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Chapter 1
Hunter
Two months earlier…
Sergei Romanov lived in a bedroom community outside of Boston, tucked in a large acreage with high stone walls and exceptionally tight security.
A driveway led to the front entrance to the mansion, and on each side of the door stood security personnel armed to the teeth. They were better protected than some of the SWAT teams I'd seen in the past, so Sergei meant business. He knew he was in constant danger and made sure nothing and no one got to him that he hadn't already approved.
I stopped my SUV at the guard gate and spoke into a speaker. A small camera watched the entrance, deciding whether to admit me.
"Hunter Saint to see Mr. Romanov."
"I know who you are," came a tired voice with a thick Russian accent. "Please drive in and stop where the guards are waiting."
I nodded at the camera and when the metal doors swung open, I drove through, coming to a halt once my vehicle was fully inside. Three guards with assault weapons stood just to the left. One other guard circled my car with a German shepherd on a leash, the dog no doubt sniffing for explosives or other contraband. Another guard walked around my vehicle with a small mirror on a long pole, checking for bombs under the vehicle chassis.
Once they were sure my car contained nothing untoward, an armed guard wearing sunglasses, bearded and looking like former Spec Ops, leaned in my open side window.
"Please to turn over weapons," he said, gesturing with his chin. "Not allowed on property."
I nodded and removed my sidearm, handing it to him. I kept another in my glove compartment, just in case. "I'm going to lean over and take my other pistol from the glove compartment."
He nodded, watching me closely. I retrieved the Glock and handed it to the guard as well. He took both and then motioned me forward.
Unarmed, and impressed with the security at Sergei's compound, I drove to the front entrance where the other two guards stood, hands on their weapons, barrels pointing to the ground.
Thankfully, they were familiar with security and wouldn't be likely to accidentally shoot anyone. Say what you would about Sergei – he was professional. His security team appeared more suited to a head of state than a hood, but he was a Russian hood, and a big one at that.
I got out of the vehicle and handed the keys to the guard who met me at the stairs. He nodded, and let me pass. The final guard – one of six – motioned me through the door.
Talk about ostentatious…
I grew up with wealth, but nothing even close to this. All my father's and uncle's wealth went right back into the business, and we lived a comfortable but hardly glaringly wealthy lifestyle.
This – this was beyond the pale.
Gilded fixtures, marble floors and walls, dark woods, plush Persian carpets, old Masters-looking paintings on the walls: Sergei was one wealthy Russian.
A well-dressed young man with a goatee and moustache came to meet me. I assumed it was Sergei's secretary or admin person.
"Mr. Romanov is busy. Please to come in and wait in here," he said, ushering me into a small sitting room. Like the entrance, it was plush and resembled something out of Catherine the Great's Russia, not Cambridge, Massachusetts. I roamed the room while I waited, examining the paintings on the dark paneled walls, the huge fireplace of polished oak and stone, the large floor-to-ceiling windows. After about ten minutes, I sat on an ornate couch and took out my cell, wanting to amuse myself with local news while I waited.
Was Sergei making me wait because he could? Or was he truly busy?
Finally, I heard a commotion in the entrance outside my sitting room and saw Sergei himself with four other men, all dressed in expensive business suits. They spoke in Russian amongst themselves, laughing softly at something Sergei said, and then left. At that, Sergei turned and came into the sitting room.
I stood and he extended a hand. "Hunter," he said and we shook. "My apologies for making you wait. A business meeting scheduled before yours went over the allotted time. Please, follow me."
"No problem," I replied. "I was enjoying the art on your walls. They look several hundred years old. Not that I know anything about art."
"You're right. They're by artists from pre-Revolution Russia. I hated the art after the Revolution. Too political for my tastes. This shows the Russian countryside and life before everything went to hell."
I followed him back to a large bright office space, which was in stark contrast to the other room. In front of a huge floor-to-ceiling multi-paned window sat an ornate oak desk. Sergei went behind it and pointed to a plush chair directly in front of the desk.
I waited for him to sit before I took my own seat. He folded his hands on the desk and watched me for a moment.
"So, my spies tell me you want revenge against the DA and the FBI for the death of your brother and the arrest and imprisonment of your uncle."
I was surprised that he got right to the meat of the issue.
"In a nutshell."
He nodded. "I can completely understand that. Your uncle was treated most terribly. Your brother Sean – what a tragedy. Certainly, that demands restitution and vengeance. It would be a simple matter of executing the FBI agent who killed him. I understand that it was an impulsive move on his part, rather than something planned. Your brother's impulse control was not as good as it could be due to his years of boxing and many concussions?"
"That's right," I said. "But I'm more interested in getting revenge against the DA for trumping up the charges against my uncle. Donny was small potatoes but Grant has had it in for my family for years. He finally found enough dirt to bring a RICO charge or three."
"It's unfortunate. Grant is persistent, if nothing else. But he's also a very small man with a small vision. He wanted revenge for perceived slights by your family, as I understand it. You and his daughter are in love? You are like the Montagues and the Capulets."
I caught the reference to Romeo and Juliet. And of course, to his reference to Celia.
"She's just an old friend," I said, trying to downplay how much Celia meant to me.
