Free Hitmen Triumph by Sigmund Brouwer

into my eyes. I believed her.
    â€œI called you to tell you I’ll help you with your documentary,” I said, “but only if you leave Nate out of it.”
    â€œHe’s part of it,” she said. “You can’t change that.”
    â€œYes, I can,” I said. “That’s why I want to make you a deal.”
    â€œDeal?” she asked.
    â€œI can get you more information,” I said. “Use it to nail the people behind this. The people who are using Nate. But you can’t use it to nail Nate.”
    â€œBut if he’s part of it, how can exposing this keep Nate out of trouble?”
    â€œBecause I’m going to use the information to force Nate to quit before you finish your documentary.”
    â€œI see,” she said. “Once he knows you can prove what he’s doing, you’re going to make sure he stops.”
    â€œSomething like that,” I answered.
    We had been walking as we talked. Now we were at the tiger cage. The tiger was sleeping. Like it had no cares in the world. Wished I could sleep like that. No worries about hockey. No worries about my brother.
    Mercedes interrupted my thoughts. “You’re going to do your best to help Nate. Even afterhe betrayed you. Even after he betrayed your parents.”
    â€œYes,” I said. “No matter what, he’s still my brother.”

chapter twenty-one
    The next evening, Mercedes and I sat in her Volkswagen near the back of the parking lot of a downtown pizza place where Nate had stopped to buy dinner. We heard him order a pepperoni with extra cheese.
    â€œCool,” she said. “It works.”
    After practice I had hidden my fm in Nate’s Calgary Hitmen backpack. I had a pack just like it, and I knew he took his everywhere. If he found the FM, I could just tell him that I’d accidentally mixed up our backpacks.
    At Radio Shack, I’d found electronic components to rig my processor to send signals to a battery-powered speaker that was now on the dash of Mercedes’ Volkswagen. The processor had an attachment port on the bottom that made this possible. It meant that we could hear what was going on in the pizza place. Mercedes also had a digital recorder to pick up the conversation for her documentary.
    I could still hear Mercedes’ voice through the built-in microphones of my processor.
    â€œCool,” I said back to her. But really, it wasn’t. I was spying on my brother. About an hour earlier, with the fm already in his backpack, I had heard him make a phone call setting up a meeting at the pizza place. From Nate’s end of the conversation, it sounded like the person he was meeting was involved in illegally copying DVD’s. That was why I’d phoned Mercedes.
    In the pizza place, Nate spoke. We both heard him. “Max, thanks for coming.”
    â€œSnuck through the back,” a deep male voice answered. “You know we shouldn’t be seen together.”
    â€œI know,” Nate said. “It’s about my brother.”
    â€œRadar,” Max said.
    Tiny snakes of electricity raced up and down my spine. I locked eyes with Mercedes. She didn’t say anything.
    â€œHe’s been following me,” Nate said. “I think he suspects something. We need to do something about it.”
    â€œNot good,” Max said. “Not good at all.”
    In the background, we heard something metal—maybe a knife—drop on the floor. When someone puts a knife in your back, like Nate was doing to me, it isn’t nearly as loud. Except for the noise you make when you feel a sudden sharp pain.
    â€œThing is,” Nate said, “I don’t want to quit.”
    â€œYou’re good,” Max said. “And it seems to be going good.”
    â€œSo can I tell him?” Nate asked.
    â€œDangerous,” Max said.
    â€œRadar can handle it,” Nate said.
    â€œThink he’ll want to be part of this?” Max