Undercover Holiday Fiancée. Maggie K. Black
TEN
The crash of exploding glass echoed up through the empty halls of the Bobcaygeon Sports Center, shattering the early morning peace and drowning out the melody of Christmas carols. Moments earlier, Ontario Provincial Police Detective Chloe Brant had been running in place as a treadmill cycled endlessly beneath her. Now she heard shouting. She yanked the treadmill’s emergency cord and grabbed the handles for stability as the belt shuddered to a stop beneath her feet. Her steady green eyes looked through the interior window of the sports center’s second-floor exercise room down at the lobby below, just in time to see a skinny figure in a rubber elf mask knock over the Christmas tree with the wild swing of a baseball bat.
What’s happening, Lord? What do I do to help?
The large window that had encased the front desk had been bashed in and was now a cobweb of shards held together by nothing but safety-glass coating. The first elf was joined by a second, who was holding a knife and seemed equally intent on mindless destruction, stomping on tree ornaments as they rolled across the floor.
At five thirty in the morning, the center was so deserted that the front desk and the coffee counter hadn’t even been staffed when she’d headed up to the exercise room. Hopefully that just meant destruction and chaos—not actual casualties.
If gossip around her police division was true, local Trillium Community College—where Chloe herself had spent a year over a decade ago—had a major drug problem the Bobcaygeon police were completely failing to deal with. Accidental overdoses had spiked last spring. A baggie containing thousands of dollars’ worth of a new designer pill, nicknamed “payara,” had turned up in the sports center locker room. Now, vice units across the country were hearing about payara being trafficked, in small amounts, through their own communities’ criminal networks. Seemed whoever was creating it was testing Canada’s appetite for a new illegal way to get high.
Some said local staff sergeant, Frank Butler, was going to find himself facing a major internal investigation if he didn’t figure out where the drugs were coming from, and fast. Butler had been Chloe’s first training officer. He was in his late sixties and, while they’d never been close, she had attended his wife’s funeral two years earlier and now hated the thought of a dedicated officer’s reputation being destroyed so close to the end of his career. Even if he had made a mistake, he deserved an opportunity to get help and fix it. Not to mention that if he was embroiled in a scandal, it could tarnish her own career and sabotage the promotion to detective sergeant she’d been striving for. She had a week off for Christmas and a house less than an hour away. She’d emailed Butler, asking if there was anything she could do to help. He hadn’t answered.
Chloe was the kind of person who took action while praying. So, for the past three days, she’d been scouting the sports center, just exercising, observing and asking God for guidance—never expecting the first hint of trouble she’d spot would come in the form of masked elves brazenly destroying the place.
Gang violence, probably. Especially considering the drug connection. Most ordinary criminals weren’t that brazen.
She glanced back toward the exercise room. There were two other people in there and both seemed to be college students. The blond jock on the treadmill was wearing a jersey from nearby rival college: Haliburton. He’d introduced himself as Johnny when he’d first walked in and made a cocky attempt at impressing her with some tale of being a tech genius and entrepreneur before quickly moving on to flirting with the dark-haired young woman on the rowing machine. Now both of them were staring in her direction.
She yanked her badge out of her sweatshirt and held it up on its lanyard. “Stay there. Don’t move.”
Before they could answer, she slipped off the treadmill and crept along the window for a better view of what was happening below. The faint outline of her reflection mirrored back at her. Six feet tall and lithe, she might’ve been mistaken for some kind of athlete. But with her long, flaming red hair often scraped back into a bun, she knew the overall impression she usually gave was more of a librarian, especially since she’d reached her midthirties.
The scene shifted below her. She saw a third, bulky elf shove the elderly security guard up against a wall as the shape of a young woman cowered behind Nanny’s Coffee counter. There was a gun in the elf’s hand. Chloe turned back to the students.
“I’m Detective Chloe Brant, OPP.” Her voice rang with authority. “There’s a disturbance on the main floor. At least three armed intruders wearing elf masks. I’m going to check it out. You’re both going to stay here and lock the door.” She pointed to the young woman, making the snap judgment she’d be the more responsible of the two. “What’s your name?”
“Poppy.” Her dark eyes were filled with fear but her voice was strong. “Did you say elves?”
“Yes, elves.” If this was somebody’s idea of a sick holiday joke, Chloe wasn’t laughing. “Poppy, please call 9-1-1. Johnny, look for ways to barricade the door.”
But the young woman was staring at her. “I know you, right? You’re dating one of my teachers. I think I saw your picture at the college.”
“Focus, Poppy!” Chloe ignored the ridiculous question. She’d assumed Poppy would be the better choice. It never ceased to amaze her how people’s brains seized up in shock. Relationships might be top of the mind for these young people but they were the last thing on hers. “I need you to call 9-1-1. Hand me the phone when they answer.” She held out her hand and waited while Poppy dialed.
She took the phone, gave Dispatch her name, badge number, cell phone number and a concise description of the situation. Then she handed the phone back to Poppy. “Stay on the line with them and answer their questions. They’ll tell you what to do.”
“But my boyfriend’s on the Trillium hockey team,” Poppy said. “He’s at the rink setting up the Christmas toy mountain with the coach and Third Line.”
Chloe took a deep breath. Okay, so that potentially meant even more people in danger. She’d spotted the dark hair and rather hunky broad shoulders of the bearded college coach pass by with a handful of players yesterday, but he’d left before she’d made her way downstairs or gotten a good look at him. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure they get out okay. What’s Third Line?”
“It’s the group of guys on a hockey team who hit the ice third,” Johnny said. “If they get to play at all, because they’re not as good as first-or second-line players. I play first line for Haliburton.” His tone implied he’d never be caught dead playing anything else. He stepped off the treadmill. “I’ll go with you.”
“No, you won’t,” she said. “Not unless you’re a cop or military. Are you?”
“No, but a friend of mine is.” His chin rose.
Right, and her sister was a journalist and her father was a con man.
“Stay here with Poppy,”