
There was no response. Finally, after another fifteen minutes, the door opened and Mahoney stuck his head inside.
"Sorry to make you wait. We had to do some checking first before we could do the interview. You can come with me."
I stood and followed Mahoney down the hall to a big corner office on the first floor. I entered the office, which was all glass and chrome.
Chief Barlow sat behind a big mahogany desk. A man in an FBI blue and yellow jacket leaned against the wall, his hands in his pockets.
"This is Chief Barlow," Mahoney said, pointing to the Chief.
I leaned over the desk when
Barlow stood and extended his hand. We shook.
"Glad to meet you," I said, although I didn’t mean it. Usually, I'd be on the side of police because of my time in the military and my hatred of organized crime. Now, however, I was still recovering from watching one shoot my brother and wasn’t all that predisposed to being friendly or compliant. It was probably foolish of me, but Sean's death was still too close to have overcome it. Not yet.
"The pleasure's all mine," he said and turned to the other man, who now stood up straight. "This is Special Agent Gladwell. He's with the FBI's Transnational Organized Crime program."
I recognized him from an appearance on television talking about links to organized crime in the Balkans or Russia and efforts to stop their crime spree in Massachusetts. Tall and lean with an eagle-eyed look to him, he was in top fighting shape.
To my surprise, he extended his hand for a shake. I shook it, but didn't smile when he said hello.
"Please," Chief Barlow said and motioned to a chair in front of his desk. "Have a seat."
I sat in the chair directly across from his desk. Behind me, the two detectives left the room so that there were only the three of us remaining.
Chief Barlow turned to his credenza and poured some amber liquid I assumed was whiskey into a tumbler. I accepted the glass Barlow offered.
"That's Old Number 8, George Dickel Tennessee sipping whiskey," he said and nodded to his glass. "Drink it down. You'll need it after your morning."
I took a sip and sighed as the whiskey burned down my throat.
"Sorry to keep you waiting," he said finally. "We wanted to check out the security video feed we recovered from the bank and from a store across the street first to verify your actions relating to the robbery. You can understand."
I shrugged, knowing exactly what he meant. Because of my family's background, they wanted to see whether I was part of the heist or had truly tried to stop it.
"Tell me what happened," he said. "Tell me everything. From the start. When you're done, Special Agent Gladwell here wants to talk to you about the FBI's case against the Romanov family, who we think was involved in the robbery. I want to hear what you have to say first. You should know that we already have the video feed from the cameras and were able to ID you from our database."
I leaned back in my chair and nodded. I recounted the events of the morning, from the time I entered the bank to the end, explaining that I’d decided to use my skills as a former special operator to disrupt the robbery.
They listened without comment.
"You called in the hit and stopped it," Barlow said, smiling at me over his glass when he took a sip. "But we don't want it to get out who you are."
"I understand. Neither do I."
"Why did you do it?"
"Because I could," I said. "It's very simple. I have skills. I used them. That’s really all there is to it."
Gladwell nodded. "The suspects we have in custody are low-level grunts in the Romanov empire. You should know that if the Romanov family discovers it was you at the bank, you've probably gotten your family in whole lot of trouble with them. Consider this a warning. There may be repercussions. You should have just left things the way they were."
"Warning received and acknowledged."
“What you did was heroic but stupid. If they figure out it was you, they'll now be on you and your family."
"Too late at this point," I said and downed the rest of the whiskey. "I did what I was trained to do—respond. They could have killed people."
Barlow smiled but said nothing.
"When they come to your father's gym and mess him up in revenge for the botched robbery, you'll be singing a different tune."
I shrugged but, of course, I knew there might be blowback. "I've got ample security in place."
"Look," Gladwell said, standing up straight. "The reason I'm here is because we want to use you. You're a soldier by training. You have special operations experience. We want you to work for us. We've been watching you for a while, and we want you to keep us informed of what you hear and what, if anything, happens in your family business that is at all connected to the Romanovs."
"You want me to help you take down the Romanov family?"
"Yes," Gladwell said. "You're the perfect man in the perfect position. You could insinuate yourself with the Romanovs and then once you get enough evidence, you can help bring them down. I imagine you'd be happy to do that, considering that your brother's dead because of them."
"He's dead because of one of your men," I replied, my body tensing.
"He's dead because he overreacted.”
I glowered at him but said nothing more.
“Look, the new DA's been dying to take down your uncle for a decade or more. He finally got some good intel and that's what led to your uncle being served with a RICO warrant. One of the Romanov boys provided a bit of evidence to help take Donny down."
I frowned. "What?"
"Yes," Gladwell said. "The DA has a confidential informant in the Romanov family who helped us take your uncle down. I figure if you help us take the Romanovs down, it's payback."
I sighed, and considered Gladwell's offer seriously. I had nothing against the FBI—usually. They were that thin line between order and chaos in a free society.
I had something against one FBI agent in particular—the one who killed my brother. Still, I wanted to protect my father and brothers from any negative consequences of my actions, so I really had no choice.
"What do you want me to do?"
"Romanov’s an arrogant son of a bitch. He thinks he’s smarter than everyone."
"That he does."
"He thinks he can do whatever he likes in this city and I suspect he'll welcome you into the fold if you approach him personally. You have background in security. You could provide security for their operations in return for them laying off your family's business."
I considered.
"Your uncle Donny had a love-hate relationship with the Romanovs. They knew it but they used him anyway. You could go to them and offer your services, say you want to go after the DA for arresting Donny and for Sean's death. If you could get them to start planning a hit against the DA, we could use that to take Sergei down."
"I was going to try to keep as far as I could from the Romanovs," I replied—but, of course, I was already planning how to get revenge. "What are you thinking I should do?"
"Make the offer of services. Use it to get in closer. They'll understand your wanting revenge against the DA. In the meantime, we'll coordinate with the local police to put some protection in place for your father and brother just in case anyone outed you, but then we want you to get in close to your uncle's old contacts in the family."
I considered. "I’m willing to do whatever it takes to break ties between my family and organized crime. And if the Romanovs were involved in my uncle's arrest, then all the better."
"We want you to go undercover."
"I have no clandestine training."
"We have an excellent training program," he said firmly. "Besides, you won't really need the full training. Maybe a couple of weeks, tops."
"It's hard to be away for a couple of weeks," I replied. "What's involved?"
"Basic clandestine techniques so you know how to handle yourself. What we really want you to do is befriend your uncle's contacts in the Romanov family. Find out what's going on," he said. "Look, you're a soldier. One of the best. Special operations forces. We'll send you in and you'll give him to us."
I sighed and took a sip. “Everyone knows that I don't approve of my family ties to the mafia. I'll have to convince them that I had a change of heart."
Gladwell shook his head.
"You can pull a Michael Corleone and pretend you want to protect your father and need his help. You can say you want revenge against the DA."
"I’m a businessman," I said, fighting it a bit longer, although I had already decided to take their offer. "I'm not an undercover FBI agent."
"Oh, you won't be an actual agent," he said and chuckled. "You'll get training and be part of an off-the-books program that isn't directly tied to the FBI or any government agency. We don’t want to get our hands dirty, but we need people who can roll around in the dirt with the animals."
"Thanks," I said, frowning at the way they described my uncle.
Gladwell eyed me. ”I understand your younger brother’s currently linked to several questionable people in Las Vegas. We may or may not have evidence that he's been involved in some illegal activities."
I glanced up at him. “Are you threatening me?”
“I'm only making suggestions.”
I sighed. I wanted my family to be safe and certainly didn’t want them to be in danger because of my actions at the bank.
"I need to think about it."
"I’ll wait for your answer. You have exactly five minutes. You either sign this offer for operations training or you and your family are on your own and your baby brother may be taking a trip to the local lock-up."
"What about rules of engagement? If I have to get down with the dogs, I might have to get dirty. What can I do to protect myself? Prove myself to them?"
"Wide open," Gladwell said. "But you have to have pretty good reason if you use lethal force. Of course, if you get caught, we may have to pick you up, put you in jail for a few days or weeks, just to make it look legit. I'm sure as a Marine you've been through hell and back. If anyone can take it, you can."
I nodded.
Of course, I said yes. It wasn't just that I wanted to protect Conor and my father. It was that I wanted revenge.
I wanted to make Spencer pay for his role in bringing my uncle in on trumped-up charges. Sure, he was dirty, but in the greater scheme of things, my uncle was a flea on a gorilla's ass compared to the Romanovs.
