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.

I signed his paper and stood, recognizing that the meeting was over by the way Barlow opened a new file and said nothing else.

I left and went back to the gym, wondering if I'd made the right decision. I felt it was my only choice. I was a soldier. Despite my MBA, it was in the military that I felt at home. Taking down the Romanov family with the approval of the FBI and with police support?

How could I say no?

I went to Langley for a couple of weeks of intensive training, emerging relatively unscathed. After the two-week training period was up, I had a few more bruises from the physical training and a lot more respect for the rigorous training clandestine operatives underwent.

I returned to Boston, tired but ready to move forward with the next phase of my performance as a Romanov insider.

"I'm glad you're back," my father said the first night I returned and we were sitting around the table in our kitchen. I'd made a quick meal of steak and potatoes with a side of green salad, and was happy to sit down with him. He looked tired, his breathing a bit faster than I'd like. I took his hand.

"How are you? You look exhausted. I'm sorry I went away when I did. I should have stayed."

"No, no," he said and waved me off. "We all went through hell these past months. Everyone deals with their grief in different ways. I'm just glad you’re back."

I smiled at him and then attacked my steak, but I wondered when I’d get my first mission, hoping my little arrangement with the FBI didn’t turn out to be a bad decision.

A week passed and then another. My life seemed to get back in order, with days spent in the office, talking to suppliers and match organizers for the fights, plus dealing with franchisees, making sure they were keeping up with reporting requirements.

On the personal side, I hadn’t had any action since I returned to Boston, having said goodbye to a woman I’d had an on-again off-again arrangement with in Quantico. She was going through a divorce and didn't have a lot of time for a relationship, so we met a couple of times a week and fucked, then said goodbye. Nothing more.

Every night, when I finally crawled into bed after closing the gym and club, I lay awake and wondered when things would get going with the Romanovs. My mind kept returning unbidden to the graveside service and catching sight of Celia Franklin.

How a woman could still hold my interest years after one night of sex I'd never know, but she did. There was something about Celia that I couldn't get out of my mind. I always thought she was the kind of woman I could make an exception for regarding serious relationships, but I'd been so damn wrong. How she could go from so sweet and passionate and fun and intelligent to being a cold-hearted bitch who’d used me and then thrown me away when Greg finally asked her out blew me away. I'd been hurt before by a woman, and I expected I would again, if I let my guard down.

So I had many frustrated bouts of masturbation to get me through the week, and always, my mind's eye returned to lovely Celia lying beneath me, her thighs spread wide for me to see her, her eyes half-closed in pleasure, her mouth open, licking her lips… I imagined ramming into her tight pussy, into her willing mouth—and more.

It was unsatisfactory but it was all I had until I found a new fuck buddy.

Finally, I was summoned to meet with Gladwell and learn more about my mission. I made the trip to the precinct and knocked on the door to his office.

"Come," he said. I opened the door and entered, standing in front of his desk to wait for his orders.

"Sit," he said finally, pointing to the chair. I sat and waited some more.

"I hear you did a pretty decent job in your training," he said without looking up at me.

"I survived," I said.

"Good," he said and finally took off his reading glasses and glanced up at me. "We're going to let you loose. We expect you to try to reconnect with your uncle's old contacts in the Romanov family, get deeper into his organization."

"I'll do it," I said, having already heard from my father that several thugs with Russian accents had been by asking about me, wondering if I was going to be their contact now that Donny was in federal custody. "I've been quite vocal about my objection to my uncle's ties to racketeering and money laundering for drug money so I'll have to use Spencer as the excuse to get in and roll around in the dirt with them."

Gladwell smirked. "Victor Romanov is pretty arrogant and might be only too glad to have you at his side. We'll see what he does. Don't worry," he said and put his glasses back on. "He'll think you've finally come around. At the least, he'll understand your desire to get revenge for your family. Even he could understand that."

I nodded. "I hope so."

Gladwell shook his head. "He's smart," he said, "and has been good to your uncle, but he's hell on his enemies. Don't become an enemy."

"Isn't that precisely what I'll be doing?" I asked.

"Don't let him find out," Gladwell said simply. "We won't out you. We want to keep you involved for as long as we can so there'll be no leaks on our side. Keep your own mouth shut about your mission and you'll be okay as well. Don't tell your father or anyone in your family what you're doing. Don’t tell your girlfriend."

"Don't worry. I understand the need for secrecy."

As my handler in the FBI and I planned, I met with Victor Romanov, one of Donny's business associates in the Romanov family, and made the offer to provide security for their businesses in exchange for them leaving our family alone. I set up a security detail for them so they could guard their properties on the waterfront against rival families muscling into their territory or attacking any of their family members.

I hired a few retired Marines I knew, who were quite happy to take on light duties on a part-time basis. Standing around and watching streets for suspicious vehicles and taking names at the door to the business was child's play for them.

Despite it all going well, I had a bad feeling in my gut. What was I getting myself into? All my life I had done everything I could to keep out of the "family business." Now, I'd be immersing myself in it. I had to shut my mind off. I couldn’t stop thinking about being bait for a mafia boss.

What I knew about bait, from fishing with my grandfather when I was a young boy, was this: In the process of catching a fish, bait got eaten.