Chapter 30
THIRTY
tate
I shouldn’t be here. I could be in my bed right now, getting rest before practice tomorrow. Or I could be prepping for my meeting with Petrov.
Instead I’m chasing after Zane, as fucking usual, trying to understand what the hell just happened in that office. His words bounce between my ears.
“The people you’re talking about? I know who they are.”
“I’ve met them before. Years ago, in Detroit.”
“You weren’t their first choice for this job. You weren’t even their idea.”
None of it makes sense. How would Zane know about Petrov and his consulting offer? How could he have met them before? And what did he mean about me not being their idea?
Level three is darker than the lower floors, most of the lights flickering or burned out.
Zane’s truck is parked in a far corner, and he’s leaning against the hood with his hands shoved in his pockets.
Even from fifty feet away, I can tell he’s wound tight and ready to snap like an overstretched rubber band.
“You came,” he says when I get close enough.
“You said people could get killed if they heard the wrong conversation. That tends to get someone’s attention.”
“Yeah.” He turns his head and gazes out toward the bay where fog is swallowing up the lights on the bridge. “You should sit down. This is going to take a while.”
I lower myself to the concrete barrier running along the edge of the garage. He does the same, leaving about three feet between us. I have the urge to pull him close. But his body language begs me not to.
“So talk.”
“Okay.” He runs a hand through his hair, and I can see it’s shaking slightly. “The gambling debts I told you about? They’re real. The part about my father needing expensive care? That’s real too.”
“Okay.”
“I want you to know that before I start.” He lets out a shuddering breath, his shoulders hunched. “But the people I owe money to aren’t just loan sharks or bookies. They’re part of a syndicate that fixes hockey games. Professional games. NHL and semi-pro games.”
The breath leaves my body. “What?” I rasp.
“They approached me three years ago, back when I was playing in Detroit. My team was struggling, I was struggling, and I had piles of medical bills I couldn’t pay.
” His voice is flat. “A guy named Mikhail Volkov found me at a bar after a really crushing loss. Bought me drinks, listened to my problems.” He sighs. “Then he offered to help.”
“Help how?”
“Fifty thousand dollars to let in a few goals at specific times. Make it look natural, make it look like bad luck or poor positioning. Nothing too obvious.”
The exact amount Petrov offered me.
“And you took it.”
“I took it.” He still won’t look at me and I just want to reach out and grab his chin so he has no choice.
But instead, I keep listening. “And then they had me. Photos, recordings, bank records showing the payments I’d received.
One job turned into two, then five, then a dozen.
By the time I realized what I’d gotten into, it was too late to get out. ”
“So you kept doing it.”
“I kept doing it. Until I tried to walk away.” His voice hardens, jaw tight. “Told them I was done, that I’d rather take my chances with exposure than keep throwing games. So they had someone take out my knee during practice. Made it look like an accident.”
“They ended your career.” My mouth dries up like I just swallowed a bucket of sand.
“Yes. They made sure I could never play professionally again.” He finally turns to look at me. “You want to know why I really became a coach? Because it was the only way to stay in hockey after they destroyed my playing career as punishment for not playing by their rules.”
The fog’s getting thicker, snaking around my throat and squeezing hard, like an invisible hand.
Petrov’s hand.
“What does this have to do with me?”
“Everything.” His voice drops. “The people who contacted you, probably Viktor Petrov, they’re part of the same group who owned me in Detroit. And they didn’t find you randomly.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean they’ve been watching you for months.
Studying your game, your finances, your family, your weaknesses.
Learning everything they could about Tate Barnes so they could craft the perfect approach to suck you into their trap.
” He pauses. “That’s how they work. They research targets thoroughly before making contact. ”
My heart stills. “How do you know that?”
“Because someone’s been feeding them information.”
“Who?”
The silence hangs, and I can see him struggling.
“Zane, who’s been feeding them information?” I slap my hand against the barrier. “Answer me, dammit.”
And then he finally does. But part of me wishes he didn’t.
“Me.”
“Why?” The word comes out strangled. “Why would you do that?”
“Because if I didn’t, my father would lose his medical care and I’d go to prison.” He stands up and starts pacing in front of me. “But not for the reasons you think.”
“Then explain it to me. Because right now it sounds like you’ve been setting me up to get destroyed by the same people who destroyed you.”
“I have been setting you up. But not for them.”
“Then for who?”
He stops pacing, looks directly at me. “The FBI.”
The fog hovers closer, clouding my brain and fucking up my ability to process what I’m hearing.
“The FBI.”
“This guy named Agent Morrison approached me eight months ago. Said they’d been tracking syndicate activity, knew about my involvement in Detroit, and wanted my cooperation in a sting operation.”
“What kind of cooperation?”
“The kind where I help them identify potential targets and gather evidence for arrests.” His voice drips with bitterness. “The kind where I wear a wire and record conversations and help them build cases against people who fix games.”
“And I’m one of those people?”
“You’re a primary target.”
Primary target. Like I’m some kind of criminal they’ve been hunting.
“I don’t understand.”
“The FBI knew the syndicate was planning to approach you. They planted seeds based on information I gave them. And now they want to use you as bait to catch the syndicate in the act.” He sits back down, but further away this time, and good fucking thing because I want to crack my fist against his jaw right now.
“They want to let you get recruited, let you start working for them, and then swoop in with arrests when they have enough evidence.”
“And you agreed to this?”
“I agreed to this because the alternative was going to prison for conspiracy and letting my father die in some state facility where nobody gives a shit if he remembers his own name.”
My hands are shaking. I clench them into fists, try to make sense of what he’s telling me. Sweat beads on the back of my neck.
“So when you took the coaching job... ”
“I took the coaching job because Morrison arranged it. Because they needed someone close to you who could monitor your activities and ideally, to build trust so you’d tell me if you were approached.”
“And when we started sleeping together... ”
“When we started sleeping together, I should’ve reported it to Morrison as a complicating factor in the operation.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because somewhere between Vegas and now, I stopped being able to think of you as a target and started thinking of you as... ” His voice trails off, shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. What matters is that I’ve been lying to you since the day we met.”
I stand up on wobbly legs. I need to move, need to do something with the rage and hurt that’s rising in my chest. “So everything, the coaching, the relationship, all of it, it’s been bullshit?”
“The coaching is real. You’re a great goalie, Tate. You always were.”
“But the rest of it?”
“The rest of it got fucked up.”
“Fucked up how?” I seethe.
“Fucked up because I fell in love with you.”
The words stop me cold. In the middle of all this betrayal and deception, he throws out love like it means something.
“You fell in love with me.”
“Yeah.”
“While you were setting me up to be bait in a federal investigation.”
“Yeah.”
“While you were helping the FBI destroy my life.”
“While I was trying to figure out how to protect you from people who would definitely destroy your life.” His voice cracks slightly, his eyes filled with regret.
“The syndicate doesn’t just let people walk away, Tate.
Once they have you, you’re theirs until they’re done with you.
And when they’re done, they make sure you can’t testify against them. ”
“So your solution was to let the FBI use me instead?”
“My solution was to cooperate with the FBI so they could arrest the syndicate before they could hurt you.”
“Yeah, by letting them hurt me first, you asshole!”
“No, by letting them think they were going to hurt you while making sure they never got the chance.” He takes a step toward me. “The plan was to let you get recruited and let you think you were working for them, while actually gathering evidence to bring them down.”
“And what would happen to me if they got arrested? If I was identified as a cooperating witness in a federal case against people who kill cooperating witnesses?”
“Morrison said they’d protect you.”
“Morrison said.” I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “And you believed that shit?”
“I believed him because I had to believe him. Because the alternative was letting you walk into their trap with no protection at all.”
“So instead you walked me into the FBI’s trap.”
“Yes.”
Yes. No justification, no explanation that makes it better. Just yes.
“How long have they been watching me?”
“Months. Since before I took the coaching job.”
“And when were you planning to tell me?”
“I wasn’t.”
“You were just going to let me get recruited, let me start fixing games, let me become a criminal, and then act surprised when the FBI showed up to haul my ass off to prison?”
“I was going to try to find another way.”
“What other way?”