Inside Threat (8 page)

Alavi stood and moved across the warehouse to where his cot was, one of eight in the small area belonging to the squadron he would command. He sat down and began dismantling his Glock 21 .45 for a cleaning, carefully laying out each piece on an olive green blanket.
Well, we are the wake-up call! We are retribution! We are the Vandals to this modern-day empire! And before they know what hits them, Rome is going to get sacked!

Sunday, September 11, 3:30 p.m. EDT

Cleveland, Ohio

The gold coin twinkled as it spun between Riley's thumb and index finger. Although it was still the fourth quarter of the game, he was showered and dressed and sitting in front of his locker. Word of what was now being referred to as the Gatorade Incident had spread quickly. Within three minutes, Coach Medley had come to the bench where he was sitting and told him in no uncertain terms that he was no longer welcome on the sidelines. Riley was all too happy to oblige.

He flicked the coin again with his right index finger and watched it spin. The walk back to the tunnel had been interesting. It was the first time all day that he had been cheered. Even the Dog Pound was giving it up for him. All the random comments had eventually coalesced into a resounding chant of “Phone Boy, Phone Boy, Phone Boy” that had spread throughout the stadium. He had smiled and waved to the crowd before going under the seats, knowing that on a day like today, he could use all the friends he could get.

Riley flicked the coin again. This time it went bouncing across the carpet. He jumped up after it, stopping its roll with a stomp of his foot. After picking it up, he sat down at his locker and examined it. The reverse side had the Statue of Liberty on it and made it clear that the coin's value was one dollar. On the obverse side was a picture of a president.
Zachary Taylor,
he read,
12th President, 1849–50. I know there's a story to that short tenure, but for the life of me, I can't remember what it is.

Placing the coin back between his thumb and index finger, he spun it again. The only positive thing to come out of the situation so far was that he was no longer wired for sound. Mike Novinger from HBO had removed his mic so that he could shower. When he came back out, he fully expected to have the mic replaced. But Novinger didn't approach him. Even the cameras kept a respectful distance. The only explanation he could think of was that Bellefeuille had demanded they back off.

As he sat there, Riley entertained himself with thinking of all the things he wished he had said—all the comebacks he could have nailed Bellefeuille with, all the zingers that would have rocked the man back on his heels.
Why am I always so good thirty minutes after the fact? I desperately need to take a course at the Scott Ross School of Witty Repartee.

Suddenly, the activity around him began to increase. The rising scramble of the Warriors locker-room minions told him that the game was just about at an end. He craned his neck so that he could check out the big screen that was hanging on the wall above and to the left of him. Sure enough, there was 1:03 left and the Bulldogs were going to kneel it out.

Riley pocketed the coin and prepared to meet the press onslaught.
Lord, help me to not do anything even more stupid than what I've already done today.

The doors burst open, and his teammates began filing in. Riley kept his head down, not wanting to put anyone in an awkward position. In the PFL, the doghouse is a lonely place to be. Most players try to shy away from demonstrating any support, in case it could be perceived as choosing sides against the ownership.

Add to that the lousy performance not just from Riley but from the whole team, and he didn't expect a whole lot of post-game banter.

As the foul-smelling men moved past him, a dirty cleat kicked up against his Merrell; then a small paper cup dropped to the ground. Looking up, Riley saw it was Don Bernier, who just kept walking without acknowledging him. He fished the cup from the floor, wondering what his friend was up to. It didn't take long to figure out. On the inside of the green Gatorade cup, Bernier had used a grease pencil to draw an angry face with a phone to his ear and smoke curling up the sides.

Riley laughed to himself as he balled up the cup, destroying the evidence. Then, after thinking a moment, he unwrinkled the waxy paper, folded it into thirds, and slid it into his pocket.
You never know when you might need to remember that you're not alone.

Minutes later, the press was let in. Almost everyone beelined to Riley.

“What made you do it?”

“What was Bellefeuille saying to you?”

“Have you apologized?”

“Are you going to be suspended?”

Hmmm, suspended? Hadn't thought of that.

Putting up his hands to silence the questions, Riley began a response that he had been mentally rehearsing. “Listen, what I did out there was—”

“I'm sorry, folks, but Riley won't be taking questions right now,” said Jonny Wiens, the Warriors' head of public relations, pushing his way through the mass of reporters.

“Come on,”
Pro Football Weekly
's Gus Verdant protested, “you can't cut him off. He was just answering.”

With a professionalism that only experience can bring, Wiens brushed off the protests. “Again, I'm sorry. Riley will be available sometime this week for comment. For now, he's needed elsewhere. All right?”

Groans and curses answered Wiens as he took Riley by the arm and pulled him away. Riley followed easily. He didn't really care where he was being led. He was just happy it was away from the press.

The two men walked past the lockers, Wiens keeping his hand on Riley's arm.
Ahhh, heading out to freedom,
Riley thought as they moved toward the exit.

But just before they reached the rear doors, Wiens stopped. He pulled Riley around so that his back was to a wall that appeared to have been hastily covered with a Washington Warriors banner.

“Listen, Riley,” Wiens began in a low voice, poking his finger in Riley's chest, “I just wanted to get you away from them so we could talk.”

“I know Bellefeuille's probably through the roof with this thing, but he—”

Wiens threw his hands up in the air and shook his head violently. “That's where you're wrong. Sure, Mr. Bellefeuille's seriously ticked at you, but he's loving the whole situation.”

“Loving it?” Riley said, confused. “I'm not sure I'm following—”

“Oh, come on, Riley,” Wiens said very loudly, again throwing up his hands. He stepped away for a few moments like he was trying to regain his composure. When he came back, his finger was in Riley's face.

“Think about it,” Wiens said quietly. His face was turning a dark red, and beads of sweat were rolling down his face. “This is a boon for Bellefeuille. His face will be everywhere. People from all over the world will be hitting the Warriors website. He couldn't have asked for a better PR gimmick.”

Nothing was making any sense. The incongruity between Wiens's words and his actions was getting to be too much. Riley grabbed Wiens's finger. “First of all, get your finger out of my face! Second, what's with the . . . wait a second. The banner, the lighting . . .”

Riley let go of Wiens's finger and stepped back.

“No, keep it going. That was great,” Wiens said, cowering a bit, like he was afraid Riley was going to hit him.

“This is a setup—a photo op!” Riley looked around the locker room and saw that they had drawn the attention of everyone in the room. Every eye, every camera in the room was pointed in their direction.

“You weasel,” he said, turning back to Wiens. “Is this all part of Bellefeuille's big plan to exploit the situation?”

“What do you think, Riley?” Wiens was back in his face again, appearing to be madder than ever. “You play along, and Mr. Bellefeuille will pretty much let the whole thing blow over. No suspension, just a minor fine. We figure a press conference on Tuesday when you can publicly apologize. Then Mr. Bellefeuille will forgive you—after all, who wouldn't snap after all the death-defying things you've done over the past few years? Finally, you shake hands and the show's over.”

Riley was stunned. While Wiens panted “angrily” in his face, he just stared back, amazed at the man's brazenness.
What am I, a circus animal? Next thing you know, Bellefeuille's going to have me jump through a flaming hoop—he'll probably sell the show live on pay-per-view! Seriously, is this really what I want my life to be?

“Come on, Riley. Come at me one more time, while we still have their interest. Then we'll call it a day. I promise.”

The whirr of cameras was the only thing that broke the unnatural silence of the locker room. Riley placed his hand on Wiens's chest and slowly pushed him back a step.

“That's it,” Wiens said. “Just finish the show.”

Riley's fists balled together at his side. Through clenched teeth, he said, “Mr. Bellefeuille wants a show, huh? Okay, I'll give him a show.”

Both of Riley's fists moved up in front of Wiens's face, causing the man to involuntarily suck in his breath. Then, one finger at a time, Riley let his right hand open. “Nothing there,” he said.

Riley slowly opened his left hand. “Nothing there.”

Riley's face broke into a wide smile. “Abracadabra.” He reached behind Wiens's left ear and pulled out a gold Zachary Taylor coin, then held it up for all to see. “Ta-da!”

There was a moment of silence, while everyone tried to process what they had just witnessed. Then everyone, players and press alike, burst into laughing applause.

Riley was still staring at Wiens, who was turning a much darker red than his manufactured emotions had produced. “Please tell Mr. Bellefeuille that I hope he enjoyed the performance.”

Without acknowledging the cheers, Riley moved toward the exit. Then, stopping suddenly, he turned back toward Wiens and flicked the coin. Instinctively, Wiens caught it.

“Sorry, that was almost my bad. Your ear, your coin.” And with a wink, Riley went out the doors.

Sunday, September 11, 8:30 p.m. EDT

Leesburg, Virginia

This is so much more house than I need, Riley thought as he watched the garage door make its slow ascent.
It's just stupid! Stupid! What was I thinking?

The three-story colonial was located next to a small lake in Leesburg, Virginia. It was a beautiful brick home with a decked-out interior and a decent-size yard, sitting on the end of a cul-de-sac. He had thought of buying something cheaper—maybe even a townhome. After all, he was still paying on his place in Kenai, Alaska, and his house in Parker, Colorado.

At least the Parker home was being used. Six months ago a family connected with Keith Simmons's refugee work moved in. Riley had decided to let them live there rent-free, so they could better carry on their ministry.
Seven New York City orphans—what must they be doing to my carpet? Oh well; everything is replaceable.

Riley eased his black Durango into the garage, parking it next to Skeeter's Chrysler 300. The realities of his past had nixed the townhome idea. You just never knew when someone was going to get it into their head to put an end to Captain America once and for all. If that situation were to arise, it was better to have a little room between yourself and your neighbors.

So he had settled on this beauty. The neighbors were nice, and after the initial freak-out of having Riley Covington on the street, they treated him fairly normally. The HOA stocked the lake, so he could fish off his little dock. And best of all, the Warriors' headquarters was just a quick fifteen-minute drive up the Harry Byrd Highway.

But despite all those positives, he still felt guilty every time he pulled up.
This thing was about three hundred grand more than you should have paid for a house. And what are you doing with five bedrooms? Maybe you should get Skeeter to run a bed-and-breakfast out of it, so the extra square footage doesn't go to waste.