Jason Elam - Monday Night Jihad

“Interesting. Since this season’s Liberty have never been known as a passing team, a lot of the yeoman’s work is going to fall on the shoulders of Johnson Mige and the smallish Jesse Emrick. Mige could probably play lead back on most teams in the PFL, but Emrick’s still a big question mark.”

“I’m sorry to say, but I think the moment Emrick lifts his Bronx up, someone’s going to knock his Battery down! Ha, ha, ha!”

“New York, New York.”

“You know, he reminds me a bit of the great Wally Pearson, who, although he was slightly undersized at five-ten, still was able to lead the ’85 Chicago Stockmen to a 15-1 season and, despite being kept out of the end zone, was a significant factor in their 46-10 trouncing of the Boston Colonials in PFL Cup XX.”

Everyone was momentarily stunned into silence by the unexpected appropriateness of Buddy’s story. “What?” Buddy asked, looking around.

Dale regained his composure and said, “So, on to ‘Keys to the Game.’ Willy Schaefer?”

“The Dragons know that their defense has the advantage, so it’s going to be up to the offense to put some points up. The Liberty have to hope that they’ll be able to find a running lane through the mighty Dragons defensive line. If they can, then they’ll bring the Dragons crashing down off of their skyscraping beanstalk! Ha, ha, ha!”

“Yeah, like Jack.”

Dale tried unsuccessfully to hide his eye roll. “Warner, what’s your key to the game?”

Warner, caught off guard by being asked a direct question, quickly consulted his prepared sheets. “I think we’re going to see a powerful defensive battle. Every point won will be a point earned. Every defensive stand will bring a team one step closer to victory. My prediction is that whoever scores first will finish last. Wait-” he looked back down at his paper-“I mean whoever scores last will finish first.”

For the hundredth time, Dale wished that the network would fire Warner and put his writer on the panel instead. “What about you, Buddy? What’s your key to the game?”

“You know, this game reminds me of PFL Cup XXVIII, which was held in the two-year-old, beautifully constructed, $214 million Delta Dome down in Hot-lanta. The Texas Outlaws soundly defeated the Buffalo Barrelriders by a score of 30-13. Interestingly enough, that was the only time in PFL history that the same two teams met in the PFL Cup two years in a row.” Buddy turned back to Dale.

The twenty-year broadcast veteran, after vainly trying to formulate some sort of response, threw it to commercial.

3:15 p.m. PST

“How’s Hakeem going to do it?” Scott’s frustration level had been steadily increasing over the past few hours. He wasn’t used to being stumped. “He didn’t plant explosives or anything prior to the game; the dogs have been over every inch of this stadium. He can’t come in on the ground; the gates are too heavily secured for that. He can’t come in from the air; besides it being impossible because of our defenses, it would be just plain silly. We’ve even got defenses that would intercept any rockets or missiles. And the Secret Service has checked and confirmed that no underground tunnels have been dug, as ridiculous as that possibility sounds.”

“Maybe when he realized he had tipped his hand to Riley and that Riley had escaped, he called off the strike,” suggested Khadi, who was sitting across the small square table from Scott. Riley and Hicks occupied the other two sides.

Riley shook his head. “That’s not Sal. His knowing that I know makes it even more likely that he’ll go through with it. You can chalk it up to male competitive spirit or whatever, but Sal’s going to hit today. I’m sure of it.”

“But how?” Scott’s theme resonated through the room. Silence answered his question.

Finally Riley said, “I think he’s going to walk right in.”

“Sorry, Pach, there’s no way. Or if somehow he does make it in, he’ll be carrying nothing more than a squirt gun.”

“No, Riley’s right, Weatherman,” Hicks chimed in. “Hakeem’s coming in on the ground. I don’t know how or where, but he’s walking in-and he’s walking in fully loaded.”

3:23 p.m. PST

Hakeem confidently walked through the gate. No one questioned him. No one searched him. No one even gave him a second look. No one notices a dead man-a ghost floats where he wants. The Cheetah stalks silently and, before you know it, makes his kill.

Now that he was through the gates, he slowed down. There was no rush anymore. The hard part was over; now it was a waiting game.

Hakeem’s doubts had faded as he made the drive. He had always believed he could do what needed to be done. His biggest struggle was with whether he should do what needed to be done. Finally all questions had been trumped by the realization that he must do what needed to be done. He must do it for himself, for his family, for his people, for his posterity. America needed to be dealt with, and no matter what Riley Covington said, there was morality and justice in what he was doing.

He looked at the crowd around him. Everyone was so excited. For many, being here was a dream come true-and many others around America doubtless wished they could be here as well. That was why what he was about to do would hurt so much.

When a dream dies, it kills part of the soul.

That was Hakeem’s mission: the death of a dream. The Cheetah, dead man walking, killer of souls.

Hakeem smiled.

3:50 p.m. PST

Blood dripped onto his white pants and turned black as it spread to the green stripe that ran down the outside of his thigh. But Emrick didn’t even notice the small chunk that had been taken out of his elbow-at least until he was sitting on the bench and a trainer ran up, cleaned the wound off, and slapped a large bandage on it.

Emrick was feeling too good to notice any pain. He looked up at the scoreboard: Liberty 7; Dragons 0.

Six of those points are mine, he exulted.

The Liberty offense had driven slowly down the field to the Dragons’ 34 yard line. It was third and eight. Emrick had lined up in the backfield at the halfback position, then run a pass route that swept across the middle before he suddenly broke downfield. The ball had reached his hands when he was at the 28 yard line, and he had just kept running. One quick juke and a wicked forearm later, he was in the end zone.

It might only be the first quarter, but Emrick had the feeling that today was his day.

4:05 p.m. PST

Riley, Khadi, Scott, and Hicks sat silently around the table deep in the heart of the Rose Bowl stadium; Skeeter guarded the door. Frustration was leading to desperation. Every muffled cheer from the crowd above sent a knife into Riley’s heart. He wondered how many people out there-and in here, for that matter-were going to die because of his failure. It didn’t make sense. Did I really hear Sal say what I thought I heard him say? Or was I so anxious to beat him at his own game that I read into his words?

Riley shook the doubts from his head. He had gone over his conversation with Hakeem word for word with Hicks, Scott, and Khadi, and they all agreed with him. Sal had made it very clear that his next target was the PFL Cup. But why? Why would he have been so forthright with his intentions? Did he actually intend to have me killed after al-’Aqran was released? And wouldn’t he have known that I would try to signal something to my team? He’s a smart guy. Could he have made that big of a blunder? Was it a blunder?

The silence in the room was so intense that when Riley’s cell phone rang, it caused Khadi to start, Scott to tip over in his already precariously positioned chair, and Skeeter to draw his weapon. Riley looked at the caller ID- Meg Ricci . He silenced the phone. “Sorry, guys.”