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I n 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.

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.

“Can I help you officers?”

“Agents,” said Fields, correcting him as she walked toward him and took the initiative. “FBI. I’m Fields and this is my partner, Special Agent Carolan. Are you Lucas Weber?”

“Do you have a warrant?” he replied.

“Why would we need a warrant?”

“Because, Mizz Fields, I know my rights.”

He drew the word out, purposefully being antagonistic, trying to get a rise out of her.

“Again, it’s Agent Fields, and technically you buzzed us in, which—”

“And now I’m buzzing you out,” he said, cutting her off. “So take the same stairs you came up here on and fuck off.”

Somewhere in the back of the gym, someone laughed. Another anonymous voice yelled, “You tell her, Lucas!”

Fields wasn’t in the mood. Standing in the middle of the gym not only provided him with an audience, but also encouraged him to be disagreeable. “Maybe we can talk privately in your office?” she suggested.

“What part of ‘you don’t have a warrant, so fuck off’ do you not understand?”

“Listen, you and I have something in common.”

“Oh, really. What’s that, Mizz Fields?”

“Neither of us wants me to be here. So, let’s just go into your office, we can have a little chat, and then we’ll be gone.”

Leaning, trying to intimidate her, he said, “Or else what?”

Not at all intimidated by him, she also leaned forward and, without missing a beat, lowered her voice and responded, “Or else I’m going to pull parade permits for the Black Baptist Alliance, the Black Chamber of Commerce, the Black Justice Coalition, Black Lives Matter, the Black fucking Panthers, and any other Black organization I can think of, and will have them marching up and down your street from now until Christmas, just to piss you off. And that’s just for starters.

“Did you know that there’s a national association of Black IRS agents?

” she continued. “You don’t need to answer that.

It’s already written on your face. How about this?

Can you guess who they absolutely love to target with audits?

If you guessed twice-convicted White supremacists, you win today’s prize.

They also love to target their employers, because where there’s one of you racist assholes, there’s always more.

Are you getting the picture? If not, we can talk about how many Black building inspectors Baltimore has and the kinds of businesses they want to make sure are up to code. ”

“This is a fucking shakedown.”

“Relax. Nobody’s shaking you down, Lucas. I told you, we just want to talk. Ball’s in your court. Are you going to find your manners and invite us into your office?” asked Fields. “Or am I going to have to start making some phone calls?”

Weber might not have been the brightest bulb, but he was smart enough to know when to cut his losses. Taking a step back, he gestured with his right arm toward his office.

As he did, she noticed the 14/88 tattoo on the inside of his forearm.

It was shorthand for the “14 Words”—a White supremacist maxim, which declared, “We must secure the existence of our people and a future for White children.” The 88 represented the eighth letter of the alphabet, H , and so stood for “Heil Hitler.” The sooner she and Carolan could get out of here, the better.

Inside the office, she took a seat while Carolan stood—one eye on Weber, the other on the door.

“I want to get my lawyer to listen in on this,” the man said as he sat down at his desk and reached for the phone.

“You probably should call your parole officer first.”

He looked at her. “My PO? Why would I call that prick?”

“Because he’s going to tell you what he told us, which is that you never requested permission to leave the state of Maryland and travel to Texas and California.”

Weber stared at her before his eyes nervously flicked to Carolan. He was trying to figure out what they knew and how much trouble he was in.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he stated.

“Give me a fucking break,” said Fields. “Do we look stupid to you? We’ve got witnesses that put you in Laredo and Riverside. We’ve also got you on video at both of those underground fights.”

Fields held up her phone and showed him two separate freeze frames from the Dark Web footage.

“Fuck,” Weber muttered.

“That’s one way to phrase it,” Fields replied.

“What do you want?”

“Just a little cooperation. You give us what we need and the video goes away. We’ll call your PO and tell him it was all just a misunderstanding. We had the wrong guy. But if you don’t cooperate, you’re going to go back inside for a long, long time.”

Weber didn’t like having his balls busted, especially by some Black bitch FBI agent, but she wasn’t giving him any room to breathe. “You people are like fucking jackals. You know that? I don’t even recognize this country anymore.”

“Is that a yes? Are you going to cooperate?”

He took a long pause before replying, “Fine. Fuck it. I’ll cooperate.”

When Fields glanced over at Carolan, he gave her a subtle nod. She’d done a good job, so far. Now it was time to see if Weber could help take their investigation to the next level.

Scrolling through her phone, she pulled up a photo of the sword-and-tree tattoo they had taken in the morgue that morning.

“Ever seen this before?” she asked, holding out the phone with her left hand.

Weber squinted at the image and then leaned over his desk to get a better look. Fields extended the phone even closer toward him and noticed him stiffen. He recognizes it all right.

“Take your time,” she said, continuing to watch him, studying how he reacted.

Crossing his arms, he leaned back, slowly.

“Don’t recognize it,” he stated.

He was lying.

“That’s funny,” Fields replied. “I get the feeling you do recognize it. And I shouldn’t have to tell you the shitstorm that’ll happen if I figure out you’re lying to me.”

Weber’s eyes bore into hers. Particle beams of pure, unadulterated hate. The tension in the office, which wasn’t good to begin with, was now off the charts.

“Mind if I smoke?” he asked.

“I’d prefer if you didn’t.”

“It’s just my vape,” he replied, tilting to his right and sliding open one of the desk drawers.

As he did, the sleeve of his T-shirt rode up on his left arm and there, on the inside of his biceps, she saw it. Weber had the exact same tattoo.

Dropping her phone, Fields pulled her Glock and barely had time to yell, “Gun!”

Weber was leveling a stainless-steel .357 and about to fire when Fields shot him twice in the chest and once in the head.

The felon’s head snapped back as the bullet entered and then splattered bone, blood, and pieces of brain on the wall behind him.

He was dead before Carolan could even have drawn his weapon.