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"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?"
