by S. E. Lund
BAD BOY SINNER
The Bad Boy Series: Book 2
S. E. Lund
Acadian Publishing Limited
Contents
COPYRIGHT
PREFACE
1. Chapter 1: Hunter
2. Chapter 2: Celia
3. Chapter 3: Hunter
4. Chapter 4: Hunter
5. Chapter 5: Celia
6. Chapter 6: Hunter
7. Chapter 7: Celia
8. Chapter 8: Hunter
9. Chapter 9: Celia
Newsletter
About the Author
Also by S. E. Lund
COPYRIGHT
Copyright © 2017 S. E. Lund
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Disclaimer: The material in this book is for mature audiences only and contains graphic content that may be upsetting to some readers. It is intended only for those aged 18 and older.
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PREFACE
“They're a dark people with a gift for suffering way past their deserving. It's said that without whiskey to soak and soften the world, they'd kill themselves."
Steinbeck, on the Irish
Chapter 1: Hunter
One Year Earlier…
I tried to stay clean.
From the time I was in college, I did everything in my power to avoid being drawn into my family's business and becoming tainted by their ties to organized crime.
Despite my efforts, less than four years later, I found myself right back where I started.
Saint Brothers Gym and Boxing Emporium.
Four years had passed since I’d left Boston to join the Corps. After spending time in Afghanistan, and then with Special Operations Forces in Iraq fighting ISIS, I was on leave and ready for a term teaching at the Marine Corps Officer Candidates School in Quantico, Virginia.
Then everything changed.
We were standing around the ring at my father's gym watching my youngest brother spar with his trainer. Shorter than either Sean or me, Conor was more like my uncle than my father, who was taller and heavier. A lightweight boxer, Conor was fast, accurate, and on top of it all, smart. He not only felt it, the moves ingrained in his muscle memory, he also understood boxing at an intellectual level.
My uncle Donny was very pleased with Conor. Conor was the only one out of three generations who had a real chance, and he was working his way up in the circuit, undefeated in his last run at the title.
We were all so proud…
Just after nine in the morning, the FBI rolled up outside the gym and entered, armed for a takedown, moving fast. Many of the Agents had military training and the mission was conducted with military precision. Seven Special Agents entered the gym, shouting at the gym members to move to the sides of the building where they kept a watch over them. Connor was still in the ring. We were confused at first, uncertain what was happening and who the target was.
My father stepped forward to meet the Special Agent leading the team, who marched over to us. Two other Agents followed behind him, while the others fanned out inside the building.
"Can I help you?" he asked, his hands on his hips.
My father used to be an imposing man, but emphysema had made him weak. His back was stooped, his muscles wasted, his chest caved in. A small tank of oxygen hung in a harness around his shoulder. His hair was buzzed short, styled in whitewalls in solidarity with me. He appeared small and impotent before the Special Agent, a tall eagle-eyed man in an FBI blue windbreaker, who held out a warrant in one hand and a badge in another, practically shoving them into my father's face.
"Special Agent Vicars. I have a warrant for the arrest of Donald Cameron Saint."
He glanced around but he already knew my uncle was there and what he looked like. My dad examined the warrant and badge but barely had time to respond before my uncle stepped forward.
"What's the charge?" Uncle Donny was shorter and more vigorous than my father, with a shaved head and beady blue eyes. He looked like the street-scrappy former boxer he was.
"Three charges of extortion under the Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organization Act."
A RICO warrant. I knew what that was…
"Turn around, hands behind your back," Special Agent Vicars said, barking out the order like my former boot camp drill instructor.
My uncle held up his hands. "Not so fast," he said and reached for the warrant. The other Special Agents stepped forward and two of them pulled their guns out of the holsters, pointing them at my uncle.
"Turn around, now," Vicars repeated.
"I want to see the warrant," my uncle insisted. "It's my right."
One of the Special Agents grabbed my uncle and wrenched him around while the other pointed his gun at him.
It was then that cruel fate stepped in.
"Hey!" my older brother Sean said, his face red. "Let the man read the damn warrant!" Then Sean made a critical mistake. He pushed his way over to Vicars, determined to read the warrant to make sure it was legitimate.
I should have stepped in and stopped him, but I was more concerned with my father, whose face was white, his lips almost blue. He'd had a heart attack a few years earlier and I didn't want to see him stressed.
I should have stopped Sean, keeping him back from the arrest, but my focus was on my dad. I took him over to a bench beside the ring and sat him down, determined to go over and ask to see the warrant while they cuffed my uncle, but Sean made it there first.
Sean had a traumatic brain injury from too many knockouts. His emotions were on edge all the time, and he was often overwhelmed by anger. It clouded his judgment.
What happened next was so fast, it was over before I even realized it had started.
My uncle’s hands were pinned behind his back, his face red from anger, as they pulled out the cuffs to take him into custody. Sean tried to get in between the Special Agent and my uncle. He thrust his chest out and held up his fists like he was ready to clock the Agent.
"Show us the warrant or get out."
"Get back," one of the other Agents said, stepping closer.
"I said, show us the fucking warrant!"
"Your lawyer can see it. Now step the fuck aside," the Agent said, taking out his sidearm and pointing it at Sean.
Why Sean did it, I'll never know, but he knocked the gun back with a chop of his hand.
It must have been his boxer instincts taking over. His ability to think critically and reason his way through life had been damaged by repeated trauma to his pre-frontal cortex, but the deep muscle memory was still there from years of boxing. And it was ready to go.
That was assault of a federal officer and it was all the other Special Agent needed. He was entirely within the law to do what he did.
But my brother was mentally disabled. He was emotionally disabled by his brain injury.
I ran forward, realizing at the last minute that it had all gone so terribly wrong, but before I could get to him, four shots rang out and my brother fell to the floor.
"Oh my fucking God!" my uncle cried out. "Jesus Christ, you shot him!"
"Get the fuck away," I said to the Agent who stood over Sean's body. Then, I knelt, covering Sean's body, trying to keep them from shooting hi
m again. He had fallen face forward. I knew what that meant. He was out.
Maybe even dead.
I rolled him over carefully to check for gunshot wounds, and found three. One in his shoulder, one in his neck, one that appeared to graze his face. By some lucky chance, the wound in his neck must have missed the important veins and arteries, so he wasn't bleeding out. Nevertheless, I grabbed a towel from a table beside the boxing ring and pressed it against the wound. Sean's eyes were half-lidded, but he was unconscious.
"Sean," I said, leaning down to see if he was breathing. He was—barely. I felt for a pulse, thankful for my training in dealing with battlefield wounds. I glanced up and motioned to the far wall, where a first aid kit was kept. " Quick! Call 911 and get the kit!"
One of the Special Agents spoke into his two-way, summoning the EMTs who were already waiting outside. Conor ran to the first aid kit and brought it to me.
"Sean!" my father gasped from the bench where he sat, trying to catch his breath. "Oh, God, Sean…" He struggled up and came to stand beside us, where the FBI Agent still had his weapon drawn.
"For Christ's sake, put down your weapon," I said angrily.
"He struck me," the Agent said, his arm still outstretched, the weapon still in his hand and pointed now at me.
"Put your weapon down," Vicars said, his voice quiet. The Agent finally complied, holstering it and shrugging his shoulders like it wasn't his fault.
In less than a minute, the two EMTs entered the gym, coming over to where I knelt beside Sean. I'd applied pressure to two of his wounds, and had elevated his feet to fight off shock, but Sean looked bad. His skin was pale, his pulse thready.
They assessed him and finally got him on the gurney and took him to the unit idling outside. An FBI Agent went in with him, because even if he was dying, he was still under arrest for assaulting a federal agent.
My uncle ended up in the back of the FBI armored vehicle.
I took my father and Conor to the hospital in my SUV, following behind the ambulance and several FBI cruisers. By the time we arrived at Mass General, they had intubated Sean and put pressure bandages on his legs to prevent shock.
We followed the gurney inside but were stopped at the admitting area in the ER.
"You'll have to register him," the clerk said. My father sat at the desk and answered the questions, providing them with insurance information.
"He shouldn't have resisted," Special Agent Vicars said to me, his voice low. "He struck a federal agent."
"Fuck off," I said.
I went to the door to the ER, trying to see where they had taken Sean. A nurse saw me and came to open the door. I introduced myself and said I was Sean's younger brother.
"Where are they taking him?"
"Right into the OR," she replied. "We'll keep you updated."
I nodded and reluctantly closed the door.
My father was wheezing on his way to the seating area in the ER. Lugging around the bottle of oxygen was too much for him and he passed out, crumpling in his chair, his head falling forward.
I called the triage nurse, and she came around the corner to where my father slumped in his chair.
"He has COPD?" she asked, feeling his pulse.
"Emphysema," I said. "He had a heart attack two years ago."
She called two orderlies over and they took my father to a room in the ER. I went inside with him, sitting at his side, waiting to find out if he’d had another heart attack or simply passed out due to stress.
For the next hour, I sat in his room with my head in my hands while they attached him to various machines to monitor his heart and breathing, his oxygen and pulse.
Later, an ER doc came into the room where I sat to give me an update. Sean was in a coma, his neck immobilized, his brain swelling.
The ER doc pulled me into the hall outside my dad's room.
"Your brother likely won't survive the next hour," he said, his voice grim. "If he does, he'll most likely have permanent damage to his spinal cord."
"If he survives, he'll be paralyzed?"
"Yes. Quadriplegic. That is, if he regains consciousness."
As soon as he said that, I knew Sean would die.
Conor was beside himself, a basket case, sitting alone in the ER waiting room.
Together, with Sean in surgery and my dad in the ER, we began our vigil.
After Sean’s surgery was over and he was taken to the ICU, I spent all night watching him, listening to the hiss of the ventilator, the beep-beep of the monitors. I knew in my gut that he wouldn't make it.
My father stabilized and was discharged from the ER in the early evening after several tests showed he had no more damage to his heart. He didn’t want to leave the hospital, and so he, Conor, and I sat beside the bed, taking turns holding Sean's hand. Finally, the doc in charge of the transplant team came to us, because my brother had indicated he wanted to be a donor when he died.
"What's the bottom line?" I asked. After my tour of duty in the Middle East, I was used to seeing death. "Does he have any chance of recovering?"
"I'm very sorry, but no," the doc replied. "His stats indicate he's not going to recover. His brain scan, his blood work…" He shook his head. "I'm very sorry."
My father bowed his head, pressing Sean's hand against it
I nodded. "Then we should take him off life support."
My father actually sobbed at that. It was the first time I'd heard him cry since I was a child at my grandfather's funeral.
My own eyes were brimming and all I really wanted to do was run down the hall and out of the hospital, escape all of it, but I had to be strong for my father and younger brother.
I had to be the oldest son now.
Later, after they took Sean off life support and after we all said our goodbyes, I drove my father and brother back to our apartment over the gym. We entered the building, which had been quickly closed for the day, and there, still on the floor where he'd fallen, was Sean's blood—a dark red smear from someone's hasty attempt to clean it after we'd left with the ambulance.
"Oh, God," my father said, his voice shaking. "Someone should have cleaned that up."
"I'll take care of it," I said quietly.
Of course, Sean had been the de facto janitor for the gym so it would have been his job, if he hadn’t been the victim. I helped my father inside, one arm under his, trying to avoid the blood. I took him up the stairs to the apartment, then got him situated in the living room with a glass of Guinness.
Conor had gone to his bedroom, but my father needed a drink to wind down.
Then, before I began processing my own grief, I spent the next half hour cleaning the floor in the gym where my brother had fallen after being shot by an FBI Special Agent during my uncle's arrest on a RICO warrant.
The next day, the gym opened at the usual time and life went on, as it does in any business after a tragedy. Luckily, my cousin John was the day manager. He arrived the next morning and so I was able to spend time with my dad and Conor, planning the funeral and memorial.
Conversation gradually turned to the events of the previous day. Donny was now in federal custody and would be charged eventually.
"When you live by the sword, you die by the sword. Isn't that what Donny always said?" Connor glanced between the two of us.
"Donny's small potatoes," I said, shaking my head. "Getting him means nothing. It's got to be someone ratting him out."
My father was a mess. He turned to me and said, "I need you," his voice haggard. "I can't do this on my own anymore. My ticker," he said and patted his chest. "I can't take the stress. Donny did most of the managing so I only looked over receipts. You went to business school. You know more about running a business that the rest of us put together. It's logical for you to take over, Hunter."
I sighed and closed my eyes, coming to terms with the reality of the situation. He was right. I was the logical choice to take over now that Donny was in custody and Sean was dead.
"I have
a year to go on my contract," I said. It was true. I'd signed on for a five-year stint in the Marines and I loved my job.
"I know you never wanted to get involved with the family, but I need you. You were always the one who was going to manage things." He looked at me, his expression pleading. "I'm not good with managing things. You know that."
Of course I knew he wasn't a manager. He was a boxer. He owned a gym, and he could count money, but where he really excelled was in teaching new boxers how to fight, picking out the good ones, the ones with potential, and training them up to top fighting shape.
That had been his strongest skill all his life; the success of the gym and fitness clubs had been due solely to Donny's greater management skills.
Like Sean before him, my dad had too many knockouts when he was young and foolish. Too many concussions. As a result, organizational issues were not his thing. Business was not his thing. He didn’t run anything in terms of the business—that was Donny's purview. Now that he'd had a couple of heart attacks, my father merely hung around the gym, talking to the regulars, offering tips to the new fighters on how to improve. He locked up the receipts every night for his second wife Cathy, who did the books, and he opened the place every morning. He was more of a coach than a manager.
"We need you, Hunter," he said, leaning in and putting his arm on my shoulder. "I need you. I can't do this on my own."
I sighed. "I should be able to get an honorable discharge on compassionate grounds," I replied, recognizing his inability to cope. "
My father reached out and squeezed my arm. "Thank you. You don't know what a relief it is.
"I'll call this afternoon."
Of course, my CO was upset that I'd be leaving. I was scheduled to start a new course soon and they'd have to scramble to find someone to replace me, but they could. I was good but I wasn't irreplaceable. There were a dozen or so other hopefuls they could consider for the job of selecting new officer candidates. I was just the best.