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W hat’s this?” Carolan asked as he and Fields got in the car and she handed him an envelope.

“It’s a request for hazardous duty pay. According to HR, it needs to be signed by an immediate supervisor.”

“We’re going to Baltimore, for crying out loud,” he said, handing it back to her. “Not Baghdad.”

“Have you been to Baltimore lately?”

“I try not to.”

“Exactly my point,” she replied, pulling the request out of the envelope and grabbing a pen from the glove box.

“Now what are you doing?”

“Not your problem.”

Backing out of his space, Carolan paused and looked down. “You’re forging my name. On a government document.”

“If I’m going to die, I want to be properly compensated.”

“First, you’re not going to die. And second, if you’re dead, ‘you’ can’t be compensated.”

“It’s for my mom. She’s my beneficiary. It’d be a little something extra to ease her pain.”

“No,” said Carolan, laying down the law. “End of discussion.”

“Fine,” Fields replied, tearing up the document. “You know it’s terrible the way you hate on old people.”

“ Old people? Your mom had you at seventeen. She’s younger than me.”

“Whatever.”

“Can we just focus please?”

“Sure,” said Fields. “We’ve got nothing but bumper-to-bumper rush-hour traffic to do just that.”

“Listen, we’re lucky we got those videos processed through facial recognition as quickly as we did. Practically every Bureau resource has been tied up working on last night’s attack.”

She knew he was right. The FBI was under massive pressure to make a break in the case.

One of the reasons it was so hard to get Dark Web fight-club videos processed right away was that the facial-recognition systems were being used to sort through all the recent protest footage the Bureau had secured.

The thought being that the attackers might have attended prior protests to conduct pre-attack surveillance.

And while it had taken some arm-twisting, Gallo had eventually gotten the Texas and California videos into the cue.

None of the men in the morgue had shown up in either. As for the fighters with the sword-and-tree tattoos, one was from Texas and the other was from California. Neither of the men had a criminal record nor any ties to the D.C. area.

There was, however, a face in the crowd that appeared in both videos. It belonged to Lucas Weber—a twice-convicted felon who managed a mixed martial arts gym in one of the seedier neighborhoods of southwest Baltimore.

Weber was a White supremacist who had done time for kidnapping, armed robbery, assault with a deadly weapon, and attempted murder. He was definitely no altar boy.

“Help me understand your rationale here,” said Fields. “This guy Weber is going to want to help us out because what? He’s secretly pro–law enforcement?”

Carolan smiled as he exited the FBI garage and headed south for Interstate 395. “He’s not going to want to help us out at all. At least not at first.”

“So how do you plan to change his mind?”

“That’ll be a piece of cake. Guess who didn’t get permission from his parole officer for the trip to Texas or the trip to California?”

Fields smiled right back. “He’s going to hate your guts when you tell him that.”

“He’s going to hate it even more because it isn’t going to come from me. You’re going to tell him.”

“Me? What the hell for? You’re the one who spoke to his PO.”

“Because I want to rattle him; really push him off-balance. He’s a real piece of shit, this guy. On top of being into all that master-race garbage, I think it’s safe to bet he doesn’t think much of women—especially women in positions of authority.”

“So I get to wind him up and see if he springs?”

“I’ve watched you fight. You can handle yourself. Besides, I’m too old to be mixing it up with a guy half my age.”

Fields shook her head. “I think we can officially pronounce chivalry dead.”

“Assaulting a federal officer is a felony. If he’s dumb enough to do it, it’d be his third strike. You’d also get to whup a Nazi’s ass, which would make you queen for more than just a day at headquarters. You wouldn’t have to pay for another drink all summer.”

“Says the immediate supervisor who wouldn’t authorize my hazardous duty request.”

“It’s a knock and talk. You can do this in your sleep. I’ll be right there with you.”

Washington Village, also known as “Pigtown” because of its nineteenth-century slaughterhouses and the pigs that used to be driven through the open streets, was a poor, down-on-its-luck neighborhood of crumbling rowhouses, vacant lots, and boarded-up businesses adjacent to Camden Yards. It was also home to White Wolf Combat.

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.