Dead Line

by Jack Patterson

  Cal looked up to see Hernandez walk through the door carrying a bucket of ice. Hernandez immediately dropped the ice and went for his handgun tucked in the back of his pants. But Cal didn’t give Hernandez time to pull it out. Instead, he rushed Hernandez. Hernandez, still fumbling for his gun, never had a chance to point in Cal’s general direction. Cal sent Hernandez flying backward, slamming Hernandez’s head into the room door. Hernandez dropped the gun as he slumped to the floor, attempting to fend off Cal. Cal slid the gun across the room with his foot as a fistfight commenced.

  Cal moved closer to Hernandez, brooding over the man who still appeared stunned from what just happened. Cal balled up his fist and began pounding Hernandez’s face. A left and then a right, followed by another right. It felt rhythmic to Cal—and therapeutic. Hernandez squirmed in an attempt to get free, but Cal was having none of it. Straddling the older man, Cal struck Hernandez over and over, each punch delivered with vengeful rage. Cal thought about scared little Jake each time—and now the latest victim Hernandez had terrorized in an effort to make money. Over and over again Cal punched until blood began to trickle out of Hernandez’s mouth. Cal and his adrenaline wanted to keep going, but he couldn’t. There was a line he wouldn’t cross. Let the feds sort it out. Don’t take a man’s life, however pathetic it might have been. He wasn’t a killer.

  Cal stopped and looked at his tormentor, this tough powerful cartel leader who had been promptly neutered by a less-than imposing reporter. Hernandez looked beaten. He looked nearly immobile due to the punishment he had just received from Cal. He sat propped up against the wall, barely able to open his eyes.

  Cal eased up and turned around toward the boy, who was now holding the gun. His hands trembled as he pointed it downward.

  “We don’t need that any more,” Cal said, gesturing to the gun. It’s going to be OK.”

  Instead, the boy raised the gun and pointed it in Cal’s direction.

  Bewildered, Cal held his hands up in surrender. “It’s OK. I’m here to help you. There’s no need to shoot anybody.”

  But Cal never heard Hernandez getting up behind him. Hernandez pulled a knife out of his pocket and lunged toward Cal.

  That’s when the boy fired the gun.

  Bam!

  Just once was all it took. The boy fell back into his chair and dropped the gun. Cal spun to see Hernandez slump to the ground, blood oozing everywhere. The boy had shot Hernandez in the chest.

  Cal gasped at the sight of Hernandez, writhing on the floor. He looked at the boy but didn’t know what to say. Stepping on Hernandez’s wrist, Cal slid the knife out of his hand with his other foot. Hernandez coughed up blood and looked helplessly up at Cal.

  Cal got up and looked at the boy, who was still half enraged and half shocked at what had just happened.

  “Are you OK?” Cal asked.

  The boy nodded.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Gio Gomez,” he answered.

  “Is your dad Brandon Gomez?”

  The boy nodded again.

  Then it all made sense to Cal. Brandon Gomez was the Seahawks’ place kicker. As the team’s quarterback, Noah Larson would have the biggest impact on the outcome of the game. But if the game was close, controlling the kicker was a best second option. Gomez had been perfect during the regular season on extra points, yet he missed one early in the Super Bowl. Cal now knew this was intentional. If the Seahawks trailed late in the game, all they would need would be a field goal to take the lead and win it. They wouldn’t gamble, not with the Super Bowl on the line. Let Gomez boot them to victory.

  Cal called his FBI contact and reported the news as he turned on the television.

  “We’ve got Hernandez, but send an ambulance. He’s barely alive,” Cal said. “And we’ve got to get a message to Brandon Gomez that his son is safe.”

  As the picture on the television materialized, Cal realized Hernandez just might ruin the Super Bowl after all: The Seahawks trailed 21-20 with less than a minute to go and appeared to be content to set up a game winning field goal.

  Hernandez slowly opened his eyes and glanced at the screen. Cal didn’t really want to give Hernandez the pleasure of watching his plan come to fruition right before he died. He had to do something. With one eye on Hernandez, Cal didn’t give up on getting word to Gomez that his son was safe. He wanted that call to be the last thing Hernandez heard.

  The seconds ticked away on the clock. Cal called Josh. Surely he would pick up if he saw him calling and could get a message to someone. The phone rang and rang. No answer.

  The Seahawks are just going to put this ball in the middle of the field and rely on the leg of Brandon Gomez to win Seattle’s first Super Bowl title.

  Cal looked at Gio.

  “Can I call your mom? Do you think she can get a message to your dad?”

  Gio shrugged. He was still visibly distraught.

  “What’s her number?”

  Cal began dialing the numbers Gio relayed to him. But the phone just rang and rang. It went to voicemail. Cal told her that her son was safe and out of harm’s way.

  Then the FBI swat team arrived, storming into the room. They shoved their way past Cal and secured the room. Two paramedics began working on Hernandez while an FBI agent watched Hernandez intently. Cal acknowledged their presence but remained deep in thought as to how he could get the message to Gomez.

  He began calling everyone he knew. AP sports writer Damon James would answer Cal’s call. But nothing. Every reporter Cal knew was on deadline, predictably pounding out two different lead paragraphs for their story—one with Gomez making the kick and one with him missing it. All Gomez had to do was take the kick to fill in the blanks.

  Seattle called timeout.

  Cal continued wracking his brain for a solution. He called someone he knew from the NFL office. No answer. He called his editor. No answer. He called the phone in the press box. No answer. In desperation, he even tried Kelly. She didn’t pick up either.

  Well, this is it, folks. Once this timeout is over, Brandon Gomez has a chance to be the toast of Seattle. A 25-yard field goal and he will become as famous in Seattle as the Space Needle.

  * * *

  DURING THE TIMEOUT, Noah paced along on the sideline. He had done what was required of him—almost. In the playoff game the week before, the holder for Gomez had torn a hamstring in a freak mishap during practice, leaving Noah—the team’s backup holder—as the second most important man on the field for the kick. All he had to do was get the ball down, tilt it back, laces out. He had done it a hundred times. He could do it blindfolded in his sleep. And if he could do it right one more time, he could put the week’s terrible circumstances behind him and ride off into retirement as a Super Bowl champion. Maybe he’d go to Disney World. But there was no maybe about him retiring. He’d given his word to Ellen. This was it—win or lose.

  If only it were that easy.

  Noah looked at Gomez, who looked pale. Sweat was gushing down Gomez’s face. But this was Texas in February—it wasn’t hot. Noah had seen Gomez nervous before, but never like this. It seemed so uncharacteristic of Gomez that Noah wondered if he should mention something to his coach.

  Throughout the course of the Seahawks’ timeout, Noah’s confidence in Gomez to make the easy kick went from a hundred percent to twenty-five percent. He almost thought about it being zero percent, but given a hundred kicks from this distance, even a nervous Gomez would stand to make a few.

  The head official blew his whistle, urging the players to return to the field. Noah trotted to the huddle, one that was generally useless in most cases, but he used it as a way to instill confidence in everyone that Gomez could make this kick.

  Noah gave a reassuring nod to Gomez as they broke the huddle.

  CHAPTER 47

  CAL NEVER STOPPED TRYING to reach someone. He punched in every number he could think of and dialed it just as fast. The Seahawks’ media relations director. The cute sports reporter from Q13
. The ESPN sports columnist he knew. Nobody answered.

  Paramedics continued to work on Hernandez as the other FBI agents tried to piece together the recent events that led to their prime suspect with a serious bullet wound and bruises consistent with a fistfight. They asked Cal a few questions, but his answers were short and unhelpful. He knew that the Seahawks’ kicker was walking onto the field with the ability to win the game—the Super Bowl!—but wouldn’t because he thought his son would die if he made the kick. The drama unfolding in front of the world wasn’t nearly as interesting to Cal. To him, it was like watching a bad ending to a movie for the second time.

  Cal finally realized all he had was hope. He tossed his phone onto the bed and stared at the television screen. Ultimately, it didn’t matter. None of it did. The only thing that was important was that two Seahawks’ players wouldn’t lose their sons over the terrible misfortune of making it to the Super Bowl. They would go on with their lives as families who avoided the worst of a nightmare no parent would wish on another. Cal did something good by stopping something bad. He stared down at Hernandez’s body, which was still barely hanging on for life. Cal couldn’t help but think in some way the villain still won, stealing something from every diehard Seahawks fan. Hernandez didn’t see a single penny for his troubles, but the Seahawks were going to lose the Super Bowl on purpose.

  The Seahawks line up for the kick, hoping to win the city of Seattle its first Super Bowl. Quarterback Noah Larson will be the holder and Brandon Gomez will take the kick. Here we go.

  Cal couldn’t look. He felt sick.

  * * *

  THIS WAS IT—Noah’s personal raindrop moment. Random droplets colliding with one another, the outcome still in doubt. They splattered everywhere, nothing to control them. No one to control them. But Noah didn’t want that. He didn’t want to leave his fate to chance. Not today. Not when he could still do something about it.

  When the center snapped the ball to Noah, he still wasn’t sure if he had the nerve to do it. He just might be the biggest fool in the history of the Super Bowl. But he knew he couldn’t let it end this way. Not with Gomez looking like he might vomit in the huddle. Not with all the people who depended upon him for leadership—and a victory. A shaken kicker with the yips? The city’s shot at a title—and his own legacy—couldn’t be determined by that. He didn’t want to end his career as a loser. This was his moment and he was going to seize it.

  Instead of putting the ball down, laces out, Noah scooped the ball up and took off running. He headed straight toward the near sideline and caught the entire Dolphins team off guard. It was a 25-yard field goal. Nobody ever suspected a fake, not even his own team.

  The short run to the corner of the end zone felt like five minutes to Noah. The Dolphins’ players realized what was happening, but only before it was too late. There were vain dives in Noah’s direction. No one would catch him. No one would even touch him.

  Noah couldn’t believe the brilliance in his secret plan. No coach would ever have the nerve to make that call—and his didn’t either. Who wouldn’t put the odds on their kicker making one of the highest-percentage kicks in football? But Noah sensed the odds weren’t good. So he did it. He took his raindrop and put it in a one place nobody could touch it.

  He glanced at the referee straddling the goal line as he crossed it. His hands hoisted in the air, his mouth ready to blow the final whistle. Touchdown!

  * * *

  OH, MY! I DON’T BELIEVE IT. The Seahawks are world champions with a touchdown off a 25-yard fake field goal! This might be the biggest surprise attack in American history since Washington crossed the Delaware! Seattle, it’s time to celebrate!

  Cal looked up and stared at the television in disbelief. What? A fake field goal? Are you kidding me?

  Gomez’s son started pumping his fist and shouting.

  “Yes! Yes!” the boy shouted.

  Cal saw the first flicker of life in the boy’s eyes since they met all of twenty minutes ago. It was nice to see Gio be a kid after such a horrific experience.

  Then Cal looked at Hernandez.

  “You lost, Hernandez,” Cal said. “Your little scheme got you nothing in the end.”

  Hernandez didn’t respond to Cal. He closed his eyes and his body went limp. The paramedics began scrambling but there was nothing he could do. Hernandez was dead.

  For about a minute, Cal stared at the now lifeless body of a man who was intent on ruining a family just so he could make some quick money. It was disgusting, evil really. But at least he hadn’t won today. And he’d never play this treacherous game with anyone else.

  Cal turned his attention back toward the television and watched the confetti cannons unleash their fury on Reliant Stadium, fluttering down upon the exuberant Seahawks team and the devastated Dolphins. He knew it would be all but gone once he arrived at the stadium, but he had to go there tonight. Now.

  “Let’s get you home, kid,” Cal said.

  Gomez’s son nodded and smiled.

  “Is it OK if I take him back to his parents?” Cal asked one of the FBI agents.

  “Sure, Cal. We’ll send an agent with you and get statements from both of you later.”

  That was all Cal needed to hear. The happy pair maneuvered around the busy hive of agents cataloging the scene. Nobody really cared how or why Hernandez died, just that he was dead. And Cal wasn’t interested in sticking around for more bureaucratic paperwork and questioning. He had experienced plenty of that in the past few days. It was time to reunite a son with his father—and celebrate a Super Bowl victory.

  As they were walking out the door, Cal heard a cell phone ring. Just background noise. He ignored it. Until he heard something one of the agents said: “The dead man’s phone is ringing.”

  Cal wanted to stop and find out who it was, but one of the agents looked up at Cal and said, “We’ll handle it, Mr. Murphy. You’ve got more important things to do.”

  Cal froze. Hernandez wasn’t calling the shots!

  CHAPTER 48

  LONGSHORE AND THE OTHER SECURITY AGENTS watched their mystery man as the game came to its dramatic conclusion. He seemed agitated at first and then became enraged. He dialed a number on his cell phone but no one answered. He held a cane, but he walked as if it didn’t need it. The man paced throughout the sports book before storming toward the black jack tables. Then chaos.

  He took his cane and slamming it on black jack and poker tables, raked all the players’ cards onto the floor. Chips were strewn everywhere.

  “Get him now!” Longshore yelled as security personnel scrambled across the floor toward the epicenter of the man’s tirade.

  Then he moved to another table and then another. Women screamed and fled their tables. A couple of men tried to subdue him, but the man promptly whacked them and marched to his next target.

  It took three security guards to tackle and pin the man down. But not before he had wreaked more havoc than Longshore had ever seen while working at the Oasis. Security guards zip tied the man and escorted him off the floor.

  Once off the main floor, Longshore stopped the guards.

  Longshore spoke first. “Well, Mr. Nixon. You made quite a scene tonight. Needless to say, you’ll never darken the door of this casino ever again. You understand?”

  The man kept his head down, unwilling to look at Longshore.

  “But before you leave, let’s find out who you really are.”

  Longshore walked behind the man and fished out his wallet. He walked back in front of the man and tried to compare his face with the one depicted on his driver’s license. The man looked up for a brief moment and put his head back down.

  “Yep, that’s you all right. The media is going to love this story.”

  Longshore shoved the man’s wallet into his chest and continued.

  “You ought to be ashamed of what you did,” Longshore said. “And I’m not talking about what went on here tonight.”

  Finally the man broke his silence. “I
don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh, I think you do. And I think that I’m wasting my breath telling you not to come back here. You’ll be lucky if you get to see the light of day again, much less a casino in Vegas. And trust me when I say this: This isn’t staying in Vegas.”

  Longshore stared in disgust at the man. “Get him outta here!”

  He turned and watched the security guards march the man away. Longshore knew he’d be seeing the man’s face on television every day for the next three months, if not more.

  * * *

  CAL LEFT THE SCENE with Gio and another FBI agent, questions swirling in his mind. If Hernandez wasn’t behind this scheme, then who was? Who would go to those lengths to hire him? Who needed money that bad? Or worse, who hated Noah Larson and Brandon Gomez? Those questions would have to wait.

  Cal mulled over the facts as they headed downstairs. In the lobby, the bar patrons buzzed over the game’s ending. It was an unlikely one for sure, and it irked Cal that he wasn’t writing about it. A few rowdy Seahawks fans enjoyed taunting the miserable Miami fans. To be so close yet to lose? It was the worst agony any fan could know. But Cal knew nothing of it tonight, for this was his chance to celebrate, to put aside his objectivity for a moment and soak in the exhilarating feeling of having his favorite NFL team take the world title.

  The agent driving zoomed Cal and Gio toward the stadium. A flashing light in the windshield parted a sea of cars at every congested area.

  Cal looked at Gio and stopped thinking about football for a moment. Instead, he thought about how scared the kid next to him must have been—so scared that he shot his kidnapper. Cal wanted to forget what had just happened. He wanted to wish it away, cover it up with a mental white sheet and never show it the light of day. But no matter how traumatic his past few days had been, it surely didn’t compare to Jake’s or Gio’s experience. Nabbed by a filthy stranger. Threatened at gunpoint. Separated from your family. No one deserved this, especially not a kid. Not Jake. Not Gio. Not anyone.