“You understand that our previous business relationship ended unpleasantly.”
“I understand that I tried to walk away when I should have honored my commitments. I was young and stupid.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m older and broke. And I have access to something you might find valuable.”
“Which is?”
“NHL players. Young ones, desperate ones, the kind who make bad decisions when they’re under pressure.”
“We should meet. Discuss your situation in person.”
“When and where?”
“I’ll send you an address. Tomorrow, three PM.”
Then the line went dead. I stared at my phone for a long time afterward, wondering if I’d just signed my own death warrant.
As I stand outside this warehouse twelve hours later, I’m thinking I definitely did.
The door opens before I can knock. Alexei, the head enforcer from Volkov’s organization, the one who makes threats real, glares at me. At six-foot-four and two-fifty pounds, he’s the kind of muscle that doesn’t need weapons to do serious damage.
“Christensen.”
“Alexei.”
“You’re late.”
“Traffic.”
He stares at me for a moment, eyes narrowed. Then he moves aside and waves me inside.
The warehouse is bigger than it looks from the street. High ceilings, concrete floors, the smell of motor oil and something chemical. There are offices built into the back wall, cheap wood paneling and fluorescent lights that flicker intermittently like the panic flaring in my chest.
Volkov’s waiting in one of the offices, sitting behind a metal desk. He’s wearing an expensive suit, polished as always, and looks completely out of place in this place.
“Zane. Good to see you again.”
“Mikhail.”
“Please, sit.” He gestures to a chair across from his desk. “Can I offer you anything? Coffee? Water?”
“I’m fine.”
“Of course. Always business with you.” He opens a file folder, pulls out several photographs, and slides them toward me. “I’ve been reviewing your previous work with us. Quite impressive, really. Twelve games over eight months, never once suspected by league officials.”
The photos show me in goal during various games in Detroit. Action shots, probably taken from the stands.
“You were very talented at making mistakes look natural.” Volkov smiles. “It’s a skill that’s not as common as you might think.”
“I had good motivation.”
“Yes, your father’s medical bills. Dementia is a cruel disease.”
The fake sympathy in his voice makes my skin crawl, but I keep my expression neutral. “That’s why I called you.”
“Of course. And your current coaching position…how is that working out?”
