HUNTER

One year earlier

Losing Sean was harder than anything I'd been through. He was my older brother and the one I always looked up to. One day he was in my life and I took him for granted. The next, he was dead and I realized I'd never see him again.

At first, the pain felt like it would never end.

Sean's dead… He's dead…

I felt as though a dark shroud covered me and was going to smother me with despair.

But the sun rose the next day like it had the day before. Life went on despite everything. My pain didn't matter to the universe.

A month passed. Then two. We began to find our way back to some kind of new normal without Sean around, cleaning the gym in his slow deliberate way and making us smile with his wit. My Uncle Donny was still in custody awaiting trial on several racketeering charges.

We all began to emerge from that darkness. My father began to spend more time with the new fighters who came to train at the gym. Donny's boys—my cousins—talked less and less about their father's case and more about the usual material—which fights they bet on, which women they were fucking, and other mundane topics.

As for me, I felt almost normal being back in Boston. I spent weekends at the cottage, lying in the sun and drinking myself to sleep at night.

Donny wasn't there to take the helm, so I ran the business, gradually assuming management of Donny's properties and the work my father couldn't handle. Since I was no longer in the service and had fallen out of my usual routine of rigorous training to keep in top shape for special operations forces, I lost the hard cut of my muscles and top fitness levels from when I was in the service. My hair grew out of the trademark Marine whitewalls I'd worn for the past four years.

One afternoon, when Conor had some time off from his rigorous fight schedule, he was back in Boston showing a new gym member the ropes while Dad and I looked on. I watched as Conor landed a soft punch on the flabby young man's abdomen. Not hard. Just enough to make him pay attention.

"Keep your guard up," Conor said, pushing the young man's gloved hands up higher. "Like this." Then Conor demonstrated how to guard his face and the flabby young man followed suit.

My father turned to me. "Why are you slumming around? I thought you were in meetings all day."

I shrugged. "Meeting's cancelled for the afternoon so I thought I'd come down and visit my favorite old man." I put my arm around his shoulder and squeezed affectionately. Since Sean's death, I found myself spending more time with my dad, showing him more affection that was perhaps my usual. Losing Sean made me realize how quickly everything could go wrong. I didn’t want to waste any more time not showing him or Conor how I felt.

My father grimaced at that, no doubt thinking about my stepfather down in Florida, who married my mother after they divorced.

"Your only old man. He's no father," he said, and I knew exactly what he meant. He had an intense dislike of my stepfather and liked to show it as often as possible.

"He's all right, Dad," I said, thinking of the man my mother had chosen to marry after she and my father divorced a dozen years earlier. "He's a lightweight, unlike you. Mom knows she could never find another you. He's the best substitute."

"Yeah, right. Tell me about it."

My father found someone new almost right away—in fact, I suspect his girlfriend and now second wife, Cathy, had been waiting in the wings. None of us boys had known about her, but a few months after the divorce was final, he brought her home for dinner one night and she never left. That was that.

"Since you're free and easy, how about taking the bank deposit down for Cath?" he suggested and turned to me. "She's got a bitch of a cold and would rather go up to bed. I could take it, but I've got a meeting about the fight on Saturday."

"Sure," I said, having made the deposit dozens of times over the years, before I stopped working for my dad and joined the Marines.

"Are you coming to the fight?" he asked, his expression hopeful. "We'd love to see you."

I shrugged, not sure I would. I'd stopped fighting when my mom and dad divorced and I went to live with her for a few years. Her new husband was a lawyer who had tried to get me to focus on academics instead of sports for a change. Still, Conor would be fighting, and I knew it would please my dad if I was there.

"Sure," I said and smiled at him when I saw how pleased he was. "I'll come for Conor's fight."

"Bring a date." He punched my arm playfully. "It's about time you started to get serious about someone."

"I'm doing fine," I said, waving him off.

"Seriously, Hunter. Don't get too used to being a bachelor. You should find someone before you get too old and ugly."

"Hey, old man, watch yourself." I held up my fists in mock anger. "I can still take you."

We sparred playfully for a moment, and then I gave him a quick hug. "I'm currently single, so I'll be coming alone, although I might bring Juice along."

‘Juice’ was Justin Thomas, a friend from high school who used to fight at my dad's gym and who now worked for us as a driver. Juice didn’t break arms or legs—maybe a nose or two in a bar fight, but nothing pro.

"I'll go talk to Cath and take the deposit."

"Great," he said and turned back to watch Conor and the new member. "See you and Juice Saturday."

I went to the back of the gym and popped my head in the office, where my stepmother sat at a desk, tallying up the previous day's receipts. When she saw me, she smiled and took off her reading glasses.

"Hunter," she said and stood, opening her arms. "I thought you were in meetings with your finance friends all afternoon. Your father will be so pleased. I know he wanted to talk to you about the fight on Saturday…"

"I already spoke to him," I said and gave her a warm hug.

"You should bring a girl," she said and narrowed her eyes. "Are you going steady with anyone?"

"Don't you start on me, too," I said, my hands on my hips. "Besides, we don't ‘go steady’ anymore. We 'see' each other." I leaned in to kiss her cheek.

"Don’t kiss me," she said and held a hand up over her mouth. "I have a nasty cold."

"I won't," I said and pulled back. When she sat back down, I took the chair beside her desk. "You know I'm swamped with the business, but I'm coming on Saturday."

"Oh, good. Conor will be happy to have you there. Moral support and all."

I nodded. "Dad asked me to do the deposit for you."

"I'm almost done," she said and grabbed a handful of cash and a deposit slip, as well as several rolls of change. She stuffed them into the battered leather zip bag that was used for the deposit.

"I better go," I said and picked up the deposit bag. "See you on Saturday."

"Are you going to mass on Sunday?" she called out and frowned at me over her glasses.

"Always," I said, but it was a bald-faced lie. I stopped going to mass years earlier.

"Good boy," she said and blew me a kiss. Then she turned back to the computer and I left, deposit bag in hand.

I drove the few blocks to the bank and parked across the street, then picked up the bank deposit bag. Although it was rush hour, the bank was on a quiet side street a few blocks off Boylston. Barely any cars drove by as I stood on the street corner, waiting for the light to change. Then a white van drove up and screeched to a halt outside the bank. A man jumped out, assault weapon in hand. When he entered the bank, he pulled a balaclava over his head. Another man got out and stood sentry at the door, his face uncovered. He was dressed in a generic security guard uniform in blue and grey, and held a hand on the weapon on his utility belt, at the ready in case anyone confronted him. He'd try to look as inconspicuous as possible, but would discourage any potential bank customer from entry. I knew the drill. A driver remained in the vehicle, the van's engine idling, at the ready for the getaway.

I thought I'd put my old MMA training and the skills I’d developed in special operations behind me, but at that moment, I realized they'd come in handy despite the fact I was no longer a Marine. Knowing what was about to go down, I tossed the deposit back into the car on the floor, then took out my phone and dialed 911.

"What's your emergency?"

"You got a 10-60 in progress," I said, using the code for a bank robbery. "First National off Boylston. One armed man just entered the building. One armed sentry dressed in a generic security guard outfit is outside. A driver in a white van is parked in front of the bank in the getaway vehicle."

"Are you a cop?" the operator asked, sounding surprised that I seemed so calm.

"No, former Marine," I replied. I was used to this kind of situation from two tours of duty in Afghanistan and Iraq.

"Please do not intervene," the operator said, her voice firm. "Civilians should remain away from the scene and let police take over. Units are being dispatched."

"Ten-four," I said and hung up before she could take my name and details. I ignored her order to stand down, determined to use my skills for something good. I was licensed to carry a concealed weapon, and had both tactical training and special operations training. I was going to see what I could do to stop this thing, or at least disable their ability to escape the scene. I crossed the street against the light, dodging the few cars that drove down the street. I casually walked up beside the van and when the wide-eyed driver saw me, he opened his mouth and his body stiffened, but I hit him once and then twice before he could call out, knocking him out cold. Then, I reached in over top of him and turned off the vehicle, taking the keys and the weapon on the seat beside him with me.

I ducked down, peering over the hood to see if the sentry saw what happened. He was busy glancing the other direction, so it was my time to act. I checked inside to see if there were any others, and saw that the van was empty. Then, I walked to the bank's entrance, a smile on my face so the sentry thought I was just a customer. When he finally saw me coming, he stood at attention like he was a real guard.

"Bank's closed," he said, jerking his thumb to the door, thinking I was a civilian coming in to do my business.

I kept moving until I was right in front of him.

He frowned and straightened to stand even taller, trying to look more authoritative. "I said the bank's closed, asshole."

When I didn't stop, he pulled out his weapon and pointed it at me, trying to intimidate me into standing down, but I didn't comply.

He grimaced. I was definitely not part of the plan. "Stop or I'll have to arrest you."

First I kicked his hand away, which sent his weapon flying. Next, I took him out with a quick punch to the jaw that he didn't expect or see coming. A lifetime of boxing and mixed martial arts helped.

Startled by the sheer speed of my attack, he was unable to defend himself. When he straightened back up, I hit him directly in the throat and he fell to his knees, his hands around his throat. I honestly hoped I hadn’t killed him.

While he choked and gasped for air, I retrieved his weapon from where it had fallen from the ground and removed his two-way from his belt so he couldn't alert his partner inside to my presence. Then, I went inside.

I entered the bank without anyone noticing, slipping inside while keeping low, and went to my knees, surveying the scene to get my bearings. As I watched, the thug got the attention of the bank customers by shouting and waving his weapon in the air.

"Get down, get the fuck down!"

In response, several customers and tellers screamed and ducked, falling to the floor like dominoes knocked over by some malevolent force. Seizing my opportunity, I slipped further inside the bank and hid behind a column, keeping the gunman in my sights.

I crept along the line of tables where people filled out their deposit slips, watching for an opportunity to intervene. Maybe it was foolish of me to do so, but these thugs were amateurs. I'd seen worse on the streets of Afghanistan—men who knew what they were doing and why, and would let nothing get in their way.

The robber corralled the customers into one corner of the bank and forced one of the tellers to take his burlap bag and empty the tills, dumping wads of money into the bag. He kept waving his weapon towards the cowering bank customers, and from where I crouched, I could tell he was an amateur. He needed at least one more man to really take control of the bank. As it was, he was trying to do two jobs at once, and was doing neither very well.

While he had his back to me, I crouched behind a desk, watching, waiting to make my move. He grabbed the bag of money and walked backwards, his weapon still pointed at the customers and employees huddling against one wall. When he turned to run, I easily jumped him, knocking him to the floor. We struggled, but I had the upper hand due to the element of surprise. I wrestled his weapon free and threw it skidding across the floor. Taller and heavier than him, I easily grabbed him, pinning his arms behind his back, pointing my gun to his head, the tip pressing against his temple.

"Quit fighting or I'll fucking take off the side of your head, " I hissed into his ear. He stiffened in response, perhaps thinking he could still fight his way out of it. “I've already alerted the police,” I said, my voice low but loud enough for them all to hear. "By my count, they'll be driving up in about two minutes, if not sooner."

“Where's Johnson?" the thug said, his voice sounding surprised.

"Your sentry's incapacitated," I replied. My gun was pressed to his head and when he moved, I pressed it a bit harder. "Your driver as well. Now, I'm going to restrain you until the police arrive. You'll be cooling your heels in lockup in no time. Put your hands in front of you."

When he hesitated, I pressed the gun more firmly into the side of his head. "I killed worse scum than you in Iraq," I said menacingly. "I have no qualms killing you in self-defense."

He remained on his stomach, and dutifully stretched his arms out in front of him. Then, I tucked my sidearm back into my holster and removed my belt. I pulled his hands behind his back and fastened them using the belt.

"Who the fuck are you?" he asked as I finished looping the belt around his wrists. "I didn't hear of any undercover cops working this bank."

"I'm not an undercover cop. I'm just some lucky former special ops motherfucker you idiots didn't expect. Let's just say this was my lucky day and your very unlucky one."

I glanced around. "Which one of you is the bank manager?" I asked, checking the people who were cowering on the floor.

A tall slim man wearing a slate grey suit and blue tie stood up from where he crouched.

"I'm the manager," he said hesitantly. "George McCall."

"I need something to tie his feet," I said and pointed to his belt. "Care to make a donation?"

He nodded in understanding. "I think we have duct tape," he said and turned to one of the tellers. She nodded and ran to the back of the bank, returning with a roll in her hand.

"I remembered we had a roll in the supply room." She handed it to me and I smiled at her.

"Thanks," I said and gave the roll to McCall. "Can you?"

He nodded and proceeded to wrap his ankles together. Once we had him restrained, I went outside. The sentry had recovered and was gone. I kicked myself mentally. I should have dragged him inside but at least I had a good look at him. The guy in the van was gone as well, so I went back into the bank, wishing I had been able to restrain them all.

I checked with the other customers to make sure they were all okay.

"The police will be here any second," I said, trying to calm them. When I got back to the bank manager, he extended his hand for a shake.

"What's your name? Are you an off-duty cop?" McCall asked.

"Nope," I said as I took his hand. "Just a citizen with some training."

"We're lucky to have you here," he said, not willing to let go of my hand. "The police will thank you."

I didn't offer my name, and he didn't press, turning to his staff to check them out, go over the procedure for a robbery.

I called 911 once more to let them know the robbery had been stopped.

"The men who did this are in custody?" the operator asked.

"Two got away on foot, and the other is currently in my custody."

We all sat down on the floor, our hands behind our heads, and waited. Less than a minute later, members of a SWAT team entered the building, their weapons drawn, and took control of the premises. Once they realized everything was under control, the members of the team relaxed visibly. I was sitting with the bank manager and his head teller, waiting for them to question us, but they seemed prepared to merely hold us there until the detectives from Boston PD entered.

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.