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.