Page 51 of Don't Cross the Blue Line
I turn toward the door and pause. “One more thing,” I say. “When we find Cole—if we find Cole—he might not come willingly. He locked you in a closet. It doesn’t seem like he’s really thinking clearly right now.” I look at him. “So maybe don’t punch him for the whole closet thing.”
“I make no promise.”
“Beckett.”
“Fine. I won’t punch him.” A beat. “Hard.”
“That’s the spirit.”
I unlock the door. Crack it open. It’s dark. Silent. The footsteps have moved deeper into the building, toward the rink, toward Cole. We tried it on our first sweep and found it locked. Different outcome this time—the deadbolt gives.
We slip out into the dark.
Here goes nothing.
BECKETT
A smart man would hide. Wait for morning. Let Cole face what Cole earned. The math is simple: stay safe, walk out, keep your head down, renew your contract. Cole Thompson framed me, locked me in a closet, and has been lying to the team for months. Letting three hired thugs collect what he owes them is not my problem. It’s barely my business.
Except…I’ve never been the kind of guy to let the puck go by. Or not score when I have the chance. Okay, that sounded wrong—you know what I mean. There’s a reason I’m a high scorer—oh, there we go again.
Never mind.
The service tunnel has that distinctive concrete smell. Pipes run overhead—fat, sweating, insulated with material that probably predates several safety regulations. Our flashlight beams cut jittering cones through the dark, bouncing off walls that narrow until the ceiling is close enough to make me hunch.
“This is on the map?” I ask.
“Service Tunnel B. It connects the food court to the rink-side mechanical systems.” She’s navigating by Moleskine, checking her floor plan at every turn. “It should open into the Zamboni bay maintenance area.”
“Should?”
“I didn’t walk the full tunnel this afternoon. It was dark and I heard a rat.”
“You heard a rat and turned around?”
“A large rat—listen, I don’t see your map. Maybe a little less judgment, Benson.”
I let out a chuckle. “Fair point.”
The tunnel angles downward, below the main concourse level. If it was cold in the furniture store, this is subzero. The deep, settled chill of concrete that hasn’t been warm since it saw daylight.
“Left at the junction,” Everly whispers. We’ve both dropped to whispers without discussing it—the tunnel amplifies everything. I can hear our breathing bouncing back from twenty feet ahead.
We turn left into a mechanical room—boilers, electrical panels, skeletal HVAC remains. Possible actual skeletons. On the far wall: a steel door. The sign gleams in my flashlight: Rink Operations—Authorized Personnel Only.
I turn the handle. The door swings open, hinges screaming.
We freeze. Count to twenty. No footsteps.
“Quietly,” I breathe.
“Oh yeah, I’ll make sure to whip out the WD-40 for the next door.”
Everly shoots me a snide look, her nose crinkling, pushing her glasses up.
We turn back to the door. Now this is a corridor I recognize. The Zamboni bay to our left. To the right, the hallway branches toward the old rink offices—Coach Hart’s old office, storage rooms, and an administrative suite that’s been abandoned since the Blue Ox moved base. The Staff Only door connects to the main concourse at the far end.
Coach Hart’s old office is the third door on the left, the nameplate still on the wall—Coach D. Hart. Behind me, Everly’s breath catches.
