CHAPTER 46

CAL’S SENSE OF URGENCY INCREASED his clarity of thought and made him more efficient. Under normal circumstances, Cal would approach this situation differently. There would be smiles to flash and hands to shake. He would convince a few people that they needed to help him and give him information that was vital to revealing the truth. But that wasn’t a luxury now. Politeness didn’t matter. Maybe ethics didn’t either. Or the law. The only thing that did matter was saving that kid.

As Cal approached the Hilton, he sought out the service entrance. He needed to start there to launch his plan.

He immediately located the kitchen. He found a member of the hotel’s wait staff willing to deliver a meal to Room 552. At first, the young man balked. How could he get away with taking a random meal to the room? And then how would he explain what happened to the paying customer’s meal? Cal had an answer for everything. All it took were the right answers—and a $100 tip—to convince him to do it.

Cal took the stairs, skipping one or two at a time. He needed to beat the deliveryman to the floor so he could scope it out and see how viable his plan really was. It only took him two glances at the signage to see that it would work.

Cal crouched in the doorway, two rooms down from Hernandez’s room, awaiting the arrival of the room service meal.

One minute later, the young man Cal paid off knocked on the door of Room 552.

“Room service,” he announced.

“I didn’t order anything,” came the response from inside the room.

“Well, I’ve got a cheeseburger and fries with a drink for Room 552 on my ticket here.”

No response. Then a few seconds later, the door unlocked and opened about a foot. Hernandez was standing on the other side, peering into the hallway. He took the meal inside and closed the door behind him.

Cal waited all of ten seconds, which seemed more like ten minutes. Hernandez opened the door and headed down the hallway in the opposite direction carrying the ice bucket. Cal pressed himself so hard against the doorway to hide himself he thought for sure he would leave an impression. He glanced down the hallway and Hernandez seemed unsuspecting of anyone out to get him. Cal had instructed the wait staff to serve a room temperature drink. It was Cal’s long shot bet to get into the room and gain the upper hand.

When Hernandez rounded the corner, Cal dashed across the hall and jammed the key card he borrowed from the room service attendant into the slot above the door handle. The light turned green and Cal heard a click. He pushed down on the lever and rushed into the room.

Squirming in the corner was a boy, gagged and tied. Maybe he was 12 or 13 years old. He looked like he was from Latin America somewhere. Cal couldn’t think fast enough to narrow it down to which country, nor could he have known for sure if he had a week to mull it over. All he had time to do was untie the boy and escape with their lives.

“It’s OK. I’m gonna get you out of here,” Cal said.

The boy grimaced and attempted to say something, though Cal couldn’t make it out. Cal decided the gag wasn’t a priority at this point. He fumbled with the ropes, ripping the knot loose as fast as he could. Letting his instincts take over, Cal started at the boy’s feet and moved to his hands. Feet first because maybe he could run if necessary. Cal then began working on the right hand then the left. He had just finished untying the boy when the door clicked. Cal froze.

Cal looked up to see Hernandez walk through the door carrying a bucket of ice. Hernandez immediately dropped the ice and went for his handgun tucked in the back of his pants. But Cal didn’t give Hernandez time to pull it out. Instead, he rushed Hernandez. Hernandez, still fumbling for his gun, never had a chance to point in Cal’s general direction. Cal sent Hernandez flying backward, slamming Hernandez’s head into the room door. Hernandez dropped the gun as he slumped to the floor, attempting to fend off Cal. Cal slid the gun across the room with his foot as a fistfight commenced.

Cal moved closer to Hernandez, brooding over the man who still appeared stunned from what just happened. Cal balled up his fist and began pounding Hernandez’s face. A left and then a right, followed by another right. It felt rhythmic to Cal—and therapeutic. Hernandez squirmed in an attempt to get free, but Cal was having none of it. Straddling the older man, Cal struck Hernandez over and over, each punch delivered with vengeful rage. Cal thought about scared little Jake each time—and now the latest victim Hernandez had terrorized in an effort to make money. Over and over again Cal punched until blood began to trickle out of Hernandez’s mouth. Cal and his adrenaline wanted to keep going, but he couldn’t. There was a line he wouldn’t cross. Let the feds sort it out. Don’t take a man’s life, however pathetic it might have been. He wasn’t a killer.

Cal stopped and looked at his tormentor, this tough powerful cartel leader who had been promptly neutered by a less-than imposing reporter. Hernandez looked beaten. He looked nearly immobile due to the punishment he had just received from Cal. He sat propped up against the wall, barely able to open his eyes.

Cal eased up and turned around toward the boy, who was now holding the gun. His hands trembled as he pointed it downward.

“We don’t need that any more,” Cal said, gesturing to the gun. It’s going to be OK.”

Instead, the boy raised the gun and pointed it in Cal’s direction.

Bewildered, Cal held his hands up in surrender. “It’s OK. I’m here to help you. There’s no need to shoot anybody.”

But Cal never heard Hernandez getting up behind him. Hernandez pulled a knife out of his pocket and lunged toward Cal.

That’s when the boy fired the gun.

Bam!

Just once was all it took. The boy fell back into his chair and dropped the gun. Cal spun to see Hernandez slump to the ground, blood oozing everywhere. The boy had shot Hernandez in the chest.

Cal gasped at the sight of Hernandez, writhing on the floor. He looked at the boy but didn’t know what to say. Stepping on Hernandez’s wrist, Cal slid the knife out of his hand with his other foot. Hernandez coughed up blood and looked helplessly up at Cal.

Cal got up and looked at the boy, who was still half enraged and half shocked at what had just happened.

“Are you OK?” Cal asked.

The boy nodded.

“What’s your name?”

“Gio Gomez,” he answered.

“Is your dad Brandon Gomez?”

The boy nodded again.

Then it all made sense to Cal. Brandon Gomez was the Seahawks’ place kicker. As the team’s quarterback, Noah Larson would have the biggest impact on the outcome of the game. But if the game was close, controlling the kicker was a best second option. Gomez had been perfect during the regular season on extra points, yet he missed one early in the Super Bowl. Cal now knew this was intentional. If the Seahawks trailed late in the game, all they would need would be a field goal to take the lead and win it. They wouldn’t gamble, not with the Super Bowl on the line. Let Gomez boot them to victory.

Cal called his FBI contact and reported the news as he turned on the television.

“We’ve got Hernandez, but send an ambulance. He’s barely alive,” Cal said. “And we’ve got to get a message to Brandon Gomez that his son is safe.”

As the picture on the television materialized, Cal realized Hernandez just might ruin the Super Bowl after all: The Seahawks trailed 21-20 with less than a minute to go and appeared to be content to set up a game winning field goal.

Hernandez slowly opened his eyes and glanced at the screen. Cal didn’t really want to give Hernandez the pleasure of watching his plan come to fruition right before he died. He had to do something. With one eye on Hernandez, Cal didn’t give up on getting word to Gomez that his son was safe. He wanted that call to be the last thing Hernandez heard.

The seconds ticked away on the clock. Cal called Josh. Surely he would pick up if he saw him calling and could get a message to someone. The phone rang and rang. No answer.

The Seahawks are just going to put this ball in the middle of the field and rely on the leg of Brandon Gomez to win Seattle’s first Super Bowl title.

Cal looked at Gio.

“Can I call your mom? Do you think she can get a message to your dad?”

Gio shrugged. He was still visibly distraught.

“What’s her number?”

Cal began dialing the numbers Gio relayed to him. But the phone just rang and rang. It went to voicemail. Cal told her that her son was safe and out of harm’s way.

Then the FBI swat team arrived, storming into the room. They shoved their way past Cal and secured the room. Two paramedics began working on Hernandez while an FBI agent watched Hernandez intently. Cal acknowledged their presence but remained deep in thought as to how he could get the message to Gomez.

He began calling everyone he knew. AP sports writer Damon James would answer Cal’s call. But nothing. Every reporter Cal knew was on deadline, predictably pounding out two different lead paragraphs for their story—one with Gomez making the kick and one with him missing it. All Gomez had to do was take the kick to fill in the blanks.

Seattle called timeout.

Cal continued wracking his brain for a solution. He called someone he knew from the NFL office. No answer. He called his editor. No answer. He called the phone in the press box. No answer. In desperation, he even tried Kelly. She didn’t pick up either.

Well, this is it, folks. Once this timeout is over, Brandon Gomez has a chance to be the toast of Seattle. A 25-yard field goal and he will become as famous in Seattle as the Space Needle.

* * *

DURING THE TIMEOUT, Noah paced along on the sideline. He had done what was required of him—almost. In the playoff game the week before, the holder for Gomez had torn a hamstring in a freak mishap during practice, leaving Noah—the team’s backup holder—as the second most important man on the field for the kick. All he had to do was get the ball down, tilt it back, laces out. He had done it a hundred times. He could do it blindfolded in his sleep. And if he could do it right one more time, he could put the week’s terrible circumstances behind him and ride off into retirement as a Super Bowl champion. Maybe he’d go to Disney World. But there was no maybe about him retiring. He’d given his word to Ellen. This was it—win or lose.

If only it were that easy.

Noah looked at Gomez, who looked pale. Sweat was gushing down Gomez’s face. But this was Texas in February—it wasn’t hot. Noah had seen Gomez nervous before, but never like this. It seemed so uncharacteristic of Gomez that Noah wondered if he should mention something to his coach.

Throughout the course of the Seahawks’ timeout, Noah’s confidence in Gomez to make the easy kick went from a hundred percent to twenty-five percent. He almost thought about it being zero percent, but given a hundred kicks from this distance, even a nervous Gomez would stand to make a few.

The head official blew his whistle, urging the players to return to the field. Noah trotted to the huddle, one that was generally useless in most cases, but he used it as a way to instill confidence in everyone that Gomez could make this kick.

Noah gave a reassuring nod to Gomez as they broke the huddle.