by Tripp Ellis
Ryan cringed.
Nichols peeled himself from the ground and staggered back to the line of scrimmage. He looked dazed, as anyone would be. He had just gotten hit by a freight train.
Barnes called another play. Another snap, and Nichols was back in the pocket. Curtis was open on the right side of the field and Nichols lofted the ball in the air. Just as the the ball left his fingertips he was steamrolled again by #89.
The ball arced through the air, but came up short—intercepted by the Wolverines. That was it. They ran out the clock, and the game was over.
Ryan slammed his helmet against the ground. The team sulked off the field. There goes the undefeated season, and the championship, Ryan thought. He glared at Barnes.
“This one’s on you,” Barnes said as he strolled toward the locker room. "Maybe you'll learn to follow the plays I call."
Ryan bit his tongue. Going off on the coach wasn't going to do any good. He looked at the scoreboard one last time—the sight of it burned in his mind. He knew he could have won if he had just gotten back on the field. You can win a hundred games, but it’s the one loss that sticks with you.
Ryan ambled to the locker room with the rest of the team. The mood was somber and hardly a word was said by anyone. The entire coaching staff ripped into the team about discipline and tenacity. About what an embarrassment they were.
Afterwards, Ryan showered and changed into street clothes. Kendall was waiting for him outside the locker room. She was gorgeous. Everything you’d want your high school girlfriend to be. Perky, smart, and fun. She had blonde hair, blue eyes, and olive skin. Mesmerizing curves. She excelled at academics and she knew exactly how she wanted her life to unfold. She had plans for her life with Ryan—nothing was going to derail her idea of what their future would look like.
Kendall gave Ryan a hug and kiss on the cheek. “Are you okay? I was so worried about you."
“I'm fine.” He held up his cast. "You like my stylish accessory."
“Casts were so last year," she joked.
“I only have to wear it a few days. Then I'll be good as new.”
Ryan was too preoccupied with Kendall to pay attention to the man lurking behind him, following him into the parking lot.
8
Ryan
“Excuse me, Ryan Hunter?"
Ryan craned his neck back at the man following behind him.
“Mike McMahon,” the man said, extending his hand. He was wearing a suit and tie, and had a beaming smile.
Ryan shook his hand. His eyes lit up as he recognized the name. “You used to play for the Vipers.”
“Guilty as charged.” Mike smiled.
“Nice to meet you.”
“Likewise. Great game. Too bad you got taken out at the end. I have the utmost confidence that you would've pulled out a victory."
“Can you tell my coach that?”
Mike chuckled. "He was just probably trying to protect his star athlete."
Ryan scoffed.
"Do you have a minute to talk? I'm a recruiter with the Citadel Ravens.”
Ryan shrugged. "Yeah, sure.”
He handed Ryan his card. It was a translucent piece of smart glass. All you had to do was swipe the card to activate it, then press the connect button on the display and it would call Mike.
“Are you hungry? I bet you worked up an appetite after a game like that. How about a real steak dinner, my treat?”
Ryan exchanged a glance with Kendall.
“No obligation. Just hear what I have to say.”
“Yeah, sure. I guess,” Ryan said.
"How about Marco’s? It's just around the corner."
Ryan's eyes went wide. Marco’s was one of the premier restaurants in the city. And it wasn't cheap. "Yeah, Marco's is good."
Mike smiled. "I figured you'd find that acceptable. You got a car here?”
Ryan nodded.
“Great. I'll meet you there."
Ryan and Kendall strolled through the parking lot to Ryan’s car and drove to the restaurant. It was an old Predator that he had restored to perfection. A pure Federation muscle car.
Kendall tried to bite her tongue, but it didn’t take long for her to speak her mind. “We talked about this.”
“What? It’s just dinner.”
“You need to get your education.”
“What are you, my mother?”
Her eyes narrowed at him. “I’m just trying to look out for us. 78% of all PFL players are either broke, or commit suicide, within 2 years of leaving league.”
Ryan scoffed. “Not going to happen to me.”
“That’s what they all say.”
They pulled up to the valet stand at Marco’s. An attendant opened their doors and took the vehicle.
Parked up front, by the entrance, were exotic cars that cost a fortune. De Lucas, Königs, Bianchis. Mike was waiting for them inside, and the maître d' escorted them to a special table that Mike had reserved. He had clearly planned this in advance. They didn't have to wait at all, even though there was a sizable list.
The lighting was dim and the hushed murmur of quiet conversation filled the air, along with glasses clinking and silverware against ceramic plates. Everything about the decor screamed expensive. A wonderful aroma filled the air. Ryan caught a whiff of various meals as he walked through the restaurant. Tenderloin, roast chicken, grilled salmon.
“Everything here is real. Nothing is artificial or synthetic,” Mike said.
Real food was hard to come by. Most of what you ate on a daily basis was synthetic food from processors. Even if you could get real beef, it was likely grown in a genetics lab. But not at Marco's. They only served real, certified, 100% Angus. And the cost of a steak was more than most people made in a month.
A waiter handed out menus and went over the specials. Ryan's eyes bulged at the price list. He came from a family of modest means and had never eaten in a restaurant of this caliber.
“Like I said, anything you want. I'm buying," Mike said.
“If you say so. I’ve gotta warn you, I have a healthy appetite.”
Mike smiled. “Trust me, I know how many calories it takes to sustain a football team.”
Ryan looked over the menu and ordered a bacon wrapped filet, medium rare, with a side of herb roasted potatoes and sautéed mushrooms. Kendall ordered the same, but she wanted her steak medium, no bacon. You couldn’t come to Marco’s an not get a steak. They we’re known for it. Of course, if you were vegetarian, they had a synthetic steak made of vegetable product that was almost indistinguishable. Almost.
The sumptuous meal was cooked to perfection. Ryan and Kendall ate their fill. It felt like they were bursting at the seams.
“I know you’re getting scouted by various colleges right now. But I want you to consider skipping college, for now, and playing for the PFL.”
Kendall seemed a little thrown by the suggestion.
“My dad’s pretty sold on the whole college thing.”
“By all means, go to college. I'm not suggesting that you don't go. I'm just suggesting to switch the timing.”
Ryan took a deep breath.
“Just hear me out. So you go to college and play ball. That's four years. Anything can happen in four years. You can get an injury that sidelines you for the rest of your career.”
Ryan grimaced.
“We think you've got what it takes to make it in the league now. And we want you to come play for the Ravens.”
“I thought you couldn't jump straight from high school to the pros?" Ryan said.
“There's been a rule change this year. You'd be eligible as soon as you turn 18.”
Ryan pondered this for a moment. "I'll be honest, the thought of playing pro ball is appealing. But I've kind of got my eye on joining the Navy.”
Kendall’s face twisted up. It was clear she didn't like either idea very well, the Navy least of all. "He's going to college." Her tone was absolute and final.
Ryan arched an eyebrow
at her, almost wondering when he lost the ability to speak for himself.
“You don't want to join the Navy. Nothing against serving the Federation, but an athlete like you doesn’t need to be stuck aboard a ship patrolling the outer colonies. Were talking the PFL here. We've got fans all across the galaxy. You would be a superstar."
Ryan couldn’t help but grin at the thought.
Kendall’s narrow eyes and tight lips betrayed the fact that she didn't like the direction of this conversation. Not one single bit.
“I was thinking about joining the Reapers.” He knew saying it was going to piss Kendall off even further. They had numerous conversations about it and none of them ever ended well.
“Those guys are bad asses, no doubt,” Mike said. “But the pay isn’t quite the same, now is it?”
Ryan smirked.
“And no one shoots at you in the PFL. Just something to keep in mind.”
“He’s going to college,” Kendall reiterated.
Mike smiled. “Nobody’s asking you to make a decision today. Take some time, think about it. I can have a formal offer to you Monday. Look it over and weigh your options.”
“We need to have a serious talk about the direction this relationship is going in,” Kendall said on the ride home. Her arms were folded and she had a look on her face like she smelled something bad.
“I think it’s going in a good direction,” Ryan stammered, “don’t you?” He hoped he could play dumb and diffuse the situation.
“No, I don’t.”
Ryan sighed. “Do we really have to do this now? I mean, we lost the game. I’ve got a broken arm. I don’t feel like arguing.”
“This isn’t an argument. It’s a discussion.” Kendall huffed. “What kind of relationship is this if we can’t have a discussion?”
“Okay. Fine. Let’s talk.”
“What happens if you get hurt?”
“I’m not going to get hurt.”
“You don’t know that.”
“The doctors will fix me.”
“Players still get career ending injuries.”
“I like your optimism.”
Kendall scowled at Ryan's sarcastic response. “Let’s talk about your other career choice. You want to run off and kill bad guys, but what if you get killed.”
“You keep focusing on the negative.”
“I’m trying to look at all the angles. Have you even taken a moment to think about how certain scenarios might affect me?”
Ryan fumbled for words and finally just shrugged.
“I’m trying to get you to think this through. I don’t want our kids to grow up without a father.”
“You’re not preggers, are you?” Ryan looked panic stricken.
Kendall huffed again. “No. But what if I were?”
There was a long silence.
“Look, if you want to play pro football, or join the Navy, fine. Go do it. But you’re going to do it without me.” She dropped the bomb just as they pulled up to her house.
“Kendall…”
“I’m serious. I love you, Ryan, but you’ve got to decide what’s more important to you.” She flung open her door and stepped out. She slammed the door shut, rattling the car. Ryan watched her stroll up the walkway and slip inside. He felt like he had been punched in the gut.
9
Emma
“Are you up to this?” John Graham asked.
Emma nodded. But her face betrayed a hint of trepidation. It had been several months since the bombing. Her leg had healed, but every now and then she’d get a twinge of pain and lose strength in the leg. It was probably an injury that would haunt her for the rest of her life. But at this rate, that wasn’t going to be very long.
She was decked out in full tactical gear. Black helmet, armor, and fatigues. She gripped an RK 909 assault rifle. Emma was surrounded by a squad of Navy Reapers. They huddled in the stairwell of a luxury high-rise apartment complex, weapons in the low ready position. The slightest sound echoed off the white antiseptic walls. They were at the East 37th floor landing. The black metal staircase seem to spiral down to infinity.
A few days after the initial attack, Jason Kaplan had been found in a seedy motel. He was face down on the bed in a pool of blood with two, 22 caliber rounds to the back of the head. It seemed someone didn’t want him talking.
“This your first breach?" one of the Reapers asked Emma.
“First civilian breach. This was old hat in Razurvan.”
The Reaper’s eyes lit up, impressed. “You were in Razurvan? Hard core. So you’re already addicted?” He had a sly grin on his face. From the glint in his eyes, you could tell he just loved this shit. Petty Officer Buck Shaw was from New Arkansas and had a slight southern twang in his voice. He was early 20s with sandy blonde hair and blue eyes. Never met a stranger. To look at him out of uniform, you’d never think he was a stone cold killer.
“I’m Buck Shaw,” he said, pointing out the team. “That’s Colton Hunter. Short stuff is Bobby Romanko. The LT is Scott Logan.” One by one they nodded at her.
“Pleasure to meet you all, gentlemen.”
“Prepare to be shocked and awed,” Buck said with a grin.
Emma rolled her eyes.
The UIA worked closely with the Reapers on covert operations. The UIA would dream up the mission, and the Reapers would execute. They were the go to Special Operations Force. This mission clearly fell under the jurisdiction of the Federal Security Bureau, but the UIA never liked to share jurisdiction or deal with inter-agency politics. Plus the suspect was considered an enemy combatant—he was no longer a citizen in the eyes of the UIA.
Graham gave the signal.
Lieutenant Logan, whispered into his comm link, “Echo 2-2, this is 2-1… GO. GO. GO.”
“Copy that,” the 2-2 squad leader replied.
Logan had dark hair, dark eyes, and a square jaw. His eyes were focused. Dead serious. He pulled his tactical smart-goggles down from his helmet and pushed through the steel fire doors, spilling into the corridor. Emma and John followed after the team. The Reapers advanced through the art deco hallway with tactical precision. From the west stairwell, 2nd squad flowed down the hallway. The two teams met outside room 3719.
The tac goggles gave the Reapers the option of multiple viewing modes—night vision, digital zoom, and thermal imaging, among others. The goggles were networked and could exchange information between users. You could switch views and see through the eyes of your teammates, if need be.
On thermal, Logan could see two figures inside the apartment.
Colton Hunter placed a small charge around the door’s locking mechanism. Logan gave the signal, and Colton detonated the charge. A thunderous bang, and a blinding flash. The Reapers kicked open the door and tossed a flash-bang grenade down the entrance foyer. They stormed through the swirling smoke and haze into the apartment. It was a standard breach and clear operation.
It all happened in a flash. The two occupants were sitting on the couch. A young woman leapt up and grabbed an assault rifle. She slung the barrel around, taking aim.
Logan pumped two silent rounds into her chest. Crimson blood spewed from the holes in her torso. The woman tumbled back to the ground. She managed to squeeze off two rounds on the way down. She crashed to the floor and gurgled as her lungs filled with fluid. She gasped for her last breath and her body went limp.
As she fell, her weapon clattered against the floor and discharged once more, shattering a glass coffee table, spraying shards of glass over the hardwood floors. She was a pretty young girl and couldn't have been more than 22 or 23. She wasn’t the primary target.
It was hard to say which bullet hit Colton Hunter. whichever one it was, it had bad luck written all over it. The copper round snapped across the apartment. It missed Colton's vest, skimming over the protective collar piece. It drilled into the left side of his neck, ripping open his carotid artery. Chunks of flesh and blood spewed across the room. With each heartbeat, Colton's life forc
e poured out of him. He had bled out within seconds of hitting the floor.
The man on the couch produced a black Bösch- Hauer pistol. But before he got a shot off, Clint shot the man in the forearm. The bullet impacted the man’s radius, shattering it. Bits of blood and bone splattered. His median nerve was severed, and the pistol fell from his hand, clattering across the floor.
He screamed in agony as blood spurted from the gaping wound that had turned his forearm to hamburger. White bone protruded through the gnarly flesh.
The Reapers quickly surrounded him. Angry gun barrels stared him in the face.
Lieutenant Logan saw that Hunter was down and called the corpsman. Hospitalman Eric Anthony dashed to Hunter. He put pressure on the wound and checked his vitals, but Colton had already slipped away. The corpsman’s blue nitrile gloves were coated in dark blood that almost looked like chocolate syrup.
The suspect was still screaming in agony.
The corpsman peeled off his gloves and slipped on a new pair and attended to the wound. He placed a tourniquet around the suspect’s arm, then applied GS gel (a biopolymer foam that excelled at plugging gunshot wounds in the field). The gel contained an antibiotic, a numbing medication, and a regenerative compound. Once the wound was sealed, the corpsman removed the tourniquet and gave the suspect a shot of pain medication.
The mood in the room was grim. A cloud of gun smoke hovered in the air.
A Reaper slapped some flexible cuffs around the suspect’s wrists, causing extreme discomfort. The perp’s face crinkled as he winced with pain. His eyes filled and he wept, partially from pain, partially from the sight of the dead girl’s body lying on the floor in a pool of dark blood. The suspect’s name was Tim Barton, and his world had suddenly collapsed.
2nd squad cleared the rest of the condo. “Jackpot,” one of them yelled upon entering a spare bedroom. “We’ve got assault rifles, RPG's, and thermal grenades.”
“Police up the contraband and tag it as evidence,” Logan said.
