CHAPTER 1

SID WESTIN ALWAYS CAREFULLY weighed his options—until now. The moment he formulated his ambitious plan to become the world’s greatest soccer player, he knew he would never accomplish it through a series of haphazard events strung together by sheer luck. Such levels of greatness required a calculated effort to stick with a master plan, no matter how painful or how dire his future seemed. A smidgeon of good luck wouldn’t hurt either. But Sid had failed—due to no fault of his own. And he didn’t just know that because he was lying on the cold marbled floor at Puget Sound Bank with a gunman lurking above him.

Just a few hours before running this mundane errand for his wife, Sid was playing soccer in the front yard with his eight-year-old son.

“Dad!” yelled Mason. He was wearing his favorite shirt with a stingray on it, one they’d picked up after a recent trip to the Oregon Aquarium. “Dad! Look! Do you think I’ve got it now?”

Sid watched his son, who was working on a spin move with the soccer ball, and smiled and clapped. “Yes, Son, that’s it. You’ve got it. If you perfect that move, you’re going to be unstoppable.”

Sid knew what it was like to be unstoppable. As a nineteen-year-old, he made the roster for England’s Under-20 team and scored five goals during the Under-20 World Cup held in Santiago. He was about to score his sixth and give England the lead in the Finals when an Argentine defender took him out on a reckless challenge. Three surgeries and eighteen months later, Sid still hadn’t regained his promising form.

For more than a decade, he bounced around between lower-tier leagues in England, Germany, France, and Switzerland. Even though the doctors said he was fine, he knew he wasn’t. He’d lost a step or two, vital in a game where a split second could make all the difference between scoring a goal and watching a shot get blocked by an oncoming defender. And for someone who was once labeled as “Norwich’s Next Superstar,” he was a disappointment to the fans of East Anglia.

However, when he moved to Seattle three years ago with his wife Rebecca, he discovered a newfound passion for soccer, rejuvenating his career—a career he thought might be over. With the United States’ professional soccer league still in its relative infancy compared to the rest of the world, he took the opportunity offered to him to come play out his final days of competitive sport while serving as a mentor to the younger stars on the team. In the process, Sid exceeded expectations. Instead of being little more than a mentor to the young players, he became a star in his own right. He scored on a header in the final minute to knock Portland out of the playoffs in his first season and became an instant legend in Seattle.

That’s not to say he didn’t experience his share of trials in the Emerald City. His knee gave him problems after a hard tackle in the first game of his second season there. It required a minor surgery, but the setback seemed almost overwhelming to Sid. He considered retiring, but he soldiered on through rehabilitation and emerged stronger than ever. His age coupled with the speed of recovery also raised suspicion about the potential usage of performance enhancing drugs (PED), an accusation he vehemently denied. But all in all, he couldn’t really complain about anything—almost anything.

A blaring horn a few feet away made him jump. Sid and Mason looked in the direction of the car to see Sid’s wife, Rebecca, angrily waving a magazine at him as she roared up the driveway.

“Son, you stay here and keep practicing,” Sid said. “I’m going to go check on your mum.”

Sid hustled after her Cadillac Escalade, just fast enough to duck beneath the garage door that was closing. Alicia climbed out of the vehicle and immediately flung a Seattle weekly tabloid at him. She slammed the door and stormed inside.

He picked up the tabloid and read the headline—“He Shoots, He Scores?”—above a picture of Sid cozied up next to local television anchor, Sadie Livingston. Sid followed Rebecca inside.

“Is this what you’re upset about?”

She didn’t turn around, instead responding with a mocking tone, “Sid and Sadie.”

“Come on. It’s not like that, and you know it. That picture was from a fundraiser where someone asked me to pose with her.”

“There were more pictures inside, pictures where you walked her outside.”

“It was raining. I had an umbrella and she didn’t. You know I'm a gentleman.” He sighed. “I hardly even know her.”

She rolled her eyes and shook her head, still refusing to turn around and look at him.

He grabbed her arms and gently turned her around so she could see him. “I swear. It was just an innocent photo.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Innocent or not, I look like a fool.”

He shoved aside the tabloid now lying on the kitchen counter. “Nobody believes anything in there. It’s all rubbish. If I had known it would be on the front page, I never would’ve stopped to pose. Besides, it doesn’t really matter—”

“It still matters to me.”

He took a deep breath. “What I was saying is that it doesn’t really matter what other people think. What’s most important is what we think of each other, something that’s far more powerful than a headline and a photo. We know each other—and I think if we’re honest, we both know it’s just a ridiculous insinuation.”

She let out a long breath and continued putting away the groceries strewn across the kitchen counter. “Did you deposit that money into my account like I asked you to do? I need to pay for Mason’s school tomorrow.”

“I thought I showed you how to work the banking app so you could do it from here.”

“The app isn’t working—something about the operating system being updated, but their app hasn’t updated yet and it’s not compatible.”

“Okay, fine. I’ll go down there now.”

Sid grabbed his keys and headed out the door. He jumped into his Porsche Carrera and put the top down. As he backed slowly out of the driveway, he motioned for Mason to come near him.

“Where are you going, Dad?” Mason asked.

“Your mum asked me to run an errand for her.”

“Can I come with you?”

“Not this time. But you keep working on that move of yours and show it to me when I get back. Deal?”

“Deal,” Mason said as he flashed a grin. They bumped fists and Mason raced off, throwing the ball down and twirling around with it in an effort to impress his dad.

“Nice move, Son. Keep it up!” Sid said as he drifted slowly down the driveway. He jammed the gear into first and prepared to roar away. However, he didn’t make it fifty feet until he noticed his neighbor staring at the back corner of her car just short of her driveway. He immediately stopped.

“Is everything all right, Mrs. Graham?”

She sighed and shook her head. “This just isn’t my day,” she said as she put her hands on her hips. “I swear if I was about to collect on a lottery ticket, I’d get hit by a train on the way there.”

Sid turned his car off and hustled across the street to see how he could help her.

“What seems to be the problem?” he asked.

“I’m no mechanic, but it looks like a flat tire to me.”

Sid craned his neck around the back corner of the car to concur with her assessment—and there was no denying it. The tire was completely deflated.

“Looks like you ran over something,” he said as he knelt down next to the tire. He clawed at a cylindrical object sticking no more than a quarter of an inch beyond the tire’s surface.

“What is it?” she asked as she leaned over his shoulder.

“I can’t be sure yet, but it looks like a nail.”

She muttered a few expletives under her breath. “All those damn construction zones on the highway.”

“Well, don’t get your knickers in a knot, Mrs. Graham,” Sid said with a wink. “I’ve been known to change a tire or two in my day.”

She clasped her hands together and smiled. “You’d do that for me?”

“Of course.”

“But don’t you have somewhere else to be?”

He waved dismissively at her. “I just have a short errand at the bank. Those thieves can wait.”

She snickered and handed him the keys. “I’ll go get you some lemonade.”

“That’s not really necessary, Mrs. Graham. I’m not that—”

The door slammed hard behind Mrs. Graham as she entered her house through the front door. Sid wasn’t sure she really wanted to give him lemonade as much as she wanted to pick up her Pomeranian puppy, which hadn’t stopped barking at the window since he crossed the street to help her.

Sid pulled out a set of tools from Mrs. Graham’s trunk and then dropped to his knees to begin fixing the tire. His father had instilled in him the importance of helping others. It was a character flaw of his, according to Rebecca. She hated the fact that he always felt the need to play Good Samaritan, often causing them to be late for social functions as he couldn’t resist helping someone who was broken down along the side of the road.

Fifteen minutes later, he finished changing the tire. Mrs. Graham thanked him before he drove off and headed toward the bank. He never even noticed the car that began following him.

***

SID’S PHONE RANG. It was Rebecca.

“Are you there yet?”

“Mrs. Graham had a flat tire, so I helped her with that before I left. I’m almost there.”

“Your Good Samaritan act is getting old, Sid.”

“Act? What are you talking about? I just wanted to help her. She’s elderly, and her tire was flat. What else was I supposed to do—just drive by and leave her there?”

“Just hurry up, okay? We don’t have all day.”

Sid hung up and wondered how his marriage had reached this point. There was a time when Rebecca would’ve never spoken ill of him—to others or to his face. But those days had long since vanished, replaced by constant bickering and complaining about money. They had more than enough, but he could sense her disappointment with him every time the subject was broached. He’d never asked her point blank, but he figured she thought he was going to be a megastar and she’d be jetting between their beachfront house in Bali and their penthouse suite in London. Instead, they had just a modest 2,500 square foot house in the suburbs of Seattle and a small mountain cabin. He had shared her dreams, too, but he’d moved on years ago when he realized they would never be realized. He was satisfied with being a nominal star in the American pro soccer league—and she needed to be satisfied as well. But she wasn’t. Not with the money. And not with him either. He’d held on as long as he could, mostly for Mason’s sake. But Sid couldn’t keep pretending. He had to admit the truth: his marriage was over.

He let out a long sigh and gazed out at the busy streetscape. The time had come. He made a quick phone call as he parked his car and closed the top. He climbed out and locked it with his key fob. He trudged along the sidewalk toward the bank’s front doors. Despite his best efforts to remain anonymous in Seattle, it was impossible. Since the city had lost its NBA team in 2008, the football and soccer teams were the most popular professional franchises, respectively. Seattle’s baseball team hadn’t qualified for the playoffs in nearly two decades and was all but forgotten. And while soccer played second fiddle to football, it wasn’t far behind.

Sid acknowledge a few awkward stares from people who looked as though they thought they knew him but weren’t quite sure. Then a man wearing a Seattle FC jersey rushed over to him.

“Mr. Westin?” the man said.

Sid smiled. “Yes?”

The man clenched his first. “I knew it was you. I made a bet with a friend of mine over there that you were the Sid Westin.”

“Congratulations on your victory, sir,” Sid said.

The man nodded. “Oh, can you do me a favor?”

“A favor?”

“Yeah. Could you sign the back of my deposit slip?” the man said.

Sid laughed. “I’d be honored to.” He scribbled on the piece of paper the man thrust into his hand. “Go Seattle FC.”

“Thanks! And go Seattle FC!” the man replied as he hustled away.

The incident led to more awkward stares and whispers.

Sid didn’t mind, welcoming a few other reluctant fans to sign whatever item they had on them.

One young boy wearing a Sounders’ hat asked Sid to sign it for him.

He smiled at the kid. “How old are you?”

“Eight,” he answered, flashing a toothless grin.

“Eight? That’s how old my son is.” Sid scribbled his signature on the boy’s hat. “Are you playing soccer?”

The boy nodded. “One day, I want to be a star like you.”

Sid tousled the boy’s hair and grinned. “Just keep working hard. You never know.”

Eventually, Sid made his way to the front of the line and asked the teller if he could transfer money between his accounts. She nodded and slid the paperwork to him.

“Just fill that out over there, and when you’re finished, come back to me directly,” she said. “No need for you to get back in line, Mr. Westin.”

He strode toward a tall table and began entering the appropriate account numbers for the transaction. Before he could enter the last two numbers, a loud gunshot startled him.

Sid spun toward the direction of the sound and saw four masked gunmen firing their weapons in the air.

“On the ground, now!” roared one of the men as he fired a few more shots in the air.

Everyone in the bank hit the deck as ordered. The leader of the group jumped on top of the nearest counter.

“Nobody has to get hurt. All we want is the money. But if any of you think about being heroes, it’s going to cost you. You understand me?”

Nobody said a word or moved.

“I said, ‘Do you understand me?’”

The bank patrons all nodded, even Sid.

However, as Sid lay face down on the bank floor, he began to think about what was happening. He was witnessing an armed robbery, an event he could alter. For the moment, he couldn’t tell if it was going to escalate into a hostage situation—but he had no intention of sitting around long enough to find out. He was going to turn the tables on them.

As the leader barked out orders, Sid waited for the right moment. He watched as the frightened employees shoveled stacks of cash into a bag some of the other robbers held open while the leader paced back and forth, still atop the counter.

The leader’s pacing was rhythmic, almost lulling one to sleep. But not Sid. He watched this go on for nearly a minute until he determined the right moment to strike. Conjuring up all the gumption he had, he leapt to his feet and charged the leader. Only his long strides click-clacking on the marble floor alerted the leader that something was wrong.

The man spun and saw Sid racing toward him.

The leader didn’t hesitate, firing once at Sid. The soccer star’s momentum carried him forward as he crumpled to the ground, stopping just short of the counter. The man stooped down and looked at Sid. Using his foot, the leader turned over Sid’s body and shook his head. Sid was clutching his side and gasping for air.

“I said, ‘no heroes,’ you idiot.” The leader fired another shot, hitting Sid in the head.

He turned and whistled at his crew. “Let’s go.”

On the way out, the leader turned toward the security guard crouched in the corner and fired a shot, hitting him in the head.

“Thank you for your time, ladies and gentlemen,” the leader said as they all stormed out the front door and into a waiting van.

Sid breathed shallowly as he felt the life slipping out of him.

“Just hang in there, Mr. Westin,” one of the tellers said. “We’re going to get you help.”

Sid didn’t move.