Skating on Thin Ice: The Men of WarHawks- Book 1

by Biggar, Jacquie

  “That idiot’s gone off the deep end. There’s no talking to him,” Coach said, his expression disgusted more than frightened. “I knew coming up here was a mistake.”

  Doc frowned at his old friend. “It’s time to come clean, Dan. I know what you’ve done.”

  Sam felt like Alice falling down the rabbit hole, Mac’s hold on her arm the only anchor in a topsy-turvy world. None of this made any sense. Her beloved family had become strangers. Frustrated, she fisted her hair in both hands and took a deep breath. She released her grip and let her hands fall. “What is going on?”

  “Sam, calm down. It’s going to be okay.” Mac tugged her back, against his chest, and wrapped comforting arms around her waist. “Trust me,” he whispered.

  More than anything, she wanted to lean into his strength and soak it up as her own, but she forced herself to stand straight. This was her problem, not his. Thomas and Dan had continued their bickering and when she picked up on the conversation it was to hear the coach admitting to complicity in the fire from last week.

  “Those idiots. They were supposed to disarm the truck so he—” Dan pointed at Mac, “—stayed put.” His gaze sharpened on Doc. “It’s you. You’re the one behind this, aren’t you?” He shook his head and laughed. “I’m such a fool. Here I thought I was in the mob’s pocket for gambling, but it was you the whole time.”

  Mac’s arms had gradually tightened until her ribs hurt from the pressure. “Are you telling me you hired those goons that shot at us?”

  She gasped, suddenly grateful for his hold as her legs turned weak. “Uncle?” Her vision wavered. She could have died. Mac had been hurt and her own family was behind it. She slumped. Through a fog she could hear Mac calling her name, and then his hand pushing her head between her knees.

  “Breathe, honey. Just breathe.” He brushed her hair away from her face with a gentle hand. “Get her some water.”

  Sam stared at her shoes, absently noting the scuff on the toe. She’d have to polish them when she got home. They’d been a foolish luxury last Christmas, a treat after passing her courses and getting her degree. The degree she’d received thanks to her uncle.

  Oh, my God.

  She stiffened and lifted her head to stare at the man who’d paid for her education, her brother’s schooling, and her mother’s house. “It’s my fault,” she whispered and saw the truth in his blue eyes, so like her own. “You did this for us.”

  21

  Mac accepted the water glass from Coach Harris. Animosity aside, they needed to become allies if there was any hope of putting an end to this nightmare. He slid a sideways glance at Sam’s uncle, then met Coach’s gaze. A slight dip of the head and the play was in motion for the most important game of their careers—protecting Sam.

  “You should have told us,” Sam said, her voice regaining its strength. “We could have worked it out. Where did the money come from, Uncle Thomas?”

  Mac was relieved to see the color returning to her translucent skin. He couldn’t imagine what she was going through. His gut roiled at the betrayal and he wasn’t related to the old codgers. If he could just get that gun away from Doc… Coach had moved to the other side of the room, clearly waiting for his chance to end this thing, as well.

  “Here, drink this.” Mac handed the water to Sam. His brows lowered at the chill in her fingers. He nodded toward the fireplace. “Mind if I start a fire? She’s frozen.”

  Doc hesitated then waved the firearm at the hearth. “No funny stuff, Hammer. I know your tricks.” He turned to Sam. “I suppose I owe you an explanation.” He took a seat on the window bench and rubbed his neck, the hand holding the gun at rest on his thigh. “You have to understand; your mom and I had a… less than optimal childhood. I don’t know if she ever spoke of our father to you kids, but let’s just say, he had a temper.”

  Mac gathered some kindling, grimacing at the stiffness in his injured arm, and got the fire started while keeping an eye on Sam. How was she going to handle her uncle airing the family skeletons? “Is this necessary?” he asked. What benefit could there be in telling her about dark family secrets?

  Thomas’s hairy gray beetle brows met over his prominent nose. “Is this too hard for you, dear?”

  How could he talk so sweet while holding a gun on them? Mac used the poker to shift the embers around and added a couple of good-sized logs over the spray of sparks. The heat singed his skin and he yanked his hand back, narrowly missing the handle to the damper. The flue. He could use that.

  “It’s okay, Mac. I want to hear this.” Sam took a small sip of water and set the glass on the coffee table. “My grandfather died before we were born. I thought Mom missed him, she never talked about him.”

  Thomas stared at the floor, lost in thought. “Your mom was the best big sister anyone could wish for. She often protected me when Father came home smelling of liquor. Sometimes…,” he rubbed his forehead, “sometimes she took the punishments in my place.” His eyes were moist when he lifted his head. “I would do anything for your mother, you have to know that.”

  Coach snorted. “This sob story is great, but it doesn’t explain how you could swindle your best friend—me.”

  Mac’s throat ached. These admissions were ripping Sam’s heart to shreds. They hadn’t known each other long, but the fact that family was important to her radiated from her pores. His parents had been too busy conquering the world to have time for a small boy. They’d foisted him off on friends and cousins for most of his childhood. The first real home he’d known came with his marriage to Jess. The pang her name conjured was more bittersweet than gut-wrenching this time, as though she supported his burgeoning feelings for Sam. He’d like to believe that, anyway.

  “I didn’t swindle you, as you put it.” Doc’s spine went rigid. “Your gambling issues are your own, I just provided the means, that’s all.”

  “How, Uncle Thomas? How did you help any of us?” Sam leaned forward in her seat, her gaze intense. “I should have realized something was wrong. A doctor doesn’t make the kind of money you gave to us. What did you do?” She wrung her hands together.

  “What I had to do,” Doc said, his gaze pleading with her to understand. “I met some business men. They offered me a deal and I accepted. It was only supposed to be temporary, just while the twenty-seventeen playoffs were on, but when they asked me to do things I didn’t agree with, accidents began to happen.” His gaze slid to Mac and away again. “I had no choice. And after that, they had me over a barrel. It’s gone on since then; gambling, money laundering, drugs, whatever they demanded of me I was forced to do, or they threatened to hurt my family.” He hung his head. “I had no choice.”

  Three years ago. Accidents. A sick feeling twisted Mac’s stomach in knots. Could it be? He rose and started across the room, heedless of the loaded gun. “You caused Jess’s death?” His hands fisted. “You dirty son-of-a…”

  “Mac,” Sam cried, just as Doc lifted the pistol.

  “That’s far enough,” he ordered. “If you force me to shoot again, I won’t miss this time.”

  “You’re going to pay, old man. If it’s the last thing I do, my wife and daughter will get justice.” Mac ached to wring Doc’s neck, but Sam needed him. He had to think with his head and not his heart. He returned to his stance in front of the fireplace, and on the pretense of stirring the flames, closed the damper.

  * * *

  Dan watched the circus that was going on and thanked the Lord he had no family of his own. They were too much trouble. The only person he was accountable to was himself—and he liked it that way. At first, he’d been furious with Thomas for pulling the wool over his eyes but had to admire a man with the cojones to do what he had for those he loved. Too bad it was going to end up costing him his life. If it came down to a choice between Dan’s neck and his old buddy’s… well, there really was no choice.

  Wanowski, the hot-headed idiot, stomped over to the fireplace and stirred up the embers. Sparks exploded in flashes of re
d and orange and as the flames hissed, he nonchalantly pressed the handle on the damper, thereby closing the flue. Okay, not so dumb. In five or ten minutes this room would fill with noxious gas and they’d all be choking like a bunch of potheads from the fumes. That would be his chance to get the hell out of here—let those two fight it out and he’d be there to pick up the pieces.

  “Uncle Thomas, if you would just go to the police, they could help you.” Sam gazed at Mac’s tensed back, the love in her eyes apparent to everyone else in the room, before refocusing on her uncle. “I refuse to believe you deliberately set out to… to injure Mac’s family. Tell the police what happened, and it’ll all work out, you’ll see.”

  Mac swore and swung around, his gaze furious. “You want me to let you brush this under the carpet as though it were a minor infraction? No. Have you ever seen the wreck of a vehicle from a side collision?” He punched one closed fist into his open hand, and they all flinched. “There was nothing left of the driver’s side from the force of the impact. They had to use the jaws of life to pry her from that mangled mess. She was dead before they got her to the hospital—before I could say goodbye.” He wiped his eyes with his bare forearm and stared Sam down. “No. Not even for you. He has to pay.” He coughed and moved away from the fireplace, closer to Sam. “I’m sorry. Really, I am.”

  Dan’s eyes began to burn. He knew it was the fumes but had to admit Wanowski’s story got to him. No wonder the guy was touchy. He’d heard of the accident, of course—the team had attended the funeral, but the details were kept hush-hush to avoid a media frenzy. At the time he’d just signed on as head coach to the WarHawks and had his hands full learning the ropes. He’d made the mistake of using a bookie to bet on a few games and soon became well and truly bitten by the gambling bug. The same insect who’d destroyed Doc’s life—and by association, Wanowski’s—apparently. For a moment, he toyed with the idea of joining forces with Thomas, going to the cops, and bringing the mob kingpin down—whoever he was. But then reality set in. Turn on the mob and you better have eyes in the back of your head, otherwise they’d be fitting you out with a pair of cement shoes. No, it was time for him and his old friend to part ways, though he was sorry Sam was caught in the middle. Maybe, he’d send her some dough after his next win—anonymously, of course.

  The room grew hazy, just a hint at first, but then more obvious as the smoke built up in the hearth and seeped into the den. Sam felt the effects first, bowing over and coughing until she could barely draw breath. Mac and Dan joined in—Dan’s lungs on fire. Doc, being furthest away, was the last to succumb, but he was also the oldest and not as fit as the rest. His face turned red as he strove to breathe past the harsh coughs ripping at his lungs. He set the gun down and wrapped his arms around his chest, bending over to gasp like a fish out of water.

  Dan rose and stumbled toward the door, partly to gain fresh air, but mostly to bolt while he could. By now the smoke was so thick, he doubted anyone even saw him escape into the hall, but just to be sure he closed the door and braced a chair under the knob. There, that should keep them busy for a while. Now, to get out of this hellhole.

  He hurried down the hall and gave a sigh of relief as he stepped outside. One that was short-lived.

  “Dan Harris, RCMP. Put your hands in the air. You are under arrest.” Four officers, their dark hats ringed with yellow bands, stepped out of the twilight and converged on the house, weapons drawn.

  “You can’t arrest me,” Dan sputtered. “On what charge?” He was all bravado on the outside. Inside, his heart had fallen to his shoes.

  A young officer, barely out of high school by the look of him, took his hands and yanked them behind his back while reading him his rights. The cold steel of handcuffs bit his wrists and his mouth dried. “I want a lawyer.”

  “You will have the opportunity to call a lawyer or have one appointed for you. Do you understand, Mr. Harris?” Another officer stared him in the eye. “This isn’t a game, sir. You are in serious trouble, as is your associate, Mr. Thomas Edwards. Where is Mr. Edwards?”

  Faking a bluster he didn’t feel, Dan snarled, “I don’t know. Do you know who you’re talking to? I’m head coach of the NHL’s Victoria WarHawks. I’m here with the team’s medic to check on our captain, Mac Wanowski. What could possibly be wrong with that?”

  The cop didn’t even blink. “We asked you a question, sir. Make things easy on yourself. Tell us what we need to know.”

  “Suit yourself, he’s in there.” Dan jerked his chin over his shoulder.

  The cop doing the grilling nodded to the silent two and they disappeared around the side of the house. He lifted his gun even with his shoulder, muzzle pointed at the sky and waited while the young cop shuffled Dan down the stairs toward the waiting patrol cars.

  Dan glanced back in time to see the officer breach the front door. His stomach churned. “You never said, what are you arresting me for?”

  A hand pressed down on his head, guiding him into the back of the car. “Organized crime. You’re being charged with racketeering, sir.”

  22

  Sam’s chest heaved with the effort to draw a clean breath as a deadly haze filled the den. Dear Lord, was the house on fire now? She peered through streaming eyes, heart beating against her ribs like a trapped animal as grunts erupted from across the room. She gasped. Mac and her uncle were fighting for control of the gun. While Mac was undoubtedly younger and stronger, Uncle Thomas was agile and had a firm grip on the weapon as it dipped between their bodies. Someone was going to get killed.

  “Uncle Dan, help,” she cried, choking on the fumes. She glanced around desperately, but the coach was gone. Not knowing what else to do, Sam hefted the heavy iron poker over her shoulder and lurched across the room. “Stop it. Uncle Thomas, please,” she sobbed. If he pressed the trigger… She couldn’t bear to think of it.

  The two men twirled in a deadly dance. She panicked, bringing the makeshift club down on her uncle’s back as he bent over, battling to keep possession of the revolver. He roared and let go, his body bowing backward in a rictus of pain. He sank to his knees, groaning and coughing in equal measure. Mac backed away, the gun aimed at Doc’s head, his face a forbidding mask. Sam dropped to her uncle’s side and wrapped her arms carefully around his neck as she gazed miserably at Mac. “He’s hurt, can’t you see that? Leave him alone.”

  Mac brushed a forearm over his eyes and coughed. “We need to get out of here. Can I trust you to watch him for a minute?”

  Hadn’t she just proven he could trust her? She’d chosen to land a blow on her own flesh and blood rather than the man she… cared about. Though, after today’s revelations, it was a wonder he wasn’t pointing that weapon at both of them. He must hate her family.

  “Of course,” she said quietly, then remembered the coach. “Be careful. I don’t know where Uncle Dan is.” There was no way she could make up for his wife’s death, but it didn’t stop her from hoping he could forgive her one day.

  He hesitated, then held out a hand to help her up. Thomas remained hunched against the wall, his eyes red and streaming. “I want you over here, where he can’t reach you.” Mac attempted to hand her the gun and when she flinched away, he forced it into her hand. “Take it. Have you used a gun before?”

  Sam’s stomach swirled sickeningly. “Ye… yes, a long time ago.” Her father had taken the family to the gun range for the day, but she hadn’t enjoyed herself then and she sure as heck wasn’t now.

  “Just keep him still, until I get that damper open. Good of the coach to stick around and help,” he added sarcastically, bending to pick up the discarded poker. “Nice work, by the way.”

  Nice. What could be nice about attacking your own uncle with a steel bar? “Just hurry,” she muttered. The gun felt like it weighed fifty pounds, her arms shook with the strain of holding it pointed in her uncle’s direction.

  Mac nodded, cleared his throat, and strode through the smoke, parting it like a curtain. Sam kept a worried
gaze on her uncle. Her lungs hurt from the gases floating around the room, but he was pale and sweating. His left arm hung limply by his side. She had no reason to have empathy after the things he’d done, but…

  “Uncle, are you all right?” she asked.

  He lifted his head and she was shocked by how frail he appeared. “I messed up good, didn’t I?” He attempted a smile, but his lips didn’t cooperate. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

  He was slurring. Sam’s medical training kicked in. She raced to his side, set the gun on the bench, and searched his face. Blurry eyes, sagging mouth, loss of balance—her uncle was having a stroke.

  “Mac, Mac help,” she yelled. “Hang on, Uncle, don’t worry, okay?” She was worried enough for both of them.

  “What?” Mac asked, appearing by her side. At least the smoke seemed a bit lighter—a small blessing.

  Just having him nearby gave Sam a needed boost of confidence. “Quick, we need aspirin. My uncle is having a stroke.”

  Mac frowned and glanced from her to his enemy, but her desperation must have got through to him. He turned toward the bar. “I think I saw a bottle on the shelf, hang on.”

  Sam squeezed her uncle’s hand, concerned about the clamminess. “Do you have your cell phone?” she called over her shoulder.

  “I tried while looking for the pills,” he answered, handing her two from the bottle in his hand. “Still no signal.” He waited until she managed to get the pills between Uncle Thomas’s lips with a small drink of water. “I’m going to find the coach. Maybe his cell reception is better.”

  Her first reaction was, ‘No, don’t leave’ but it was the right decision. “Okay, sure, but hurry. Thank you, Mac.”