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Niko brightened up, always happy when he had new information to advise us with, and dug into his bag on the bench beside him. “I talked with another one of my friends from Team Japan last night. Like the others, he’s being cagey about the specifics of their routines, but I did get him talking about theothercountries’ practices he’s caught glimpses of.”
Quentin rubbed his hands together. “Inside intel. Bring it on.”
He wasn’t going to be competing, of course, since he wasn’t on the official US team. But we’d brought him with us to keep him out of my mom’s sights, and he’d fallen into the role of unofficial assistant coach when he wasn’t honing his singles routines for next year. His shoulder was almost back to full functioning now.
Niko tapped on his phone to bring up our songs. “One of the Russian pairs and maybe the Chinese too are trying out something a little new—adding some extra difficulty to their jumps. If we want to make sure we stand out equally well, I think we could adjust your routine to—"
The door at the top of the stairs slammed open, and a barrage of dark-clothed figures burst into the room. My heart stopped with a terrifying sense of déjà vu, hurtling me back to the moment in Austin when Octavio had come for me. Then my gaze caught on the semi-automatic rifles the strange men were jerking toward us.
“Get down!” I cried out, and snatched at Jasper’s arm to haul him flat on the ice with me.
We hadn’t ventured far from the stands in our warm-up. As bullets boomed through the air overhead, we cringed in the shelter of the boards. The tempered glass shattered, pelting us with a torrent of pebbles.
A hoarse cry rang out from the other side of the arena, where the staff person had been sweeping. I hoped he’d gotten out of the way fast enough.
The guns thundered for what felt like an eternity while I hugged the ice and clutched Jasper’s arm. There was a brief pause. Just as I was sure our attackers would descend all the way to the rink and pick us off, sirens wailed loud enough to hear them through the arena walls.
Someone had called the police, and they were almost here. Thank God.
One of the shooters barked out an order I couldn’t make out. Footsteps thudded as the men dashed off the way they’d come.
The second the door had banged shut behind them, I scrambled to my feet. My head jerked around as I scanned the stands. There—there was Quentin, the top of his blond head visible as he eased upright from where he’d hit the floor between the benches. And Niko—
I shoved myself closer to the stands and jarred to a halt. A cry broke from my throat.
Niko lay sprawled against the bench next to his bag, his head lolling and a scarlet blotch blooming on the front of his shirt.
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