Ricci seemed to be enjoying America, but it was clear to Riley that the Italian still didn’t feel like he fully fit into the culture. Everything here moved at such a faster pace than it did in Europe. But whenever Sal complained about the pace of life in America, Riley reminded him of his whirlwind romance with Megan Unruh. Sal had met Megan when she was doing a newspaper story on him for the Denver Post. Four weeks after they met, they were married. Then nine months to the day from their wedding night, Alessandra Bianca Ricci was born.

Since the Italian’s start with the Mustangs, PFL viewership in Italy had skyrocketed. To add to that pressure, Ricci had told his teammates he had been visited last week by a representative of the Italian president. The gentleman, in his exquisite black suit that probably had cost the equivalent of Ricci’s signing bonus, told him that after the “inevitable Mustang PFL Cup victory,” the president of Italy wanted to entertain him at his personal residence. On top of that, Riley had read that the Italian government planned to declare a national “Salvatore Ricci Day.”

After the pat-’n’-go came about ten minutes of stretches. Then the players transitioned to the installation period, reviewing their assignments for this week’s game plan. Riley listened closely as Rex Texeira, the linebackers coach, went over the play shifts that had been specifically designed for this Sunday’s game against the Bay Area Bandits.

The Bandits’ quarterback liked to drop a few steps back from the center, then roll out before throwing a pass. That meant that Riley and his right-side counterpart, Keith Simmons, were going to be doing a lot of blitzing.

“If the QB steps out of that pocket, I want him to see your faces,” Texeira said.

“You got it, Tex-Rex,” Riley replied. “Hey, Simmons, you feel like upping it to seventy-five-per for this week?” At the beginning of the season, Riley and Simmons had devised a little incentive program for keeping their game up. For each tackle that Simmons got, Riley would donate fifty dollars to the Denver Boys’ Home. Simmons would donate the same amount for each of Riley’s tackles.

“It’s your checkbook, big spender,” Simmons said. “Better start limbering up your writing hand, ’cause I’m feeling fast and mean.”

After ten minutes of focusing on the Xs and Os of the upcoming game, the team began a seven-on-seven session. During this drill, plays were run at full speed but with no offensive or defensive linemen involved. Everyone was going all out today. Randy Meyer was rocketing passes in, making it extremely difficult for the defensive backfield to get a hand on the ball.

Soon the offense started to get a little mouthy. After a particularly nice short pattern catch, Sal Ricci tossed the ball to Riley.

“Just wanted you to remember what the ball felt like,” Ricci taunted.

Sal may have been one of Riley’s closest friends, but this linebacker didn’t take that kind of trash talk from anyone. Time for this Euro to be welcomed back to reality, Riley thought as he forced a smile at his buddy.

As they lined up for the next play, Riley drew a bead on Ricci. The ball was snapped and Ricci came right toward Riley, who watched him intently, looking for anything that would tip off his direction. There it is! Riley had seen Ricci’s eyes take a quick glance to his left to see if his lane was clear. Riley shot to his right a step before Ricci, grabbing the ball just before it reached the tight end’s hands and running it back into the end zone.

As Riley jogged back to his huddle, he tossed the ball to Ricci. “How do you say payback in Italian?” he laughed.

Ricci shook his head, grinning. “What did I do wrong this time?”

“It’s your eyes, Reech. You’re going to follow your pattern whether the lane is open or not. By looking first, all you’re doing is making sure someone will be there waiting for you.”

“Got it. Thanks, Pach,” Ricci said.

A while later the coaches pulled the full squads to the main field for team drills. By this point in the practice session, the players were expected to be performing at “game-time speed” and to thoroughly know the game plan and their assignments. Every move was captured by the “eye in the sky,” a name used by the players for the multiangled film shot by the team’s video department from a crane over the practice field. After practice, every step would be analyzed by coaches during position meetings to ensure proper technique. Any mistakes would evoke the wrath of the coaching staff. Perfection was not only expected but demanded.

The team ran sixteen plays of full-team, full-speed, full-contact football. Then special teams came on to attempt some game-pace kicks and punts. This allowed the rest of the team time to strip off their pads. From here on out, the offense and defense would alternate every five to eight plays, working on everything from two-minute drills to nickel packages to short-yardage situations.

“Hey, Riley, you’ve made sure those rookie linebackers have the limo ready for you tonight, right?” Chris Gorkowski, one of the veteran offensive linemen, asked as he pulled his shoulder pads over his head.

“Yeah, I’ve got everything covered.”

“Well, you’ll have to drink something other than Diet Coke to get that tab up over five thousand dollars, choirboy,” Gorkowski joked. Everyone on the team knew Riley wasn’t a drinker.

It had become a tradition for the rookies to take all the veterans out on the town to the most expensive restaurant in the city once a year. The vets would run the bill up as high as they could and leave the rookies to pay the tab.

“Don’t worry about us linebackers. You just make sure you linemen leave some food for the rest of us.”

Riley really had no desire to go. He had agreed to the evening primarily to hang out with Ricci and to make sure nobody got too far out of line. As practice ended and Riley headed toward the pressroom, he knew that wading through the interviews that were waiting for him was only the beginning of what promised to be a very long night.

Friday, December 19

CTD North Central Division Headquarters

Minneapolis, Minnesota

Jim Hicks sat straddling Mohsin Kurshumi. His forehead was pressed hard against the other man’s forehead, tilting the Yemeni’s head back at a seventy-five-degree angle and pushing it hard against the top corner of the chair.

Hicks’s right hand held the tie of the interpreter, who had vainly tried to remove himself from the interrogation when he saw the violent turn it was taking. The agent’s left hand held the MKIII combat knife he had kept from his days as a Navy SEAL. The tip of the blade was about a half inch through the skin behind the prisoner’s chin and was gradually making progress as Hicks slowly twisted the blade left, then right, then left, then right. Blood trickled down the cold metal and between Hicks’s fingers. Kurshumi had stopped screaming when he realized that each time he did, it just drove the blade in a little deeper.

When Hicks could finally see raw, animal fear in the man’s eyes, he knew he had him.

He gave the interpreter’s tie a hard yank, adding a third sweaty head to the private confab. “Mr. Mazari, please be so kind as to tell Mr. Kurshumi that the cameras in this room have unfortunately malfunctioned. That means there’s nobody who’s going to know exactly what happens in here.”

The interpreter gave a simultaneous translation to the prisoner, whose eyes grew bigger as he realized where this conversation was going.

The blade kept twisting. “Tell him that he will not be my first ‘accidental’ kill, but I’ve a good mind to make him my slowest. And if you would, Mr. Mazari, tell him that if he thinks I’m worried about you saying anything… well, after what’s gone on in here already this afternoon, I think there’s a good chance that I’m the only one who’s going to walk out of this room in one piece.” Hicks turned his head slightly toward the interpreter and gave a subtle wink that seemed to say, Don’t worry about it. However, the accompanying grin said, I haven’t quite made up my mind.