Bad Boy Soldier (Bad Boy 3)

Before we arrived at the precinct, Mahoney's cell rang and he answered while we were stopped at a red light.

"Yeah, he's here with me."

A pause.

"Are you sure?"

Another pause.

"Okay, we're on our way."

He ended his call and glanced at me in the rear view mirror.

"It's your lucky day," Mahoney said, his voice slightly amused. "Seems your name lit up the system and the big boss called. Chief of Police wants to see you in his office."

I shrugged. "I'm at your disposal." I didn't relishing being interrogated by the chief of Boston PD about my actions in the bank but resigned myself to the fact that my day wouldn't be my own.

Chapter 2

HUNTER

I said no more during the drive to the precinct and Mahoney and Brand seemed uninclined to make small talk.

Within fifteen minutes, we arrived and I was ushered into a small interrogation room with no windows but with a big and very obvious two-way mirror across from where I sat. I smiled and waved, then sat back and waited.

Mahoney said I was there to meet the Chief of Police himself, so why I was put in an interrogation room was a question I hoped would be answered sooner rather than later. I'd seen the Chief on television before during press conferences, so I knew what to expect. Short and pug-faced, Barlow was a bulldog of a man with a presence so strong that conversations hushed when he walked into the room.

Time passed, and I began to be impatient. I checked my watch, which indicated I'd been waiting for twenty minutes.

"Hello?" I said into the mirror. "I have a life to live."

There was no response. Finally, after another fifteen minutes, the door opened and Mahoney stuck his head inside.

"Sorry to make you wait. We had to do some checking first before we could do the interview. You can come with me."

I stood and followed Mahoney down the hall to a big corner office on the first floor. I entered the office, which was all glass and chrome.

Chief Barlow sat behind a big mahogany desk. A man in an FBI blue and yellow jacket leaned against the wall, his hands in his pockets.

"This is Chief Barlow," Mahoney said, pointing to the Chief.

I leaned over the desk when

Barlow stood and extended his hand. We shook.

"Glad to meet you," I said, although I didn’t mean it. Usually, I'd be on the side of police because of my time in the military and my hatred of organized crime. Now, however, I was still recovering from watching one shoot my brother and wasn’t all that predisposed to being friendly or compliant. It was probably foolish of me, but Sean's death was still too close to have overcome it. Not yet.

"The pleasure's all mine," he said and turned to the other man, who now stood up straight. "This is Special Agent Gladwell. He's with the FBI's Transnational Organized Crime program."

I recognized him from an appearance on television talking about links to organized crime in the Balkans or Russia and efforts to stop their crime spree in Massachusetts. Tall and lean with an eagle-eyed look to him, he was in top fighting shape.

To my surprise, he extended his hand for a shake. I shook it, but didn't smile when he said hello.

"Please," Chief Barlow said and motioned to a chair in front of his desk. "Have a seat."

I sat in the chair directly across from his desk. Behind me, the two detectives left the room so that there were only the three of us remaining.

Chief Barlow turned to his credenza and poured some amber liquid I assumed was whiskey into a tumbler. I accepted the glass Barlow offered.