Sunday, February 1
Four Seasons Los Angeles at Beverly Hills
Los Angeles, California
7:15 a.m. PST
Empty. Please let me be empty. But Jesse Emrick wasn’t empty, as evidenced by another internal surge that threw him over the edge of the toilet. He had awakened at 6:15 and had been either lying or kneeling on the beautifully laid tile floor for the past hour. He got himself into a crouch, leaned over the sink, and washed his mouth out, using his hand as a cup. Then he slid back down to the floor, feeling the coolness of the marble slab vanity against his cheek.
Emrick’s room wasn’t the only one reverberating with this sound. All up and down the fourth and fifth floors of the hotel, one could hear players kneeling at their porcelain altars, hurling out their own personal cries of penance, and ending their prayers with a flush of the toilet.
There had been no food poisoning, nor was there a stomach parasite running rampant through the ranks. One thing, and one thing only, was leading to this discordant chorus: nerves.
The incident that had ultimately led to Emrick’s personal bowl-side meditation had occurred just prior to Friday’s practice. Matt Tayse-number-two rusher in the league last season with 1,758 yards, All-Pro for the past four years, bright shining hope for a Liberty victory in the PFL Cup, Mr. Twinkle-Toes himself-had broken his ankle stepping off the bus. It was a fluke accident, a once-in-a-million mistake. It was like a great soldier preparing for the biggest battle of his life accidentally putting a bullet in his calf while cleaning his gun.
This incident didn’t promote Emrick to the number-one back-that role went to third-down back, Johnson Mige, who was adding his own chorus to the medley three doors down. However, this did move Emrick into the role of lead third-down back. He was going to be the clutch go-to guy.
He dragged himself into the glass shower stall and turned the water on hot. As the dual showerheads cascaded the steaming water onto his body, he sat on the tile floor, absentmindedly picking at the grout with his fingernail.
This was one of the wonderful things about staying in these fancy hotels. Back home, once his mom and two sisters finished up, he’d get maybe two minutes of lukewarm water, tops. Here, the cleansing, hot waterfall never ended.
Emrick had forty-five minutes until the breakfast buffet downstairs, three hours until chapel, and three and a half hours until the pregame meal. Breakfast? I’ll think I’ll pass. Chapel? I’ll see what I can do. Pregame meal? Yes, but only because I’ll get fined if I don’t show. If he wanted, allowing a half hour to get dressed, he could spend the next three hours letting the water wash his cares away.
Sunday, February 1
Rose Bowl Stadium
Pasadena, California
11:30 a.m. PST
Something’s not right, Riley thought. What are we missing? He was walking around the perimeter of the field, scanning the stands. Skeeter was next to him; Hicks was a few steps ahead.
The three men had just made a full circuit of the Rose Bowl grounds. They’d visited the makeshift tower where Matt Logan was keeping his eye on the air traffic controllers. Also in the tower they checked in with Kim Li, who was keeping in communication with the folks from Edwards Air Force Base and NORAD. Both men had reported absolutely nothing out of the ordinary.
They had stopped by the four large trailers that were the Secret Service command and control centers. After a brief word with a very busy Director LeBlanc and his head of operations, they had spoken to Ted Hummel and Jay Kruse, who were monitoring all that was going on in the operation’s “brains.” The two veteran agents both felt that things were fairly well in hand.
Before going under the stands, the three men walked across the western sidelines. Looking up at the scoreboards, Hicks and Riley got a status report from the three men who were embedded there with the Secret Service snipers. Carlos Guitiérrez, over the north scoreboard, gave an all clear. Steve Kasay, atop the press box on the west side of the stadium, called out the same. Kyle Arsdale, in the south, made the report unanimous-everything was looking good.
As they walked off the field and through a tunnel, they made one last status check. “Bird One, how’re things looking from there?” Hicks called into his comm system.
“Good to go,” came Chris Johnson’s reply from the LAPD helicopter that he had hitched a ride in.
The three men entered a small room where Scott and Khadi already sat. The two had been brainstorming possible chinks in the security’s armor. Hicks took a chair next to Khadi, while Skeeter positioned himself by the door.
“You guys come up with anything yet?” Hicks asked.
Khadi shook her head. “These Secret Service guys are incredibly thorough. Everything we’ve come up with, they’ve already thought of and dealt with.”
Riley walked around the table and pulled out a chair. When he sat, he put his elbows on his knees, leaned over, and locked his hands behind his neck.
“Pach, what is it? You okay?” Scott’s inquiries as to his friend’s quietness and distance had been growing more and more frequent.
Without raising his head, Riley answered, “There’s got to be something we’re missing! Sal’s a smart guy. He knows what security will be like, especially after Platte River…” Riley’s voice caught on the last word. He took a deep breath, then looked up at the four others. “It’s not going to happen again. Not on my watch! It will not happen again!” Riley’s expression was almost pleading. The dark circles under his eyes and the paleness of his complexion attested to the fact that he was still not well. Recognizing what a pitiful character he must look like, he lowered his head and locked his hands again behind his neck.
“Don’t worry, man. We’re going to figure this thing out,” Scott encouraged him. Turning to the rest of the group, he said, “Okay, let’s start from the beginning…”
Sunday, February 1
Los Angeles, California
1:05 p.m. PST
The stack of equipment bags rose outside the bus. Emrick added his to the pile and climbed aboard. When the bus was fully loaded, the bags were transferred two at a time to the lower cargo area.
Soon the bus was humming along the freeway at seventy-five miles per hour. It was the second in a line of three motor coaches; a fourth bus, carrying the coaching staff and some overly anxious players, had left the hotel an hour before the others. Ahead of the caravan, four California Highway Patrol motorcycles and three cruisers led the way with lights flashing and sirens blaring.
Emrick stretched out on the left side of the bus, halfway back. Although his nerves were getting progressively worse, at least his stomach had calmed down. He had slowly eaten a large plate of pasta with a light butter sauce and actually managed to hold it down thus far. Like everyone else on the bus, he prayed that no one would lose it, because the resulting chain reaction would make the rest of the trip extremely unpleasant.
The bus exited the freeway and gradually maneuvered its way from San Pascual Avenue to Arroyo Boulevard. Suddenly a voice from the front said, “Yo, check it out!”
Although the stadium was not yet in view, there was no doubt as to its location. Up ahead, the sky was filled with aircraft of every sort. Emrick tried to count them all-at least four planes, six helicopters, and a blimp-stacked at different altitudes as if they were on shelves.
Along the route to the stadium from the hotel, there had been pockets of waving fans. However, once they passed under the Ventura Freeway, the celebration began in earnest. The sides of the road for that final mile were filled with thousands of frenzied people cheering and holding signs.
By the time the buses arrived at the Rose Bowl, the caravan could only inch its way forward. One of the barricades had fallen, and people had massed on the road. Finally helmeted police officers were able to push the crowd back with their Plexiglas shields, and the buses rolled down to their drop-off point.
An audible groan swept through the bus as the doors opened and the sound of Frank Sinatra singing “New York, New York” floated in. No one had anything against the great crooner, but everyone on the team had heard that song enough times in the past week to last a lifetime.
A roar went through the crowd as the first players stepped off the bus. Emrick stood up next to his seat, tightened the knot on his tie, and walked out. He didn’t know what the day was going to hold for him, but he did know that he would never be the same again.
Sunday, February 1
El Espejo Road
La Mirada, California
1:30 p.m. PST
Hakeem drove his two fists into the floor. He had been trying to pray for the past twenty minutes-trying to focus on Allah and on the task ahead-but all his mind kept giving him were images of Alessandra and of Riley, beaten and tied to a chair.
Hakeem raised his head off the ground and, kneeling, lifted his hands toward heaven. Allah, I am yours. Give strength to your weak servant. Accept me into your paradise. Hakeem passed his cupped hands across his face and stood. “I am ready,” he called out.
Immediately the three men who had been waiting outside the door entered. Rashid Ali Jabr was the owner of the house Hakeem had been staying in. Arshad Mahmud was the local cell leader of the Cause. The third to enter, a man Hakeem had not yet met, was a specialist hired for his particular skills. It was he who had assembled the bomb that Hakeem was now going to place on his body.
“As-salaamu alaikum,” this man greeted Hakeem.
“Wa ‘alaikum as-salaam.”
“My name is Zalfikar Ali Khan. I lost my family six years ago in an American raid across the Afghanistan border into Pakistan. As you avenge your family, inshallah, you will be avenging mine.”
Hakeem nodded silently.
Khan opened the door of the closet where an oversized vest was stored. Once it had been brought into the house, Hakeem insisted on never letting it out of his sight. The Pakistani lifted the suicide bomb with an audible grunt and placed it on the dresser.
“When I put this on you, you will feel its weight. There are twenty-seven kilos of C-4 and another seven of steel bearings. Most people couldn’t walk far wearing this, but I was told that you could handle the load… Just remember, it will tire you out before you expect it to.”
Hakeem remained quiet.
Khan turned to the other two men. Stretching his hand out toward the vest, he said, “If you would be so kind.”
As Jabr and Mahmud reached for the device, Hakeem put out a hand to stop them. He delved deeply into his pocket and pulled out the brass coin.
The medallion had been so very important to him for so long. It had been a symbol of who he truly was, a constant reminder of his purpose in life. He had been born to die. But not just to die a common death; he had been chosen-called-to die with honor.
As he looked at the three faded daggers etched into the brass, he drew strength from his roots. The words his uncle Ali had repeated to him over and over echoed in his ears: “Never forget who you are, Hakeem. Never forget who you are.”
Hakeem pressed the disk to his mouth and felt the warm metal on his lips. Then he slipped the coin into the mesh ball-bearing pouch that would soon be covering the left side of his chest. Turning to Jabr and Mahmud, he nodded.
“Let it down gently,” Khan said to the two men, who did as they were told and then stepped away. Taking half of a metal buckle in each hand, Khan told Hakeem, “When I make this connection, there will be no turning back. Are you prepared to do this?”
The two men locked eyes, each seeing the sharpness of grief and the emptiness of revenge reflected in the other man’s stare.
“Very good.” And with an audible click, Khan locked the suicide vest onto Hakeem’s body. Hakeem closed his eyes and breathed a deep sigh. Something cold and metallic found its way into his hand. Looking down, he saw that Khan had given him a shiny silver cylinder. “Please notice that the detonator has a metal cap on it. When you are ready, flip the cap up with your thumb and press the red button underneath.”
“Is there anything else I need to know?” Hakeem asked.
“No, you are ready.”
“Then please leave me.”
Khan bowed slightly. “Very well. Ma’salaama.”
Hakeem nodded slightly without replying.
When the three men had left his room, Hakeem picked up his button-down shirt. He slid his arms through the sleeves and slowly did the buttons, staring absently at an inky scribble that had been etched in the richly finished dark wood of the dresser. A small, empty jewelry box had been strategically placed directly over the shaky red letters. But the movement of the vest on the dresser’s surface had shifted the disguise, revealing the blemish. Hakeem smiled weakly as he pictured a little girl running out of paper and, the need to express herself overwhelming her common sense, scribbling her name onto her parents’ prized bedroom set.
Oh, Alessandra…
“I have no time for this,” he said out loud and pulled a canvas barn jacket over his shirt. Turning, he examined his reflection in the mirrored sliding closet door. With the vest on, he looked like a man who a couple of years ago had traded in his barbells for Budweisers. Satisfied with the effect, Hakeem removed the jacket and sat down on the edge of the bed.
The vest was definitely heavy, but he’d be able to tolerate it. Although it would be just one bomb, the explosion would be big and devastating. Besides, this was not so much about the blast itself as it was about the where and when of the attack. Today, a dagger would be thrust into the heart of the American people, and hundreds of millions worldwide would know of the weakness of this once mighty nation.