Bad Boy Savior: The Bad Boy Series: Book 4

by S. E. Lund

  Bad Boy Savior

  The Bad Boy Series: Part Four

  S. E. Lund

  Acadian Publishing Limited

  Contents

  Preface

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Epilogue

  Newsletter

  About the Author

  Also by S. E. Lund

  Preface

  “Let your plans be dark and impenetrable as night, and when you move, fall like a thunderbolt.”

  Sun Tzu, The Art of War

  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.

  Sergei nodded, making a face like he believed me and understood she was inconsequential, but we both knew she wasn't. Besides my brother and father, she was everything to me.

  I didn’t like that these gangsters knew about Celia, but that barn door had been left open long ago and there was nothing I could do to retroactively shut it short of sending Celia away with a new identity. I didn’t want to consider that – not yet, at least. I wanted her with me. There was this huge selfish part of me that was too strong and overpowered the more honorable part of me, which should have thought first about protecting her.

  I should have sent her away immediately, getting the FBI to give her a new identity as soon as the Romanovs showed an interest in her.

  But I didn't. I hoped I wouldn't live to regret that decision, and if I was going to be selfish and keep her in Boston for
myself, I'd have to do everything I could to protect her.

  "So, what is it you want from me today?" Sergei said. "Why did you ask for this meeting?"

  "I want to provide security for your properties. As you may know, I was in the military and did several tours of duty in Afghanistan and Iraq. I have several years of experience providing security for private business in Iraq. I want to get out of the gym business and into security. You have a lot of properties in Boston, around the waterfront. I'd like to bid on the contracts. Get my foot in the door, so to speak."

  Sergei made a face and shrugged. "I already have signed contracts with a security company. Tell me why I should use you instead?"

  "I wouldn't suggest you break any contracts, but for any new properties, I'd be really pleased to provide services. And when any contracts came up for renewal, I'd like to bid on them."

  "Fair enough. What would you do for me in return?"

  I frowned, playing dumb. "I'd provide security, of course. Highly skilled operators who would be the best you could hire."

  He gave an icy smile. "Like I say, I already have contracts in place. What else could you do for me?"

  "What do you need me to do?"

  He stood and walked around the desk, leaning against it so he was closer to me, his hands folded.

  "I get shipments of… items, shall we say, that need to be warehoused for a time before being sold. You could store them for me. I understand you have several warehouses in the downtown area."

  I knew immediately what he meant. He wanted me to store his contraband – most likely guns from Russia, if I knew Sergei Romanov. I'd get the charges if they were discovered by ATF. It was a layer of protection that many gangsters put in place, spreading out the risk.

  "I could do that," I said. "What in particular did you have in mind for me to be storing? I'd like to know what I'm getting myself into."

  "Very well," he said and went to the door. "Come with me and I'll show you. You might like some of my products for your security business."

  We walked down a narrow hallway to a side door and into a large garage where several expensive vehicles were parked – a Porsche, a Mercedes, and a Bentley. The man liked his vehicles. There were about two dozen wooden crates stacked against one wall. A guard stood beside them and nodded when he saw Sergei.

  "Open one," he said to the guard.

  The guard complied, using a crowbar to pry open a box. Inside was straw and about a dozen weapons. Sniper rifles. I was familiar with them, having trained on them while working for special forces.

  "Nice," I said and stepped closer.

  Sergei removed one from the crate and handed it to me. A Dragunov sniper rifle used by the Russian military. I checked it out, examining the weapon with keen interest.

  "They're beauties," Sergei said as I tested the weapon's weight.

  "Very nice," I replied.

  "You should take," he said, smiling like he enjoyed seeing me hold one. "I'll sell you them at a good price."

  "Why would I need sniper rifles?" I asked, attaching a sight he handed me. "I use semi-automatics in my security business."

  "Every man needs at least one sniper. You never know when it might come in handy. Besides, is very good for practice."

  I held the weapon and aimed at the far wall, checking the sight and feeling the trigger. The weapon was nice, but I preferred my .300 Win Mag – a weapon preferred by American snipers. I handed it back to him and he replaced it into the crate.

  "What other weapons do you sell? I might be interested in something."

  "We shall talk again, when I consider what we need. In the meantime, please accept this as a gift from me to you."

  He removed a different rifle and scope from the crate, slipping them into a carrying case, and then handed it to me. I accepted. You don't question when a mobster gives you a gift – that much I knew.

  I nodded and followed him back to the main entrance where one of his guards stood waiting.

  "And now, if you'll excuse me, I have other business to attend to. We'll be in touch about the contracts and anything I need from you."

  "Thanks for this," I said and held up the rifle bag.

  "My pleasure," he said and waved a hand dismissively.

  Then he turned and went back to his office.

  I went to the front door and the guard opened it for me. Outside, my SUV stood at the ready, the engine idling. These Russians were on top of things. They'd no doubt checked every inch of my vehicle and probably planted a listening device or GPS tracking device somewhere. I'd have to check it out when I got back to the gym, use one of George's little sniffers to find them. I'd probably leave them in so Sergei could think he was tracking me. I could disable them, but I wanted to keep in Sergei's good graces.

  He'd know I'd check for bugs, if I was even the least bit competent. How I handled it would tell him what he needed to know. I'd disable the bugs and then re-enable them, so he knew I was aware of them, but accepted them as part of doing business with him. I just wouldn't use that vehicle anymore for anything I didn’t want Sergei to know.

  It was a game of chess, this working with the FBI to get in deep with the Russian mob. Luckily, I was a natural at the game. But I couldn’t afford to be too proud – as they say, pride goeth before a fall.

  And I didn’t plan on falling.

  Chapter 2

  Celia

  Present Day

  We arrived at my mother's house. There were already satellite vehicles outside on the street, and several reporters standing together talking.

  "What do I do?" I asked as we pulled up. "I don't want to talk to them."

  "Let me escort you," James said from the front of the SUV. "I'll keep them from talking to you."

  "My mother must be okay if they released Spencer's name," I said, hoping that my mother had somehow forgot to call me when the police contacted her about Spencer's body being found. But how could she forget? How could she not think of calling me right away as soon as she knew Spencer was dead?

  James got out and opened the door to let Amy and me out, then he led us up the driveway to the house. A reporter must have recognized me – he came up to us, sticking his microphone into my face.

  "Celia Parker? Can you tell us what you know about your stepfather's death?"

  I turned away, and James stepped between me and the reporter. "Ms. Parker's not taking any questions. Please respect her privacy at this sensitive time."

  We made it to the door without any other reporters arriving. I tried the door but it was locked. I entered the security code on the pad and the door opened, admitting us into the entrance.

  Inside, two uniformed police officers sat in the living room with my mother. She was dressed in a robe and slippers – her usual garb – and looked haggard, her hair a mess, her skin grey.

  "Mom," I cried out and ran to her. I sat on the sofa beside her, my arm around her shoulder. "Why didn’t you call?"

  "I tried," she said, her voice tired. "It said the cellular customer was out of range or something."

  Then I realized she must have used my old cell. I was using a new one since I met Hunter.

  "Tell me what happened," I said, turning to the two police officers.

  "We're waiting for detectives to arrive," one of the cops said. "I'm Constable Roberts. This is Constable Franks. We came by to notify your mother of your stepfather's death and she asked us to stay until the detectives came by. They should be here soon."

  I nodded. "You can leave us now, if you want. My friend and I will stay with my mother."

  Roberts nodded and the two police officers stood and left us alone.

  "Mom, what happened? What did they tell you about Spencer?"

  She covered her face. "He was shot," she said, her voice wavering with emotion. "He's dead and has been for hours. He was at Chesapeake Beach for some reason, checking out one of his properties, I imagine. He left right after you and Hunter were here and he never came back. He must have been robbed
but I don't know any details. They're still investigating."

  My mother seemed unusually clear-headed. The shock of Spencer's murder must have pierced through her usual brain fog from the morphine.

  "I'm so sorry, mom," I said, squeezing her arm, moving closer. Although I hated Spencer, I knew that my mother loved him. She'd be devastated to learn he was dead. After relying on him for years, she'd be afraid of who would look after her.

  "I know you and Graham hated him, but he was my life after your father died."

  "I know," I said, not wanting to talk about just how much I hated Spencer or how much Graham did as well. She already knew. It had been a sensitive matter between the three of us since she married Spencer. In Graham's and my minds, he was never our father. We made sure Spencer knew as much.

  "Did anyone call Graham?"

  My mom nodded. "We tried, but he must have been out of his room. I left a message for him to call me as soon as he got my message."

  I called Graham right away, wanting to make sure he heard the news from us, rather than finding out on television that Spencer was dead.

  I didn't feel at all sad or bad that Spencer was dead. In fact, there was a part of me that rejoiced. Finally, I could get my mother away from his clutches and get her more help.

  While I waited for him to answer, I turned to my mother.

  "Have you called Aunt Diane?"

  She shook her head. "No," she said. "I didn't think..."

  "You should call her. You'll need somewhere to stay. You can't stay alone—"

  "Can't you stay with me?" she asked. "You could sleep in your old room."

  I shook my head. "No, mom. I'm staying somewhere else. You should go stay with Aunt Diane. Get away from here. There are reporters, and trucks with satellite dishes. They won't leave you alone for a few days. We could sneak you out the back and take you there."