Off the Grid
Authors: Cassandra Carr
Off the Grid
(Underground #1)
by
Cassandra Carr
All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the original purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this e-book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from the author. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
Published by C-Squared Publishing LLC
Cover by Syneca at Original Syn
Contact information:
[email protected]
This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
“What the ever-loving fuck?” Ethan Jackson muttered, as he read the letter from some bankruptcy lawyer telling him he owed several million dollars to people he’d never even heard of. Looking around his five-bedroom, four thousand square foot house, he said, “Not fucking likely. I’ve got this house, the lake house, my cars, spending money. How could this be possible?” But apparently it was more than possible. It was a nightmare, one he’d never even considered, come true.
Ethan began to read aloud, hoping that would help him make more sense of this. “Your parents, acting on your behalf, squandered and/or illegally diverted funds into interests such as bad real estate deals and high-risk investments.” His hands shook, shock and outrage warring inside his head. He read on. “Many loans were taken out, which have not been repaid, in order to back businesses, including supposed oil and gas interests, which never materialized, making the funds your parents invested disappear, along with increasing the debt load on the accounts they controlled.”
Shifting in his chair, his heart ramming inside his chest and heat suffusing his body, Ethan read more. “Your parents have not filed taxes on your behalf for the past three years, and it’s estimated that $1.8 million is owed to various government entities, including state, US federal, and Canadian provincial agencies. Holy shit. Almost two million just in taxes owed?”
Back when he’d been just nineteen, his parents had fired the agent who’d taken him through the NHL draft and his entry-level deal, saying they could do just as good a job as the man and not take fifteen percent of his earnings. Ethan snorted.
Nope, looks like they took way more than that.
Once his entry-level years had been completed, and soon after signing a much bigger contract, he’d signed financial power of attorney over to his mom and dad.
Ethan certainly wasn’t an anomaly. None of his teammates managed their own money; most used a financial planner or someone similar. Ethan had never even considered that, since his dad had been an accountant. He’d seen and heard a few oddities relating to his finances over the years, but he’d trusted his parents and the few times he’d asked about his finances, they’d always assured him all was well. After a couple of years, he’d gotten used to them handling all the details and never bothered to question anything else or take a more active role. It had been easier to not have to deal with all that. Taking that tack had obviously been a mistake.
Now his life was destroyed, all he’d worked for, gone.
He threw the letter on the table. As usual, he’d been going through the mail as he ate breakfast, before getting dressed for practice. His stomach churned and he glared at the remains of the protein shake in front of him in disgust.
Just as he’d risen to throw the shake away in the sink, two men burst through his locked front door so fast it fell off the top hinge and banged into the brushed steel coatrack hard enough to send it tumbling. The coatrack hitting the ceramic tile floor sounded like gunshots, and Ethan gasped, dropping the plastic glass, the remainder of the shake flying in all directions as he met the sinister eyes of one of the men.
“You Ethan Jackson?”
Ethan stumbled backward and his back hit the wall behind him. He glanced around, frantically looking for an escape route. The breakfast bar lay to his right and, a couple of feet away, the hallway to the rest of the house beckoned.
I need to get the fuck out of here.
“I guess the big, tough hockey player’s just a pussy after all. You owe our boss some money, and we came to collect.”
“What boss?” He could barely get the words out around the lump of fear clogging his throat.
“Don’t play dumb, rich boy,” the other man sneered. “The boss doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The two glanced at each other and the second man spoke again. “You know, everybody says that. We’d hate for you to have an unfortunate accident if you don’t pay up.”
“Yeah, that’d be a real tragedy, wouldn’t it?” The first remarked. They both laughed and Ethan’s blood began to pulse with adrenaline.
“Look, I wish I knew what you’re talking about but, seriously, I have little contact with my money. I sign my paychecks over to my parents. I have no clue who your boss is.”
The first man spoke again. “No clue, huh? That’s funny, since he’s been real nice to your parents for a long, long time. I’m surprised they’ve never mentioned Mr. Delacourte to you. He’s helped ’em outta a couple of scrapes.” The other man nodded, and the first guy went on. “Maybe we need to give them a little idea of what’ll happen if they don’t take care of this. But since they’re not here…”
Ethan held up his hands. As a professional hockey player, he had more bulk on his body than the average guy, but these two looked like they could hold up a building with one hand.
As he stood there, his breath sawing in and out of his lungs, the synapses in his brain woke up. The letter and now this.
What the hell are my parents into?
“I’m in the dark about this. How about you give me some time to find out what’s going on?”
The first man snorted. “Your parents have had time and the boss isn’t all that patient. All we want is what we were sent here for.”
“I can’t give you what I don’t have. I don’t even have access to my accounts. My parents give me money every month for day-to-day living, but they handle all the money.” It sounded strange coming out of the mouth of a guy in his early thirties, but that was the way it had always been. His voice had risen in pitch as he’d spoken and Ethan could sense real panic setting in. His gaze darted to the now-gaping front door, but that way was blocked, so he took a step toward the hallway.
“Uh-uh. You ain’t leaving.” The first man advanced on Ethan, drawing out a small handgun. “You’re gonna stay right here until we get this ironed out. We’ll see if you change your mind about cooperating, given a little persuasion.”
I’m going to die.
The man advanced on him, raising his arm, his teeth bared in a menacing grin.
Gonna die.
Ethan moved, trying desperately to get away. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted a bunch of hockey sticks leaning against the breakfast bar. He’d brought them home to sign as part of the team’s annual holiday auction. Before Ethan could even form another thought, his field of vision narrowed and he’d grabbed one of the sticks, swinging at the man. It connected with his temple, making a sickening thud, and the guy swayed for a minute then fell, his now-unseeing eyes still open.
The second guy looked down, his mouth agape, and then grabbed the handgun before quickly backing toward the door. “If I didn’t have orders to leave you alive, I’d kill your ass. You better enjoy what short life you’ll have after this, kid.” Then he pivoted and ran out the door to a car idling front of the house that Ethan, his entire body still in hyper focus mode, could see out his large living room picture window.
Ethan looked down at the bloody stick, still held in both of his hands, and then dropped it as if it was a poisonous snake, backing himself against the wall again. Less than a minute had passed from the time those guys had shown up until…
I killed him.
A small pool of blood had formed around the man’s head and Ethan choked on the bile rising in his throat as the coppery smell distinctive to blood assaulted him. He recognized the smell. Every professional athlete did, but it usually wasn’t after they’d just bludgeoned a guy to death.
What am I gonna do now? That second guy’ll go back to whoever this Mr. Delacourte is and tell him about this. The man was right. I’m a dead man.
He debated calling the police, but who would believe that he’d acted in self-defense? Even with the letter, Ethan doubted the police would give him a thumbs-up and let him go. And if they did, what about this Delacourte? Ethan had seen enough action movies to know guys like that didn’t usually take well to the double whammy of still not having their money and one of their employees being dead too. He couldn’t keep a bodyguard with him twenty-four/seven, and what about all this other shit? Who else had his parents pissed off?
I just killed someone.
The sentence replayed in his mind over and over. Ethan pressed his palms into his forehead and then ran his hands through his hair.
Oh my god, I killed someone.
He had to get out of there. Not only had he just committed a felony, but apparently owed all kinds of people money he didn’t have. Clearly his parents didn’t either.
No wonder they’d insisted on taking this month-long cruise through the Mediterranean.
I wonder if they’re even doing that.
Maybe going on vacation had been a cover story and his parents were long gone, leaving him to clean up the mess.
His gaze was drawn to the blood still spreading on his gray ceramic tile floor and Ethan held his stomach, the oatmeal, protein shake, and fruit inside it turning sour. “How could they do this? It wasn’t even their money. They were supposed to be making sure I had a secure future after my career was over. And now I have nothing. Not a damned penny, probably, after this is over.”
His fists clenched and his body went hot and cold in turn. Ethan began to shake again.
I have to leave.
He skimmed the surroundings with a wild, unfocused gaze. The various objects seemed distorted, like one of those haunted houses.
Yeah, this is a fucking haunted house, complete with dead guy.
His feet moved of their own volition and he found himself in his bedroom.
Because of his travel schedule, he kept a bag half-packed and sitting in the corner, and now he grabbed it, stuffing socks, underwear, jeans, sweats, whatever came out of his drawers into it. With that filled, he grabbed another, larger suitcase usually reserved for vacations.
Won’t need it for that anytime soon.
That bag soon overflowed with more clothes, toiletries, and a couple of other items he didn’t want to leave behind, like his two Cup rings. At least his parents hadn’t pawned those.
Ethan had picked up both bags and begun to leave when he remembered the safe he’d never told his parents about. All players in the league got a stipend when they traveled, and Ethan never used all his money. Years ago he’d begun to stash the extra. He couldn’t remember why he’d never mentioned it, but now a wave of relief washed over him that at least they couldn’t get their filthy hands on that money.
The cash would help only a little, but at least he’d have some. The only certainty was he couldn’t go about his life as if nothing had happened, even as his life fell down around him. Ethan couldn’t even think about the looks on the faces of his teammates, the public, and the press. The media would have a fucking field day with this, especially once it came out what he’d done. He couldn’t hide a dead man.
Quickly, Ethan threw the luggage into the back of his Range Rover, but then paused, glancing over at his “summer car”, a 1969 Shelby GT500 Mustang. He and his dad had restored it together. An involuntary tear squeezed out of his eye, but Ethan refused to give in to the desire to crawl into a corner and curl up into the fetal position. He needed to move.
He drove, trying to calm the burning anger and overwhelming fear inside him, but to no avail. His heart raced, his head pounded, and he gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles as he considered the ramifications of all this. If he’d never become a hockey player, if he’d just gone into law enforcement like he’d planned before he’d realized he was good enough to play pro hockey, none of this would have happened. Obviously the sport itself couldn’t be blamed for his current predicament but, at that moment, he couldn’t help but hate it too. A game he’d loved now forever sullied; a life he’d loved, gone in the blink of an eye.
