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  “I’m quite all right,” she said, panting, out of breath.

  “Have my seat; I’ll stand,” he offered.

  “Why thank you, sonny,” she replied, sounding surprised.

  Twenty-nine minutes later, the train pulled into Grand Central Station. Blaze blended into the crowd as he headed straight for the men’s restroom. Doyle patiently waited for him to return while leaning against one of the giant pillars inside the station, staring at the mesmerising celestial depictions painted on the ceiling.

  *

  All the cubicles in the men’s room were in use. As each door opened one by one, Blaze spotted what he was looking for. He approached a young homie— roughly the same size and height as him— strutting out of one of the cubicles. He was wearing a Yankees cap, dark shades, and a puffy black jacket.

  “Hey man,” Blaze said, “I’ll give you a thousand bucks right now for your digs.”

  “Yo, ya shittin’ me, right?” the homie replied. “You hiding from the po-lice or somethin’?”

  “Nah, nothing like that,” he replied casually. “I just saw my psycho-bitch ex-wife outside. And I don’t fancy going twelve rounds with her in public. You feel me?”

  The homie stood silently, considering the strange but tempting offer.

  “Come on, man, you gonna leave me hanging or what? Cash is no issue,” Blaze assured him.

  “I dunno, dawg...”

  “Fine, I’ll make it worth your while: fifteen-hundred.” Blaze pulled his giant roll of cash from the pocket of his black jeans.

  The homie’s eyes lit up at the sight of all the greenbacks. “Make it eighteen-hundred, yo, and we talkin’ deal.” He grinned.

  Blaze peeled off two-grand from his roll. “Keep the change, and thanks,” he said.

  *

  Agent Doyle was anxiously waiting outside the men’s room. He should be done by now, surely, he thought. He gave Blaze another minute before he decided he couldn’t wait any longer. He bolted for the restroom, accidentally colliding with a man coming out of the doorway. He apologised, then carried on inside and frantically checked every cubicle for Blaze. But he was nowhere to be found.

  “Shit!” Doyle panicked. He quickly made his way back out into the crowded, cavernous station. He slowly and methodically did a full three-sixty degree turn, hoping for even the slightest glimpse of the mysterious brute. He had vanished. He peered up at the four-faced brass clock above the information booth. Almost ten p.m., he thought. My head is gonna roll for this.

  Doyle decided against calling his superior. At worst, he would catch up with Blaze at his next fight in a week’s time. All is not lost, he convinced himself.

  Doyle bought a takeaway coffee and wandered outside while he waited for the next train to downtown Manhattan. As he meandered along the sidewalk, not paying too much attention to his surroundings, an unfamiliar ringtone from a cell phone sounded from inside his jacket pocket. That’s not mine, he thought, confused. He suddenly remembered colliding with the man dressed in a black puffy jacket coming out of the restroom. You are one smart son of a bitch, he thought, and answered the call. He heard a gruff, raspy voice on the other end of the line. “Who the fuck are you, and why the fuck are you following me?”

  Astonished, he replied, “Where are you?”

  “I asked first, shithead.”

  “Fair enough, just calm down, all right?” He composed himself. “My name is Special Agent Morgan Doyle of the FBI. I would like to meet with you, face to face.”

  “What for?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say under these circumstances.”

  “Then go fuck yourself and leave me be.”

  Doyle gave in. “All right, all right. It’s like this.” He paused for a moment. “I’m in need of an asset. I have a dangerous assignment that requires someone with your physical appearance and violent skill set for it to have any chance of success.”

  “I’m not interested.” He went to hang up.

  “Wait!” Doyle said frantically.

  “What?” Blaze let out an exasperated sigh.

  “Aren’t you even the least bit curious?”

  “Nope.”

  “You’ll be set for life financially if you accept my proposal.”

  “I don’t care about money.”

  “Then why did you fight Jermaine Miller if you weren’t keen on the ninety-grand purse? You could have died in there.”

  “What can I say? I’ve guess I’ve got nothing to lose.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “It’s none of your fucking business.” There was a sudden awkward silence between them, until Blaze relented, and said. “Fine, humour me. What is it you want, exactly?”

  Surprised by his sudden change of heart, Doyle replied, “I want you to go undercover inside the Aryan Brotherhood—which will eventually involve going inside and joining their operation. After observing their movements I believe they may try recruit you any day now.”

  “You mean you want me to prospect for the brotherhood and go to fucking prison?”

  “Yes. But only until we find out what they’re up to. Then we’ll pull you out.”

  “Why? They’re all about white power, drugs, and firearms—like any other street gang in New York.”

  “That’s true. But I also think they’re up to something else. Something big.”

  “Such as?”

  “Until I’m sure, I can’t really say.”

  “You’re not giving me much to go on. Why don’t you just nab one of their foot soldiers and torture him until he squeals?”

  This time Doyle sighed. “Because we tried that numerous times already, and they wouldn’t give up any information. And believe me, we pushed them to the limit.”

  “You obviously didn’t push them far enough.”

  “Look, there are rules and regulations in my line of work...”

  “Yeah, well, there aren’t in mine.”

  “Which is why you’re perfect for the job.”

  Blaze paused. “What makes you think they’re up to something suspicious?”

  “You’ll be fully briefed if and when you accept my proposal.”

  “Well, like I already said: go fuck yourself.”

  “Now look here,” Doyle said firmly, “I didn’t want to play this card, but I can trace your call and check every shred of CCT footage in New York City until you’re run aground, then arrest your sorry ass for murder and illegal underground fighting.”

  “And I couldn’t give a shit.”

  Doyle sighed. “Come on, Blaze; work with me here. You sound bloody miserable; I’m giving you a chance to be useful. And from what I’ve witnessed, you’re more than capable of completing our objectives. What do you say?”

  Blaze paused a moment, then replied, “You can keep the phone, Doyle,” and clicked off the call.

  Chapter 4

  Glendale

  New Zealand

  Detective Cameron Ryan rolled over in bed and stared at the love of his life. There she was, lying on her side, her chest slowly rising and falling on her slender, tanned body with each gentle breath she took.

  Sharon stirred as he got up and opened the curtains to let the morning light in.

  “Hello sweetie, he said cheerfully as he slipped back into bed, nuzzling in close to her. “How’s my princess this morning?”

  She pulled some loose strands of her long, brown hair from her face and wrapped her arms around his toned, masculine body, giving him a long, passionate kiss, then seductively whispered in his ear, “I’d be a lot better if you’d quit yapping and take advantage of me.”

  Within seconds her pink, silk nightgown and knickers were strewn across the floor.

  Later, in the kitchen, Sharon was cooking breakfast for the two of them when Ryan’s phone rang.

  “Damn, it’s the office,” he said, looking at the caller I.D.

  “Just let it ring,” Sharon replied. “You are entitled to a day off occasionally, you know.”

/>   “Yes, but–”

  “Cameron,” she said firmly.

  He knew she meant business when she called him by his first name, and let the phone go to voice mail. He strutted up behind her in his dressing gown and wrapped his arms around her delicate waist, pressing his body against her soft buttocks, caressing her neck as he said, “How does something so small in stature have so much power over me?” He ran his hands over her abdomen.

  She turned around and gazed up at him. “Because, my tall, handsome man, I happen to have the one thing that all you blokes want...”

  “You’re right.” He grinned. “You are an amazing cook that looks sexy on the end of a mop.” He quickly ducked for cover.

  He nearly wore the frying pan Sharon was using to cook their bacon and eggs.

  They both laughed.

  Ryan heard a notification tone on his cell phone. He looked hopefully at Sharon.

  “Fine, you can listen to it, but don’t even think about leaving my side today,” she warned him. “We’ve got wedding venues to look at, remember?” She stood with a raised eyebrow and a hand on her hip, waving the spatula in her other hand at him.

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” Ryan replied, then dialled his voice mail and listened to the message while Sharon dreamed of their upcoming wedding.

  She and Ryan had met only a few months before, when the charming detective had been summoned to her small, rural community to investigate a murder case. It had been love at first sight; a perfect match. Ryan had agreed to move to Glendale to live with her, as she owned the local bar and grill: The Greasy Axle. It was only a thirty-minute drive away from Milton City where Ryan was based. After a turbulent start to their relationship when Sharon had fallen pregnant and lost the baby through dire circumstances, they’d decided that no matter what life threw at them they wanted to be together, and had decided to tie the knot. As Sharon was mulling over ideas for flower arrangements, Ryan’s face drained of its colour. He suddenly said, “I’m sorry, sweetie, but I have to go into the office.”

  “No, you bloody well don’t!” she snapped, and slammed his plate of food on the table in front of him.

  “You don’t understand.”

  “Understand what, exactly?”

  “I might be in trouble again.”

  She rolled her eyes. “What rules did you break this time?” she asked, referring to the fact Ryan tended to throw the rule book out of the window when it came to solving a tricky murder case.

  “I didn’t do anything, I swear. But I’m to report to the office in the next hour or they’ll be sending a team of officers with an arrest warrant.”

  “What!” she exploded. “What is this all about?”

  “I’m not sure...”

  “Cameron.”

  He took a moment before he said, “If I had to guess, it could be to do with the recent death of the Police Commissioner.”

  “What? That’s ridiculous! I know you worked a case for him before he was murdered, but you had nothing to do with it!”

  Ryan didn’t answer.

  “Okay, now you’re starting to scare me,” she said, worried. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  Ryan sighed heavily. “Sit down, Sharon,” he answered. “There’s something I need to tell you, and you’re not gonna like it. But you have to promise me you’ll keep it to yourself until I say otherwise.”

  She hesitated, then agreed. She nervously sat opposite him at the kitchen table, holding his trembling hands across the surface.

  “It’s Blaze,” he began. “I think he murdered the police commissioner and his daughter with the help of the MC.”

  She looked confused. “How is that even possible?” she asked. “I remember the commissioner making a statement on the news after it was confirmed Blaze had crashed and drowned in the Stirling River. Hell, I went to his memorial service!”

  Ryan looked away.

  She twitched violently in her chair as she suddenly connected the dots. “Cameron? Are you telling me Blaze is still alive? And you’ve known the whole time?”

  He looked her square in the eyes. “Yes,” he replied.

  She let his hands go and slapped him across the face. “You mean Elizabeth and her family have been grieving and you just sat there and did nothing!”

  He hung his head in shame. “I’m sorry, but you must let me explain...”

  Ryan didn’t flinch as the palm of her hand swiped his cheek again.

  “The wedding’s off!” she screamed and stormed out of the kitchen to their bedroom and slammed the door behind her.

  Chapter 5

  Ryan pulled into his reserved car park at the Milton City Homicide Unit. It was located in the main business district of the moderately sized city of over one-hundred-thousand people. He was a nervous wreck after Sharon had refused to even acknowledge him after their conversation in the kitchen. The best he could salvage was that she wouldn’t divulge his secret before he’d had a chance to explain himself. She has every right to be angry with me, he thought.

  Steve Hampton greeted Ryan with a heartfelt embrace in the foyer of the MCHU. He had been Ryan’s partner for the previous two years, and now approaching retirement age, was awfully fond of his much younger colleague. “I came as soon as I heard,” he said to Ryan. “What’s this all about? I heard they’re launching an enquiry into the commissioner’s death—with you being at the centre of it all.”

  “God, it’s good to see you, old timer,” Ryan said, letting Hampton go. “It’s nice to have someone who might actually understand my situation.”

  Hampton pulled up his shirt sleeve and checked the time on his newly purchased Rolex. “We’ve got time for a quick coffee if you want to give me the short version?” He pointed to the café across the road. “And I can sit in on your meeting as a support person, if you like?”

  “I’d sure appreciate that.”

  The two detectives sat opposite each other on two single-seater couches in the quaint café.

  “You might struggle to keep your cool with me when I explain what’s happened,” Ryan began, sipping his flat white.

  “Why?” Hampton was taken aback.

  “Well, I assume you and Elizabeth Blaise are still an item? I only ask because I didn’t see you at Blaze’s memorial service, and, well, one would assume you would have been there for her.”

  “Of course we are,” he replied. “We’d only just arrived back from Europe when we heard the terrible news. On the day of the service I was experiencing some dizzy spells. Elizabeth forced me to go see a doctor.”

  “Jesus, Steve. Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” he said curtly. “My blood pressure was a bit high, that’s all. I’d forgotten to take my pills for a few days; still in holiday mode, I guess.”

  “Well, at least someone is looking out for you in your old age.” Ryan grinned.

  “Yes, Elizabeth has many fine qualities. Speaking of which, what does your current predicament have to do with her?”

  “Well, it’s not so much about her...” His voice wandered off.

  “Spit it out, Cameron.”

  “All right, it’s about Blaze.”

  Hampton calmly put down his mug, shaking his head. “Now why did I get the feeling his name was going to crop up?” He sighed, full-well knowing the history Ryan and Blaze shared. “Start from the beginning.”

  Ten minutes later, Hampton was reeling with mixed emotions after hearing what Ryan knew. After mulling over his thoughts, he said, “You’ve done nothing wrong, apart from keeping a diabolical secret, which I don’t condone in the slightest, but I understand why you did it. I don’t see any reason why you shouldn’t come clean about it.”

  “Because I promised Blaze I wouldn’t tell anyone. He wanted to cut all ties and start afresh.”

  “So you made a mistake,” Hampton said. “A mistake you must rectify.”

  “Yes, I know,” he replied glumly. “Elizabeth will hate me. She’s like a mother to Sharon,
and she’s giving her away at the wedding, which probably has no chance of happening now...Jesus Christ, Steve, what have I done?”

  Hampton felt sorry for Ryan. “It’s not entirely your fault,” he said. “Blaze should never have put you in this position. I’ll help you set things straight with Elizabeth, I promise.”

  “You’re a bloody champion, old timer.” He smiled meekly.

  Hampton jolted as a thought came to mind. “Cameron,” he said curiously. “There’s something about this mess that doesn’t add up.”

  “Yes?”

  “How did the authorities connect you to the commissioner’s death? I mean, you obviously didn’t kill him; but what makes them think you know something about it?”

  Ryan hadn’t stopped to consider this. “That’s a good question,” he replied.

  “Well, let’s not waste daylight pondering. Let’s go and find out, shall we?”

  They drained the contents of their mugs and headed back over the road to the daunting sight of the MCHU’s headquarters.

  Chapter 6

  Skinny-Jay’s posse of gangstas quickly jumped to attention, drawing their gold and silver plated pistols, aiming them at the mob of intruders pushing their way inside his private nightclub. From across the room where he slouched back on his couch with three delicious hotties grinding their naturally dark-skinned breasts and buttocks in his face, Skinny-Jay shouted, “Yo, DJ! Cut that fuckin’ shit!”

  The booming gangsta rap ceased. Skinny-Jay shoved the girls aside, as if ploughing through the doors of a saloon bar. He rearranged the multitude of bling dangling from his neck, then reached for his Desert Eagle pistol from inside of his bright red leather jacket. He aimed it at the leader of the mob as he asked, “What are you and your white bitches doin’ in my motherfuckin’ club? You know I could shoot your motherfuckin’ asses where you stand?”

  Lucky limped forward with his hands raised; he had a prosthetic leg after a robbery had gone terribly wrong for him some five years ago. The fluorescent strobe lights from the ceiling illuminated his smooth scalp as he slowly turned a circle, proving he wasn’t armed. “We aren’t looking for any trouble,” he began, “but that could all change if you don’t tell me what I wish to know.”