Monday Night Jihad (20 page)

“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.

He was the perfect stereotype of a G-man—dark suit, dark tie, white shirt, shoes shined to a blinding glare. Riley half expected him to say that he had been sent by J. Edgar Hoover himself.

“Mr. Covington? I’m agent Pat Kimminau of the FBI. We’re going to need to question you in a little bit here, but first I have a couple of things to tell you. First, there’s a Scott Ross from Homeland Security Counterterrorism Division who called for you while you were in the shower. He’s on his way to Denver and wants to see you. He asked if you would be available to meet with him.”

“Scott’s coming? Yeah, of course. Tell him I’ll be around.”

“Second, we’ve found Sal Ricci. I . . . he’s . . . I’m sorry, Mr. Covington.”

Riley kept his stone face for the agent, but inside part of his heart broke. “Tell me.”

“Well, he was right where you said he might be—over by the turf manager’s office. Truthfully, there wasn’t much left of anyone around that area. Sorry; I don’t mean to sound callous.”

Riley indicated for him to continue with a nod of his head.

“We found enough of his jersey and pads to positively identify his presence. The ME will have to confirm it with DNA testing, but that could take months. The scene is . . .” The agent paused, clearly worried that the graphic description might be too much for the athlete to stomach.

Riley looked up, silently imploring him to say it and get it over with.

“Well, it’s a mess, and it’s gonna be difficult to separate the tissue of the victims. I’m sorry, Mr. Covington.”

Riley remained quiet for a moment, trying to keep control of his voice. “Has anyone called his wife yet?”

“No. We were told that you had requested to call her if we confirmed the worst.”

“Yeah, okay,” Riley said, mentally drifting away from the conversation. “Thanks.”

“If there’s anything else we can—”

“No. Fine. Thanks.” Riley dismissed the agent with an absentminded wave of his hand. His thoughts were completely with what he was going to say to Meg. How do you tell a woman that her whole life has just fallen apart?

“Riley . . . hey, Pach.”

Riley looked up. Travis Marshall was back with Garrett Widnall and a couple of other players.

Marshall had tears in his eyes. He continued, “We heard about Sal. I know you’re planning on calling Meg. We were wondering if we could pray with you before you do.”

“Yeah, sure; thanks.”

They all gathered around Riley and laid their hands on his shoulders. Marshall began praying, but Riley was only half listening. His sorrow and rage were becoming more defined now—his sorrow taking on the faces of Meg and Alessandra. His rage was less defined, but whoever the shadowed face belonged to, he was wearing a dishdasha and had a smagh folded on his head.

Riley knew he should be paying attention to the prayers, but his heart wasn’t in it. He patiently endured the men’s words and was relieved to hear the final amen.

“Thanks, guys; I really appreciate it,” he said to them, forcing a smile as they each said their “Anything you need, let me know” and “Just holler; I’m only two lockers down” to him.

Riley picked up his cell phone and stared at it, rehearsing in his mind what he was going to say. He could feel a bunch of eyes on him, so he moved into the taping area and leaned against one of the tables.

Part of him wanted to abdicate the responsibility and leave the notification to the police. That would be so much easier.

As he stood there, his eyes wandered to the words printed on a large plaque on the taping room wall: “You can easily judge the character of a man by how he treats those who can do nothing for him.” Meg can do nothing for me right now, he thought, but I can probably do a lot for her—starting with allowing her to hear about Sal from a friend instead of from a stranger. But what in the world do I say?

He was so intent in his thoughts that when the phone started vibrating in his hand, he almost dropped it. He looked at the caller ID—Sal Home. He drew in a deep breath and answered.

Monday, December 29

Parker, Colorado

The last hour had been a nightmare for Meg Ricci. She had been watching the game when the broadcast had suddenly cut out. An ESPN logo appeared on the screen, and Meg assumed that they were having technical difficulties. She reached for another freshly laundered baby blanket to fold as the picture cut back in, showing ESPN studios.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have word that there has been an explosion of some sort in Platte River Stadium. The report is that it took place somewhere in the . . . Wait . . . I’m just getting information that there has been a second explosion. By all indications, this appears to be an intentional attack. . . .”

The blanket Meg held floated to the floor. Her eyes locked on the television screen, but she no longer heard the words that were being said. Panic began welling up in her. Her breath was getting faster and faster. She could feel a scream building inside her, but it couldn’t find an outlet. She reached for the remote but then pulled her hand back. She reached for the telephone but couldn’t think of whom to call.

The phone rang, releasing the scream that was in her. She lunged for the cordless, knocking over her stack of neatly folded blankets. Picking up the receiver, she couldn’t think of what to say.

“Meg? Meg, are you there, baby?” It was Meg’s mom, calling from Fort Collins.

“Mom? Did you hear? Were you watching the game?”

“Yes, honey. Dad and I were watching. Are you okay?”

“Mom, what about Sal? What should I do?”

“Sweetheart, this is Dad. Don’t do anything; we’re on our way. We’ll be there in an hour.”

“Dad, I don’t know what to do. Should I go to the stadium?”

“Meg, listen to me. Stay right where you are. We’re coming, and we’ll figure it out when we get there. Promise me you won’t go anywhere.”

“Okay, Daddy. But hurry. Please hurry!”

Her mom took the phone back. “Meg, we’ll have our cell phone on. Call us with any updates. I love you, sweetie.”

“I love you, too, Mom.”

As Meg hung up the phone, the pounding on the front door finally registered. She ran to the door and opened it. Her neighbor Jill Walton came bursting in and wrapped her arms around Meg’s neck. Meg immediately broke down into gut-wrenching sobs.

After several minutes, Meg allowed Jill to lead her to the couch. “Oh, Jill, I’m so scared.”

“Of course you are. Have you been able to talk to anyone yet?”

“Only my folks.”

“Well, let’s just start dialing until we get ahold of someone. I’m sure everyone’s okay.”

“You’re probably right. But I need to talk to Sal. I’ve got to hear his voice.”

Jill picked up the phone and passed it to her friend. “I’m going to go make some tea. You start calling.”

Two cups of tea later, Meg was still dialing. The TV continued to give reports, and she alternated between wanting to hear more information from the news channels and muting the announcer when the updates became too overwhelming. Her fear kept increasing as time went on. “Why doesn’t anyone answer? I’ve tried Sal. I’ve tried Riley. I’ve tried the main Mustangs number.” A small cry came from upstairs. “Oh, that’s Aly. I’ll be back in a minute.”

“Stay right where you are. Let me go check on her. You keep dialing those numbers.”

“Thanks, Jill.” As her friend went to the stairs, Meg hit speed dial 1.

After four rings, Sal’s voice came on. “Hey, it’s me. Leave a message.”

Meg hung up and hit speed dial 5, praying that maybe Riley would pick up.

After two rings, Riley answered. “Hey, Meg.”

“Riley, thank heaven you’re all right! I’ve been trying you and Sal all night! Is Sal with you? Can you put him on the phone?”