Sunday, February 1
Rose Bowl Stadium
Pasadena, California
2:30 p.m. PST
“You know, today reminds me of my second PFL Cup down in Miami,” said ex-coach and current analyst Buddy Minter. His contribution to the ESPN expert panel was to tell a lot of pointless stories that rarely came to a conclusion. “Except Miami was a lot warmer and we were playing the Pittsburgh Miners-wait… If it was the Miners, then that would have been my third PFL Cup, and we would have been in the Galaxydome… No, I’m pretty sure-”
“Well, I’ll tell you what it doesn’t remind me of,” interrupted Willy Schaefer, former All-Pro defensive lineman for the Twin Cities Norsemen. Willy was the clown of the group, and his jokes were often as unintelligible as they were plentiful. “It doesn’t remind me of New York, New York. If the Rose Bowl had to last a New York winter, it’d never bloom! Ha, ha, ha!”
“You got that right,” agreed Warner Schab, a former major-league first baseman who had inexplicably made his way into the football analyst’s chair. Warner rarely had an opinion of his own; even his feature segment, “Warner’s Winners,” in which he predicted the results of the day’s games, was scripted by a staff writer.
Dale Dewey, ESPN lead analyst and the only one on the panel who really knew what he was doing, just shook his head. Dale had never thought he would miss his stints covering curling up in Ottawa for ESPN2. But from the moment he had been placed with these buffoons, he had been pining for the good old days. “Well, it’s definitely not New York. It’s a beautiful sunny day in Southern California. The people of Los Angeles are really taking advantage of this rare occurrence when the PFL Cup is not being played in a PFL city. This is a huge first salvo in the city’s battle for an expansion team.”
“Yeah, maybe they’ll call them the L.A. Can’t-Keep-a-Teams! They’ll play their games in U-Haul Stadium! Ha, ha, ha,” Willy said.
“See you later, alligator,” Warner added.
Having learned long ago to ignore most of what the rest of his team said, Dale continued, “And as you look around the sea of Liberty and Dragons jerseys, you’ll see an equal number of purple number-32 James Anderson jerseys, blue number-86 Sal Ricci jerseys, and many others wearing the Predator and Mustang colors.”
“Great show of support,” Willy agreed in a rare serious moment.
“Awesome,” Warner said.
Buddy looked like he was about to start a story, but a look from Dewey quickly shut him down. The lead analyst continued, “Security is extremely tight around the stadium, and the lines are unbelievably long. Each person entering the stadium is being individually checked.”
“Yeah, I’m still having trouble walking after my examination! Ha, ha, ha,” Willy interjected, pretending to shift uncomfortably in his seat.
“Ouch,” Warner empathized.
“You know, that reminds me of one time when I went to the doctor to-,” Buddy began.
Dale quickly jumped in. “Well, it looks like it’s shaping up to be an interesting game. The Liberty could be in for it this afternoon. Everyone’s going to be watching to see if they can recover from the loss of Matt Tayse due to that freak ankle injury coming off the bus.”
“First step’s a doozy! Ha, ha, ha!”
“No doubt.”
“You know, that reminds me of when we lost Ronde Jennings in the ’85 wild card game. The Dragons cleaned our clocks!”
“Interesting. Since this season’s Liberty have never been known as a passing team, a lot of the yeoman’s work is going to fall on the shoulders of Johnson Mige and the smallish Jesse Emrick. Mige could probably play lead back on most teams in the PFL, but Emrick’s still a big question mark.”
“I’m sorry to say, but I think the moment Emrick lifts his Bronx up, someone’s going to knock his Battery down! Ha, ha, ha!”
“New York, New York.”
“You know, he reminds me a bit of the great Wally Pearson, who, although he was slightly undersized at five-ten, still was able to lead the ’85 Chicago Stockmen to a 15-1 season and, despite being kept out of the end zone, was a significant factor in their 46-10 trouncing of the Boston Colonials in PFL Cup XX.”
Everyone was momentarily stunned into silence by the unexpected appropriateness of Buddy’s story. “What?” Buddy asked, looking around.
Dale regained his composure and said, “So, on to ‘Keys to the Game.’ Willy Schaefer?”
“The Dragons know that their defense has the advantage, so it’s going to be up to the offense to put some points up. The Liberty have to hope that they’ll be able to find a running lane through the mighty Dragons defensive line. If they can, then they’ll bring the Dragons crashing down off of their skyscraping beanstalk! Ha, ha, ha!”
“Yeah, like Jack.”
Dale tried unsuccessfully to hide his eye roll. “Warner, what’s your key to the game?”
Warner, caught off guard by being asked a direct question, quickly consulted his prepared sheets. “I think we’re going to see a powerful defensive battle. Every point won will be a point earned. Every defensive stand will bring a team one step closer to victory. My prediction is that whoever scores first will finish last. Wait-” he looked back down at his paper-“I mean whoever scores last will finish first.”
For the hundredth time, Dale wished that the network would fire Warner and put his writer on the panel instead. “What about you, Buddy? What’s your key to the game?”
“You know, this game reminds me of PFL Cup XXVIII, which was held in the two-year-old, beautifully constructed, $214 million Delta Dome down in Hot-lanta. The Texas Outlaws soundly defeated the Buffalo Barrelriders by a score of 30-13. Interestingly enough, that was the only time in PFL history that the same two teams met in the PFL Cup two years in a row.” Buddy turned back to Dale.
The twenty-year broadcast veteran, after vainly trying to formulate some sort of response, threw it to commercial.
3:15 p.m. PST
“How’s Hakeem going to do it?” Scott’s frustration level had been steadily increasing over the past few hours. He wasn’t used to being stumped. “He didn’t plant explosives or anything prior to the game; the dogs have been over every inch of this stadium. He can’t come in on the ground; the gates are too heavily secured for that. He can’t come in from the air; besides it being impossible because of our defenses, it would be just plain silly. We’ve even got defenses that would intercept any rockets or missiles. And the Secret Service has checked and confirmed that no underground tunnels have been dug, as ridiculous as that possibility sounds.”
“Maybe when he realized he had tipped his hand to Riley and that Riley had escaped, he called off the strike,” suggested Khadi, who was sitting across the small square table from Scott. Riley and Hicks occupied the other two sides.
Riley shook his head. “That’s not Sal. His knowing that I know makes it even more likely that he’ll go through with it. You can chalk it up to male competitive spirit or whatever, but Sal’s going to hit today. I’m sure of it.”
“But how?” Scott’s theme resonated through the room. Silence answered his question.
Finally Riley said, “I think he’s going to walk right in.”
“Sorry, Pach, there’s no way. Or if somehow he does make it in, he’ll be carrying nothing more than a squirt gun.”
“No, Riley’s right, Weatherman,” Hicks chimed in. “Hakeem’s coming in on the ground. I don’t know how or where, but he’s walking in-and he’s walking in fully loaded.”
3:23 p.m. PST
Hakeem confidently walked through the gate. No one questioned him. No one searched him. No one even gave him a second look. No one notices a dead man-a ghost floats where he wants. The Cheetah stalks silently and, before you know it, makes his kill.
Now that he was through the gates, he slowed down. There was no rush anymore. The hard part was over; now it was a waiting game.
Hakeem’s doubts had faded as he made the drive. He had always believed he could do what needed to be done. His biggest struggle was with whether he should do what needed to be done. Finally all questions had been trumped by the realization that he must do what needed to be done. He must do it for himself, for his family, for his people, for his posterity. America needed to be dealt with, and no matter what Riley Covington said, there was morality and justice in what he was doing.
He looked at the crowd around him. Everyone was so excited. For many, being here was a dream come true-and many others around America doubtless wished they could be here as well. That was why what he was about to do would hurt so much.
When a dream dies, it kills part of the soul.
That was Hakeem’s mission: the death of a dream. The Cheetah, dead man walking, killer of souls.
Hakeem smiled.
3:50 p.m. PST
Blood dripped onto his white pants and turned black as it spread to the green stripe that ran down the outside of his thigh. But Emrick didn’t even notice the small chunk that had been taken out of his elbow-at least until he was sitting on the bench and a trainer ran up, cleaned the wound off, and slapped a large bandage on it.
Emrick was feeling too good to notice any pain. He looked up at the scoreboard: Liberty 7; Dragons 0.
Six of those points are mine, he exulted.
The Liberty offense had driven slowly down the field to the Dragons’ 34 yard line. It was third and eight. Emrick had lined up in the backfield at the halfback position, then run a pass route that swept across the middle before he suddenly broke downfield. The ball had reached his hands when he was at the 28 yard line, and he had just kept running. One quick juke and a wicked forearm later, he was in the end zone.
It might only be the first quarter, but Emrick had the feeling that today was his day.
4:05 p.m. PST
Riley, Khadi, Scott, and Hicks sat silently around the table deep in the heart of the Rose Bowl stadium; Skeeter guarded the door. Frustration was leading to desperation. Every muffled cheer from the crowd above sent a knife into Riley’s heart. He wondered how many people out there-and in here, for that matter-were going to die because of his failure. It didn’t make sense. Did I really hear Sal say what I thought I heard him say? Or was I so anxious to beat him at his own game that I read into his words?
Riley shook the doubts from his head. He had gone over his conversation with Hakeem word for word with Hicks, Scott, and Khadi, and they all agreed with him. Sal had made it very clear that his next target was the PFL Cup. But why? Why would he have been so forthright with his intentions? Did he actually intend to have me killed after al-’Aqran was released? And wouldn’t he have known that I would try to signal something to my team? He’s a smart guy. Could he have made that big of a blunder? Was it a blunder?
The silence in the room was so intense that when Riley’s cell phone rang, it caused Khadi to start, Scott to tip over in his already precariously positioned chair, and Skeeter to draw his weapon. Riley looked at the caller ID-Meg Ricci. He silenced the phone. “Sorry, guys.”
A few moments later, the phone began ringing again. Again the caller ID showed Meg Ricci. Again Riley silenced the ring.
A minute passed, and then the phone began to ring once more.
“Just answer it!” Scott and Khadi said simultaneously.
Riley picked up the phone and flipped it open. “Meg, now is not-”
“Riley, I have to talk to you.” Meg sounded frantic.
“Can it wait for a few-?”
“Riley, please!” There was fear in her voice, and she sounded like she was about to hyperventilate.
Riley got up from the table and walked to a corner of the small room. “Sure, Meg, of course. Take a breath, and then tell me what’s going on.”
Riley heard Meg take a couple of deep breaths, obviously trying to regain her composure. When she began to speak again, the frantic tone had come down a few notches, but the fear was still strong. “I… I was cleaning out some of Sal’s stuff. I know it’s probably too soon, but I just couldn’t handle looking at it day in and day out. Does that make me a bad person?”
“No, of course not. Everyone handles grief differently. But what’s got you all worked up?”
“Well, I was in our closet pulling out the shoes he never wore. He’d buy shoes, wear them once, and then just throw them back in the corner. Anyway, I pulled out a pair from the corner and noticed a bump in the carpet. I tried to smooth it out, because we’ve had trouble with this carpet ever since we put it in last year, remember?”
“Right, right. So what was it?” Riley asked, trying to move her along. He remembered Sal telling him once that Meg tended to ramble when she was upset.
“So, I try to smooth it out, but it won’t smooth. I feel the bump and realize there’s something under the carpet. It was a key, Riley. A key to a safe-deposit box. And along with the key were three small pieces of paper with what looks like Arabic writing on them.”
Riley felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. He rushed to the table. “Meg, I’m here with some friends. I think they need to hear what you might have to say. Do you mind if I put you on speakerphone?”
Meg hesitated for a moment. “Do you have to? I mean, this is personal stuff and…”
“Please, Meg. This could be very, very important.”
“Okay, okay. But first I need to know. Was Sal caught up in anything bad… you know, before he was… before he passed away?”
“I’ll tell you what. When I get back to Denver, I’ll come over and tell you everything I know. Right now, I need to hear what you’ve discovered. So, speakerphone?”
“Okay.”
Riley pressed the button that changed the mode of the cell phone. “Meg, I’m here with Jim Hicks, Scott Ross, and Khadi Faroughi.”
Scott said, “Hey, Meg.”
Khadi said, “Hi, Meg. I’m so sorry about your loss.”
Hicks said nothing.
“So, Meg, you were telling me about a key to a safe-deposit box that you found and some Arabic notes.”
The others turned to Riley, shock on their faces. He nodded to them and gestured with his hand for them to keep it cool.
“Hi, everyone. So… well, I took this key to our bank yesterday. I’ve been up all night with this, Riley. I was trying to decide whether I should call you or not.”
“You did the right thing. So you went to the bank…”
“Right, I went to the bank-I figured Sal wouldn’t have minded and all-and they took me back to the safe-deposit boxes. The key fit one of them, and they pulled it out and put me in a private room. I’m so glad they did, because… I mean, I couldn’t believe what I found.”
“What was it?” Riley asked.
“Money. More than $250,000 in cash. There was also some Mexican money-you know, pesos and stuff-and euros. There was also a… a…”
“Go on,” Khadi encouraged.
“There was a gun-a loaded gun. Why would he have a loaded gun and thousands of dollars in a safe-deposit box, Riley?” The pace of her words was steadily increasing.
“Keep calm, Meg. Was there anything else?” Riley asked.
“A couple of papers. They look like sketches or something. One of them was of Platte River Stadium.”
“Do you have the papers with you?” Scott called out. “Did they have any writing on them?”
“Riley, what’s going on?” Meg asked, her fear growing even greater.
“Please, Meg, I promise I’ll explain everything later. Do you have the papers with you?”
“They’re right here.”
“Are there any markings on the Platte River Stadium drawing?” Scott asked.
“Yeah, there are some Xs… Let me see… one, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Seven Xs. Wait a second! There were seven bombers-that’s what they said on the news about Platte River Stadium the night Sal was killed. I know because he was killed by the seventh bomber!” Franticness had returned and replaced the fear in Meg’s voice. “Riley, was Sal somehow involved in the bombings?”
“Calm down, Meg,” Riley said.
“Calm down? Don’t you tell me to calm down! How can I calm down? Was Sal some sort of suicide bomber who killed himself at Platte River Stadium? Is that what you’re saying?” Meg was shouting now.
“Meg! Stop!” Riley yelled. Meg stopped talking, but her shallow, rapid breathing could be heard clearly through the phone’s speaker. “First of all, promise me that when you hang up this phone you will gently pick up Alessandra and the two of you will go next door to Jill’s house. Do you promise me?”
Hicks was motioning for Riley to get on with it.
Riley waved him off. “Meg, promise me!”
“Okay, Riley,” Meg said softly. She was crying now, and her words came between sobs.
“Now, I’m sorry, but I need to know if there were any other papers in there.”
“Yes, I’m looking at one now. It’s got a circle in the middle, then lines going off the circle. They look like… I don’t know… like spokes or something.”
“Doesn’t sound like the Rose Bowl,” Scott said to Riley.
“Rose Bowl? Are you at the PFL Cup, Riley? Is someone planning to-?”
“Never mind that. Is there anything else on the paper?”
Riley heard a new note of icy resolve in Meg’s voice. She spoke rapidly and matter-of-factly. “There are four small Xs on the paper. One near the end of each of the lines. Each X has two letters next to it-the first has CC, the second AL, the third MT, and the fourth TL. Then there’s a pointy arrow-like a pyramid with no bottom. And then right in the middle is a square with some pointy-ended rectangles jutting out the top. The only other thing is a big X down below the square, about halfway between the square and the bottom of the last line.”
“Is there anything else? Anything at all?” Riley asked.
“No, that’s it. Please, Riley, please tell me what’s going on.” Her resolve quickly disappeared again into fear and sorrow.
“I have to go now. You’re going to have to trust me that I’ll give you all the answers soon. Now go get Aly, and go to your neighbors’.”
“Please, Riley…”
“Meg, I’m sorry. Now do what I asked you!” Riley hung up the phone feeling like a total jerk for speaking to her that way. He turned to Scott.
But Scott was already zoned out.
Scott’s eyes were closed as he brought up a mental image of the paper Meg Ricci had just described.
A square with pointy rectangles… missiles?… He could be planning to hit a missile silo, but what good would that do?… Overtaking a missile silo and launching-impossible; that stuff only happens in old Frank Zagarino movies.
Xs with initials: CC, AL, MT, and TL. AL and MT could be state abbreviations, but what about the others? “Khadi, start googling combinations of those letter pairs,” Scott called out of his haze, and Khadi quickly went to work on the Toughbook.
So, scratch missiles… Pointy rectangles… Washington Monument… skyscrapers… turrets… turrets coming out of a square… or towers… Yeah, towers out of a square… a castle… Yeah, okay, good call; he’s probably going to hit one of the many southern California castles.
Scott took a deep pull on his Yoo-hoo without opening his eyes. Focus, focus! A church? Unlikely… and it doesn’t have the layout for a broadcasting zone… What if it is a castle… maybe a replica of some kind?… A castle next to a pyramid… Las Vegas? No, that dead border coyote points to Hakeem being in L.A., not Nevada… Is it a movie studio?
“Somebody call Tara and tell her to have her minions check for a studio lot that might have a castle and a pyramid on it,” Scott said as he blindly tossed his phone toward anyone who would catch it. “Speed dial 6!”
But a studio isn’t big enough… Not a pyramid… maybe a tent… A castle next to a tent? Sounds like a So-Cal used car lot… Not a tent… Maybe the pyramid’s a mountain… A castle next to a mountain?
Abruptly Scott’s eyes opened. “Oh no,” he said out loud. “Khadi, give me the computer!”
Scott typed a couple of words, tap-tap-tapped the backspace, corrected his typing. Everyone gathered around the screen, then gasped as they saw what he had brought up.
He pointed to an illustrated map as he read off the locations. “CC… to the left up here; AL… below it over here; MT… up top here; and TL… over on the far right. Folks, Hakeem’s not coming to the PFL Cup. We were set up. He’s gone to Disneyland.”