by Jason Elam
Taylor let his mind wander back to that dreadful day at Platte River Stadium. What more could I have done? Who would have ever dreamed Sal Ricci could do such a thing?
One of his first moves following the incident had been to institute a mandatory, highly detailed background check on every player, coach, front-office person—everyone, right down to the people who cleaned up the stadium after the games. Although the teams had fought back because of the huge expense, Taylor had pushed the decision through. Somehow the PFL had to get fan confidence back.
Taylor’s assistant woke him from his fog telling him it was time. Taking a deep breath, he walked out onto the stage. Halfway across he was met with a slip of paper from the Mustangs’ representative. Taylor read the paper and couldn’t believe his eyes. You have got to be kidding! Burton, what are you doing to me? he thought angrily.
“Are you sure?” Taylor asked the man who had given him the paper—a little more bite was in his voice than he had intended.
“Down to the letter, sir.”
Without saying another word, Taylor finished his walk to the podium. The heat from the lights just added to the sweat that had already begun streaming down his back. Grabbing the microphone, he briefly hesitated, then said, “With the twentieth overall selection in the first round, the Colorado Mustangs select out of the University of Texas, linebacker Afshin Ziafat.”
4:23 P.M. MDT
INVERNESS TRAINING CENTER
ENGLEWOOD, COLORADO
Normally the Colorado Mustangs’ war room at the Inverness Training Center exploded with jubilation after such an important pick was made—a pick that represented hours upon hours of research and work for everyone in the personnel department; a pick that meant an enormous investment on the part of the team to a player they really didn’t know; a pick that would guarantee this young man millions of dollars and the assurance he would probably never have to work again after signing his name on the dotted line; a pick that would likely make that player an overnight household name—jerseys would be made, billboards would be erected, and endorsements would be signed.
Now, only four months after the attack by the Cause during a Monday Night Football game, the question was whether this organization, this locker room, and this city were prepared to embrace a player with a Muslim name. Within minutes of the announcement, blogs and online message boards filled with people giving their opinions of the Mustangs’ move. Most of them were calling for Burton’s job, if not his head.
A bevy of sports reporters waited desperately for Mustangs head coach Roy Burton to emerge. Some saw the selection as disturbing, while others saw it as an act of redemption or tolerance or maybe just insanity. All, however, saw it as a story that wouldn’t die for a long time.
Burton burst through the door and mounted the podium as the room lit up with camera-mounted lights. The questions came crashing down like an avalanche.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Burton recoiled. “I know precisely what the question is going to be, so let me be clear. We held the twentieth overall selection, and our greatest need was at linebacker. We had to address that position, especially with the uncertainty of Riley Covington’s status.
“Afshin Ziafat was the top collegiate linebacker. In fact, he was ranked as the fourth-best player in this year’s draft. We never expected he would have dropped to number twenty. Face it: if the kid had a different last name, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.
“As our pick came closer, we were faced with quite the dilemma. The next-best linebacker was ranked twenty-seventh overall on our board. You tell me one coach worth his salt who would bypass the fourth best player in the draft for the twenty-seventh. I don’t care if the kid’s mother named him Osama bin Laden; that’s just simple math.
“Our other option was to draft not according to our need at linebacker but to go with the best available player after Ziafat, no matter the position. That player was a quarterback. Obviously, with Meyer we don’t have a need at the quarterback position. After that was a center. With the production we’ve had out of Gorkowski, that wouldn’t make much sense either. Our only other choice would have been to hope to get something worthwhile by trading down to a lower pick, but the offers we had were not in our best interest.
“So, we had the opportunity to select a number-four player with a number-twenty pick at a position that addressed our greatest need. Any other time in our history, this pick would be a no-brainer. We’ve pulled everything on this kid that we could find. He’s a good kid—a bright kid.”
Burton paused for a moment. “Look, bottom line is yes, he’s from a background that scares some people, and we do have a wound that is still raw. But I see this as the next big step in the healing process for this team, this city, and ultimately, for this country. So, I made the pick, and I need to go call Ziafat to welcome him to the Mustang family. I hope all of you will extend him that same courtesy.” Before the media could rebound, Burton sprang from the platform and was through the door.
Back in the Mustangs’ war room, Burton called out, “Anything new?”
“It’s been pretty quiet, Coach. We don’t pick again until number fifty-two, so things will start speeding up around number forty-five,” responded Mark Schlegel, Burton’s right-hand man.
Burton dropped into his chair and heaved a deep sigh. The first round of the draft had been agonizingly slow. Virtually every team had taken its full ten minutes to make a selection or trade its pick. The second round would proceed much more quickly since each team received only seven minutes per choice. However, speed didn’t equate to carelessness. Most organizations would continue to be very calculated with their selections; millions of dollars would still be at stake on a second-rounder.
After the first day, though, rounds three through seven would be much faster. The risk and the investment were far less, and the greatest hope was that a team could find a diamond in the rough during their allotted five minutes.
Everyone in the war room was watching the ESPN reports and speculating on who would be picked next. Two large, white boards flanked the giant television screen. The board to the left listed on thin magnetic strips the top one hundred offensive players. The board to the right did the same for the defensive prospects. Each strip listed a player’s name, ranking, college, height, weight, and forty-yard-dash time. Once a player was selected, his strip was taken away, and the waiting game continued.
As Burton looked around the room, he could see that Todd Maule was still visibly upset.
Just then, Liberty University left tackle Bob Fiala, a player Maule had wanted, was selected with the twenty-eighth overall pick.
“That’s perfect,” Maule cried out. “We pass on Fiala for Ziafat! That’s like passing on Riley Covington for Mahmoud Ahmadinejad.”
Burton realized it was time to take control of the room again. Ignoring Maule’s outburst, he said, “I want to make sure we have plenty of depth at linebacker, fellas, so over the next few rounds I want to stay defensive. Of course, if someone else has a significant drop, we’ll need to consider that.”
Again Maule couldn’t resist. “Why do we need more at linebacker when we’ve got the Hezbollah Kid? I can see the headlines now. ‘Ziafat Terrorizes the Quarterback’. Or ‘Ziafat Intercepts a Bomb’. Oh yeah! The press is going to love this!”
“Son, I’ve had enough of you. This isn’t a democracy around here,” Burton said with authority. “I’ll have your office boxed up and sent to you. Now get out of my war room.”
With that Burton motioned to the off-duty Denver policeman who had been watching from the rear corner. Within seconds, Todd Maule found himself being escorted from the Inverness Training Center—permanently.
8:41 P.M. CRST
EDUARDO CASTILLO MEMORIAL HOSPITAL
SAN JOSÉ, COSTA RICA
“I expect a call back within the hour, and you better have some answers! Otherwise, I’ll be on the phone with my jefe, and before you know it, he’ll be on the phone with your jefe thre
atening to turn this into an international incident. So, how about you save us all some trouble, amigo, and get back to me with some names!” Khadi had been on the SatCom phone nonstop since yesterday’s attack. She was trying to get identities on the gunmen from Costa Rican authorities, but that information was not coming easily.
Riley had been working out of Skeeter’s hospital room, planning their return to the U.S. with help from his connections at Homeland Security. Whenever he wasn’t on the phone, Riley was trying to calm an increasingly agitated Skeeter.
“Pach, I’m telling you I’m fine. Now get me out of here.”
“Quit your bellyaching, Skeet. And while you’re at it, leave the poor hospital staff alone. They’re just trying to do their jobs, and they don’t need you harassing them at every move. I told you I’d get you out just as soon as we’ve covered all our bases. Until then, I can’t risk everyone’s safety.”
Scott had set up camp across the room next to the second-story window. The Regional Security Office of the U.S. Embassy had set up a perimeter around the hospital and had assured anonymity for the four friends. Scott had been alternating between keeping watch on the security detail outside and following a soccer game on ESPN Deportes on the wall-mounted television.
One of the nurses brought in a concoction that looked even worse than the guanabana juice the team had ordered the day before. She motioned for Skeeter to drink it.
“Down the hatch, tough guy,” Scott teased.
Skeeter glared at the drink and then at Scott. “I’ve got something real special planned for you soon as we get home.”
Scott smirked and glanced back up at the television. Watching the crawler reporting on the PFL draft creep along the bottom of the screen, he suddenly bolted upright. “Riley, you are not going to believe this!”
CHAPTER FOUR
TUESDAY, MAY 5, 7:05 P.M. EDT NEW YORK CITY
Summer had come early to New York. With the temperature pushing ninety, it had been all Ishaq Mustaf Khan—known by his friends as Isaac—could do to keep himself hydrated. Shunning the highly sugared electrolyte drinks preferred by his fellow workers on the Eudy & Sons warehouse loading docks, the fifty-three-year-old typically brought a two-liter bottle filled with a homemade tea brew that he had grown up on in Pakistan. Usually it did the trick, but not today. Whether it was the unexpected heat or just the fact that he was getting older, for the first time he could remember, Isaac struggled to keep up with the younger men.
Finding an unused bay as the next shift came on, he sat down with his legs hanging off the side. It wasn’t like this when I was young, he thought. He absentmindedly tapped the empty two-liter against the edge of the loading bay and let his mind drift back to his hometown. Bela was an ancient village set in the middle of a fertile plain surrounded by hills. Isaac had been something special there. All the men had respected him for his size and strength. And all the women . . . Isaac’s mouth curved into a small smile. Yes, all the women.
But then came the move. Eighteen years ago he had left his home and his family to come to America. Although he had no desire to do it, he still came without a fight. Sometimes Allah’s plans are a little different from our own.
Since that time he had endured year after year of waiting. Now, as he felt the strength of his body beginning to fade, he wondered if his chance for glory would ever come. Or have I simply been forgotten? If I have, so be it. Allah knows. Allah sees.
“Isaac, there you are!”
Isaac turned to see Jimmie Holliday coming his way. Jimmie was in his early thirties but had the energy of a teenager. The younger man dropped next to Isaac and held out a Gatorade Cool Blue. “Yeah, I know it ain’t that Pakistani potion you’re always drinking, but you need something.”
Isaac reluctantly accepted the plastic bottle, then turned his eyes back toward the ground. “Thanks.”
“You okay? Don’t mean to be slamming you or nothing, but you were kinda dogging it today.”
Isaac took a sip of the Gatorade and grimaced at the sweetness. “Don’t ever get old, my friend.”
“Don’t worry; I don’t plan to.”
They both sat lost in their own thoughts for a moment. Then, suddenly, someone flipped Jimmie’s “on switch” again, and he said, “Hey, me and Hector and a couple other guys are going to catch that new Jackie Chan movie. Wanna come along and see some dudes get all chop-a-sockied?” Jimmie’s hands flailed at the air.
Isaac smiled and looked at his friend. “Thanks, but I think I’ll pass. I’m just going to sit here a while longer and see if my car will drive itself to me.”
“What? Hey, how about I run and pull your car up for you? Seriously, I can do it for you, no problem.”
“Careful, my friend, or you will insult me.”
“No . . . what . . . man, I didn’t mean anything by it. I was just—”
Isaac held up his hand with a grin. “It’s a joke. You’re fine. You go. And thanks for the drink.”
Jimmie stood. “Okay. As long as you’re sure you’re all right.”
Isaac held up his hand again in response.
“Okay, man. See you tomorrow.”
6:05 P.M. CDT
CHICAGO, ILLINOIS
Mohsin Ghani kicked his feet up on the corner of his new glass and hardwood executive desk. Tilting his chair back, he enjoyed the rich smell of the futuristic-looking leather chair.
The sailboats are out in full force this evening, Mohsin thought as he stared longingly at Lake Michigan. The only place he loved more than the law firm where he was just made junior partner was the water—a passion born out of his early years growing up in Al Mukalla in the Hadramawt coastal region of what was then South Yemen. Only four more days until the weekend.
Accepted into Northwestern University as part of an international scholarship program, Mohsin had decided early on to make the most of his chance in America. The first few years were miserable. It seemed he had to work as hard at his language skills as he did his coursework. Eventually, though, he graduated magna cum laude and gained entrance into the University of Chicago Law School.
That began another purgatory in his life. The international scholarship had covered his undergraduate degree only, and now Mohsin faced $35,000 a year in tuition plus living expenses. His schedule had become one of spending his days in class, his afternoons clerking for a local hack lawyer, his evenings waiting tables at an upscale steakhouse, and his nights studying case law. Somehow he had survived and was recruited right out of school by the prestigious law firm of Novak, Novak, & DuCharme.
Was it worth it? Mohsin asked himself for the hundredth time. The smell of the fresh paint, the coolness of the frosted glass under his arm, the enormous window facing Lake Michigan, and the keys in his pocket to the little black Mercedes SLK350 Roadster all seemed to scream, “Yes!” And Mohsin was inclined to agree with them.
There was only one event that could destroy the perfect life this thirty-two-year-old immigrant had worked so hard for. Mohsin prayed it would never come.
5:05 P.M. MDT
DENVER, COLORADO
Abdullah Muhammad was still sore, but the pain was well worth the story that he could now tell to his buddies. The three friends all sat on metal benches and were in various stages of undress. Loud voices echoed off the cement and tile surrounding them, and the steam from the showers hung heavy in the air.
“So, I’m on foot chasing this guy down Kentucky, and he is moving. He splits off Kentucky and starts heading down Clayton. I’m still keeping up with him pretty good, and he knows it. So, he heads for the fences.”
“Ohhh, the fences,” said Reggie Brooks, laughing. “I hate the fences!”
“Yeah, but get this—he gets to the gate and he literally flips into the backyard. I mean, one step and over! And check this out—I actually make eye contact with him as he’s flipping over.”
“Serious?”
“Dead! Totally freaked me out. So I’m thinking, ‘Great, I’m chasing one of those .
. .’ what do you call those dudes who go running and jumping all over buildings and parking garages and stuff?”
“Free runners?” offered Dan Elijah.
“Yeah, I’m chasing one of those free runners. So I get to the gate, and I say, ‘Forget this,’ and I crash the thing just in time to see him flipping over the next fence. I hightail it across the yard, but while I’m doing my Abdullah the Magnificent over the fence, I see the birdman launching into the next yard.”
“I’da just shot him,” Reggie laughed.
“Believe me, I thought about it. So we do this for a couple more yards. Then, all of a sudden after a particularly graceful flip, the guy lets out a scream. I’m thinking, ‘Cool, the bad guy’s landed wrong and broken an ankle or something.’
“I catch up to him and look over the fence. Turns out the old lady who owns that yard is big into metal sculpture and has built herself a little forest of very pointy evergreen trees.”
By now the three friends were laughing so hard they could barely speak. Reggie finally got enough control to ask, “Just how big were the trees in this little forest?”
“Big enough to slice the guy’s Achilles and impale him in three separate places!”
“Ohhh,” Reggie and Dan exclaimed together.
“The guy’s lying there screaming and bleeding. I radio for medics and hop the fence, and I’m trying to calm him down a bit while we wait for the EMTs, but I was laughing so hard I don’t think I was much help,” Abdullah laughed, rubbing his shoulder where he had hit the gate.
“You get that checked out?” Dan asked, finally calming down.
“Nah. I’ll probably pay for it in the morning, but it’s all good.”
This was Abdullah’s fifth year with the Denver Police Department. Born and raised in Denver, he knew this city like only a native could. When told to join the police force, he had jumped at the opportunity. What could be better than to cruise the streets—his streets—with a gun and a whole lot of power?
