Blown Coverage (3 page)

Riley signaled Scott to lay fire and then spun around the corner. His first two shots were wild as he tried to get his bearings,
but the next three hit their mark. As the man fell back, his RPG fired wildly into the sky.
Lord,
don’t
let that land in a school yard,
Riley prayed as he quickly advanced. Running ahead, he saw another bogey lose half his face courtesy of Scott.

Where’s
the third one?
Riley thought as he ran.
Scott said there were
three. There!
At the next corner, a man was pulling off a mask as he rounded a corner at top speed. Riley signaled to Scott, who was now
across the street and trying his best to match the linebacker stride for stride. Scott nodded, and they both went toward the
corner.

Just before they reached it, the sound of a motorcycle engine kicking to life echoed down the narrow side street. Scott and
Riley made a wide turn around the corner just in time to see the third gunman speeding away.

The sounds of sirens began to fill the air. The two men slumped against the building and tried to catch their breath.

“How’d they know, Scott?” Riley panted. “How could they possibly have known I was down here?”

“I don’t know, man. But, believe me, I’m going to find out.”

CHAPTER
THREE

SATURDAY, APRIL 25, 4:18 P.M. MDT
ENGLEWOOD, COLORADO

The war room was divided. Less than three minutes remained, and tensions were high. Sweat and stale coffee hung heavy in the
air. The snap of a pencil breaking between someone’s fingers ricocheted through the room.

Exasperated, Todd Maule couldn’t take it anymore. “How could you even think of pulling the trigger on this one?” His tone
made it more of an accusation than a question.

“Son, watch your tone!” fired back the man in charge, staring down Maule.

After an uncomfortable silence, Maule finally looked away, trying to regain some semblance of composure.

“Give me the biographical sketch again,” the team leader called out. Almost instantly the mammoth monitor displayed the image
of a young man. To the right of the picture was his life history right down to the latest videos he’d rented from Blockbuster.

So much was riding on this decision. Guys had been falling all afternoon, and the people in this room never thought they’d
be in this position. If they let this man out of their grasp, they could potentially be paying for it for years to come.

“Boss, are you sure on this one? The political fallout if you make this move could be a lot more than we want to deal with,”
Mark Schlegel said, giving the voice of reason.

Less than one minute remained on the clock. The phones were ringing off the hook. All around the room legs were shaking and
pens were tapping—anything to give vent to the nervous energy.

The man in charge stood stoically, glaring at the picture on the screen. Without moving, he verbally made a circuit of the
room. “Adams?”

“I’m with you.”

“Cherapy?”

“If you’re okay with the fallout, then I’m okay with the decision.”

“Schlegel?”

“I’ve got major reservations, but you’re rarely wrong. I’ll support you on it.”

“Should I even ask you, Maule?”

“I think it’s insane. Absolutely the worst decision you could make!”

Schlegel interjected with urgency, “Boss, fifteen seconds!”

Exhaling deeply, the decision-maker made up his mind. He picked up the direct line and said into the phone, “Do it!”

6:21 P.M. EDT
NEW YORK CITY

Jerome Taylor waited backstage by the curtains. He had been PFL commissioner less than one year and was still reeling from
the Platte River Stadium attack in December. Many people had wanted him fired for not having better security in place for
the big game. And he had been shredded in the press for his handling of the aftermath of the attack. On top of that, teams
were already beginning to panic about the potential loss of revenue due to fan apprehension about attending upcoming games.
Usually a man who thrived under pressure, he wasn’t sure how much more of this he could take.

Taylor let his mind wander back to that dreadful day at Platte River Stadium.
What more could I have done? Who would have ever
dreamed Sal Ricci could do such a thing?

One of his first moves following the incident had been to institute a mandatory, highly detailed background check on every
player, coach, front-office person—everyone, right down to the people who cleaned up the stadium after the games. Although
the teams had fought back because of the huge expense, Taylor had pushed the decision through. Somehow the PFL had to get
fan confidence back.

Taylor’s assistant woke him from his fog telling him it was time. Taking a deep breath, he walked out onto the stage. Halfway
across he was met with a slip of paper from the Mustangs’ representative. Taylor read the paper and couldn’t believe his eyes.
You have got to be
kidding! Burton, what are you doing to me?
he thought angrily.

“Are you sure?” Taylor asked the man who had given him the paper—a little more bite was in his voice than he had intended.

“Down to the letter, sir.”

Without saying another word, Taylor finished his walk to the podium. The heat from the lights just added to the sweat that
had already begun streaming down his back. Grabbing the microphone, he briefly hesitated, then said, “With the twentieth overall
selection in the first round, the Colorado Mustangs select out of the University of Texas, linebacker Afshin Ziafat.”

4:23 P.M. MDT
INVERNESS TRAINING CENTER
ENGLEWOOD, COLORADO

Normally the Colorado Mustangs’ war room at the Inverness Training Center exploded with jubilation after such an important
pick was made—a pick that represented hours upon hours of research and work for everyone in the personnel department; a pick
that meant an enormous investment on the part of the team to a player they really didn’t know; a pick that would guarantee
this young man millions of dollars and the assurance he would probably never have to work again after signing his name on
the dotted line; a pick that would likely make that player an overnight household name—jerseys would be made, billboards would
be erected, and endorsements would be signed.

Now, only four months after the attack by the Cause during a Monday Night Football game, the question was whether this organization,
this locker room, and this city were prepared to embrace a player with a Muslim name. Within minutes of the announcement,
blogs and online message boards filled with people giving their opinions of the Mustangs’ move. Most of them were calling
for Burton’s job, if not his head.

A bevy of sports reporters waited desperately for Mustangs head coach Roy Burton to emerge. Some saw the selection as disturbing,
while others saw it as an act of redemption or tolerance or maybe just insanity. All, however, saw it as a story that wouldn’t
die for a long time.

Burton burst through the door and mounted the podium as the room lit up with camera-mounted lights. The questions came crashing
down like an avalanche.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Burton recoiled. “I know precisely what the question is going to be, so let me be clear. We held the twentieth
overall selection, and our greatest need was at linebacker. We had to address that position, especially with the uncertainty
of Riley Covington’s status.

“Afshin Ziafat was the top collegiate linebacker. In fact, he was ranked as the fourth-best player in this year’s draft. We
never expected he would have dropped to number twenty. Face it: if the kid had a different last name, we wouldn’t be having
this conversation.

“As our pick came closer, we were faced with quite the dilemma. The next-best linebacker was ranked twenty-seventh overall
on our board. You tell me one coach worth his salt who would bypass the fourth best player in the draft for the twenty-seventh.
I don’t care if the kid’s mother named him Osama bin Laden; that’s just simple math.

“Our other option was to draft not according to our need at linebacker but to go with the best available player after Ziafat,
no matter the position. That player was a quarterback. Obviously, with Meyer we don’t have a need at the quarterback position.
After that was a center. With the production we’ve had out of Gorkowski, that wouldn’t make much sense either. Our only other
choice would have been to hope to get something worthwhile by trading down to a lower pick, but the offers we had were not
in our best interest.

“So, we had the opportunity to select a number-four player with a number-twenty pick at a position that addressed our greatest
need. Any other time in our history, this pick would be a no-brainer. We’ve pulled everything on this kid that we could find.
He’s a good kid—a bright kid.”

Burton paused for a moment. “Look, bottom line is yes, he’s from a background that scares some people, and we do have a wound
that is still raw. But I see this as the next big step in the healing process for this team, this city, and ultimately, for
this country. So, I made the pick, and I need to go call Ziafat to welcome him to the Mustang family. I hope all of you will
extend him that same courtesy.” Before the media could rebound, Burton sprang from the platform and was through the door.

Back in the Mustangs’ war room, Burton called out, “Anything new?”

“It’s been pretty quiet, Coach. We don’t pick again until number fifty-two, so things will start speeding up around number
forty-five,” responded Mark Schlegel, Burton’s right-hand man.

Burton dropped into his chair and heaved a deep sigh. The first round of the draft had been agonizingly slow. Virtually every
team had taken its full ten minutes to make a selection or trade its pick. The second round would proceed much more quickly
since each team received only seven minutes per choice. However, speed didn’t equate to carelessness. Most organizations would
continue to be very calculated with their selections; millions of dollars would still be at stake on a second-rounder.

After the first day, though, rounds three through seven would be much faster. The risk and the investment were far less, and
the greatest hope was that a team could find a diamond in the rough during their allotted five minutes.

Everyone in the war room was watching the ESPN reports and speculating on who would be picked next. Two large, white boards
flanked the giant television screen. The board to the left listed on thin magnetic strips the top one hundred offensive players.
The board to the right did the same for the defensive prospects. Each strip listed a player’s name, ranking, college, height,
weight, and forty-yard-dash time. Once a player was selected, his strip was taken away, and the waiting game continued.

As Burton looked around the room, he could see that Todd Maule was still visibly upset.

Just then, Liberty University left tackle Bob Fiala, a player Maule had wanted, was selected with the twenty-eighth overall
pick.

“That’s perfect,” Maule cried out. “We pass on Fiala for Ziafat! That’s like passing on Riley Covington for Mahmoud Ahmadinejad.”

Burton realized it was time to take control of the room again. Ignoring Maule’s outburst, he said, “I want to make sure we
have plenty of depth at linebacker, fellas, so over the next few rounds I want to stay defensive. Of course, if someone else
has a significant drop, we’ll need to consider that.”

Again Maule couldn’t resist. “Why do we need more at linebacker when we’ve got the Hezbollah Kid? I can see the headlines
now. ‘Ziafat Terrorizes the Quarterback’. Or ‘Ziafat Intercepts a Bomb’. Oh yeah! The press is going to love this!”

“Son, I’ve had enough of you. This isn’t a democracy around here,” Burton said with authority. “I’ll have your office boxed
up and sent to you. Now get out of my war room.”

With that Burton motioned to the off-duty Denver policeman who had been watching from the rear corner. Within seconds, Todd
Maule found himself being escorted from the Inverness Training Center—permanently.

8:41 P.M. CRST
EDUARDO CASTILLO MEMORIAL HOSPITAL
SAN JOSÉ, COSTA RICA

“I expect a call back within the hour, and you better have some answers! Otherwise, I’ll be on the phone with my
jefe
, and before you know it, he’ll be on the phone with your
jefe
threatening to turn this into an international incident. So, how about you save us all some trouble,
amigo
, and get back to me with some names!” Khadi had been on the SatCom phone nonstop since yesterday’s attack. She was trying
to get identities on the gunmen from Costa Rican authorities, but that information was not coming easily.

Riley had been working out of Skeeter’s hospital room, planning their return to the U.S. with help from his connections at
Homeland Security. Whenever he wasn’t on the phone, Riley was trying to calm an increasingly agitated Skeeter.

“Pach, I’m telling you I’m fine. Now get me out of here.”

“Quit your bellyaching, Skeet. And while you’re at it, leave the poor hospital staff alone. They’re just trying to do their
jobs, and they don’t need you harassing them at every move. I told you I’d get you out just as soon as we’ve covered all our
bases. Until then, I can’t risk everyone’s safety.”

Scott had set up camp across the room next to the second-story window. The Regional Security Office of the U.S. Embassy had
set up a perimeter around the hospital and had assured anonymity for the four friends. Scott had been alternating between
keeping watch on the security detail outside and following a soccer game on ESPN Deportes on the wall-mounted television.

One of the nurses brought in a concoction that looked even worse than the guanabana juice the team had ordered the day before.
She motioned for Skeeter to drink it.

“Down the hatch, tough guy,” Scott teased.

Skeeter glared at the drink and then at Scott. “I’ve got something real special planned for you soon as we get home.”

Scott smirked and glanced back up at the television. Watching the crawler reporting on the PFL draft creep along the bottom
of the screen, he suddenly bolted upright. “Riley, you are not going to believe this!”