Dead Line

by Jack Patterson

  * * *

  CAL GREW AGITATED over the fact that the game had kicked off and he wasn’t there to see it.

  “I can’t believe the FBI has a private jet that doesn’t have a television in it,” Cal grumbled.

  “We do,” said one of his accompanying agents. “Just not this one.”

  Cal sighed in disgust.

  “We do have wireless internet. You could probably listen to the game on your smart phone.”

  “Yeah, that’d be great—if I had it. Some kid stole it while I was in Juarez.”

  “Here use mine,” the agent said, handing Cal his phone.

  Cal thanked him and took his phone.

  “Not a sports fan?”

  “Oh, I am. But I like the Raiders. It’s been a while since I’ve cared about the Super Bowl.”

  Cal laughed as he searched for an app to follow the game. He found one and began listening.

  Larson drops back to pass. He’s got Hayes wide open on the far sideline. Hayes makes the catch at the 40. He makes a move. 35, 30, 25. One man to beat. Hayes with the stiff arm and he’s going to take it in for a touchdown. A 55-yard touchdown pass from Larson to Hayes and the Seahawks have the lead.

  Cal smiled and pumped his fist in a reserved fashion.

  One of the agents looked at him and smiled back. “Did somebody score?”

  “Yeah, the Seahawks did on a long touchdown pass.”

  “Nice.”

  Brandon Gomez on for the extra point. The kick is up and … it’s wide right! The hold looked good, but Gomez hooked it. But the Seahawks still lead 6-0 with 3:15 to go in the first quarter.

  Cal shook his head. The Seahawks had only missed two extra points all year. This was not the time for Gomez to get the yips. But at least Noah Larson seemed sharp.

  Listening intently to the game, Cal imagined each scene painted by the announcer. Nothing happened for the next several minutes in the game as the teams traded punts. Then the Dolphins scored on a 20-yard touchdown run midway through the second quarter to take a 7-6 lead.

  Cal felt the sweat start to bead up on his forehead. He was supposed to be unbiased, an objective observer, a reporter being the eyes and ears for people in the most watched and listened to game of the year. But this was his team, the Seahawks. Outside of Steve Largent and Cortez Kennedy, Seattle didn’t have a history of great players. Plenty of great players wrapped up their careers with the Seahawks, but they didn’t start and finish there. They epitomized milk toast. Some success but nothing to make people take notice.

  And that’s why Noah Larson leading the team to the Super Bowl held special meaning for Seahawks fans. Larson was drafted by the Seahawks and had played his entire career there; a man determed to win a title for the franchise and city. It was a quest ten years in the making.

  So despite everything he had been taught about remaining objective, Cal just couldn’t. He wanted the Seahawks to win more than anything. He wanted it as a fan. He wanted it as a sports writer. This was the kind of story he wanted to write about. And in an unlikely way, Cal played a big role in making sure they actually had a chance to win. Cal thought about his extended family and what a big deal a Super Bowl win would mean to them. They all toiled with this team through both the good and the bad. They had their hearts broken before. But it was going to be different this time. This time, the Seahawks were going to win. At least that’s what Cal wrote. Maybe it was his professional opinion; maybe it wasn’t. No one would know. Picking the Super Bowl winner was never easy and if he was wrong, none of his readers would complain.

  As the plane began to descend, Cal lost his wi-fi connection. He handed the phone back to the agent and prepared for the landing.

  Cal’s stomach was in knots. The Seahawks were playing in the Super Bowl and he was in a private jet. Get me out of here and to the stadium! Cal clamped his hands down on the arm rest. The game frayed his nerves more than landing did. He couldn’t wait to leap from his seat and begin listening to the game again.

  The tires barked as the plane made contact with the tarmac. Cal let out a sigh of relief as the nose tilted down to a safe position and the plane slowed to a creep.

  Once the plane stopped, Cal thanked the pilots and the rest of the agents on board and sprinted toward the stairway leading him to ground transportation. He needed a cab and fast.

  Instead of his normal game of people watching, Cal focused on a single goal: getting in a car and back to his hotel and then to the game before it was over. He still needed to look somewhat presentable. A fresh shower would help him feel better, not to mention make him socially acceptable again. The stench emanating from his body was beginning to bother even him.

  Curbside at the airport, Cal flagged down a cab driver. He decided to keep his small bag with him instead of putting it in the trunk.

  The cab driver spoken broken English. Cal couldn’t place his accent exactly, but he guessed it was somewhere in Eastern Europe.

  “Are you from Bosnia?” Cal asked.

  “Close. Moldova,” he replied. His accent may have been broken but he understood Cal just fine.

  “What’s the score?” Cal asked, immediately recognizing the familiar radio announcer’s voice as he slid into the backseat.

  “14-13, Dolphins,” the driver answered.

  Cal sighed but said nothing.

  “Missing an extra point? That’s a disgrace!”

  The cabbie’s comment shocked Cal. He struck Cal as more of a soccer fan, not American football.

  “Do you know how much time is left?” Cal asked.

  “It’s halftime.”

  Down by a point at halftime. The Seahawks could still pull out a win. At least I don’t have to endure Brittany singing at halftime.

  The cab driver turned the radio up and Brittany wailed out her auto-tuned lyrics to “Toxic.”

  Cal moaned. He figured he would be at the stadium in time for the fourth quarter.

  CHAPTER 44

  “ARE YOU SURE THAT’S HIM?” Longshore asked, pointing at the mystery guest now engrossed in the game as the second half kicked off.

  “No doubt about it,” replied the security agent.

  “Well, there’s no crime in what he’s done, but the whole thing makes me nervous.”

  “People mortgage their homes when they sense a sure bet. He’s not the first insane gambler to walk through the casino doors.”

  “Yeah, but there’s no such thing as a sure bet.”

  “Tell that to NBA fans.”

  “This is the NFL and everything doesn’t always go as planned. What could make him so certain the Dolphins are going to win?”

  “Maybe he knew about the fix?”

  “No way. Not him. Why would he get mixed up in all this?”

  “Why not? If there’s a fix on, it’s easy money. There’s your sure bet.”

  Longshore couldn’t fathom the idea proffered by one of his security agents. Nothing really surprised him in this business any more. Gambling brings out the worst in people in the worst way. People throw their hard-earned money into the wind—or worse, someone else’s hard-earned money.

  But this idea surprised him.

  * * *

  CAL ARRIVED AT HIS HOTEL in downtown Houston just in time to see the start of the second half. He shed his clothes and took a quick shower. Under normal circumstances, Cal would have lingered in the steamy shower and contemplated the events of the last 48 hours in great detail. But he didn’t have time for that. Besides, what more was there to think about? They rescued Jake. Noah was going to win the Super Bowl. And Cal wanted to be there to see it. He wanted to soak up the atmosphere at Reliant Stadium before writing his masterpiece. At the moment, doing that meant foregoing his usual contemplative shower.

  He toweled off and stared at the television. Moments later, he jumped up in the air and pumped his fist as Seattle scored a touchdown to take a 20-14 lead. Cal then danced a little jig that looked like a cross between a rain dance and a man walking across hot coa
ls. Fortunately, no one was around to see it.

  Cal pulled out his bag and dug through it for a pair of clean clothes. But he stopped. There was a letter in his bag.

  “To Cal” was scrawled across the front of the envelope.

  Who would have left me a note?

  Cal ripped the envelope open, scrambling to unfold the paper and read its contents. Who knew where I was staying? The letter was simple:

  Cal,

  Do something good.

  Room 552 Hilton Americas

  Deuteronomy 24:7

  Padre Ramirez

  Do something good? What else was there to do? He had saved Jake. Hernandez’s men were dead, his operation crippled. What was left?

  Cal’s hands trembled as opened the bottom dresser drawer to discover a Bible. Deuteronomy 24:7? Sounds like some all-night biblical diner.

  It had been a while, but Cal remembered how to look up Bible verse references. He read it aloud:

  If a man is caught kidnapping one of his brother Israelites and treats him as a slave or sells him, the kidnapper must die. You must purge the evil from among you.

  OK. It’s a final judgment. Vicious, perhaps. Or maybe it’s justice. It wasn’t what Cal expected from the priest, a man of enormous grace. Maybe Cal was reading too much into it. Surely the priest wasn’t suggesting killing the man. Or was he? Whatever he meant, what did he expect Cal to do about it?

  Then there was the address. What was going on in that hotel room? Was that the insurance policy?

  Then Cal made sense of the cryptic note: Hernandez had kidnapped another player’s child. But who? There wasn’t time to guess who it was.

  Call the FBI. Give them the information. Go to the Super Bowl. That was standard protocol in this situation. But there wasn’t enough time. His old mission was re-assigned again: Save the kid.

  * * *

  HERNANDEZ TURNED HIS CELL PHONE off and slung it onto the bed. He was worried: Diaz wasn’t answering. Hernandez hated the dirty work. That’s why he hired men like Diaz, men with no conscience, men who worshipped money just a little bit more than he did. It’s how he wielded his power. Money meant power, just not always control. And right now, Hernandez’s money and power proved meaningless in his mercenary efforts to guarantee the outcome of the Super Bowl. Now he had to do the dirty work himself.

  Hernandez looked at the kid, gagged and tied to the executive business chair in the corner. He exerted no effort to keep the kid quiet and sneak him into the hotel. Threaten a kid’s mother if he does anything to draw attention to himself and you usually get one compliant child. But no need to take any chances now. Not at this point. It would all be over in an hour or so. The Dolphins win, Hernandez makes his millions—and the boy goes back to his family. He also makes his boss very happy. Not that he was afraid of the man who hired him, but there was no need to sully his reputation with a botched job. The only thing more powerful than money was fear.

  He turned the television up and watched the game. It was too close for Hernandez to relax. Without the help of the quarterback, Hernandez’s insurance plan wasn’t perfect. In fact, it was far from it. But it didn’t have to be perfect—just adequate. Yet with the game’s score so tight, it might have been more perfect than Hernandez ever imagined.

  “Third down and one from the Seattle 20-yard line. You get the feeling the Dolphins aren’t going to be satisfied with a field goal here, Tim.”

  “Absolutely not! This is the Super Bowl and here’s their chance to take command of this football game.”

  “Newton in the shotgun. He takes the snap. Nobody’s open. He’s scrambling to the outside. He gets a block on the outside. He’s got the first down and more. One man to beat. Newton with the spin move and he’s going to put it in the end zone. Touchdown Dolphins! With the extra point, the Dolphins are going to take a 21-13 lead late in the third quarter. Oh, man, who would’ve ever guessed this upset in the making? This might be one of the biggest upsets in the history of the Super Bowl!”

  Hernandez smiled. Not much longer and this would all be over.

  CHAPTER 45

  CAL’S PHONE RANG. It was Kelly.

  “Hey, Cal. Are you here yet?” she asked.

  “No. Something’s come up.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, it’s not over yet. I got a tip that Hernandez is possibly holding another player’s child ransom.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know. But I’m going to find out right now.”

  “Are you going alone?”

  “I have to. There’s no way the FBI could get there in time.”

  “Are you sure? Have you called them?”

  “I’m about to, but there’s only 12 minutes left in the game.”

  Kelly said something but Cal couldn’t make it out over the roar of the crowd.

  “What did you say?”

  Kelly shouted. “Touchdown, Seahawks! It’s 21-20. We can win this thing!”

  “I’m about to go make sure it can actually happen.”

  “Call the FBI to back you up. And be careful, Cal.”

  “I will.”

  Cal hung up the phone and headed out the door.

  * * *

  THE WALK FROM THE Four Seasons to the Hilton was two blocks southeast on Dallas Street. Cal’s pace quickened the farther he walked. He wanted to run but didn’t want any unnecessary attention, even though the streets remained empty. Though it wasn’t two marquee names from the NFL, the Super Bowl had turned out to be a good game and everybody kept watching. They would all be watching a sham if Cal didn’t intervene.

  Cal called one of his contacts at the FBI and gave them the address and what he suspected was happening. They said they would assemble a swat team but they wouldn’t be there for another thirty minutes. Cal agreed not to go in until they arrived. He lied and said he wouldn’t. Then he used the rest of the walk to formulate a plan.

  * * *

  HERNANDEZ WAS LOSING HIS MIND. Ten minutes left in the game and the Dolphins were clinging to a one-point lead. All this work would be for nothing if the Seahawks won. He’d even lost some men over this job. How many? He couldn’t be sure. But he lost some good ones, even some he had to kill himself.

  He grabbed his phone and scrambled across the room to take a picture of the boy. Hernandez jammed the barrel of his pistol into the boy’s head. The boy closed his eyes and winced. He screamed as he braced for the gun to fire. It didn’t. The only click he heard was that of Hernandez’s camera phone, snapping a photo. The boy gasped a sigh of relief.

  Hernandez fired off a text message with the photo attached to the boy’s mother. He wanted to make sure the family understood he wasn’t kidding about killing their son.

  If someone inflicted pain upon him, Hernandez would return the favor.

  Guaranteed.

  CHAPTER 46

  CAL’S SENSE OF URGENCY INCREASED his clarity of thought and made him more efficient. Under normal circumstances, Cal would approach this situation differently. There would be smiles to flash and hands to shake. He would convince a few people that they needed to help him and give him information that was vital to revealing the truth. But that wasn’t a luxury now. Politeness didn’t matter. Maybe ethics didn’t either. Or the law. The only thing that did matter was saving that kid.

  As Cal approached the Hilton, he sought out the service entrance. He needed to start there to launch his plan.

  He immediately located the kitchen. He found a member of the hotel’s wait staff willing to deliver a meal to Room 552. At first, the young man balked. How could he get away with taking a random meal to the room? And then how would he explain what happened to the paying customer’s meal? Cal had an answer for everything. All it took were the right answers—and a $100 tip—to convince him to do it.

  Cal took the stairs, skipping one or two at a time. He needed to beat the deliveryman to the floor so he could scope it out and see how viable his plan really was. It only took him two glance
s at the signage to see that it would work.

  Cal crouched in the doorway, two rooms down from Hernandez’s room, awaiting the arrival of the room service meal.

  One minute later, the young man Cal paid off knocked on the door of Room 552.

  “Room service,” he announced.

  “I didn’t order anything,” came the response from inside the room.

  “Well, I’ve got a cheeseburger and fries with a drink for Room 552 on my ticket here.”

  No response. Then a few seconds later, the door unlocked and opened about a foot. Hernandez was standing on the other side, peering into the hallway. He took the meal inside and closed the door behind him.

  Cal waited all of ten seconds, which seemed more like ten minutes. Hernandez opened the door and headed down the hallway in the opposite direction carrying the ice bucket. Cal pressed himself so hard against the doorway to hide himself he thought for sure he would leave an impression. He glanced down the hallway and Hernandez seemed unsuspecting of anyone out to get him. Cal had instructed the wait staff to serve a room temperature drink. It was Cal’s long shot bet to get into the room and gain the upper hand.

  When Hernandez rounded the corner, Cal dashed across the hall and jammed the key card he borrowed from the room service attendant into the slot above the door handle. The light turned green and Cal heard a click. He pushed down on the lever and rushed into the room.

  Squirming in the corner was a boy, gagged and tied. Maybe he was 12 or 13 years old. He looked like he was from Latin America somewhere. Cal couldn’t think fast enough to narrow it down to which country, nor could he have known for sure if he had a week to mull it over. All he had time to do was untie the boy and escape with their lives.

  “It’s OK. I’m gonna get you out of here,” Cal said.

  The boy grimaced and attempted to say something, though Cal couldn’t make it out. Cal decided the gag wasn’t a priority at this point. He fumbled with the ropes, ripping the knot loose as fast as he could. Letting his instincts take over, Cal started at the boy’s feet and moved to his hands. Feet first because maybe he could run if necessary. Cal then began working on the right hand then the left. He had just finished untying the boy when the door clicked. Cal froze.