by Jason Elam
“How could I pass up an opportunity like that? How about Friday night after practice?”
“I’m on it like Gorkowski on a pork chop!”
Without warning, the heavy thump of Buju Banton echoed through the locker room’s sound system, causing many of the players to instinctively jump up and break into a reggae dance.
“Speaking of . . .” Riley said, pointing to center Chris Gorkowski, who was deep into his own artistic interpretation of the song that looked very much like a Samoan fire dance, complete with extended tongue.
“I see you, Snap,” Riley said, laughing.
Gorkowski smiled in return, revealing his tobacco-stained teeth. Riley hadn’t seen the big man since the attack at the stadium when he had had to slap some sense into the center in order to get him to safety. Although the two had never gotten along in the past, Riley hoped things might be a little different now. “Two minutes! Two minutes!” came the voice of one of the coaches, sounding the alarm for Coach Roy Burton’s team meeting. The impromptu beach party quickly broke up. No one wanted to be late for the first formal meeting of the year.
Most guys were walking on eggshells around the coaches, trying hard to make the best possible impression. They knew that today was the beginning of a long four months of continuous evaluation that would culminate in massive cuts at the end of training camp. Any little slipup could cost an already iffy player his chance at fulfilling his dream.
Although the positions of most of the starters were secure, their motivation for an on-time arrival was a hefty fine for being late. As a result, the two-minute warning caused a mass exodus from the locker room into the large, tiered meeting room where Coach Burton was already waiting to address his reconstituted team.
As Riley entered through the meeting room’s door, he heard Coach Burton shouting, “What do you mean there’re four helicopters up there? Shoot ’em down if you have to, but get them out of here by practice time!”
“Sir, according to federal aviation regulations, as long as they stay five hundred feet clear of people or buildings, they are perfectly within their rights to be . . .” Robert Taylor’s words faded as he realized that Burton didn’t give two hoots about his legal explanations. “I’ll take care of them, Coach.”
On the way to his seat, Riley turned to Simmons and asked, “What helicopters?”
“What helicopters do you think, Captain Hollywood? It’s the newsies, and they’re all here for the Riley watch,” Simmons laughed.
“Yeah right.”
“Oh, you better believe it, boy. You’ve got the paparazzi saying, ‘Britney who?’ They all just want a glimpse of our very own American hero. Better get used to it.”
Riley shook his head as he sat, not wanting to believe anything that Simmons was telling him. His worst fears seemed to be confirmed, though, when Coach Burton spotted him in the audience. Coach just glared at him, then turned away.
Swell, Riley thought.
Burton moved to the center of the mini stage, and all the conversation immediately died. But before he had a chance to say his first word, the door burst open.
An entourage of men in suits came bounding down the stairs to the front of the amphitheater. Out in front of the group was A. J. Salley. Mr. Salley had owned the Colorado Mustangs for just five years, but it was apparent that he had spent every one of those 1,826 days working to put his mark on the organization. Having made his millions in the global telecom industry, he was a fair, no-nonsense businessman, and today he seemed clearly agitated.
A brief conversation was held between Mr. Salley and Coach Burton. Then the team owner quickly left the room, followed by his team of suits.
Coach Burton, obviously angered by the intrusion on his meeting, said, “Covington, Mr. Salley would like to see you in the hall.”
Embarrassed and irritated, Riley muttered under his breath, “Don’t these guys have anything better to do?” As he made his way to the door, he was serenaded with calls of “Oooooo” and “Busted.”
Apparently that was enough to send Coach Burton over the top. “Baskin,” he called out to the conditioning coach.
“Yes, Coach,” came the reply.
“Obviously these boys have some extra energy. Tack on an extra sprint series to their run today.”
A chorus of groans drowned out Coach Baskin’s answer of “Yes, Coach.”
In response, Burton said, “Make that two series.”
This time Coach Baskin’s answer could be clearly heard in the dead silence.
As soon as Riley stepped into the hallway, Mr. Salley tersely said, “Riley, what are we going to do about this? We have choppers overhead. Our phones are ringing off the hook. And there are over five hundred photographers and journalists outside this building right now. We’ve called in the police and made contact with the FAA, but this is getting out of control quickly.”
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir,” Riley responded, feeling a bit like he was in the Air Force again getting chewed out for something he hadn’t done. “What would you like me to do, Mr. Salley?”
“I want you to go home for the day. You had someone come with you today, didn’t you?”
“Yes, sir. Skeeter Dawkins. He was one of—”
“Good,” Mr. Salley continued, not interested in Riley’s story. “Have him pull your car around to the loading dock for the team store. We’ll send you out that way.”
This was one of the first pieces of good news that Riley had heard today, especially knowing that he was going to miss those extra sprint series. “Yes, sir. And what about tomorrow?”
Exasperated and obviously done with the conversation, Mr. Salley answered, “I have no idea. You’re going to be a distraction any way we cut it. We need to figure out how we’re going to deal with all of this. We’ll call you when we get a plan. Until then, you work out at home.” That said, Mr. Salley turned and was gone.
Riley stood there for a moment trying to process what had just happened. Part of him wanted to laugh, while another part wanted to haul off and punch somebody. Where does Salley get off coming down here and tearing me a new one for something I have absolutely no control over? At least he got one thing right: I am definitely out of here!
A guy whose name Riley couldn’t remember from the Mustangs video department rounded a corner and came toward him. “Hey,” Riley called out to him.
“Hey, Riley. Great to see you back!”
“Yeah, good to be back. Listen, can you do me a favor? You know my friend—the one who came with me this morning?”
“You mean . . . ?” The guy lifted his hand way up in the air.
“That’s him. Could you find him and ask him to bring the truck around to the loading dock behind the Mustangs store in five minutes?”
The video man seemed eager to help. “You got it, Riley,” he said before sprinting out to the practice fields.
Riley walked back to his locker, decided there was nothing he wanted out of it, and headed to the hallway. Right outside the front locker room doors was a line of mail cubbies. Most of the little nooks had at least a few letters in them. A number of them were pretty packed. Riley’s was stuffed full, and there was a white U.S. Postal Service tub sitting on the ground and a sticky note attached with his name on it. He stopped, looked at it, and then walked on.
Stopping by the equipment room, Riley picked up a Mustangs cap. Pulling it low on his head and putting his sunglasses on, he walked through the back room of the team store and out into the May sunshine. Immediately, he heard a mass of loud shouting. The only discernable word was Riley.
Thankfully, Skeeter had the Yukon right there with the rear passenger door open. Riley saw a huge wave of reporters and cameramen racing toward him as he dove into the back of the vehicle. His hand scraped against something hard on the leather seat. Looking down, he saw it was Skeeter’s Heckler & Koch MK23.
“Left a little something for you, just in case,” Skeeter said as he slowly pulled out into the growing mass of people.
Riley quickly sat up and tucked the gun under his right thigh. The last thing he needed was a picture published of him defending himself against the media by holding a handgun in the back of his SUV.
Suddenly cameras, microphones, and faces were pressed against his side windows. Riley instinctively pulled the cap a little lower on his head. Hands began grasping at the handles and banging on the doors. The truck dropped in the back, and Riley turned to see three men standing on his rear bumper shooting their cameras through the tinted glass of the gate.
While all this was going on, Skeeter kept the vehicle moving—slow and steady, never speeding up but never slowing down, like an icebreaker making its way through the early thaw of Hudson Bay. Insanity was all around the outside of the truck, but inside it was peace and harmony. Riley noticed that Skeeter had even tuned to public radio’s classical music station.
“Skeeter, you are amazing,” he said with genuine admiration. Riley couldn’t be sure, but he thought he might have seen a slight expansion of Skeeter’s cheeks at hearing the comment.
Finally Skeeter got to the street and gunned the Yukon. Oh man, did that just happen? Riley asked himself. That was complete insanity. He looked behind to see the size of the crowd but instead saw three vehicles rushing to catch up to them.
“Hey, Skeet? We’re not done yet.”
Riley saw Skeeter’s eyes look into the rearview mirror. Then the big man pulled out his cell phone, hit a speed-dial number, and said a few words before hanging up. “Done,” he said to Riley.
Within four minutes, Riley watched each of the chase cars being pulled over to receive tickets for various traffic infractions, real or imagined. “What about home?” he asked Skeeter.
“Taken care of. The security team’s not allowing anyone on the block who doesn’t live there.”
“Excellent. Thanks again, my friend.”
“Mmmm,” came the reply.
Riley stretched himself out in the roomy backseat and began processing what had just happened. The day had been so emotional and so downright bizarre, he felt like he needed to debrief with somebody. But he knew that Scott and Khadi were busy at CTD. Talking to Skeeter was just one small step above talking to himself. Keith Simmons was at practice. Mom and Dad and Grandpa? No, there was too much distance. He wanted to look someone in the eyes while he spoke.
Hmmm, look someone in the eyes. Riley thought for a moment, then reached into his pocket and extracted a now-crumpled business card. He pulled his cell phone out of his shorts and dialed the number.
“Hello?” a woman’s voice answered after the first ring.
Riley took a deep breath. “Whitney?”
CHAPTER EIGHT
MONDAY, MAY 11, 11:00 A.M. MDT FRONT RANGE RESPONSE TEAM HEADQUARTERS DENVER, COLORADO
His right foot gently tap, tap-tapped to an old Tommy James & The Shondells song that had been stuck in his head for the last two days. Unfortunately, the only lyrics he could remember—“Crystal blue persuasion, mmm-hmm”—were looping in his mind over and over and driving him crazy.
Jim Hicks stood up from his desk and walked to the interior window of his office, hoping the change of location would purge the song from his brain.
The room into which he looked was filled with the varied pulse of blinking lights and the soft glow of computer monitors, all of which reflected off the glass and metal furnishings, giving the room the feel of a high-tech Christmas display.
Gathered around a conference table in the middle of the large space just beyond his door was Hicks’s team: Scott Ross, Tara Walsh, Khadi Faroughi, and the genius misfit quartet of analysts—Virgil Hernandez, Evie Cline, Joey Williamson, and Gooey . . . whatever his last name was.
Scott caught Hicks looking out. He smiled, tapped his watch, and held up two fingers. Hicks gave a wave of acknowledgment in response.
Guilt grabbed his insides as he watched Scott and Khadi talking. He would give anything to be able to go back in time and accept that invitation to the Costa Rican vacation. When Hicks first heard about the attempt on Riley and his friends, it was the closest he had come to emotionally losing it since his second wife had left him. But when it came down to it, Riley and Scott had handled the situation beautifully, even without him. Everyone had survived, and now Scott and Khadi were here as part of his new team.
Two months ago, Hicks had been approached by Stanley Porter, chief of the Midwest division of Homeland Security’s counterterrorism division (CTD). Porter had been tasked with creating smaller, more action-oriented subsets of the larger departments. Hicks, after showing extraordinary leadership during the recent Hakeem Qasim manhunt, had been pegged to head up the new Denver-based CTD Front Range Response Team.
At first Hicks had balked. He was an ops guy, not a suit, he had said to them. In his mind, rules were there simply as a guideline for the less creative. But when Porter told him the amount of autonomy he would have in running his team, he had actually begun to consider the leadership position. Finally, Hicks had accepted on the condition that he could choose his own people. Scott and Khadi had been obvious choices.
As for the analysts, he’d left that to Scott. The gang of misfits his number-two man had brought in were an odd bunch, and Hicks figured the less direct contact he had with them, the more peace would reign.
But now he had to go out and face this group, and he had no idea what to do with them. He could lead any team into battle with strength and confidence. But this was a whole new ball game.
Taking a deep breath, Hicks opened his office door and walked into the very first meeting with his new team. Scott, seeing him come out, began clapping. The four analysts, apparently recognizing a chance to burn off some of their sugar calories, took it to the next level by standing and cheering. Khadi and Tara just sat there shaking their heads, although Khadi at least did it with a smile.
Hicks took his chair at the head of the table and, after Scott finally got the analysts to sit back down, said, “Okay, that will never happen again.”
“Sorry, Jim,” said Scott with a mocking grin on his face. “I guess we’re all just a little enthusiastic.”
“Well, enthusiasm can be a good thing when it’s directed properly,” Hicks responded, immediately realizing that he was already sounding like the stuffed-shirt political bureaucrat he was afraid of becoming.
Khadi stifled a laugh, and Hicks glared at her, though he softened his look when he spotted the slowly fading scar on her cheek that she didn’t bother trying to cover with makeup.
He continued, “I want to welcome you all to the Front Range Response Team.”
Hernandez, Cline, Williamson, and Gooey all started to giggle.
“What’s so funny?” Hicks called out, his nerves causing his already short fuse to burn at double time.
Tara Walsh responded for them. “Sorry, sir, but about an hour ago they finally figured out our team’s acronym, and they’ve been this way ever since.”
“Coulda been worse. What if we were the Bureau for Uncovering Terrorist Threats?” Williamson said innocently, causing the other three analysts to burst out laughing.
Hicks turned to Scott for some help, but his right-hand man was looking intently at the glass tabletop and drawing on every ounce of self-control to not laugh. He looked at Khadi, who had her hands folded properly in front of her and was sporting a huge grin on her face. Tara was staring at him with an expression that said, “See what I have to put up with every day?”
Finally, Scott jumped in. “Come on, gang, knock it off. Jim is trying to speak.”
“Thanks, Scott. Now I—”
“And I certainly don’t want anyone suggesting the Departmentally Utilized Military Bureau and Systems—”
“Scott!” Jim yelled.
Everyone lost it. Even Tara joined in. Hicks leaned back into his chair, heaved a deep sigh, and then slowly began to chuckle. His laughter built up momentum until he was wiping tears away from his eyes like everyone else.
All the stre
ss and anxiety Hicks had about his new position was released at that moment. He raised his hand, trying to get control of the group even as he struggled to get control of himself.
“Okay, everyone, enough. Let’s have a little chat.”
As Hicks spoke, he kicked his feet up on the table, then motioned for everyone else to do the same. “I have no clue what the suits were thinking when they gave me this job. I have a feeling that before long they’ll be asking themselves that same question.”
A chorus of chuckles sounded around the table.
“The one stipulation I gave in accepting this job was that I be allowed to pick my team. I figured if I was going to give this a shot, I wanted the best around me. In my opinion, you folks and our boys on the ops side are the best.”
“Gawrsh,” interjected Hernandez.
“Although I’m beginning to understand why Stanley Porter didn’t give me a fight when I stole you away from him.”
“Mr. Porter’s bad! He’s bad!” said Williamson, doing his best impersonation of Dana Carvey impersonating George Bush.
“Yeah, well you’ll find that I run things a little differently than Porter. As you can tell by my friendship with Scott, I don’t care what you look like or how you dress.”
Scott feigned offense.
“I don’t care how you act or what rules you need to break. Gooey, I don’t even care how you smell.”
Gooey responded with a thumbs-up and a stifled belch.
“All I care about are results. You guys do your jobs, and you’ve got free rein. You don’t, and it’s back to Porter with the lot of you. Any questions?”
Evie Cline’s hand went up. “Yes, Evie?”
“Mr. Hicks, sir, I know this is technically called a ‘war room,’ but that makes me uncomfortable. It just sounds so violent. So, instead of calling this the war room, could we call it something different? Our old place was called—”
“Yeah, I know all about the Room of Understanding. Listen, you can call this Tinky Winky’s playground for all I care, as long as your work gets done.”
