“Meaning this stays between us. No coaches, no teammates, no family members. Especially no federal agents who might be interested in our business practices.”
He knows. Somehow, he knows about the FBI investigation.
“I don’t know any federal agents.”
His eyes glitter as he looks down at me. “Of course not. But if you did, I’m sure you’d understand why discretion is so important in our line of work.”
He leaves me sitting there with chest tight and my heart thrashing. Around me, people chat over coffee and pastries, completely oblivious to the fact that someone just sold his soul right next to them.
My phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number.
Saturday 8pm vs Vancouver. 2nd period, 14:23 remaining. Quick glove save that goes wide. Make it look good. - V
They want me to throw the game against Vancouver. Let in a goal at a specific time, in a specific way, while making it look like an honest mistake.
I pocket my phone and walk out of the cafe, wondering how the fuck I’m going to live with myself after I do this.
Did Zane feel this same sick, trapped feeling when he signed his first contract with these people?
I chose this. I walked into their trap with my eyes wide open, thinking I could handle it myself.
Now I get to live with the consequences.
Starting Saturday night.
THIRTY-THREE
zane
The recordingdevice presses against my chest like a knife blade to my throat.
Morrison decided to move forward with the operation after discussing it with his higher ups and his tech team sewed the device into the lining of my jacket this morning. It’s invisible unless you know exactly where to look, but it will broadcast everything to the FBI surveillance van parked three blocks away. They said it has six hours of battery life. More than enough time to get what we need.
Assuming I live that long.
I rub the back of my neck, massaging out the stress knot as I loiter outside a warehouse in the Mission District. It’s a dilapidated place that looks abandoned but is probably the headquarters for half a dozen illegal operations. Volkov chose the location and texted me an address after I called him yesterday claiming desperation.
The conversation was easier than I expected. Turns out when you’re genuinely desperate, it comes through in your voice.
“Zane Christensen. I wasn’t expecting to hear from you again.”
“Yeah, well, circumstances change.”
“Indeed they do. I heard about your father’s condition. Quite tragic.”
I already knew Dad was on their radar but it was still chilling to hear the words. These people make it their business to keep tabs on everything about everyone they might need to use.
“His medical bills are getting worse. His condition’s deteriorating faster than the doctors expected.”
“And your current employment situation?”
“Coaching pays shit compared to playing. I’m barely covering the basic care, and now they’re saying he needs specialized treatment that costs even more.”
“How much more?”
“Fifteen grand a month. Money I don’t have.”
My heart damn near stopped during the pause that followed. I upped the amount to sound more desperate.
