“When lockdown was called, about fifteen cops came bursting out the doors, surprising the bejeebers out of some guy who was about to enter. The perp took off running, so two of the officers went after him. He gets out here, holds up his hand, and then vaporizes. Unfortunately, he took the two cops with him.”

“Kurshumi, number one,” Hicks muttered. “Aamir and Abdel, two and three. This must have been Bogra, which would make him the fourth and, hopefully, last.” Turning to Scott, he said, “Do me a favor and get back to Abdel. I want you to oversee the bomb squad getting that vest off of him. And then get him hauled back to CTD for interrogation ASAP.”

“You got it.” Scott ran back the way he had come.

Hicks stared at the smoke swirling in the cold Minnesota wind. These guys were just pawns, but they had to have known the chess master. Or at least they’ve heard of him. The seeping blood of the slain officers had reached his feet, and he instinctively stepped back. This can’t happen again. This cannot happen again! Not here. Not in America. Abdel knows something and he’s going to talk! No matter what I have to do, he will talk!

Hicks turned and slowly made his way back inside. Although he had helped save thousands of lives, the two dead cops weighed on him. He sensed the direction that the Abdel interview would take. While he walked, he mentally began distancing himself from what he was about to do. However, the weight of the knife belted on his leg was a persistent reminder of the heaviness of the guilt that was strapped to his conscience.

Saturday, December 20

Denver International Airport

Denver, Colorado

“Where’s my chicken? I want my chicken!” Chris Gorkowski, in his usual understated way, was wandering the aisles of the chartered Boeing 767 in search of a bucket of Popeye’s. The rookies were expected to bring fried chicken, biscuits, and mashed potatoes and gravy for the veteran players in order to help offset the typical airline food. For the rookie who overlooked his poultry obligations, there was usually awaiting him when he arrived back home a little ritual in which the player was dog-piled by the rest of the team, duct-taped so he couldn’t move, and then dumped into the ice tub.

Gorkowski’s bulk brushed past Riley Covington, who had settled himself into seats 35H and J for the two-hour flight to San Francisco. Coach Burton had such an intense hatred for the city of Oakland that he refused to stay in a hotel on that side of the bay. So tonight would be spent in downtown San Francisco, and tomorrow morning they would bus across the Bay Bridge to Golden West Stadium.

Riley checked his watch-1:35 p.m. The plane was set to depart in twenty-five minutes. Slipping earbuds into his ears, Riley toggled his iPod to A Decade of Steely Dan, closed his eyes, and absorbed the smooth tones of “Deacon Blues.” The players each got two seats to stretch out their large frames, while the coaching staff enjoyed the luxury of first class. The plane was fairly empty now, but it would fill up quickly as the three remaining buses emptied of players, coaches, support staff, media, and the owner’s guests. Eventually the plane would take off with more than 150 passengers on board, along with thousands of pounds of game-day gear, medical supplies, and video equipment.

Saturdays were meant to be relaxing days. Everyone involved in special teams gathered at Inverness Training Center at 8:30 a.m. for a review. The rest of the players made their way in by nine for thirty minutes with the position coaches to finalize the game plan and answer any questions.

After these short get-togethers, most of the players went home and packed before returning to Inverness. Some of the players who didn’t have family to go back to hung around in the players’ lounge playing pinball or Xbox or poker. The buses left promptly at 12:30 p.m. Anyone not there on time was fined five thousand dollars plus the cost of a first-class ticket to wherever the team was playing that week.

At Denver International Airport, the team buses pulled up planeside. Security was cleared with surprising efficiency: tables were set up next to the plane, and ten TSA personnel screened the bags while another ten screened the passengers with the light saber-esque magnetometers. There were no checked bags for the players.

“Hey Nineteen” had just begun gliding into Riley’s ears when a voice roused him from his half doze. “Riley Covington to the cockpit, please. The captain would like to speak to you.”

Riley grinned. He had a good idea why the captain wanted to see him.

He dropped his iPod into his shirt pocket and began working his way against the human traffic to the front. About halfway up the aisle, he had to squeeze in over Sal Ricci to let some people by. Ricci cursed at him, something Riley had rarely heard him do.

“Sal, you kiss your daughter with that mouth?” Riley asked. Looking down at his friend, Riley saw that he was pale and sweat was on his forehead. “You okay, man? You look stressed.”

“I’m sorry, Pach. You know how I hate flying.”

“You want me to send Bones back here to give you something to take the edge off?” Bones was Ted Bonham, the head of the medical team.

“No, I’m all right. I just need to relax a bit.”

Riley pulled his iPod out and dropped it on Ricci’s lap. “Put it on Yo-Yo Ma’s Bach: The Six Unaccompanied Cello Suites, then sit back and close your eyes. If that doesn’t take you to your happy place, then you can’t get there from here.”

Ricci managed a weak smile. “Thanks, Pach. I’ll give it a try.”

Riley saw a brief opening in the traffic and bolted down the aisle. About ten rows up, he glanced back at Ricci, who was still sitting there ignoring the iPod. Someday I’ll take him up in a Cessna and help him get over his fear. Not too many people are still scared of flying after they hold the yoke of a plane in their hands.

Finally arriving at the front of the plane, he poked his head into the cockpit. The captain slid his seat back and extended his hand. “Mr. Covington, I’m Mike Flores-Air Force Academy, class of ’76. It’s a real pleasure to meet you. I’ve been a fan for a long time.”

“Call me Riley. How long did you serve?”

“I put in twenty years, then began flying commercial.”

“Well then, it’s truly an honor to meet you.” He shot a quick glance at the first officer, who was awkwardly trying to stand from his seat.

“Steve Davis. Nice to meet you, Riley.”

“Likewise,” Riley said as he shook his hand. Then turning back to Captain Flores, he asked, “So, what’s up?”

“We were wondering if you’d like to sit in the jump seat for the flight. You’re more than welcome.”

This was what Riley had been hoping for. Any day he could fly in the cockpit of a big jet like this was a great day for him. “Sure, I’d love it. I do have to take a short position test for Coach Texeira, but I’m sure I can take it up here.”

Captian Flores gave him a quizzical look.

“The position test is nothing major, just going over a few Xs and Os. I’d be done in no time.”

“Excellent,” the captain said. “We have a few things to do, and then we’ll be on our way. I know your special ops training required you to pick up your FAA air traffic controller’s license. So, if you’d like, you’re welcome to handle the communications on the flight.”

“You sure about that?” Riley was almost giddy at the prospect.

“Absolutely,” the first officer threw in, knowing his workload had been dramatically reduced. Federal aviation regulations were much more lenient with charters. The whole atmosphere of a chartered flight was quite a bit more relaxed. In fact, during takeoff, it was not unusual to have players standing in the aisles or even talking on their cell phones.