* * *
NOAH FINISHED PACKING, threw his bags into his Toyota Tundra and climbed in. The silver 4x4 wasn’t what people expected an NFL star to drive, but Noah favored substance over style. His dad used to drill that mantra into his head: “Substance matters more than style, son.” Especially after a game where Noah’s statistics were abysmal but the team still won. “Real leaders are willing to sacrifice everything for the good of the whole,” Noah’s dad would say. “Leaders don’t want medals or accolades—they just want to help those around them accomplish a common vision. If you remember that, you’ll be a great leader.”
Eventually, that philosophy sunk in and stuck. And after two state championships and a national title in college, Noah adopted this idea for all parts of his life. However, it made for a challenging life in the NFL, where people judged you by how much you were going to help their fantasy league team. But that was somebody else’s fantasy. It was his reality, a reality that was on the verge of being one he only dreamed about as a child—Super Bowl champs.
Noah pulled out of the driveway and onto the quiet street. He was lost in thought reflecting on his NFL career. The windshield wipers provided a soothing rhythmic background to his contemplative mood. He dreamed of playing in the NFL but never realized it would go so well. His hard work had paid off in various accolades and handsome contracts. But now he could earn a payoff on the sport’s ultimate stage: The Super Bowl. Now he had a chance to write a fairytale ending — “Noah Larson leads Seahawks to Super Bowl victory and rides off into the sunset.”
The ringing of his phone interrupted his pleasant mood. Restricted number. Probably one of his teammates, who all blocked their numbers. Privacy was challenging enough without some wacko fan tweeting your number to the fanbase.
He glanced out the window and saw Jake’s soccer ball on the sidewalk. This was curious. Jake loved that ball and would never just leave it laying around, much less abandon it before school. Confused at this discovery, Noah answered the phone.
“Hello?” Noah said, putting his truck in park and starting to get out.
“Is this Noah Larson?” asked the unfamiliar voice on the other end.
Noah stopped. “Yes. Who is this?”
“The who is not important, Mr. Larson. What’s important is that you do as I say if you ever want to see Jake alive again.”
The voice was heavily accented, maybe someone from Latin America somewhere. Noah couldn’t be sure.
“What? No. Who is this? …”
“No, you do the listening. I do the talking. Comprende?”
“What do you want? Money? I’ll give you whatever you want.”
“That’s good, Mr. Larson. But I don’t want your money. I want you to do something for me—and if you do it, your son will live.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to make sure that the Seahawks lose the Super Bowl by a comfortable margin.”
“Are you out of your mind?!” Jake asked. “I can’t control that.”
“Oh, I think you can, Mr. Larson. A bad decision here. A bad throw there. You can blame it on the pressure of playing in the Super Bowl and no one will be the wiser. Nobody expects much out of you anyway.”
For someone who wanted to coerce Noah into helping him, the mystery caller certainly lacked any charm. Yet his persuasion was strong enough—he had taken his son.
“It’s very simple, Mr. Larson. You lose by a touchdown or so and your son will be returned to you immediately after the game. If not, you will never see him again. Understand?”
“Yes, I understand.”
“And lastly, no authorities either. If you contact them, we will return his body to you in pieces. Otherwise, we look forward to watching the Miami Dolphins beat the Seahawks in the Super Bowl on Sunday.”
The line went dead. Noah scooped up Jake’s ball and held it close as the sky opened up and dumped a fresh deluge.
CHAPTER 3
RIVERA HIT SEND ON HIS disposable cell phone, removed the battery and threw it out the window. Transmitting a photo of a man’s son he took by force was unpleasant, but it had to be done.
He checked his watch. It was 10:30 and they had 30 minutes to reach Boeing Field and prepare Mr. Hernandez’s Gulfstream G450 for the flight back to Juarez. They had a schedule to follow, if only for Mr. Hernandez’s pleasure. He didn’t tolerate tardiness or inefficiency of any kind, yet he never actually fired anyone. He just made sure you never came to work again. It was a major reason his operation ran so smoothly. The examples made of a few served as sufficient motivation for the other employees.
Rivera glanced in his rearview mirror. Jake was slumped in the back right corner, duck tape over his mouth. Rivera thought the tape was unnecessary but Morales insisted. It was Mr. Hernandez’s orders, and a wise directive. One empathetic employee and the plan would disintegrate—and Mr. Hernandez had too much riding on this job to have any missteps. Jake stared listlessly out the window as they neared the airfield.
Airport security personnel were paid to look the other way at any destination Mr. Hernandez’s planes flew to. And while Seattle was not a regular route, three of the guards were paid handsomely for those occasional visits.
In secret Rivera hoped it would be a different guard, one who might want to fully inspect the vehicle and politely decline any bribes. But it wasn’t. The security guard didn’t even glimpse at Rivera as he waved him through to Mr. Hernandez’s hangar.
In thirty minutes, Rivera would fly out of the city, leaving behind its bitter coffee, its dreary weather, and his darkest sin.
* * *
NOAH GASPED FOR AIR. How could this be happening? How could anyone take Jake? What kind of monster would do that to a six-year-old boy—his boy?
He calmed down, returned to his truck and began driving toward the airport. The rain hardly concerned him any more, neither did the Super Bowl. He only wanted his son back.
He had to think. What was the best course of action? He had to put aside his desire for vengeance. Its value was far less than Jake’s life. Revenge was something he couldn’t think about. But he felt helpless. He couldn’t feign an illness or an injury for fear of losing Jake. He needed outside help. But first, he needed to call Ellen.
He dialed her number on his cell phone.
“Hey. You at the airport yet?”
Noah couldn’t think of a gentle way to break it to Ellen. “It’s horrible, Ellen. I found Jake’s soccer ball. These men called me and said they had Jake. Said they would kill him if I didn’t lose the game.”
“Wait, slow down. What are you saying?”
“Jake’s been kidnapped.”
Ellen went silent for a moment. Then came a fury of questions, screaming and sobbing. Noah could barely answer Ellen as he struggled to fight back his own tears. Eventually, he broke down, too, and couldn’t tell whether the drops in his field of vision were raindrops or tears.
Finally, Ellen composed herself and asked the most important question, the one question that needed to be answered.
“So, what are we going to do?” she asked.
“Well, the only thing I can do—fly to Houston and make sure we lose the Super Bowl.”
CHAPTER 4
CAL TURNED OFF HIS eReader per the flight attendant’s instructions. United flight 1186 would touch down at George Bush International Airport in twenty minutes. Flying never really bothered Cal. But the landing part did. He became nervous.
Without anything to occupy his mind, Cal resorted to good old-fashioned print. Printed words on a paper—it was integral to how he earned his living. But he preferred anything that glowed. Right now, he just wanted anything to look at other than an emergency landing instruction placard. He reached for the bulging pack of magazines in the seat pocket in front of him. Hemispheres, United’s magazine full of articles and beautiful photographs of destinations the airline flew to. Sky Mall, a catalog for those who just couldn’t wait to purchase an overpriced dog orthopedic “c
omfy” couch for $250 while soaring over the Grand Canyon. And Time.
Cal opted for Time. Without even glancing at its contents, he knew Time would contain at least some semblance of journalism, articles written without the express purpose of coercing him to open up his wallet for something he didn’t want or need. Then Cal looked at the cover. He was instantly hooked.
The title, “Is God Really Good?”, was plastered over a collage of images that comprised the worst of this world—starving children in Africa, guns and missiles, disease, murder, destruction. Cal thought it was an interesting question from Time, especially considering its infamous “Is God Dead?” cover from 1966. Cal chuckled at how Time had now become sure of God’s existence, but just suspect of his actions.
Cal dove into the article, exploring the dichotomy between the best and worst of the human race. But the author kept bringing the story back to that one question that irked Cal: If God is so good, why do bad things happen to good people? Cal read for another ten minutes but the article went nowhere in its conclusion. There was no strong voice—just statements that conjured up more questions. It left Cal just as frustrated with the thesis question as before he started reading the article. He closed the magazine and slid it back into the seat pocket and sat upright.
The flight attendant’s final instructions in preparation for landing came over the intercom and Cal tightened his seat belt. He looked out his window at the bustling Houston freeway as the plane made its final approach at George Bush International Airport.
He groaned. The planes’ wheels touched down a shade after 4:30 p.m. and he knew what he had ahead of him; it wasn’t exciting. Fighting grumpy travelers. Wrestling his bag off the carousel, if it even made it. Picking up his rental car and merging into gridlock on Highway 59, heading for an even bigger gridlock downtown. Then he would stand in line behind a bunch of underpaid hacks, pretentious sportscasters, and former NFL stars to check in at the Four Seasons. The least glamorous part of his job was about to commence.
Due to a regular season game against the Houston Texans just a few months before, Cal was somewhat familiar with the airport. Every possible concourse remained under construction just as it was during his last visit. Wires dangled from the ceiling. Unfinished sheet rock held temporary signage to direct travelers. The smell of sawdust hung in the air. Cal thought it might make a perfect backdrop for a horror movie if the place was deserted. But it wasn’t. It was bustling with travelers coming and going, talking or checking email on their smart phones. Everyone seemed engrossed with their little world.
But Cal watched closely, inspecting as many details about as many people as he could. It was a game he used to play with his dad whenever they went out in public. They identified someone and had to gather three pieces of information about that person with just two questions. It was called “Three Things.” With only two questions to gather three pieces of information, you either had to be clever with your questions or extra observant. Usually the person was the clerk checking them out at the grocery store. And the information was benign. Married or single? Original hair color or dyed? Left-handed or right-handed? Nothing earth shattering. But it taught Cal to look for details, the kind of details that make an award-winning investigative reporter, even if those details pertained to the sports world.
Cal followed the masses toward baggage claim and played “Three Things” by himself. He identified two businessmen cheating on their wives while they strolled through the airport with their girlfriends. He also noticed three players’ wives, which wasn’t so tough to do. Lots of fur, five-inch stilettos, a giant rock on the ring finger, and an unnatural figure. There was even a fluffy little dog, stuffed inside a small carrier and yapping away. However, it was the trailing young nanny with two elementary-aged sons playing hand-held video game devices that were the real giveaways. Cal met plenty of the players’ wives during his job covering the Seahawks; they definitely weren’t his type. He wanted a down-to-earth woman, a woman who wasn’t afraid to set out on the open road in search of adventure, or a good story.
Before he knew it, Cal was thinking about Kelly. He would see her tomorrow night. She was exactly the kind of woman he had in mind … his type. Not even someone just like her. Just her.
Cal’s phone began to buzz, jolting him back to reality. It was the office, calling to make sure he had arrived safely and would still be able to file a short story later that evening.
He hung up his phone and suspended his game. He was in Houston covering the Super Bowl. And his childhood favorite team, no less. But he had to collect his thoughts and focus on his next work task—preparing for his exclusive interview in the morning with Seattle quarterback Noah Larson.
* * *
ON THE SOUTH SIDE of Houston, Noah Larson and the rest of the Seattle Seahawks touched down at Hobby Airport. Charter flights sufficed for most trips, but not this week. For the Super Bowl, Seahawks’ owner, Paul Allen, employed one of his two luxury 757s for the team.
Flying into Hobby meant a shorter commute to downtown and less of a traffic headache at this time of day. Of course, charter buses with a state patrol escort to the Four Seasons meant that it didn’t really matter where the team landed; they were going to reach their destination more quickly than any regular Joe behind the wheel for his Monday afternoon commute.
But Noah wasn’t thinking about any of this. All he could think about was Jake—and Ellen. The news that his son had been kidnapped and was being held ransom for a guaranteed loss in the Super Bowl was only five hours old, yet somehow every second Noah thought about it, it all felt fresh again. Too fresh. Like picking a scab every day and exposing that wound to the elements all over again.
As the team filed off the plane, many of the players looked Noah in the eye and mentioned how unbelievable this experience was—and how it could only be topped by winning the game. They all believed in Noah. Ricky Johnson, Telvin Hayes, Brandon Gomez, Pat Ott. Every single player on the roster believed that Noah was going to lead the team to victory. Which is why Noah felt phony. As one of the more authentic players in the Seattle locker room, it would be a crippling burden for Noah to keep this secret. He was going to let this entire team down—and there was nothing he could do about it. He wasn’t going to lead the Seahawks to victory; he was going to make sure they lost. And lost big.
* * *
THE OASIS WAS FAR from the most impressive casino resorts in Vegas, but it wasn’t low class either. Checkered marble floors seemed to sprawl endlessly from one section of the casino to the other. Lights flickered on row after row of slot machines. Computer blackjack machines called out to gamblers like the Sirens’ song. Listless gamblers sat transfixed while the machine in front of them took their life and their money. Only the craps tables and the sports book had lively human interaction.
Gil Jackson’s fingers itched as he walked into The Oasis with a briefcase full of money. More cash than he had ever seen in his life. It was certainly more than he would ever make in his lifetime. For a fleeting moment, Jackson contemplated just walking out the door and heading to the Cayman Islands with all that money. Only the thought of Maria kept him from doing so; that and the two bulky men following him. He found a casino rep and announced his intentions to open an account with the casino, his hands trembling as he went over the details with the man. The amount of the deposit would earn him VIP treatment.
Jackson shook hands with the rep and wound his way through the expansive casino to the sports book. He had to make a bet, a very specific bet.
“I’d like to place a bet for two million dollars on the Dolphins to win,” Jackson said.
Jackson collected his betting slip and walked into the cool Las Vegas night. His job was done. He would collect $50,000 for his troubles upon delivering the betting slip to the drop. Just like they said. An easy fifty grand.
* * *
RICKY LONGSHORE PICKED UP the phone and began punching the numbers. He ran the sports book at The Oasis and something didn’t seem quite
right about Gil Jackson’s enormous bet. Not that people didn’t bet ridiculous amounts of money on things that would never happen. But Longshore knew those people. This latest bet was from a nobody, the proprietor of a sports card collectible store called Mint Condition. In less than 10 minutes, he had called four other sports books to inquire if Mr. Jackson had an account with them. Longshore had to know if this guy was legit. After working in Vegas for 35 years, he knew when something seemed suspect. And Gil Jackson set off alarm bells in his head.
He picked up the phone and made a call.
“This is Anderson.”
“Anderson. Longshore here.”
“Longshore, what’s happening? You guys busy this week ?”
Longshore wasn’t in a joking mood.
“More than you know – and that’s actually why I called.”
“Oh, what’s going on?”
“I think we may have a problem in Houston. A big problem.”
CHAPTER 5
IT HAD BEEN A LONG NIGHT and a new day was dawning. Rivera had stayed awake as much as he could with his wide-eyed hostage. He wanted to make sure Jake didn’t freak out or become a pain to watch. He knew what might happen if he did. This was about controlling the situation, making sure it was peaceful.
But that wasn’t an easy task in this environment. Dirty concrete floor. A leaky roof. Hay strewn about the floor. A rusted frame for a single bed. And a black and white TV with an antennae. The walls looked like they might fall down with any significant attempt to knock them over. It was enough to put anyone on edge. But despite the surroundings, Rivera did his best with what he did have: conversation. He brought up numerous topics he thought might bring Jake out of his shocked state: video games, football, school, future dreams. Nothing worked all that well. Jake muttered one- or two-word answers, if anything. Rivera knew the boy was an emotional mess and Morales was about to make it worse.
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