Page 80 of Don't Cross the Blue Line
“Everly!”
Nothing.
Then I smell it. Smoke. Not a lot, but unmistakable—the acrid, chemical smell of accelerant-fed flame. The smell of the contingency plan they were always going to execute. Torch it.
One of them must have started it before the chase began.
The smoke is coming from the west end. From the direction of the rink office?—
I know where she is.
The leader shouts something after me, but I’m running before my brain can process what he said. Down the corridor, the haze thickens—thin, then aggressive, building in layers, each warmer and more acrid. The emergency lighting turns it gold.
I stop in the hallway leading to the offices.
Her hockey stick is on the floor. Propped against the wall—not dropped, not thrown. Placed.
She wouldn’t leave her weapon. Unless she didn’t have a choice.
From deeper in the building—past the smoke, toward the west corridors—footsteps. Not hers. Heavier. Multiple. Receding. Moving away from the fire.
Not the contained thugs. Different footsteps. New.
And the leader’s words—through the cursing, through the bear spray, the five words he shouted as I was walking away: You think it’s just us?
There are more than three of them.
I fill my lungs. Smoke and cold air and the chemical taste of a building on fire.
“Everly!”
Fourteen
Everly
Please let the plan have worked.
Please let Cole and Beckett get away safely!
As for me—well, I’m betting my life, literally, on the outdated sprinklers in the arena offices.
Yeah, it’s getting hot in here.
Listen, it was all going to plan just fine. Cole’s message crackled through my walkie, giving the all clear. Phase one done, phase two just beginning. If all went according to plan, the head honcho should’ve taken off my way, all ready for Beckett’s bear spray and zip ties set in place, his ladder around the corner, six feet away.
I was feeling good, triumphant even, as I finished fastening my trip wire, pulling it taut across the hall, when I smelled it.
Smoke.
A harsh, chemical scent.
Ah. It’s coming from the arena.
My heart lurched in my chest. The evidence—this was the point, the whole reason I went that direction. Everything that could prove Beckett’s innocence—the gambling ring’s communication logs, Cole’s texts to the organization, financial transfers timed to match the games Cole flagged. Put together, they show Beckett’s name was planted in those records after the fact. Prove that Cole was coerced and put these guys away.
If the evidence burns, they’re just three guys zip-tied in a building. No proof. Cole’s testimony becomes one disgraced player’s word against a criminal organization. Beckett’s name stays dirty. Everything we’ve survived here means nothing.
At least, those were my thoughts—along with I can’t let that happen—as I got up and peered back toward the service corridor, my heart in my throat. I knew I should have waited for Beckett…but my brain said that every moment I waited was wasted seconds.
