Hitmen Triumph by Sigmund Brouwer

scream from Nate’s direction.
    Something thumped me. A boot. The biker that I’d knocked to the ground was up again and had just kicked me. I braced myself for another kick.
    Instead I heard a second scream. From the biker.
    What was happening?
    I found out a second later as someone knelt in front of me. Two hands grabbed my shoulder and lifted me. In the moonlight, I saw silver glinting from what looked like a giant necklace.
    â€œNate?” I managed to say. It wasn’t a necklace. It was the choke chain.
    â€œâ€˜You point at the sky and tell people it’s blue’?” he said. “Of course it’s me.”
    I was shaking. He pulled me close and hugged me.
    â€œI don’t get it,” I said. My voice was croaky, but I was starting to get some control of my muscles. “I thought he got you with the prod too.”
    â€œNope,” Nate said. “Look.”
    He turned the flashlight beam toward the bikers. Both were on the ground, curled up like worms.
    â€œThis flashlight stun gun is wicked,” he said. “You knocked it from his hand when you charged him. I fell and grabbed it. When the guy yanked me in again, I gave him a good shot. Then a shot to the guy kicking you.”
    Both bikers were starting to get to their knees.
    â€œHang on,” Nate said. “Hate to say it, but I’m going to enjoy this.”
    He took a couple of steps. Jabbed one with the stun gun and then the other.
    Both screamed and toppled again. Nateslipped the choke chain off his neck and dropped it over Tattoo Biker’s neck.
    â€œHate to say it,” I said, “but I enjoyed that too.”
    Nate tilted his head instead of answering me. He had heard it first.
    Then I heard it, filtered through the fm in his backpack. And from my processor. The
thump-thump
sound of a helicopter.
    Seconds later a floodlight hit us. I knew what it was. I guess I had just as much to explain to Nate as he did to me. I was very glad we were going to have time to do the explaining.
    â€œFriends in high places!” I yelled at Nate. Mercedes had gotten through to someone. “Police chopper.”

chapter twenty-seven
    We were down three goals, halfway into the third period against Vancouver, when Coach Jon finally gave Nate and me some ice time by sending us out for a face-off on the left side of the ice in our end.
    Although I felt like a spring colt that had been trapped in a stall for two days, I managed not to kick up my heels and gallop as I jumped out of the players’ box. I took my spot just in front of Rooster and in front of our goalie.
    I felt good for a few reasons. The first was that Nate and I were talking again. He had told me that the cash he had at the charity golf tournament was money that he was going to donate. Just like he was going to donate the winnings of his little golf trick, after explaining it to the people who’d made wagers. His new clothes were so he would look like someone who wanted money enough to get involved with bikers. He’d been trying to protect me by keeping everything a secret. He’d even called the bikers and asked them to scare me, to make it look like I wasn’t part of it. Of course, he thought they were only going to threaten me, not put me on train tracks.
    The second reason I felt good was because Mercedes had agreed to go out with me again, on a real date. I would get to see more of that smile. Lots more.
    I also felt good because of this—the chance to play.
    When the puck dropped, it was my job to head toward the point, in case Nate lost the draw.
    He didn’t.
    But he didn’t win either.
    He and the Vancouver center fought for the puck between their skates. I stepped in and jabbed it loose. Somehow I knew that Nate would squirt free and chase it. So I spun off for some open ice.
    Before the puck reached my stick, I knew it was coming, even with my back to it. Don’t ask how. I just knew that Nate knew where I