Saturday, September 10, 3:40 p.m. EDT

Cleveland, Ohio

“FM, no static at all . . .” Donald Fagen sang through the earbuds. Walter Becker picked up the guitar riff, which ultimately led into Riley Covington’s favorite part of the song—Pete Christlieb’s smooth sax solo. It transported him to a warm Southern California night, the lights of the city stretched out below him, the sweet, rich smell of jasmine thick in the air. Yeah, that’s—

The sound of air brakes popped Riley back into reality.

“Cleveland,” he grumbled to himself as the team bus came to a stop in front of the Hyatt Regency, “the ‘Well, she’s got a nice personality’ of American cities.”

“What are you mumbling about over there, Pach?” tight end Don Bernier asked from across the aisle. Pach was Riley’s nickname from his time playing with the Air Force Academy Falcons and came from a comparison to the fast, hard-hitting Apache attack helicopter.

“I was just saying how thrilled I am to be back on the beautiful shores of Lake Erie.”

“Come on, buddy, it’s no different than any other city. It’s got a hotel and a stadium. Beyond that, who cares?”

“True enough,” Riley said, as he dropped his iPod into a small duffel and stood up to go. Another city, another game—maybe we win, maybe we lose—another flight back to a city that’s home but not really home, all to start another week of practice to prepare for another game. It’s all feeling so . . . what’s the word? Not monotonous . . . Meaningless. That’s it; my life is starting to feel meaningless.

Getting back into football had been a difficult decision for Riley. Two years ago, when New York City was rendered uninhabitable by an EMP attack, Riley had abandoned the rest of the football season in order to aid the refugees who were waiting their turn to be transported to safety. It had taken nearly two months to evacuate the last of those who wanted to leave the city. But finally it was time for the replanting of the Big Apple to begin.

Riley, his bodyguard and constant companion Skeeter Dawkins, and his friend and former teammate Keith Simmons were each faced with a decision—should I stay or should I go? There was plenty of work that could be done helping out the thousands of workers that now were descending on the city. But their hearts had really been drawn to the victims of the attack. Becoming part of the rebuilding support staff didn’t have that same sort of emotional pull.

After a few evenings of debate, the friends decided to part ways—Riley and Skeeter to Riley’s home in Kenai, Alaska, and Keith back home to Denver. As the months went on, their paths continued to diverge even further. While Riley and Skeeter took the time to collect moose and bears and very large salmon, Keith took his time to collect kids—NYC refugees, to be precise. By the time he was done, nine of the ten bedrooms in his house had little munchkins sleeping in them; he was sleeping in the tenth.

More than eight thousand children had been left parentless as a result of that terrible day. There were some whose parents had been killed, but there were also some whose parents just hadn’t been able to locate them. Sometimes it was because the kids were too young to be able to communicate who they were; others were just too traumatized. For a time, the reuniting of a parent with his or her child was almost a nightly story on the evening news—two came from Keith Simmons’s own house. But soon, the reunions trickled to weekly, then monthly, and now they had almost stopped.

Riley filed into the hotel lobby, where a team staffer handed him an envelope with his key in it. Seeing he was only on the fourth floor, he opted for the stairs instead of waiting for an elevator.

His feet echoed up the thinly carpeted stairwell as, for what seemed to be the thousandth time, he seriously questioned his decision to return to football.

Admittedly, a large part came from simple boredom. You can only shoot so many elk, and you can only dig so many clams.

The need to be challenged, to constantly be pushing himself beyond what he should be able to do, was a big part of what made Riley who he was. It was this drive that had helped him to excel in everything he had attempted—Air Force Special Ops, football, paramilitary, even bringing comfort to the hurting. “If you’re going to commit to something, give it all you’ve got,” his late father had told him many times.

I’ve got no challenge anymore, he had thought. Nothing to strive for. But if I come back to football after two years off, that would be a huge thing! And on top of that, if I made all-star? I mean, who does that?

Reaching his floor, Riley entered the hallway.

Having made the decision to reenter football, the first challenge he had faced was the Washington Warriors owner, Rick Bellefeuille. Rumor was that the two weeks Bellefeuille had spent trapped in a New York football stadium had mellowed the man. However, if that was true, it certainly wasn’t evident in the conversation Riley had with him.

A very long two hours passed while Riley struggled to keep his pride and anger in check. Finally Bellefeuille had agreed to allow him back on the team on the condition that Riley cut his salary by a third and double his required public relations appearances. So Riley had swallowed his pride and signed—and spent every day thereafter wondering what he had been thinking.

The key card slid in and out, the light turned from red to green, and Riley opened the door to his room. It looked like every other hotel room he’d been in. He dropped his duffel onto the bed—a valet would be up later with his overnight bag—grabbed a bottle of water from the mini-fridge, and fell into a chair by the window. Pulling back a corner of the curtain, he saw that the only thing outside was Cleveland, so he kept the drapes closed.

Turning the TV on to FoxNews, he saw a big ALERT banner. A senator was holding a press conference at the Lincoln Memorial. He mentally tuned it out.

Soon after the incident earlier today, a shaken Tara Ross had called Riley to say that Scott had been shot but was okay. A couple of hours later, Scott himself had called to give him a rundown of the op as only Scott could. When the laughter had finally died down and they said their good-byes, Riley was left with a feeling of relief that Scott was all right but also with a twinge of jealousy.

Hadn’t Riley always been the one who had it all together? Wasn’t he the one with the sense of purpose to his life? Now, here was Scott Ross saving the world one terrorist at a time; here was Keith Simmons saving the world one kid at a time; and here was Riley Covington saving the game one tackle at a time.

Give it this season, just to show you can come back, he thought. After that, you . . . Wait, isn’t that Senator Andrews?

Riley quickly turned the volume up. He still didn’t pay much attention to the words. Based on the story Scott had told him, the senator was probably less than a hundred yards from an active crime scene. Andrews had chosen the timing for his presser just right, so that the lights from the memorial were starting to glow in the growing dusk, while the white lights from cameras revealed him in all his congressional glory.

Media hog, Riley thought.

But the senator wasn’t the reason Riley was watching so intently. It was on the fifth question, when the camera widened to catch a view of Carl Cameron taking his turn from the front row, that he saw her. Off to the senator’s right, staring intently into the crowd, stood Khadi Faroughi. Then just that quickly, the shot tightened again, and Khadi disappeared.

Riley grabbed for the remote to rewind the picture, then realized he wasn’t at home and there was no DVR. He put the control back on the table and continued to watch. But soon the senator finished his moment of exploitative grandeur, and the shot cut back to the Fox studios, where a panel was waiting to analyze the man’s words.

Riley turned off the TV, then stretched out on the bed and stared at the darkening ceiling. Khadi looked as beautiful as ever, with her dark hair, olive skin, and sharp Persian features. And beyond just her physical appearance, there was a self-assuredness—a sense of strength and control—that only heightened her beauty and appeal.

As he lay there, his mind played through scenes of his and Khadi’s time together. There were good memories—hours spent talking through life, laughter over shared cups of coffee, accidental touches, intimate words. There were also not-so-good memories—angry prayers to God for allowing him to fall in love with a woman he couldn’t have, holding her bleeding body after she had been shot, saying good-bye.

According to Scott, Khadi said she had made the decision to leave SOG Bravo because she was tired of being a target for bad guys’ guns. But when he pressed her, she admitted that there were just too many memories of Riley there for her to stick around. She needed a clean break. She had heard of an opportunity in a firm that provided security to senators and congressmen, and she had decided to take it.

Riley had received an e-mail from her soon after she left telling him of her decision—really flowering up why this was such a great career move for her—and wishing him the best. He hadn’t responded. He hadn’t known how.

That had been eighteen months ago. Every now and then Riley found a way to get some information about her from Scott, but when he heard she had started seeing a guy from the FBI, he stopped asking.

“Not that I know of,” had been Scott’s response when asked if Khadi’s new man was a Muslim. And that’s what burns me most of all. The one thing that kept us apart—her Islam and my Christianity—doesn’t even matter to her anymore.

Riley lay there a long time brooding in the slowly deepening darkness until someone pounded on his door and announced, “Team meeting in ten” before continuing down the hall.

“Another night, another meeting,” Riley said to no one as he grabbed his notebook and headed out of his room.