Dead Line

by Jack Patterson

  The best thing Cal had going for him was that he was Diaz’s only collateral, the only way he could make a deal and get out of this situation. But someone pulled the trigger too early. Someone shot Diaz’s defenseless friend. Someone ruined Cal’s morning.

  The shoot out lasted no more than two minutes, but it felt longer to Cal. He lay on the ground for a few moments, paralyzed by fear. Then Diaz shoved him into the van. Cal curled up in the fetal position and took advantage of the steel-plated van’s armored exterior.

  As soon as the gunfire stopped, four men loaded into the van and it sped away without another shot fired. Cal didn’t care what was happening as long as everyone stopped shooting. He eventually mustered the courage to peek outside the van and saw the FBI’s tactical team watching the van leave without firing a shot. They let Diaz and his crew escape? The van bumped along the dirt road for about five minutes, making a handful of turns.

  Suddenly, the van skidded before slamming into a pair of SUVs, stopping. Cal tumbled near the front of the van and looked through the front windshield to see a half dozen men begin to spray the van with bullets using automatic weapons. He scrambled behind the driver’s seat and hugged the floorboard. The windshield shattered as the assailants riddled the van. Cal looked toward the back of the van and watched his captors heads and chests explode in a bloody mess before they could even fire a shot in the right direction. Dead bodies slumped all around him.

  Cal didn’t move. He didn’t want anyone to check the bodies and discover him still alive. Who knows what they might do to him? He didn’t breathe. Not until he heard the voices of a few men shouting in Spanish, car doors slamming, and the tires kicking up dust.

  Then Cal freaked.

  “Oh, my God! Oh, my God! I’m still alive!”

  Cal patted down his chest and thighs, looking for a bullet wound. Maybe he would have felt a bullet rip through his skin or maybe not. At the moment, his adrenaline coarsed so fiercely through his body he felt like he could’ve accomplished any unfathomable feat. His search for a bullet proved futile. He was alive, unscathed.

  Instinctively, Cal grabbed a handgun off one of the dead guards. He needed to get out of the van and get some place safe. Who knew if the attackers were coming back? Maybe they wanted some trophies or needed a head to hang from the overpass.

  Cal tucked the gun behind his back and crept up toward the front. He needed to see if there was anyone nearby. There wasn’t. He exited through the sliding door and crouched down as he walked. The prisoner had been shot from long range and who knew if someone still had a scope on the van. If there was ever a time to be cautious, this was it.

  As Cal peered around the corner of the van, he saw nothing familiar. Just more vast Mexico wasteland. More dusty desert. More canyon in the distance. A lone tree on the horizon and two roads leading in opposite direction to nowhere. Cal decided to start walking in the direction the van was pointed. It was obviously the way out. His mind felt jumbled from the chaos. Just walk.

  Cal ambled along the lonely road. He would have preferred to get off the road, perhaps walk in the ditch or disappear in the nearby woods. He didn’t want to be seen in the open. But there was nowhere to hide. Vast nothingness. If this was his day to die, only a cruel God would let him survive everything he had experienced in the past day or so only to be killed while walking along a dirt road. But maybe his part was done. Maybe the priest was right and God had used Cal—and now Cal’s time was up, his good deed done. But before Cal could plumb the depths of his own soul and contemplate his mortality and place in this world, he heard the roar of several car engines.

  Cal whirled around to see three black SUV’s speeding toward him, causing a small dust storm behind them. Instead of running, Cal chose to stand firm. Maybe the SUVs could give him a ride.

  Then Cal recognized the SUVs. He exhaled in relief. It was the FBI.

  CHAPTER 41

  “You all right?” Solterbeck asked Cal.

  Cal didn’t answer, staring down the road and toward the canyon.

  “Look, that’s not how it was supposed to go down.”

  Cal remained silent, his shock turning to anger.

  “I know you’re stunned about what just happened and you could’ve very easily died today. But you didn’t. Someone was looking out for you, Cal.”

  Finally, Cal spoke. “Yeah, well I know that someone wasn’t you. I could’ve died because one of your trigger happy agents decided to gun down the prisoner I was being swapped for.”

  “That’s not what happened.”

  “Oh, really? Then help me understand why you were raining down bullets on these men knowing full well I was with them.”

  “Something went wrong, but we were careful not to shoot you.”

  “Please, spare me. I wasn’t born yesterday. You got lucky you didn’t kill me—and you know it. You probably thought I was a ghost walking down the road.”

  “Things aren’t always as they seem.”

  “Well, it seemed like you were doing your best to get me killed, not really trade for my life.”

  “Look, the truth is nobody on my team took the shot that killed the prisoner we were trading.”

  “Then who did?”

  “Someone from a rival cartel.”

  “You mean to tell me another cartel found out about this swap and just happened to show up?”

  “They found out because we told them.”

  “You told them?”

  “Yes, we didn’t want word getting out that we would trade hostages for a cartel’s assassin in U.S. custody. So, we tipped off a rival cartel. One of their snipers obviously couldn’t wait to take him down. He murdered a lot of people. You understand that, right?”

  “So you invited them to the exchange?”

  “Well, we told them when and where this trade was taking place and that if they wanted to ambush Hernandez and his men, this would be a great opportunity to do it.”

  “Only problem is, Hernandez wasn’t there.”

  “Yeah, we realized that once we stopped and ID’d the bodies. Do you know where he is?”

  One of the FBI agents wandered over to check Cal for any possible injuries.

  “I’m not sure. But Diaz told me something interesting.”

  “Oh? What’s that?”

  “He said that someone hired Hernandez to do this.”

  “Did you find out anything else?”

  “I learned that Hernandez has an insurance plan. Not sure what that means, but that’s what one of the guys said.”

  “He was probably referring to you.”

  “I don’t think so. It seemed like he was talking about someone else.”

  “I haven’t heard reports of anything else happening.”

  “Well, how’s Kelly and Jake? Are they OK?”

  “Yeah. They’re fine. Jake is already back with Noah. Everything there is great.”

  “Good. And they weren’t hurt?”

  “Nope. A few scratches but nothing to speak of.”

  “Thank goodness.”

  “Look, I’m really sorry about today, Cal. I know you’re upset. But you’re alive. I appreciate all you’ve done this week to help get Jake back to his family. You’d make a great candidate for the FBI, you know?”

  Cal didn’t say anything. He stared off into the distance, still seething over another monumental government screw up that by some complete miracle didn’t result in him getting killed.

  The FBI agent finished inspecting Cal and released him. “He looks good to me.”

  Cal finally spoke. “There were a few moments where I wasn’t sure I was going to make it. But I did, no thanks to you.”

  “Again, I’m sorry, but I’m glad you’re alive and well. We still have a few more questions for you back at our office before we get you home.”

  Cal paused. “Look, I don’t mean to be a pain, but I really want to get back to Houston. I want to feel normal again, and I think the Super Bowl will help me do that. Can I answer your q
uestions tomorrow?”

  Solterbeck thought for a minute before relenting. “OK.”

  Cal heard a helicopter in the distance. It belonged to the FBI.

  Cal was going to the Super Bowl.

  CHAPTER 42

  CAL CHECKED HIS WATCH as he waited for the FBI plane. It was noon, five and a half hours to kickoff. Figuring in the 90-minute flight to Houston and the estimated two hours it would take him to get to his hotel and get cleaned up, Cal figured he might make it to the game with an hour to spare. Maybe it would be enough time to wander onto the field during warm-ups and say hello to Noah. Maybe.

  The events of the past two days shook Cal. He started to think about the way he could’ve died—gunshot to the head, run off the road and down into a canyon, beaten to death, thrown off a cliff, gunned down by masked assailants. But none of those things happened. Somehow, he fended off the knocks of the grim reaper. He refused to answer, denying the grave its pleasure. And while Cal’s desire to witness the Super Bowl felt superficial in the light of everything that happened, he needed to feel normal again, like this was just some bad dream. He needed to talk to Kelly.

  “Can I borrow your phone?” Cal asked Solterbeck.

  Solterbeck handed Cal his phone without saying a word.

  Cal dialed Kelly’s number.

  “Hello?” she asked.

  “Kelly, it’s me. I wanted to let you know I’m OK.”

  “Oh, Cal. I didn’t know what was going to happen to you. Someone from the FBI called me earlier and told me you were OK. I’ve been dying to talk to you.”

  “Let’s try to use some other metaphor, OK?”

  Kelly laughed. “Sorry. I know it’s a bit sensitive right now.”

  “You’re telling me.”

  “So what really happened after Jake and I escaped?”

  “Well, I didn’t. Hernandez tried to trade me for one of his assassins with the FBI.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “No. I wish I was.”

  “So that’s how you got free?”

  “Sort of. The FBI agreed to exchange me for the assassin, but then everything went wrong.”

  “What happened?”

  “According to the FBI, some rival cartel’s sniper shot the assassin during the exchange. One of Herandez’s men pulled me back and started a gunfight with the FBI. Then Hernandez’s men thought the FBI was trying to pull one over on them, I guess. So Hernandez’s men decided to keep me since I was their leverage, but a few miles down the road the rival cartel ambushed us. They killed everyone but me.”

  “Whoa! Why do you think they let you live?”

  “I think it’s because they thought I was dead. I pretended to be dead when they looked inside the van and they drove off. Eventually, the FBI picked me up.”

  “That’s messed up, but I’m so glad you’re OK, Cal.”

  “Me, too. It’s great just to hear your voice. What did you do after you escaped with Jake?”

  “Well, I called that number you made me memorize and I got someone at the FBI to pick us up.”

  “What was Jake like?”

  “Scared. He hardly said a word. But I could tell he felt safe.”

  “You did a good thing, Kelly. Making sure that kid got home to his mom and dad safely—he’ll remember you for the rest of his life.”

  “I’m not the only one he’ll remember.”

  “Yeah, well, we can only hope it doesn’t damage the kid psychologically for the rest of his life.”

  “No kidding.”

  “So, are you still going to the game?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it. You going to make it back in time?”

  “I hope so. I’ve got to get cleaned up at the hotel, but I plan to be there before it kicks off.”

  “Be safe, Cal, and I’m glad you’re OK.”

  “Thanks. You too. I’ll call you later tonight.”

  Cal hung up. He glanced at the television, already two hours into the six-hour pregame coverage of the Super Bowl. How long does it take to breakdown one football game? Cal thought.

  Airing on the television was a feature about the quarterbacks and a comparison between the two. Cal always thought comparing quarterbacks was the dumbest statistic ever reported by sports writers and sports broacasters. They are never even on the field at the same time! It was like trying to determine who was better: an English teacher or a History teacher. They both taught different subjects and would naturally go about their teaching differently—just like quarterbacks facing different opponents would go about their business differently. But every red-blooded American sports fan likes to compare things and rank who is better. Cal hated this practice since even the use of statistics are subjectively employed in determining who is the best.

  In the comparison story, Noah looked calm and relaxed on the screen. This had to be filmed before this week. Noah laughed as he recalled a story from playing youth football as a ten year old that started his legend in Beaumont, Texas. He threw a pass that was batted into the air, which he caught and then ran 50 yards for a touchdown. Throwing a touchdown pass to himself paled in comparison to the success he had in college at the University of Texas. He led the Longhorns to a national title, willing the team to victory in a championship game that went into triple overtime. The music in the background sounded heroic. It was the story of Noah’s football accomplishments—and his crowning achievement was within his grasp.

  Then the story shifted to Miami’s star quarterback, Hunter Newton. Undersized and underappreciated his whole life, Newton didn’t get any of the chances afforded to Noah. No big college scholarship offers. Only Murray State offered him a scholarship. He took it and made the most of it. Six years later, he had the Dolphins in the Super Bowl. The piece cast Newton as a player who never got any credit for his team’s good fortunes. In college, Murray State had two running backs rush for over a thousand yards. Newton just handed off to them. The reporter interviewed Newton’s dad as well, as he told stories of how no one ever thought his son was good enough. But Newton always proved them wrong. Once Newton made the Dolphins’ roster, he thought all the criticism would go away—but it didn’t. No one ever seemed to give the guy credit.

  Cal smiled. The feature story pitted two sides against each other in classic sports journalism style: good vs. evil. Entitled quarterback vs. gritty, hard-working quarterback. But Cal knew the truth. Noah was the reason the Seahawks were in the Super Bowl. The Dolphins were there because of their defense, not Newton. Everybody knew it. But the feature story tried to make you think there was some hidden drama. Nobody who knew anything about football would buy it.

  He stopped mulling over the piece he had just watched when he heard his name called.

  “Cal … Cal!” Solterbeck said.

  Solterbeck handed Cal his bag.

  “Cal, I can’t thank you enough for all you did. I’m really sorry everything went down like it did. That wasn’t supposed to happen.”

  “I know,” said Cal, taking his bag. “But everything worked out, right?”

  “Thankfully, it did. Let me know if you want any official FBI comments for that award-winning article you’re going to write.”

  “Will do. And thanks for getting me back for the game.”

  “Well, unfortunately, there have been some delays. The plane won’t get here for another three hours.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yeah, I’m sorry about that. Nothing I can do about it at this point.”

  Cal sighed and then huffed. You’d think after all I did, someone could get me to the game!

  He slumped in his chair, forcing himself to watch more meaningless pre-game Super Bowl coverage.

  CHAPTER 43

  NOAH LARSON STOOD IN THE TUNNEL with tears in his eyes. He knew everyone would be able to see, but he didn’t care. Maybe the announcers would use this as an opportunity to talk about his reputation as a soft quarterback. Or maybe they would use the visual as proof that the aging veteran’s dream
of playing in the Super Bowl had come true. But they would be wrong.

  Noah teared up because his family was safe. Some greedy people almost took one of the most precious things in his life for money. It made him sick. He had dreamed his whole life of playing in this game, walking out of the tunnel at this exact moment. He used to think this was what it was all about. But he had worshipped a lie. Difficult times have a funny way of revealing who we really are and what we really value. And Noah realized he didn’t value this. The Super Bowl. Being a sports hero. None of that mattered at all. In the greater context of life, it meant nothing. But Ellen and Jake? They were everything. He couldn’t wait to spend the rest of his life with them. No more practices. No more interviews. No more demands.

  His tears said good-bye to a life he once revered and hello to what mattered most to him.

  But even through his blurred vision, nothing clouded his final goal: winning the Super Bowl. He knew if he played his best, it would happen. Nothing would stop him. He would make Seattle throw another parade—the best one the city had ever seen—and then he would disappear.

  “Starting at quarterback for the Seattle Seahawks, number ten, Noah Larson.”

  The voice over the public address system echoed in Reliant Stadium as he ran through the fog and onto the field. Cheerleaders shook their pom-poms. The crowd roared. Highlights played on the jumbotron. His name flashed on the matrix boards.

  Noah met his teammates along the sideline at midfield. The testosterone in the team huddle could have powered the state of Rhode Island for a week. It was time to kick off.

  Noah took his place on the sideline for the kickoff as Zombie Nation’s “Kernkraft 400” pumped through the speakers. The stadium swayed. Flashbulbs popped. The game had begun.