CHAPTER 47

CAL NEVER STOPPED TRYING to reach someone. He punched in every number he could think of and dialed it just as fast. The Seahawks’ media relations director. The cute sports reporter from Q13. The ESPN sports columnist he knew. Nobody answered.

Paramedics continued to work on Hernandez as the other FBI agents tried to piece together the recent events that led to their prime suspect with a serious bullet wound and bruises consistent with a fistfight. They asked Cal a few questions, but his answers were short and unhelpful. He knew that the Seahawks’ kicker was walking onto the field with the ability to win the game—the Super Bowl!—but wouldn’t because he thought his son would die if he made the kick. The drama unfolding in front of the world wasn’t nearly as interesting to Cal. To him, it was like watching a bad ending to a movie for the second time.

Cal finally realized all he had was hope. He tossed his phone onto the bed and stared at the television screen. Ultimately, it didn’t matter. None of it did. The only thing that was important was that two Seahawks’ players wouldn’t lose their sons over the terrible misfortune of making it to the Super Bowl. They would go on with their lives as families who avoided the worst of a nightmare no parent would wish on another. Cal did something good by stopping something bad. He stared down at Hernandez’s body, which was still barely hanging on for life. Cal couldn’t help but think in some way the villain still won, stealing something from every diehard Seahawks fan. Hernandez didn’t see a single penny for his troubles, but the Seahawks were going to lose the Super Bowl on purpose.

The Seahawks line up for the kick, hoping to win the city of Seattle its first Super Bowl. Quarterback Noah Larson will be the holder and Brandon Gomez will take the kick. Here we go.

Cal couldn’t look. He felt sick.

* * *

THIS WAS IT—Noah’s personal raindrop moment. Random droplets colliding with one another, the outcome still in doubt. They splattered everywhere, nothing to control them. No one to control them. But Noah didn’t want that. He didn’t want to leave his fate to chance. Not today. Not when he could still do something about it.

When the center snapped the ball to Noah, he still wasn’t sure if he had the nerve to do it. He just might be the biggest fool in the history of the Super Bowl. But he knew he couldn’t let it end this way. Not with Gomez looking like he might vomit in the huddle. Not with all the people who depended upon him for leadership—and a victory. A shaken kicker with the yips? The city’s shot at a title—and his own legacy—couldn’t be determined by that. He didn’t want to end his career as a loser. This was his moment and he was going to seize it.

Instead of putting the ball down, laces out, Noah scooped the ball up and took off running. He headed straight toward the near sideline and caught the entire Dolphins team off guard. It was a 25-yard field goal. Nobody ever suspected a fake, not even his own team.

The short run to the corner of the end zone felt like five minutes to Noah. The Dolphins’ players realized what was happening, but only before it was too late. There were vain dives in Noah’s direction. No one would catch him. No one would even touch him.

Noah couldn’t believe the brilliance in his secret plan. No coach would ever have the nerve to make that call—and his didn’t either. Who wouldn’t put the odds on their kicker making one of the highest-percentage kicks in football? But Noah sensed the odds weren’t good. So he did it. He took his raindrop and put it in a one place nobody could touch it.

He glanced at the referee straddling the goal line as he crossed it. His hands hoisted in the air, his mouth ready to blow the final whistle. Touchdown!

* * *

OH, MY! I DON’T BELIEVE IT. The Seahawks are world champions with a touchdown off a 25-yard fake field goal! This might be the biggest surprise attack in American history since Washington crossed the Delaware! Seattle, it’s time to celebrate!

Cal looked up and stared at the television in disbelief. What? A fake field goal? Are you kidding me?

Gomez’s son started pumping his fist and shouting.

“Yes! Yes!” the boy shouted.

Cal saw the first flicker of life in the boy’s eyes since they met all of twenty minutes ago. It was nice to see Gio be a kid after such a horrific experience.

Then Cal looked at Hernandez.

“You lost, Hernandez,” Cal said. “Your little scheme got you nothing in the end.”

Hernandez didn’t respond to Cal. He closed his eyes and his body went limp. The paramedics began scrambling but there was nothing he could do. Hernandez was dead.

For about a minute, Cal stared at the now lifeless body of a man who was intent on ruining a family just so he could make some quick money. It was disgusting, evil really. But at least he hadn’t won today. And he’d never play this treacherous game with anyone else.

Cal turned his attention back toward the television and watched the confetti cannons unleash their fury on Reliant Stadium, fluttering down upon the exuberant Seahawks team and the devastated Dolphins. He knew it would be all but gone once he arrived at the stadium, but he had to go there tonight. Now.

“Let’s get you home, kid,” Cal said.

Gomez’s son nodded and smiled.

“Is it OK if I take him back to his parents?” Cal asked one of the FBI agents.

“Sure, Cal. We’ll send an agent with you and get statements from both of you later.”

That was all Cal needed to hear. The happy pair maneuvered around the busy hive of agents cataloging the scene. Nobody really cared how or why Hernandez died, just that he was dead. And Cal wasn’t interested in sticking around for more bureaucratic paperwork and questioning. He had experienced plenty of that in the past few days. It was time to reunite a son with his father—and celebrate a Super Bowl victory.

As they were walking out the door, Cal heard a cell phone ring. Just background noise. He ignored it. Until he heard something one of the agents said: “The dead man’s phone is ringing.”

Cal wanted to stop and find out who it was, but one of the agents looked up at Cal and said, “We’ll handle it, Mr. Murphy. You’ve got more important things to do.”

Cal froze. Hernandez wasn’t calling the shots!