Chapter 5 Blood on the Ice

The vintage Jeep rattled as Jaxson tore down the winding, mud-slicked back trails of Blackwood, the headlights slicing through the dense, bowing pines.

 I sat in the passenger seat, drowning in his heavy black hoodie, my fingers tightly gripping the sleek metallic edge of the real flash drive hidden in my pocket.

"We’re going straight to the arena," Jaxson dark-growled over the roar of the engine, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. "Miller has a mandatory midnight skate before the big game tomorrow. The coach locks them in so they don't party. He’ll be there."

"And if he’s not alone?" I asked, my voice tight as I looked at the dark dashboard. "If the Vice Principal or the rest of the council is waiting?"

Jaxson cornered a sharp turn, his gray eyes flashing with a dangerous, lethal light. "Then they get to see exactly how I play when I’m pissed off."

Twenty minutes later, the massive, shadowed silhouette of the Briarcliff Prep Ice Arena loomed ahead. The parking lot was empty save for Miller’s tricked-out silver sports car. Jaxson killed the Jeep’s lights, gliding to a halt near the loading dock.

We slipped through the heavy side doors using Jaxson’s captain keycard. The interior of the arena was freezing, the air smelling of ozone, synthetic ice wax, and stale sweat. The only illumination came from the brilliant, stark white lights shining directly over the center ice rink, leaving the thousands of spectator seats completely draped in darkness.

Scritch. Scritch. Scritch.

The sharp, rhythmic sound of ice skates slicing through the rink echoed through the cavernous, empty building.

Jaxson didn't hesitate. He strode down the concrete tunnel, his boots echoing loudly. I followed half a step behind him, my hand instinctively resting on the silver pocket knife strapped beneath my layers.

On the ice, a lone figure in a silver and blue Briarcliff jersey was skating hard laps, spraying ice as he carved tight turns. It was Marcus Miller.

"Miller!" Jaxson’s voice boomed through the arena, echoing off the high steel rafters.

Miller slammed his skates into the ice, coming to a dead halt in the center circle. He spun around, his chest heaving under his pads. When he saw Jaxson—and then saw me standing right beside him—his arrogant smirk instantly vanished, replaced by a sudden, pale look of panic.

"Jax? What the hell are you doing here?" Miller called out, his voice echoing, laced with a forced bravado. "The rink is closed to outsiders."

"Funny. I thought the same thing about my family's private cabin," Jaxson rasped. He walked right up to the heavy plexiglass barrier, his face cast in terrifying shadows. He tossed the silver lighter engraved with the number 17 onto the top of the red boards. It slid across the wood and fell onto the ice with a sharp clink.

Miller stared at the lighter. His jaw twitched. "I don't know what you're talking about. I lost that days ago."

"You dropped it right after you threw a knockout gas canister through my window, you lying piece of trash," Jaxson growled. Without taking his eyes off Miller, Jaxson unlatched the rink door, stepping directly onto the slick ice in his boots. His balance was perfect, his presence completely dominating the space.

"Jax, wait, chill out!" Miller shouted, skating backward as Jaxson advanced on him. "You don't know what's going on! You're messing with things way bigger than the hockey team!"

"Who told you to track us?" Jaxson demanded, his voice dropping into a low, lethal register. "Who has Chloe?"

"I can't tell you!" Miller panicked, looking frantically toward the dark spectator stands as if expecting someone to emerge from the shadows. "If I talk, they’ll ruin me. They’ll ruin my family!"

"I’m going to ruin you right now," Jaxson warned, closing the distance between them with terrifying speed.

Miller snapped. He raised his heavy hockey stick, swinging it wildly at Jaxson’s head.

Jaxson ducked beneath the swing with practiced, athletic ease. He stepped into Miller’s guard, his fist driving hard into Miller's stomach. Miller gasped, dropping his stick, but Jaxson wasn't done. He grabbed the front of Miller’s jersey, spinning him around and slamming his heavy frame hard against the plexiglass right in front of me.

The barrier rattled violently. Miller’s face was pressed against the glass, blood dripping from his nose.

"Talk," Jaxson hissed, his split knuckles digging into Miller’s throat. "Or I swear to God, you won't walk out of this arena tonight."

From my side of the glass, I leaned in close, my voice sharp and cutting. "We know about the arena construction fund, Miller. We know the council is laundering the drug money through the boosters. Tell us who is running the pipeline, or we drop the real files to the feds tonight."

Miller’s eyes went wide with pure terror, his gaze darting between me and Jaxson’s furious glare.

"It’s... it's not the council," Miller choked out, a tear mixing with the blood on his cheek. "The council just handles the students. The real supplier... the one who took Chloe because she started the podcast... it's the Vice Principal. He’s the one who controls the money."

Before Jaxson could ask another question, a loud, heavy clack echoed through the arena.

The brilliant white lights over the ice rink instantly snapped off.

The entire building was plunged into absolute, pitch-black darkness.

"Jaxson!" I screamed, reaching out blindly into the black space.

"Avery, stay down!" Jaxson’s voice yelled back from the ice, followed by the heavy sound of a body hitting the rink floor and the frantic, echoing scrape of skates retreating into the dark.