Monday, December 29

Minneapolis, Minnesota

The tinny sound of a personalized ring tone playing Blue Öyster Cult’s “Don’t Fear the Reaper” emanated from Scott Ross’s cell phone, filling the backseat of the taxi and letting him know that Jim Hicks was trying to get hold of him. When Scott had played the ring tone for Hicks earlier in the week, the older man had seemed less than enthused about being identified with the reaper. However, it seemed that Hicks spent much of his life being less than enthused about things, so Scott didn’t worry much about his opinion.

Scott was about ten minutes away from the Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport. He had booked a late-night flight back home to St. Louis after he and Hicks had agreed that Scott’s presence might be needed to spur his team on a little bit. Five days had passed since any significant progress had been made, and Tara Walsh was getting unbearable on the phone. “Sounds like Daddy needs to get home and give the kids a talking-to,” was Hicks’s comment to Scott after the last phone conversation he had with the “overworked beauty queen.”

Scott fumbled for his cell, in the process spilling his Yoo-hoo on the taxi’s backseat. He quickly mopped up the mess with the corner of his canvas jacket before the driver could see.

“Yeah, Jim,” he finally said, only to hear dead air on the other end of the line. He quickly hit Send twice to call back the missed number.

“Sorry, Jim, I was trying to find my phone and-”

“Shut up and listen! Tell your driver to turn around and take you to Holman Field in downtown St. Paul.”

“Why? What’s going on?”

“Do it first; then ask questions.”

Scott mumbled something about Hicks and a wildebeest, then gave the driver the instructions. When he got back on the phone with Hicks, he said, “Okay, mein führer, it’s done. You going to tell me what this is all about?”

“We’ve been hit again, Weatherman, and this one’s bad. Platte River Stadium in Denver during Monday Night Football. At least four bombs and maybe as many as seven-the details are still coming in. Don’t know the casualties yet, but it’s going to be well into the four digits.”

“No, don’t tell me that, man!” Scott felt suddenly dizzy, and the Yoo-hoo soured in his stomach. Despite the cold, he cracked the window to get some air blowing on his face. After a few moments, he managed to ask, “Were any players hurt?”

“Why, are you worried about your fantasy team?”

Scott didn’t even hear the sarcastic answer. “Were any Mustangs players hurt?”

“I didn’t know you were such a fan.”

“Jim! Answer me or I will personally lodge that phone in your throat! I need to know about Riley-Riley Covington, my old lieutenant. He plays linebacker for the Mustangs. I told you about him.”

“Yeah, you’re right; you did. Sorry, Scott, I didn’t even make the connection. Listen, buddy, I know some players are down, but I don’t know who or what condition they’re in. Just get to Holman Field as quickly as you can. I’ve got one of our Gulfstreams waiting to take us to the scene.”

Scott hung up, then leaned forward. “Listen, buddy,” he said to the taxi driver. “I need to be at Holman fast-like, immediately.” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. “I’ve got forty bucks here for you if you can get me there within fifteen minutes. But I’m going to subtract a dollar every time the speedometer drops below seventy-five miles per hour. Got it?” Scott also promised a full presidential pardon for any speeding tickets the driver might get along the way and was surprised that the man actually seemed to believe him.

When they finally arrived at the airfield, Scott paid the driver the fare plus a thirty-seven-dollar tip.

Monday, December 29

Inverness Training Center

Englewood, Colorado

Riley sat in front of his locker at Inverness Training Center. The uninjured Mustangs players had been loaded onto buses at the stadium twenty minutes after the attack and five minutes after the Predators had boarded their own buses, presumably to go back to their hotel. The Mustangs were now on lockdown in the practice facility until all the players and staff had been questioned and cleared by the authorities.

Inverness was a beehive of activity. Federal, state, and local authorities were all wanting their turns with the players. Members of the media had been admitted into the facility but then tucked away in the amphitheater-style conference room usually reserved for full-team meetings. Despite close supervision on the reporters, some had still managed to sneak out to go prowling for information.

Outside the facility, hordes of fans and well-wishers were already crowding the snowy streets, overflowing the parking lots at the training facility and the corporate center next door.

Word was that six Mustangs had been hospitalized and eight were missing. One of the missing was Sal Ricci. Riley had no clue what the Predators’ casualties were-although he knew too well of at least one dead. He had wanted to stay at the stadium to help, but the option had not been given to him. So he sat at his locker, his mood ranging from rage to despair.

He looked up to see Travis Marshall tentatively approaching him. “Hey, Pach? Pach?”

Riley didn’t say anything, but he assumed the look in his eyes was sending a clear message that he didn’t want conversation.

Marshall visibly mustered his strength and pressed on. “I was just thinking that it might feel good for you to take a shower. I mean, you’re still in your uniform and you’re… well, you’re covered in blood, man, which can’t be good. And the steam-maybe it can help clear your head.”

Part of Riley wanted to explode at Marshall, and for a second he thought he might. But then the darkness softened, and he let out a long sigh. “Yeah, you’re right.” Riley shook his head. “I still can’t believe it.”

“You and me both, Pach. You and me both.”

“Did you ask around about Sal for me?” Riley asked hopefully.

“Yeah. Still no word.”

Riley slowly nodded. “Well, keep an ear out. I’ve got three messages from Meg on my phone. I’ve got to call her back, but I have no clue what to say.”

“Take a shower. Think it through. Something will come to you.”

Riley stood up and pulled off his jersey and pads. The jersey had begun to stiffen from the blood. The same was true of his pants, and he gratefully dropped them in one of the large hampers.

As soon as he did, one of the FBI counterterrorism agents came and snatched the bloody uniform up. “Evidence,” he said.

“Knock yourself out,” Riley replied and walked out the back of the locker room and into the showers. He turned the shower on as hot as he could take it and stood under the water. He watched as the clean water hit his body, cascaded off, and ran brown down the drain.

Sal! Where are you, man? You’ve got a wife who loves you and a little girl who… who…

A stifled sob burst from Riley, but it was all he would allow himself. He began slowly pounding on the tile of the shower wall. As his anger built once more against the orchestrators of the day’s tragedy, the speed and intensity of the blows gradually increased.

I’m coming to get you! I don’t know who you are or where you live, but I’m coming. I’ll smoke you out of your rat-hole cave or I’ll sneak into your house in the middle of the night. I’m going to find you-and you will pay!

Riley stopped pounding and leaned with both his fists against the wall. Lord, where were You? You could so easily have stopped this. It would have taken nothing for You to… to do something. And now what do I say to Meg? I don’t understand it, Lord. And I don’t understand You!

Riley slammed off the water, grabbed a towel, and went back to his locker. As he was buttoning up his shirt, he spotted a man coming toward him.