Page 46 of Edge of Honor

Parking across the street, Fields and Carolan got themselves ready to speak to the MMA gym’s manager, Lucas Weber.

“Windbreakers?” Fields asked, referring to the dark blue jackets with “FBI” stenciled in big gold letters across the back, the shoulders, and just above the left breast.

“It’s up to you,” Carolan replied, looking out the windshield at the dilapidated two-story commercial building that housed White Wolf Combat. All of its upstairs windows were wide-open, several of them with box fans whirling away. “Still pretty warm outside and it doesn’t look like those guys are wasting money on AC.”

As usual, Carolan was right. “No windbreakers,” said Fields.

“Good call.”

“No tactical vests either.”

“Also a good call. We’re here to make conversation. Not to execute a warrant.”

Fields checked the security of her weapon in its holster. It was locked in place, nice and tight.

There was no need to pull it out and rack the slide in order to seat a round in the chamber. Her Glock was already hot. They only did that nonsense in Hollywood.

If your life, or the life of another, came down to how quickly you could draw and fire your gun, only a fool would walk around without one in the pipe. It would be professional malpractice.

Carolan looked at her. “You ready?”

She nodded. “Let’s go make some new friends.”

Exiting the vehicle, they waited for a car to pass and then crossed the street. Neither of them was wearing a suit jacket. Their weapons and bright gold badges were on full display. Based on the caliber of its management, it shouldn’t surprise any gym goers that law enforcement was dropping by.

The run-down building was made of chipped cinder block, painted gray. The ground-floor level had one window covered with iron bars, a very old, olive-green, roll-up-style door from the 1930s, and a main pedestrian door, also painted olive green, which had been plastered with fight leaflets. There were motion lights and at least three security cameras.

Fields tried the door, but it was locked. Holding her credentials up toward the nearest security camera, she rang the bell. Seconds later, a buzzer sounded and the door unlocked. Returning her credentials to her pocket, Fields pushed the door open and she and Carolan climbed a narrow staircase to the second floor.

As they ascended, they could hear all the sounds one would associate with a gym that trained MMA fighters—gloves hitting pads, battle ropes pounding the floor, the clank of heavy weights, and bodies thudding onto mats.

There was also the very distinct odor of sweat and leather, with an undertone of industrial disinfectant. Fields instantly hated it. For Carolan, it reminded him of growing up and one of his uncles who had been an amateur boxer.

At the top of the stairs, the gym revealed itself. It was a large, open space, but where they had anticipated seeing cheap, mismatched workout equipment scavenged from discount liquidators and low-rent garage sales, they saw expensive, brand-name pieces that would have rivaled most high-end clubs.

There were also two brand-new rings with taut ropes, bright corner pads, and spotless canvases. Affixed to the ceiling above each was a huge American flag.

Someone had dropped some money in this gym. Not enough to get the AC up to snuff, but enough to give the people training here top-notch gear.

Vinyl banners celebrating cage matches and no-holds-barred fights from years past adorned the walls along with dozens of framed photos of White Wolf Combat fighters. It didn’t shock Fields that there wasn’t a Black or Brown face among them.

As they walked onto the floor, about fifteen people, all White, stopped what they were doing and a very uncomfortable silence descended over the gym. All eyes were locked on the two FBI agents. And not in a friendly way.

Suddenly, someone shouted, “Who told any of you to take a break? Get back to fucking work!”

Looking across the gym, Fields saw Lucas Weber standing outside his office. He was bigger, uglier, and nastier than she had expected.

CHAPTER 22

In his mug shot, Weber had looked like your typical skinhead scumbag. He was heavily tattooed, with a thick, Hitler Youth slogan, “Blood Honor,” encircling his neck, as well as SS lightning bolts, two Totenkopf skulls, a handful of Norse runes, and a triskelion “three sevens” tattoo.

Since being inside, he had added an Odin’s cross, as well as an eagle holding a swastika with the words “White Power” and “War Skins,” which was popular with the White Aryan Resistance and signified prison time by someone who had committed crimes on behalf of the movement.

And those were just the tattoos Fields could see at this distance as the man stood there in a pair of black MMA shorts and a Punisher T-shirt.

He had grown his hair out on top but wore the back and sides in a skintight fade reminiscent of the “undercut” style popular from the 1910s to the 1940s, which had come around again.

Most noticeable of all was the weight he had put on. He was no longer the scrawny punk he had been when he first went away. Weber had packed on a good twenty-five pounds of what appeared to be solid muscle. In addition to working out, Fields figured the guy had to be juicing. Nobody got that big, this fast, just by getting off prison food and shopping at Whole Foods.

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