The Complete Screech Owls, Volume 2 Page 6

  He had an idea! It wasn’t like a light bulb going off in his head, but there was almost a flash. He suddenly felt excited. “The display?” he said. “Where is it?”

  Lars turned. “Huh?”

  “The armour display. How do we get there?”

  Lars thought a moment. “I think it’s straight back that way.”

  Travis didn’t waste a second. “Nish, come with me?”

  “Wh-wh-where?”

  “Never mind. C’mon!”

  He hurried ahead through the dark, Nish scrambling behind him. They passed by the prison cell where they’d been held and where, they hoped, the Russian was still passed out cold. They came to a modern door. With his heart beating wildly, Travis drove his shoulder hard against the door and almost choked with excitement when it gave slightly. It was enough for two young shoulders to push hard the rest of the way. A cheap latch and padlock ripped out of the wood and dropped harmlessly on the floor.

  They were in!

  A few lights had been left on for security. Travis hoped they had triggered an alarm at the police station. Whatever brought them here as fast as possible was all right with him. This was no false alarm.

  They were not far from the display of Viking spears. “Grab a couple of those!” he commanded Nish.

  Nish waded into the display, reaching with shaking hands. The spears jumbled and clattered to the floor like hockey sticks in a dressing room. He scrambled to pick up two.

  Travis headed into the next room. He knew exactly what he wanted.

  The spangenhelm!

  “What is that?”

  Sarah was looking at Travis in amazement. He had handed her one of the spears. Nish was holding the other. Travis had the big spangenhelm on tight over his head. He knew he must look idiotic. He could barely keep his head off his chest it was so heavy. His head was rolling, his neck muscles weakening.

  Dmitri and Slava were also armed. Dmitri had a flail, its heavy spiked head dragging on the ground beside him. Slava had a huge iron mace, so heavy he could barely lift the massive club.

  “What the heck am I supposed to do with this?” Dmitri asked. He seemed very uncertain.

  Travis himself was uncertain. He didn’t know exactly why he’d collected the armour. But he did know they’d need something–and fast!

  The Russians had reached the latched door. They could hear the sound of surprise in Gold Tooth’s voice when he found that their route to the prison cells had been blocked. There was a rattling of the latch, then banging at the door.

  “They’re breaking it down,” said Sarah.

  Travis turned to Dmitri and Slava. “Move ahead and get down in the dark on each side. You guys will have to trip one of them up.”

  “How?” asked Dmitri.

  “Swing your weapons as hard as you can,” Travis said.

  Dmitri and Slava moved a little closer to the door and ducked down into the shadows.

  Travis turned to Nish and Sarah. “They go down, you two have to make sure they stay down,” he said.

  “Understood,” said Sarah.

  With a mighty groan and snap, the big door gave. They could hear the Russians cursing and kicking it as they passed. They couldn’t tell whether Gold Tooth thought it was an accident or deliberate.

  The two men hurried along the corridor towards the young friends, their heavy steps growing closer. Travis peered into the distance. He could see their shadows looming in the darkness as they approached.

  The friends kept completely silent, but for the wheeze of Nish’s breathing.

  Closer…Closer…Closer…

  “Now!” Travis shouted.

  Dmitri and Slava swung their weapons at exactly the same time. Travis and the others could hear the sickly sound of metal against bone, and the screams of the first Russian as he went down.

  “EEEEOOOOOOWWWWWW!”

  Only one went down! Gold Tooth stumbled, but caught himself on the far wall. He turned, cursing.

  Sarah had already moved to set her spear against the neck of the fallen man. Nish was right behind her, his spear shaking.

  In the dim light, Travis could see Gold Tooth fumbling in his coat.

  He was reaching for his gun!

  Travis pulled down the spangenhelm, lowered his head, and charged. Straight for Gold Tooth’s gut!

  KAAA-BOOOOOOMMM!!

  The gun exploded. The enormous, shocking sound filled the corridor instantly. It filled Travis’s head and he felt the helmet jerk, then smash into something soft.

  “Oooooohhh!!”

  It was the sound of Gold Tooth’s breath being forced from his body as Travis drove his head into his stomach. He felt the man’s legs give way, and then Travis hit the floor, the heavy helmet ringing as it struck stone.

  He had done it.

  Travis rose unsteadily to his feet. Gold Tooth gasped again and sank back. The other man was howling, holding his shin and trying to keep away from the spears.

  Suddenly the corridor filled with another loud sound. Not a shot, but a voice–a loudspeaker.

  “Stanna där du är! Rör dig inte!”(“Stay exactly where you are! Don’t move!”)

  Gold Tooth looked up, still fighting for his breath. There was fury in his eyes. There were dogs barking. And men running.

  “Ingen rör sig!” (“No one move!”) a voice commanded over the speaker.

  There were lights now. Flashlights in the corridor; searchlights panning across the walls, spilling in through the small windows.

  Two police dogs raced into the room, barking, their handlers right behind them.

  One dog leapt for Gold Tooth, grabbing his forearm in his teeth. The man screamed and rolled on the floor, the dog on top of him.

  The other dog lunged for Nish, barking and using its paws to pin him against the stone wall.

  “I’m dead!” Nish screamed. “I’m dead!”

  The Malmö police quickly handcuffed the two Russians and lifted them to their feet, the boss limping badly and Gold Tooth still gasping for breath. Lars directed the police to the cell where the third mobster was still snoring.

  One of the policemen had the spangenhelm and was examining it carefully. He whistled, and showed his superior, who said something to Lars.

  Lars pointed to a dent on the side of the helmet, “The bullet did that,” he said to Travis.

  Travis couldn’t believe it. He had blocked a shot.

  It all took a while to sort out. More police came, then Muck and Mr. Dillinger, and then the two Russian bodyguards, looking more relieved than anyone. They raced up to Slava and grabbed him, kissing him on both cheeks.

  Nish stared at them and rolled his eyes.

  “I’m gonna hurl!” he said.

  For once, Travis thought he might mean it.

  Nish had been terrified by the dog, but when he heard why it had leapt for him, he was delighted. They had been hunting everywhere for the kids, but without luck. It wasn’t until Data came up with the solution that the dogs were able to do their work.

  Data had suggested the dogs follow the smell of Nish’s hair. He had them sniff the mousse and gel that Nish had left in the bathroom, and within fifteen minutes the dogs had found the abandoned van and were headed towards the old castle.

  A familiar call came from down the corridor.

  “EEEE-AWWW-KEEE!”

  It was Annika. She must have sneaked past the police line.

  For once, Nish didn’t answer. Instead, he turned, ducked down, and began pulling at his hair, trying to make it stand back up.

  “Who’s got a comb?” he hissed.

  Lars handed one over. Nish frantically pulled and yanked and teased his hair, trying, without success, to make it stand back up in spikes.

  He turned on Sarah, his eyes narrow, his nostrils flaring.

  “You ruined my hair!” he said.

  “Your hair saved our lives!” Sarah answered. “Twice!”

  They’d decided to continue with the tournament. The men had been ar
rested and the kids had all been checked out at the Malmö hospital. The swelling was already going down in Travis’s eye, and Sarah’s wrists had been dressed and wrapped in clean bandages.

  Sarah and Travis had sat out the next game against Gothenburg, but Dmitri and Lars and Nish were cleared to play. Nish wouldn’t have missed it for anything: a chance to be the hero in front of Annika and her friends.

  The Gothenburg team had been excellent. They were all superb skaters, and most could handle the puck. But they weren’t very big, especially compared to the bigger Owls like Andy, Wilson, and, of course, Nish. With Annika calling out every time he stepped on the ice, Nish had played like he was the size of Eric Lindros.

  By the final period, the Owls had pulled away. Dmitri had scored twice and Nish once, on a shot from the point. After scoring, Nish had even pretended not to hear the yells from Annika and her friends, skating back out to centre with his stick over his knees and staring up at the clock to wait for the scoreboard to change. Travis and Sarah had to laugh.

  “It’s a wonder he doesn’t stop and comb his hair,” Sarah said.

  Nish’s goal had proven to be the winner. The Owls’ record was two wins and a loss, which left them tied with two other teams for second place. The Owls, however, came out ahead, because they’d scored more goals. They were headed back to Stockholm for the championship. And they’d be playing the club with the best record in the tournament: CSKA, Slava Shadrin’s team.

  Travis Lindsay stood at the blueline and shook. He had never been so excited in his life. He was playing for the International Goodwill Pee Wee Championship–a world championship. As high as he could see in the massive Globen Arena, the red seats were filled with fans. Thousands of them! And everyone was standing for the anthems, first the Russian and then “O Canada.” Travis shivered up the length of his spine.

  He knew why so many people had come. The story was an international sensation. A thirteen-year-old hockey player had been kidnapped by the Russian mob. Other twelve-and thirteen-year-olds from Canada and Sweden had helped him escape. Lars Johanssen was a hero in Sweden. (“Maybe they’ll put me on a stamp, like Peter Forsberg!” he joked.)

  Sarah was insisting on playing–though her wrists had to be dressed again just before the game and she was obviously still in pain.

  The big story, however, was Slava Shadrin. If he was good enough to be kidnapped by ruthless mobsters–how good was he? The stands of the Globen Arena were filled with the curious. There were even television cameras!

  Nish was in his glory. He had worked on his hair half the afternoon. If Slava had thousands staring his direction, Nish knew that at least one in the crowd was staring only at him.

  “Behind the net!” Travis had screamed over the cheers as the anthem ended. He was surprised to see Annika had come all the way from Malmö with some of her friends. They were waving a huge Canadian flag.

  “Yeah,” Nish said matter-of-factly. “I know.”

  Travis had never seen Muck look so relaxed before a big game. He was smiling, which was unusual. Muck wanted Sarah’s line to start. “Remember,” he said. “This is a ‘goodwill’ tournament–you’re here to have fun. You’re also representing your country.

  “And one more thing,” Muck said. He paused, grinning. “Don’t even think about arguing with this referee.”

  Travis turned around. Across the ice the referee was stretching, one long leg extended to the side, his back to the Screech Owls’ bench. But Travis didn’t need to see the face to know who it was. The hair was enough.

  Borje Salming!

  Salming blew on his whistle to call the teams in for the opening face-off. He raised his hands to check the red lights at both ends. He smiled down on the two centres, Slava Shadrin and Sarah Cuthbertson, then winked at Travis.

  Travis was in a state of shock as the puck fell.

  Sarah won the face-off with her tricky little sweep move–pulling the puck out of the air just before it struck the ice–and before Travis knew it, it had rattled into his skate blades. He tried to kick the puck up to his stick so he could shoot it back to Nish, but he lost it in his skates and the Russian winger jabbed it loose and away.

  Travis gave chase, but he was well behind the play. The winger hit a rushing defenceman, who clipped the puck off the glass so it skipped in behind Nish and, in an instant, was picked up by Slava Shadrin, cutting in like a sudden wind.

  But so, too, was Sarah. There would be no quick goal this time. She laid her stick over Slava’s and leaned hard, driving him off the puck before he could shoot. Data, racing over to cover up for Nish, picked up the puck and iced it. The linesman blew his whistle.

  Sarah skated back to the bench shaking her right wrist. She wanted a change. Andy’s line came out and Mr. Dillinger and Muck gathered round Sarah. She just nodded when they asked her if she felt all right. Nodded and stared straight ahead, over the boards. Travis, sitting beside her, wasn’t convinced.

  Ten minutes into the game, CSKA caught the Owls on a quick shift change. Slava Shadrin came over the boards and picked up a loose puck and beat Jesse Highboy easily. He came in on Wilson, beat him, and got past Jeremy with a high wrist shot that pinged in off the crossbar.

  Russia 1, Canada 0.

  Muck put a hand on Sarah’s shoulder.

  “Shadrin will kill us unless you stay with him,” Muck said. “Are you up to it?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re on, then.”

  Slava Shadrin’s skates had barely hit the ice when the Russian star discovered he had grown a new shadow.

  The opposing centres flew about the ice together like two sparrows in a field, Sarah turning precisely when Slava turned. If Slava picked up a loose puck or a pass, Sarah immediately checked him, using her stick on his and pushing down with all her strength so he could neither stickhandle nor pass. With Sarah on him, all Slava could do was dump the puck.

  Travis was amazed. He had never seen anyone work as hard as Sarah. Sweat was pouring from her face. And he could tell from the way she winced and shook her gloves as she sat on the bench that she was in pain.

  Travis saw Nish circling for the puck. He saw Nish’s head come up for one quick look down the ice. Travis knew he wasn’t looking for a place to pass the puck. He was looking for an opening.

  Travis curled at the blueline, cutting across ice to his off wing. Dmitri read the play perfectly and moved to Travis’s wing. Travis was now on the right, Dmitri on the left, as Nish broke straight up centre, carrying the puck.

  Sarah saw what Nish was about to do, and she used her shoulder to ride Slava out of the play.

  Slava’s coach was leaning over the boards, shouting “Interference!” But no referee, not even Borje Salming, was going to call that. Sarah’s pick was just a smart play.

  Nish beat the first defence by letting the puck slide ahead and then quickly working his stick back and forth as if stickhandling. The defenceman fell for it and went for the stick blade, while the puck slid right by him and Nish looped around his side and was free.

  It was now a three-on-one. Nish dropped the puck and ran right over the second Russian defenceman. More screams from the Russian bench. Dmitri picked up the loose puck and came in on their goaltender. He faked a shot and slipped the puck to Travis, flying in on his off wing. It was easy.

  Canada 1, Russia 1.

  It stayed that way until the break before the final period. Neither team could score. Slava couldn’t get free of Sarah, and Nish couldn’t lug the puck down the ice whenever he wanted any more. Both goaltenders were spectacular.

  In the dressing room Travis could see that Sarah was in real pain. Her eyes welled up with tears just in taking off her gloves. The bandages were pink with bloodstains.

  Mr. Dillinger had made ice packs with plastic bags. He applied the ice and then carefully dressed the tortured wrists again.

  “You okay to play?” Muck asked.

  Sarah nodded. “I’m fine,” she said. Travis noticed the little catc
h in her voice.

  There was a knock at the door. Mr. Dillinger got it and signalled for Muck.

  “The referee wants to talk to you,” he said.

  When the two teams came out for the final period, Muck and the Russian coach were still in deep discussion with Borje Salming. There were also two interpreters standing to the side, so it made for a tight little group in the corridor as the teams passed by. Every player was curious to know what was happening.

  Then Salming and the coaches shook hands. All of them were smiling.

  Nish, of course, was the one to ask: “What was all that about?”

  “None of your business, Nishikawa.”

  Sarah and Slava lined up for the face-off. Travis could sense the tension. A 1–1 tie, Canada versus Russia, the peewee championship of the world–of the universe!–on the line.

  Why, then, did Borje Salming seem to be chuckling as he raised his hand, a black glove covering the puck?

  Slava and Sarah got set. Travis readied himself to jump into the play if Sarah tied up Slava.

  Salming opened his hand and the puck fell.

  The little puck!

  Travis could hear Slava and Sarah gasp. He could hear Nish shout, “What the–?”

  The puck bounced–and nothing was the same again.

  Sarah lunged instinctively for the bouncing black disk and managed to tip it to Travis, who caught it perfectly on his blade.

  It felt so comfortable! So tiny and small and light and…alive! Yes, that was it, alive!

  Perhaps this was how a young basketball player would feel if his hand could hold a ball from above. Or a pitcher if the mound were moved a dozen steps closer to home plate.

  Travis stickhandled quickly, the solid little puck dancing to the rhythm of his stick. He knew the Russian winger on his side was charging, but he knew as well that he had never felt more in control of a puck.

  Travis spun, and the winger flew by, missing him. He snapped his stick and the puck flew back to Data, who caught it perfectly and fired it across ice to Nish, who was already in full motion.