Body Checked (Center Ice Book 1) (21 page)

“Ser-gei! Ser-gei!” the crowd chants, and I find myself joining them. 

The puck shoots back behind the goal, and Sergei and Magnussen fly toward it, wrestling with Carson and Karparov for control. Finally, they sneak it out, and Sergei passes to Marcus. Marcus shoots. Scores. Screams all around. 

“Oh, my god,” Monique gasps. “We might motherfucking win this thing!” 

But the Forge come back strong, and earn themselves a power play when one of our rookies makes a stupid move and gets called for icing. The Forge score two goals on us back to back—both from Carson. Ugh. The whole Forge defensive line starts showboating, shoving our players around, slamming them up against the boards. I wince, remembering the way Sergei was always peppered with bruises despite all the protective gear. Even a minor sore can really get inside a player’s head when they’re on the ice. 

Finally we start pressing the puck back into Forge territory, and Sergei hops off the bench to aid with another aggressive push. One of the Forge wingers swings the stick at Sergei’s shins, trying to dig the puck out from under his skates, but Sergei leaps over the stick—only to crash into Magnussen. They quickly recover, but Sergei loses control of his stick. It spins wildly off toward the space behind the goal. 

Sergei tries to help screen for Magnussen and Marcus Wright, but without a stick, there isn’t much he can do. The referees still haven’t blown the whistle for a stoppage of play. Slowly, the battle for the puck moves back behind the goal. Sergei dives for his stick, but Karparov is there, waiting for the puck, and his elbow crashes right into Sergei’s face as Sergei is starting to lean down. 

I suck in my breath, but Sergei’s not down yet. He grabs for the stick, but it gets tangled in his and Karparov’s legs. Karparov lifts one knee, and the stick flies right into Sergei’s helmet, knocking it off. 

“No!” I leap up out of my seat, instincts taking over. As if there’s anything I can do to help. I see the hit coming, but I’m powerless to stop it. 

Karparov body checks Sergei. His unprotected head slams into the plexiglass, and he slumps forward onto the ice, out cold. Karparov skates away as the refs swoop in, whistles screeching, and sneers at the audience at large. 

“He’ll be fine.” Beth tugs at my sleeve. “Jael, it’s gonna be okay.” 

I stare daggers at Karparov, not that he can see me. He circles around the center, and hocks a loogey right onto the ice. Cold. Uncaring. I can’t shake the question that’s worked its way under my skin like a thorn. 

Was it really an accident? Or is Vladimir working his connections again? 

One of the team doctors leaps onto the ice, and his sneakers glide across it as he heads for Sergei’s limp body. After checking his pulse, peeling back Sergei’s eyelids, he whistles for the paramedics. Oh, my god. Oh, my god. Please don’t let him be seriously injured. 

The paramedics rush onto the ice with a stretcher held between them and plop the stretcher down beside Sergei. The rest of the team has backed up, but they’re craning their necks, trying to make sure their teammate is still breathing, trying to see if he’s all right. The paramedics push them back, and lift Sergei onto the stretcher and strap him in. I watch the paramedics as they work, unable to focus on Sergei without driving myself mad. Their crisp white shirts and black slacks, the team patches on their sleeves and the badges dangling from their necks— 

Wait. 

“Monique?” I ask. “Aren’t the paramedics supposed to have team patches on their sleeves? Where are their badges?” 

Monique’s brow furrows as she stares at the ice. Gradually, horror dawns on her face. “Oh, fuck.” 

“They aren’t the real paramedics.” I fly out of the stadium seating and head toward the box’s exit. “It’s not the real paramedics. Something’s wrong.” 

“What’s going on?” Todd looks up from his conversation with Monique’s parents, the Davises, and Helen Ng. “Jael?” 

“Someone’s pretending to be paramedics,” Monique shouts over her shoulder, as we fly out of the box.  

I keep moving. I don’t have time to explain. Everything’s clicking into place inside my head now, like the tumblers of a lock. Sergei didn’t smuggle Vladimir’s product, like he promised, because he no longer had the threat of them hurting me looming over his head. The FBI’s search of the plane was a bust. And now Vladimir is going to make Sergei pay. 

By hurting—possibly killing—Sergei himself. 

Monique holds out her badge to get us into the backstage of the arena, but it’s bursting with people—photographers, reporters, medical assistants, even Mylo Saukonis, the team owner, himself, and his copious entourage. “Out of the way, coming through!” Monique screams. I’m batting through people with my forearms held out to block for me, but we come up against the security guards, who are keeping one corridor clear. 

The corridor currently occupied by the fake paramedics, and the unconscious Sergei they’re carrying. 

“They’re phonies!” I scream. “The paramedics are fakes! Sergei!
Sergei, wake up
!” 

His arm twitches on the stretcher, but before I can get any closer, one of the security guards reaches out and catches me by the shoulder. “Miss, I’m going to have to ask you to step back—” 

“They’re abducting Sergei. Sergei Drakonov.” I wrench out of his grasp. “Call the police!” 

“Miss, please calm down—” 

Monique shoves her badge in his face and stares him down. “Call the police. Right fucking now.” 

I shove my way into the corridor, but it’s too late. The paramedics are loading him into the back of a black armored van, just through a set of double doors. I take off at a run for the doors and push through them, out into the frosty November afternoon. The doors clatter shut behind me. 

“Wait!” I scream. But the paramedics are already crouched in the back of the van; its engine rumbles to life. I leap for the van’s bumper, but they’re already pulling away while they try to latch the doors shut. 

The van turns out of the alleyway and disappears into the traffic of downtown DC. 

Monique and a few security guards catch up to me just as the van carrying Sergei disappears from sight. “Shit,” she breathes.  

I grind my teeth. He was
right there
,
and they got away with him. Abducted him out of an arena full of twenty-five thousand people. Vladimir’s surely going to kill him, or otherwise damage him so badly he’ll never play hockey again. I could’ve stopped it. If I’d been just a little faster, just a little more persuasive . . . If I hadn’t lied to Sergei, practically from the start. I could’ve gotten him help. 

“They’re pulling up one of the security vans right now,” Monique says. 

There’s no way we can catch up to them in time. But I nod and set my jaw. I can’t change all the mistakes I’ve already made. All I can do is try to save him now. 

The van, white and unmarked, pulls up beside us from the depths of the arena parking garage. “Hop in. We have to hurry,” the guard says. Not the same one who tried to stop me, which is good, as far as I’m concerned. He was probably the same doofus who let the fake paramedics into the arena in the first place.  

I climb into the front seat, and Monique and two other guards scramble into the back. We peel off into the streets before I can even slam my door shut. As soon as I’m buckled up, I strain forward, trying to spot the direction the van might have turned. 

“I don’t think they’d take him to the Red Star. Vladimir must have another location for his dirtiest business.” Up ahead of us, another block down, I think I glimpse the dark gray van turning left, but I can’t be sure it’s the right one. “Try there. Maybe they’re heading for the 395 tunnel.” 

“Roger,” the guard says, and flings us into the turn. 

“Yes.” I grip the dashboard. “Yes! That’s them. Just keep them in sight—close, but not too close.” 

Monique’s already on the phone with her mom, then, a few seconds later, I hear her say, “Yes, hello, Mister Saukonis.” 

I pull out my own phone and, not knowing who else to call, dial Special Agent Frederica Monteverdi. 

“Miss Pereira.” She answers the phone with her voice tight as a wire. “I wasn’t expecting to hear from you.”
Ever
, I imagine her finishing that sentence. 

“It’s an emergency.” Over the phone, I can hear the background noises of Thanksgiving—clattering dishes, running water, screaming children. “Sorry to interrupt, but it’s really important—” 

“Then get on with it,” Frederica says. 

“Vladimir’s goons just abducted Sergei from the Eagles arena. He was injured on the ice, and they carried him off. I don’t know where they’re taking him, but I’m following them now—” 

“What? You’re pursuing them yourself? That’s very dangerous, Miss Pereira.” 

My blood is boiling. “I don’t give a shit!” I cry. God, it feels good not to have to bite my tongue around her again. “You said yourself that the Bureau found nothing on the Eagles plane. Vladimir’s probably going to kill him for falling through on their deal!” 

Frederica is quiet for a long moment. Ahead of us, the van is taking the exit into the 395 tunnel that runs beneath the National Mall and heads toward the waterfront area that runs alongside the Potomac River. A number of warehouses cluster in the dead space between the highway and the waterfront, and there are scores of derelict boats docked just outside the confines of the nicer marina. Seems like the perfect place for Vladimir to have set up shop. 

“Where are they taking him?” Frederica asks quietly. 

“The waterfront, I think. We’re headed there now.” 

Frederica’s breath crackles through the line as she exhales. “I’ll assemble the team.” 

Tears needle at my eyes. “Thank you, Fre—Agent Monteverdi. Thank you so much.” 

“Miss Pereira?” 

I swallow. “Yes?” 

“Don’t do anything foolish until we arrive.” 

“I’ll try not to,” I tell her, and hang up. 

The tunnel swallows us up; the overhead lights cast eerie shadows on our van as we whiz past them. I can just barely make out the back of the other van ahead of us. There’s way more traffic than I expected—we must have hit the unfortunate hour where people are either returning home from Thanksgiving lunch or heading out for Thanksgiving dinner. Our driver, though, is doing an excellent job keeping pace, just far enough back that we’re probably little more than a white blob in their rearview mirror. 

“Yes, I believe the FBI has already been contacted, but you should conduct a thorough search of the arena, too, just in case. The police should be able to help. The kidnappers may have other men in place among your staff.” Monique clenches the phone in a death grip. “I’ll keep you posted, Mister Saukonis. Thank you.” 

Sure enough, the van takes the Waterfront exit, and we follow, but are stopped by a red light. I feel like I’m going to crawl out of my skin as we wait for the light to turn. Has Sergei woken up? Does he even understand what’s happening? Panic writhes in my gut. What if they’ve already hurt him, or even worse? 

The van turns off of Capitol Street and heads toward the warehouses along the waterfront. The sun glistens low and deep orange as we turn westward to follow the van. It’ll be dark soon, but isn’t dark enough yet to give us the cover we need. 

We’re pulling closer toward Sergei’s van as it winds its way toward the waterfront. Several rusted-out barges cluster alongside the docks. Is that where they’re headed? When the van makes one last turn, I motion for our driver to wait, keeping our van hidden around the corner. “I’m going to check on foot.” 

I pull out my phone and text Frederica a quick note, embedding my current location in the message, then hop out of the van. I have no weapon, nothing to protect myself with. What am I thinking? I’m not. I just have to act. I press against the wall of the warehouse we’re hidden behind and peek around the corner. 

Two guards watch over the fake paramedics as they hop out of the back of the van and unload the stretcher with Sergei on it. He’s moving, at least—I can make out his arms straining against the straps that bolt him down—but they’ve tied something over his mouth. One of the guards casts a glance down the alleyway, and I flatten myself back against the wall. 

“How many?” the security guard asks. He’s climbed out of the van and is reaching for his holster. Oh, thank god, he has a weapon. But then he pulls it free, and I see it’s just a stun gun. Shit. 

“Two guards. The two paramedics. And probably more wherever they’re taking him.” I grimace. “Last time we were dragged before Vladimir, he had at least eight guards with him.” 

Monique meets my eyes. “The FBI and police will be here soon, Jael.” 

“And?” I ask. 

“And you shouldn’t do anything crazy.” 

I manage a dry laugh. “‘Shouldn’t’ doesn’t really work too well with me.” 

I peek back around the corner again. Sure enough, they’re hauling Sergei—with a sheet spread over him—into one of the dockside warehouses. I take a deep breath and consider my options. I can work with this. Much better than if they took to the water. I press back to the wall and study the nearby structures. The warehouse they’ve entered is lower than its neighbor; though the guards quickly take up flanking positions around the entrances, I can’t find anyone posted on the other buildings nearby. A few buildings down, and I spot just what I’m looking for. Air conditioning window units jutting from the windows, stretching all the way toward the third story and the roof above.