At some unspoken signal, four motorcycle cops eased out of the hotel driveway with sirens and lights blazing, and the first two buses began following them. The other two buses would follow shortly after with the rest of the team, the coaches, and the staff.

Riley tried to keep his mind on the game, but his thoughts kept wandering back to chapel. I don’t understand what the terrorists are thinking. I never have. I have to admit that they certainly are committed… or desperate. Or maybe, like Walter said, they’ve simply found a higher-though completely delusional-calling.

Riley was pulled out of his thoughts by a car driving next to the bus. The vehicle was filled with people dressed in black, and every person in the car had both their middle fingers extended up toward Riley-every person except for the driver, who wisely kept one hand on the steering wheel. One of the motorcycle cops saw this and quickly took action, moving the car away from the bus. These Bay Area fans are nothing but class. Riley laughed softly to himself.

The closer they got to Golden West Stadium in Oakland, the worse the atmosphere became. It seemed as if they were driving into a sea of black and silver. All around them were people with their faces painted and wearing all sorts of pirate garb, spiked accessories, and skeleton masks. Everyone they passed seemed to want to use their fingers to emphatically assure the players on the buses that they thought they were number one. Even the parking-lot security guards cussed at them and flipped them off.

Some of the players in the back of the bus began to laugh. “Hey, check out old granny over there. I’m not sure what that gesture means, but whatever it is certainly seems like it could lead to infertility,” Keith Simmons hollered, as he egged her on by beating the bus window. He was clearly breaking the code of silence, but no one minded since he was saying exactly what everyone else was thinking.

The bus negotiated the crowded parking lot and turned down a long ramp that led into the bowels of the stadium. Security guards swarmed the bus, and a German shepherd began sniffing the off-loaded bags. The players quickly grabbed their belongings and followed the team equipment managers to the visitors’ locker room.

As the guys found their lockers, they began their various routines. Some immediately got their ankles taped. Some were worked on by the team massage therapist. Some grabbed hot packs and began loosening tight muscles. Some walked directly onto the playing field to see how the footing would be. Some simply sat in front of their lockers staring at the floor.

As time went on, the tension only increased. Many of the players watched the early game between Boston and Florida on the monitors mounted high in the corners of the locker room. A few players wandered from the training room to the equipment room to the locker room in an endless circuit. Others rode stationary bikes, then sprawled out on the floor and began stretching. A player’s pregame routine was like his fingerprints; you never found another one exactly like it.

Usually, once the players were dressed, they would walk onto the field for a light jog. Often they would throw the ball around and get a general feel for what the conditions were like.

After Riley got his ankles taped and slipped on his football pants, he walked down the tunnel and out onto the field. As he exited the tunnel, he could smell the barbecue from the concessions. That smell always reminds me of summer. His thoughts were interrupted by Bandits supporters who had gathered next to the tunnel. Expletives flew from the fans, less than five feet away. Riley walked past them with a smirk and a small wave, never lifting his eyes from the ground.

He walked to the south side of the field, where there were some more very vocal fans-one group right behind the uprights and another group about thirty rows up. This higher group was focusing their invectives on Mustangs kicker Tory Girchwood.

“Wow, Girch,” Riley said, “I didn’t know that about your mom.”

“Pach, you ever want to take a shot back? You know, something that might shut them up just a bit?”

“What exactly did you have in mind, my young friend?”

Girchwood merely smiled and picked up a ball.

“Are you thinking what I think you’re thinking, Mr. Girchwood?” Riley asked in mock surprise.

With a wink, the kicker turned and punted a rocket from the 20 yard line up toward the second group of fans. The ball sailed just over that group and, looking like a laser-guided missile, spiraled directly into the chest of a particularly foul fan who had been cussing his way down the stadium steps. The ball knocked the wind out of the man and drenched him with his fresh 32-ounce Bud Light. The stunned Bandits faithful looked at the man-one of their own who had been brought to his knees. Then they looked down at Girchwood, who was standing there with a huge smile on his face, surrounded by players who were doubled over laughing. Suddenly the Bandits fans broke into a huge cheer and began chanting his name: “Girchwood! Girchwood!”

When Riley could catch his breath, he said, “Congratulations, Girch! You’re an honorary Bandit!”

Girchwood simply stood there smiling.

Riley meandered back into the locker room to throw on his shoulder pads and jersey. It was almost time for the entire team to take the field for pregame warm-ups. While the warm-up routine looked like it was specially designed to accomplish something important, it was really just a way to stay loose and to expend a little of the nervous energy. The team was on the field for about thirty minutes before heading back past the angry mob and into the locker room.

Upon entering the locker room, many of the players grabbed towels from the trainers. Riley snagged a towel, swung by the Gatorade table, downed an eight-ounce cup in one motion, and headed for his locker. Other than the occasional sound from the bathroom of a nerves-induced heave followed by a quick flush, the room was eerily silent.

Sunday, December 21

United States

Hakeem’s body was where his superiors expected him to be, but his mind was far from his job. He dwelled not on the responsibilities of his occupation but on the double life he had been forced to lead for so long. But his duplicity was nearing its end. This facade will be the first casualty when the hammer comes down.

To any of his coworkers who happened to glance his way, Hakeem looked studious, deep in thought. As he sat with his head bowed, his mind went back to the previous night.

Hakeem had attached a small Sony Handycam to a tripod. He put on gloves prior to opening the case for the mini DVD-R. After snapping the disc into the camera, he waited while it formatted. Then he had twisted the viewing screen so that it was facing the front. Placing a floor lamp directly behind his chair, he sat with the remote control in his hand. He looked closely at the screen to make sure there was nothing but darkness on his face. Satisfied, he took a deep breath, pressed Record on the remote, and began speaking in a voice and accent he had been practicing for the past eight years.

“People of America, I am the voice of your pain today. I planned and executed this attack. I am Hakeem Qasim. I am the Cheetah. I am the Hammer.

“What do I fight for? I fight for the Cause. What is the Cause? It is a movement that you and your government created with your imperialist policies. You claimed Arab lands as your own. You came to steal our oil. You imported your decadent culture and tried to steal our souls. That is why the Cause is made up of warriors from many nations. That is why all Islam is against you. That is why you cannot stand up to our onslaught. We will wear you down. We will break you.