19. Griffin
GRIFFIN
T he Mountaineer rail through the Canadian Rockies is nice but it can’t compare to gliding through the Alps to St. Moritz on this luxurious express train.
I’ve done some pretty wild things in my life, but this takes the cake.
Let alone how I’m currently sitting across from a real-life Bond Girl, getting briefed on the logistics of an espionage mission at a high-stakes poker game that I absolutely cannot afford to lose. Just your average Thursday.
Through panoramic windows that stretch from floor to curved ceiling, the snowcapped mountains parade past, and I wish Anika was here to share this view with me.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Elodie coos, swirling her champagne. Her red fingernails match her lipstick, which matches the ruby pendant nestled at her throat.
“Yeah,” I manage, tearing my gaze away from the window. “Hard to believe I’m about to commit fraud with this backdrop.”
“It’s not fraud when you’re stopping a criminal, Griffin.”
Easy for her to say. She’s not the one about to go up against a guy who apparently runs a criminal empire disguised as a hockey franchise.
“I’m just wondering if there’s a refund policy on this whole spy adventure,” I mutter, watching a pristine alpine lake flash by. “Like, can I exchange it for something with less potential for…dying? Maybe something in the light reconnaissance department?”
Elodie laughs, but I’m getting more anxious the closer to St Moritz we get.
Our personal concierge approaches with a tray of appetizers that look too artistic to eat.
“The amuse-bouche features local Alpine cheese with honey glaze and black truffle,” the concierge explains, which is fancy-speak for tiny portion, enormous price tag.
I thank him, wondering if my bespoke suit hides the homegrown Canadian hockey kid in me.
Once he’s gone, Elodie leans forward, her décolletage strategically visible. “You seem tense, Griffin,” she says, setting down her glass. “Relax. Enjoy the journey.”
“I’m fine,” I hiss, lowering my voice to a harsh whisper. “It’s not like TEN MILLION FREAKING EUROS were just wired to my bank account or anything.”
“Trust me,” she cuts me off with a dismissive wave. “By the weekend, you’ll be a hero. The money isn’t real to these people anyway. It’s just chips in their game.”
“And I just have to…win?” I take another gulp of champagne.
“Let’s go over the plan again,” Elodie says, delicately selecting a slice of cheese. “When we arrive in St. Moritz, we’ll check into separate rooms at the Palace Hotel. At nine, we meet our contact in the casino lobby.”
“And they’ll give me the…ear thing?”
She smiles indulgently. “The communication device, yes. It’s virtually undetectable. Our surveillance team will have eyes on all cards at the table via hidden cameras. They’ll feed you information through the earpiece.”
“So I’m cheating,” I say flatly.
Elodie’s perfect eyebrows arch. “You’re evening the playing field. Chase has been cheating for years. He’s stolen pensions, life savings, children’s college funds. Your hockey teammates’ investments. Think of all the families who lost their savings.”
I nod reluctantly. She’s not wrong. But that thought still doesn’t settle the churning in my stomach. How do secret agents sleep at night? I can barely get to sleep after a rough hockey game.
Elodie dabs her mouth with a napkin. “The FIS has been tracking Chase’s financial movements for months,” she explains. “This tournament is his attempt to recoup losses from his offshore accounts that are beginning to collapse.”
The train curves around a mountain, revealing a valley so perfect it looks photoshopped. I should be enjoying this view. It’s literally world-famous. But all I can think about is Anika. The way she looked at me before getting on that helicopter. The way she’s been avoiding me since.
“Tell me about the tournament structure,” I say, forcing my mind back to the mission.
“Texas hold ’em. Ten players. Ten million buy-in.” Elodie’s voice is all business now. “The final hand wins the whole pot.”
I blow out a whistle. “That’s…a hundred million euros.”
“Indeed.” She smiles thinly. “Chase has invited only his top investors. People who have the most to lose if his scheme is exposed.”
“And what happens after I win?” I ask. “Assuming I do.”
“You’ll transfer the winnings to an account we provide. The FIS will have what they need to bring down Chase’s entire operation and force him to cooperate in exchange for leniency.”
I nod, but something still feels off. Probably just nerves. I can’t even win at Jass.
“When this is over,” she continues, “The money recovered will be returned to the investors.”
“And my role will remain confidential?”
“Completely. You’ll return to your hockey career, your cabin in Gr?chen, and your…bartender.”
The way she says “bartender” makes my jaw clench. I think about Anika again. Her strength, her wit, the way she punched me after our almost-kiss. The memory makes me smile despite everything.
“Something amusing?” Elodie asks.
“Just thinking about home,” I reply.
The train begins to slow as we approach another scenic stop. Outside, a postcard-perfect Swiss village nestles against the mountainside.
“We arrive in St. Moritz in two hours,” Elodie says, checking her phone. “Any questions before we get there?”
Oh, I have SO many questions, but most of them aren’t productive.
“What if I get caught?”
“You won’t.”
“But if I do?”
Elodie sips her champagne, her eyes unreadable. “Then FIS will disavow all knowledge of you, and you’ll be on your own in a Swiss prison.”
I laugh, then realize she’s not joking. “Great.”
“One more thing,” she says. “No matter what happens over the next two nights, stick to the plan. No improvising.”
“No improvising. Got it.”
“And trust no one but me.”
The train lurches slightly as we round a bend.
I check my reflection in the train window.
The man staring back at me looks like someone who knows what he’s doing.
It’s a good disguise. Even though I’m used to wearing suits for the game, this one feels tighter.
More constricting. I slide a finger in the collar and tug to ease the discomfort.
“You’re fidgeting again,” Elodie observes, crossing her legs with deliberate slowness. The slit in her dress reveals a dangerous amount of thigh.
“I’m not fidgeting. I’m…adjusting.”
“And what exactly are you adjusting?” Her voice drops to a husky whisper.
“My entire life choices that led me to this moment,” I mutter, reaching for my water glass instead of the champagne. I need a clear head.
Elodie leans forward, elbows on the table, chin resting on her interlaced fingers. “Tell me about yourself, Griffin McGregor. The man behind the hockey mask.”
“Not much to tell. I play pro hockey, and love my Tim Hortons coffee. I’m a simple guy.”
“Come now.” She traces the rim of her glass with one perfectly manicured finger. “A professional athlete with your…physique must have quite the interesting life.”
I shift uncomfortably. “Nope. Just sports, movies, and video games.”
“I don’t believe that for a second.” Her foot brushes against my leg under the table. Not an accident.
“What about you?” I deflect, moving my leg out of her reach. “What does a secret agent do on her days off? Defuse bombs for fun? Parachute into restricted airspace?”
Elodie laughs, a practiced sound. “A girl has to have some secrets.”
“So that’s a yes on the bombs, then?”
The waiter arrives with our main course, saving me from whatever was happening with her foot. I focus intensely on cutting my steak.
“Tell me, Griffin,” she says, her voice dropping to a sultry hum. “What’s your tell?”
“My what now?”
“Your tell.” Her eyes narrow playfully. “Every poker player has one. That little unconscious habit that gives away when you’re bluffing.”
“I don’t have a tell.”
“Everyone has a tell.” She takes a deliberate sip of champagne, her eyes never leaving mine. “For instance, when you lie, your left eyebrow twitches ever so slightly.”
My hand flies to my eyebrow before I can stop it.
Elodie chuckles softly. “I was guessing. But now I know.”
“That’s not fair,” I protest, feeling my face heat up.
“Poker isn’t fair. Neither is espionage.” She studies me for a moment. “You are just too wholesome.”
“Is that supposed to be an insult? Because where I come from, that’s basically a compliment.”
“In my line of work…it’s a liability.”
“Well, good thing I have you to teach me the finer points of dishonesty,” I mutter.
“Indeed.” She grins playfully. “Let’s practice. Tell me a lie.”
“What?”
“Tell me something that isn’t true. Make me believe it.”
I stare at her, bewildered. “Right now?”
“Yes, right now. Convince me.”
I take a deep breath. “Okay. I…actually hate hockey. I only play because my parents forced me into it as a child and now it’s my only skill.”
Elodie’s perfectly sculpted eyebrows rise. “Your left eyebrow twitched again.”
“It did not!”
“It absolutely did. Try again. And you don’t have to recite a novel. Short and sweet is best.”
I sigh, running a hand through my hair. “Fine. I’m allergic to strawberries.”
“Better.” She nods. “But still not convincing. You’re too stiff.”
“This is ridiculous,” I grumble. “I’m a goalie, not a spy.”
“Tonight, you’re both.” She leans forward again, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Do you know what makes a good liar, Griffin?”
“An absence of moral fiber?”
“Belief.” Her eyes lock with mine. “The best liars believe their own stories, if only for a moment.”
The train enters a tunnel, plunging our cabin into momentary darkness. When the lights flicker back on, Elodie has moved to sit beside me instead of across.
“What are you doing?” I ask, suddenly aware of how small our private compartment feels.
“Testing a theory.” She’s close enough that I can smell her perfume. It’s something expensive and sophisticated. “You see, I need to know if you’ll break under pressure.”
“I’m a goaltender. Pressure is my comfort zone.”