Chapter Text
“Is it because I’m Russian?” Ilya’s eyebrow cocked at Scott who groaned and ran his hand over his face. Marleau next to him smothered a laugh as Carter pressed his lips to also avoid laughing.
“No, you idiot, it’s because you can fucking fight,” Scott snapped and pinched the bridge of his nose, “Rozanov, listen to me, this is a delicate operation. The last set of agents who went up ended up retiring after.”
He nods solemnly. He had never met Eric Bennett’s partner but knows enough that it sent the older agent into an early retirement with a fucked up shoulder. One no one saw coming, especially not Scott Hunter who had recently taken over as Unit Chief. Marleau and him were a favor from LeClaire, one Ilya planned on cashing in as soon as this assignment wrapped the fuck up. So he said nothing as Scott calmed down enough to continue with the debrief.
“We’ve managed to bust some of Crowell’s rings, but this one,” Carter said and handed him a thick file folder, “haven’t been able to crack in the slightest.”
“Montreal?” Ilya questioned.
“CRMP has requested our help since we were able to take down Boston and Tampa,” Scott said, “mostly thanks to you two.”
“I don’t know Hunter,” Marleau trailed off, “Montreal? That shit’s big game. Crowell has a lot of money on the fighters there. People who fight there aren’t just regular street fighters, these are former MMA fighters who didn’t go pro.”
“We have a CI helping us out,” Scott said and Ilya flipped to the page of a man’s face. The next picture was clearly a surveillance picture but the man was in the middle of looking around as a heavily pregnant woman stepped out of the car he was holding the door of. “Hayden Pike managed to get out cleanly, cut all ties and didn’t go back. RCMP caught up to him because he got comfortable, relaxed. Instead of jail time he’s agreed to help us out.”
“Why would an ex-fighter help us?” Marleau asked.
“He’s a father now,” Ilya said, handing Marleau the file.
“Fuck,” Marleau cursed.
“That’s not enough to give information that could get your wife and children killed,” Ilya said. He knew from first hand experience.
“Pike has a friend still involved in the Montreal Ring,” Scott continued, “Shane Hollander, former MMA prodigy. One day goes dark from the official competition circuit but appears under the pseudonym Phenom on the street level. Crowell snatched him up pretty fast.”
“Hunter it says here Hollander was 17 when he got involved,” Marleau said, “he’s been there what? Almost a decade? What makes Pike think he’d leave?”
“Pike insists he’s different and if we take down Montreal we can take down Crowell,” Carter explained, “that’s a whole lot of people that won’t get hurt.”
“Fine, say you get us in,” Ilya started, “how can you guarantee we get to Crowell?”
“Hollanders’ his crown jewel, only lets the best of the best fight him to avoid serious injury. If Crowell wants to win a fight he bets on Hollander,” Scott said, crossing his arms, “Doesn’t matter the opponent, he wins. Crucially, he wins without causing permanent damage. Makes others open to fighting if they know he won’t paralyze or kill them.”
“Hollander fights alone, why send us both?” Ilya asked.
“We need one of you to work on Hollander, the other to work more widely. He occasionally takes partner matches, usually in the past it would’ve been with Pike, but now he’s pairing up more with Jean-Jacques Boiziau. Not as good as his pairing with Pike but still good enough to win more than he loses.” Scott was hiding something. Ilya could tell by his pinched expression and the way he continues to glance at Carter next to him.
“There is more,” Ilya mumbled.
“Yeah, there’s more,” Carter said solemnly, “Crowell has what he call an insurance policy on Hollander. We don't know what it is but it's a person–”
“He kills them,” Ilya sighed.
He had seen it too many times by now. The fighter falls in love, leaves the woman to protect her, but could never leave the fighting ring without the consequence being her death. It kept them trapped until the fighting or their boss killed them. He motioned for Marleau to pass the file back so he could see Shane Hollander’s face. So he could memorize it, familiarize himself with it. He just really hadn’t expected for his heart to shoot up into his throat.
“Motherfucker,” Ilya breathed out.
“Rozy?” Marleau questioned.
His mind went back to a shitty, dim hotel room in Saskatchewan. His first case going under. Rookie shit. He was in and out but on his night off did pull a freckled man back into the hotel room with him. Had the best lay he had ever had, then disappeared. In that dim hotel room he had met Shane Hollander, they had never exchanged names. Hollander, now he knows, wasn’t willing to give up anything about himself. Not to the agent he clocked at a first glance.
“You stand out,” He had mumbled against the skin of Ilya’s hip bone, his big brown eyes glanced up at him, “gotta be better at pretending if you want to stay alive long enough to have a career.”
Ilya had panicked afterwards. Confessed everything to LeClair who put out feelers. Nothing came of it. Hollander hadn’t told anyone he slept with an FBI agent, probably more for his own sake than Ilya’s. It didn’t make this any easier. He remembers the Hollander from that night. Stubborn, tenacious, and annoyed in a way that drove Ilya wild. But after they were done and Hollander had laid his head against Ilya’s chest he saw…more. Saw a softness that was still so innocent he couldn’t believe he found Shane in that underground club. Saw the soft edges and rounded cheeks of a youth still clinging on.
The man in the picture was not that. His face had slimed out and he had gained obvious muscle. His hair was longer than Ilya remembers it being but the freckles, the one he had traced with his fingers, were still there. Still softening his expression ever so slightly. Still had the same big brown eyes that Ilya had pleasurable filled with tears as he ground into him. The man in the picture was a stranger to Ilya but he knew him once.
“Fucking freckles, what kind of fighter has fucking freckles?” He said instead of anything else he actually wanted to say.
Shane Hollander. Ilya read the name over and over again. I’ll get you out.
During the day the gym probably seemed unassuming. A regular boxing gym trying to keep the old school style of teaching. No fancy group classes to fast beat music. Just the same old souls who came mostly to reminisce on the days they took to the ring. In the daylight, Shane likes being at Voyagers Gym. Among the equipment he could hide, he could pretend his training was just that. Training. But at night the secrets creeped out of the walls they hid in. When the sunlight disappeared they were free to crawl along the gym walls and floors leading straight to the basement where a caged boxing ring sat. One Shane was intimately familiar with in the worst ways. He had bled on the mat since he was 17. Didn’t mean to stay until he was 26 but looking back he realized there was truly no way out. Not for him.
He was glad that at least Hayden got out. But Hayden was never important to Crowell the way Shane was. He also didn’t have the same mounting debt Shane did.
“Hey bud,” Hayden breathed out and that made Shane’s back stiffened. Hayden didn’t come to Voyagers anymore, not since leaving, but something brought him there. “Have a minute?”
“If this is about you getting back in you can fuck off,” Shane answered instead. He wouldn’t let Hayden get pulled back in deeper when he had three kids. No, not when Shane loved those kids like they were his own.
“No, no it’s not that,” Hayden assured him, “just…miss you.”
“I saw you last week,” Shane said numbly, sure it was Hayden driving him to the ER after a nasty split eyebrow but he had seen him.
“You know what I mean, Shane,” Hayden said and glanced around, “Warden ain't here is he? Come, get some lunch with me. My treat.”
“Hayden Pike, treating me?” Shane said with a half smile.
“Got a real job now,” Hayden waved off as Shane slipped his hands out of the gloves, “can you believe it? Someone employed me.”
“Yeah, in fucking Ottawa,” Shane reminded him.
“Yeah, yeah,” Hayden grumbled, “don’t remind me.”
The diner they went to was quiet, far enough from Voyagers that Crowell’s influence hadn’t touched it. It’s where Hayden had broken down last year and begged Shane for help in getting out. His kids were noticing his job wasn’t normal, they had questions he couldn’t answer. It wasn’t a secret that they came here, but if anyone bothered them there all they would get was a thorough beating. Shane poked at his eggs as Hayden talked about the latest update on the twins, how big they were. Admittedly, Shane missed having them close. But he knew they were safer in Ottawa.
“You know,” Hayden breathed out, “Wiebe is an ex-fighter. He can help get you out, bud. Set you up with a job at his shop.”
“Thanks but…” Shane trailed off, “I can’t. You know I can’t.”
“We can get Rose out of here,” Hayden said softly, “I’m not alone anymore which means neither are you. Fuck, if fucking Troy Barrett can get out so can you.”
“Hayden,” Shane breathed, “just…I can’t.”
“Listen, they’re closing in,” Hayden warned, “it was jail time or helping them. If they give you that choice please, for the love of God Shane, help them.”
“And what about Rose?” Shane whispered.
Hayden didn’t answer, couldn’t answer, because no one really knew where Rose Landry was. Just tucked away in some safehouse Crowell had because Shane let himself get too close. Let himself believe he could have something good for once. Crowell mistook platonic love for romance but it didn’t matter. Shane loved Rose, she was his best friend, and it was his fault he could only check on her over the phone. His fault she wasn’t at McGill like she should’ve been. His fault her mom and brothers had basically moved to Montreal to plaster missing person posters all over the city. So yeah, while he didn’t know where Rose was he couldn’t get out. Shane didn’t care if Crowell eventually got rid of him like he always did when his prize fighters broke, but he couldn’t do that to Rose. Not when this was all his fault to begin with.
“Just…consider it, please,” Hayden whispered in his ear when they parted ways. Shane would fake that he would, would promise to call him. But then he’d go home and pace his shitty apartment until the sun went down. Until Voyagers became a thing of nightmares where he spilled too much blood to be considered anything but an accomplice in this.
Even as his whole body throbbed from that night’s fight. Even as his eye swelled shut from the hit his opponent got in. Shane couldn’t, wouldn’t, let himself break. Not until Rose was safe. Only then could he finally let go and maybe, just maybe, be free.
The alley was dark and freezing. Ilya breathed in the smoke from his cigarette, easily passing it to Marleau next to him. They weren’t in their usual more put together attire. They traded leather jackets and jeans for sweats because even though they were agents dammit they were going to look good. The crappy sweatshirt definitely wasn’t enough to keep out the biting October wind. Not in Montreal at least.
“I don’t like this,” Marleau grumbled.
“Our in is supposed to meet us here,” Ilya said.
As if on cue a back door softly opened and clicked shut at the other end of the alley way. Ilya stomped out the cigarette when Marleau passed it back. If Shane Hollander recognized him there was nothing in his gaze that gave it away. His blank stare looked between them before he cocked his head to the side for them to follow.
“No phones,” Shane’s voice was monotone, stoic in a way Ilya hadn’t heard last time they were together, “cash only bets.”
“We’re here to fight,” Marleau answered.
“Gotta bet in to fight,” Shane said, “starting is $1000, you win Crowell gives you a percent. You lose, he starts a tab.”
“How does tab get paid?” Ilya asked.
“You fight and you win,” Shane explained, stopping to glance at them, “you can still leave. I didn’t tell him you were here.”
“Just let us in, man,” Marleau said and Shane just nodded, knocking on the door and saying something in French. The door swung open much harsher than when it was Shane.
The minute they crossed through the threshold and down the stairs Ilya could hear the yelling. The angry sounds men made when they lost bets. Among it was the sound of fighting, bare knuckles hitting skin and cracking bone. Shane didn’t seem to think twice about it as he led them through the crowd, which Ilya dully noted parted for him, towards a back table. If you didn’t know any better you wouldn’t think twice about the dimly lit corner booth with a few men crowded around but Ilya had committed Crowell’s face to memory. He kept calm, played the part of the interested party. Hell, he even thickened his accent and when Marleau spoke his Boston accent was much thicker than it otherwise was. Crowell let out the kind of laugh powerful men made when they thought they hit a jackpot. Ilya smirked, sharing a glance with Marleau. Crowell had no idea what he was inviting to his den.
“You’ll need pseudonyms. We only use them down here, no real names. I’m Commissioner,” Crowell said and Ilya nodded.
“Phenom,” Shane deadpanned.
“Lily,” Ilya smirked and Crowell’s face twisted in distaste.
“Jesus,” Marleau shook his head, “Raider.”
“You sure you don’t want to change your name before it’s too late, Lily?” Crowell mocked.
“No,” Ilya said instead, “is fine. Will win.”
“We’re doing singles tonight,” Crowell continued to explain. Judging by the way Shane was fidgeting next to him he’d be fighting tonight. Even if he was favoring his left over his right.
“We’ll put you up against JJ,” Crowell said and motioned for someone to lead them to what probably served as a locker room.
“Who are you fighting?” Ilya asked as he tilted his head in interest at Shane.
“Guardian.”
“A formidable fighter,” Crowell hummed, “hits harder than you, Phenom.”
Shane said nothing in response just looked ahead with a blank stare that Ilya hated. It stayed there as he led them towards the locker room and motioned towards the showers and which lockers were empty for the night. Ilya tried to ignore the blood stains on the floor but it made him uneasy. Not that he’d ever show it outwardly. Marleau cracked his knuckles next to him as they wrapped their hands. They had practiced it in the office multiple times but Ilya was still clumsy with it. He heard a soft sigh from across the room before Shane was standing over him.
“You’re doing it wrong,” Shane said, “it’s not tight enough. Like this.”
Even though it was just them left in the locker room, Marleau having been called for his fight, he watched with careful eyes as Shane unwrapped and rewrapped his hand for Ilya to see.
“What are you doing here?” Shane whispered.
“Here to fight.”
“You know what I mean.” Ah. So he did remember. Something Ilya didn’t want to think about fluttered in his chest.
“What? Want a repeat?” Ilya smirked as he stood but Shane just shoved him away in response with a scowl.
“Jus stay away from me,” Shane grumbled.
Ilya would do the opposite, had to do the opposite. He would sink his claws into the soft flesh that was Shane Hollander and pull him out of this underworld even if it killed him.