25. Griffin
GRIFFIN
N othing beats the sound of twenty thousand Swiss fans screaming your name. Well, that’s not exactly true. I’d much prefer the sound of one Swiss fan in particular…
Nope. Gotta keep my mind clear.
My muscles burn from two periods of relentless play, but I’ve settled into that perfect zone where everything slows down, where I can track the puck like it’s moving through Canadian maple syrup.
The puck launches toward me. I stretch, my glove hand extending impossibly far, and snag it mid-air. The crowd erupts.
“McGregor! McGregor!” they chant as I toss the puck to the referee.
I tap my stick twice on the ice. A signal to my defensemen. Christoph receives the pass from the ref and rockets it to Peter, who finds Tyler streaking up the boards. The fans rise to their feet as Tyler crosses the blue line with fifteen seconds left.
“Go, go, go!” I yell, though no one can hear me over the deafening roar.
Tyler passes to Peter, who fakes a shot before sliding the puck to Christoph. The seconds tick down. Ten…nine…
Christoph winds up from the point, but instead of shooting, he passes to Peter, who’s snuck behind the defense. Peter redirects the puck into the net as the buzzer sounds.
The arena explodes. My teammates pile onto Peter while I skate the length of the ice to join the celebration. Peter headlocks me while Tyler sprays me with water.
“Did you see Campbell’s face when you robbed him?” Tyler laughs. “Thought he had you beat glove-side!”
I grin through my mask. “Old Calgary boys never reveal their secrets.”
The crowd continues to roar as we line up for handshakes. When I reach Dex in the line, he gives me an extra-hard slap on the pads.
“Highway robbery,” he mutters good-naturedly. “Dinner’s on you next time.”
I wink. “Worth every franc.”
After media scrums and cool-down stretches, I shower and change into street clothes.
My phone buzzes with texts. Three from my agent about endorsement offers in Switzerland, one from Sawyer congratulating me on the shutout, and nothing from Anika.
I hadn’t expected her to use the ticket I’d left for her, but I’d still like to know she’s safe back at my cabin.
As soon as I turn the heat on in my car, I’ll call her.
I push through the stadium exit doors, into the cool night air. The parking lot stands nearly empty now, save for a sleek black sedan idling near my car.
My steps falter.
Agents Bruderlin and Showalter stand beside my car (not the Bugatti, which I need to put in the shop) with grim expressions. My stomach drops. Something went wrong. Elodie? The money? Malcolm Chase? Anika? Or did they hear about the high-speed chase through Bern last night?
“Mr. McGregor,” Bruderlin says with a nod. “Nice game.”
“Thanks.” I shift my bag to my other shoulder. “Is everything okay?”
“We need to talk,” Showalter replies gravely.
So he did hear about the high-speed chase.
“Listen, I know I broke a few traffic laws, but…”
A third figure emerges from the shadows behind them. My blood runs cold.
“Durand?” I blurt. “What is he doing here?”
Bruderlin clears his throat. “This is Agent Wilde, Mr. McGregor. He’s with?—”
“MI6,” Wilde finishes. “Sorry for the theatrics at the casino. Professional hazard.”
My brain scrambles to process this. “MI6? As in, James Bond MI6?”
“We’re considerably less flashy in real life,” Wilde says dryly.
“So, your name isn’t Durand?”
“No.”
Bruderlin clears his throat. “There’s been a complication.”
My stomach drops as my thoughts fly to Anika. “What kind of complication?”
“Perhaps we should discuss this somewhere private,” Durand…I mean… Wilde suggests.
I cross my arms. “Here is fine.”
Showalter sighs. “The woman you knew as Elodie? She’s gone. And so is the one hundred four million from the poker game.”
The world tilts slightly. “What do you mean, gone?”
“We mean,” Wilde says, “she never deposited the money into the FIS accounts. She transferred it elsewhere and disappeared.”
“She’s gone,” Bruderlin interjects. “Vanished.”
“But she’s FIS,” I protest. “She works for you!”
The three agents exchange loaded glances.
“She doesn’t work for us,” Bruderlin says slowly. “We believed she was FIS, but…”
“She played us all,” Showalter interrupts.
Wilde steps closer. “‘The woman you know as Elodie is actually Renata Nero. Known in certain circles as simply Nero. A high-level operative within the OMbrA crime syndicate.”
My equipment bag slips from my shoulder and thuds to the ground. “OMbrA? Like some evil SPECTRE organization?”
“Precisely.” Wilde nods. “We’ve been tracking Nero’s movements across Europe for years but never had an identity on them or even knew if they were a man or a woman. Until now. I suspected her OMbrA involvement at Malcolm Chase’s gala, but the tattoo on her wrist tipped me off on her true identity.”
Showalter pulls out his phone, showing me a surveillance photo of Elodie leaving the casino, already sporting a blonde wig.
“Wait,” I say, a horrible thought forming. “If she’s not FIS, was she ever protecting me from assassins?”
Wilde’s eyebrow rises. “Assassins?”
“On the train to St. Moritz. A man attacked me with knives and those metal punch things.”
“Brass knuckles?” Showalter supplies.
“Right, those. Elodie…Nero…whatever her name is, she saved me. She fought him off.”
The three agents exchange significant looks.
“What?” I demand.
“It seems likely,” Wilde says carefully, “that was staged to gain your trust.”
My mind reels. “She threw a man off a moving train to gain my trust?”
“Probably an OMbrA associate who jumped safely into water,” Wilde explains. “It’s a common tactic.”
“She stole one hundred four million dollars,” I whisper.
“Euros,” Wilde corrects. “And yes.”
I feel like I’m going to throw up. “So what happens now? Chase gets away with his Ponzi scheme?”
“MI6 has no interest in Chase or the one hundred four million,” Wilde says simply. “That’s FIS territory. My mandate is dismantling OMbrA. But since Nero has absconded with Swiss intelligence funds, we’re joining forces.”
“We’ll need your continued cooperation,” Showalter says.
I laugh bitterly. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“She’ll contact you again,” Wilde says with certainty. “When she does, we need you to play along.”
“What about Anika?” I ask suddenly. “Is she in danger?”
Something flickers across Wilde’s face.
I narrow my eyes. “What aren’t you telling me?”
Showalter shifts uncomfortably, not meeting my eyes. “About Miss Gisler…”
The world narrows to a pinpoint. Blood roars in my ears.
“What about Anika?” My voice sounds strange, distant.
“She’s gone missing,” Wilde says, his words hitting me like a cold knife to the chest. “She never opened the pub this afternoon, yet the doors were wide open and there were signs of a struggle. We believe OMbrA has taken her.”