Friday, September 16, 1:38 p.m. EDT

Hands went under Riley’s armpits, hefting him up. Riley tried to make himself walk so that he wouldn’t just be dragged, but nothing was working like it was supposed to. With every click the toes of his boots made over the tiles, pain rocketed up his legs.

From somewhere off to his left, a voice shouted out, “Hang in there, Riley!”

“Shut up,” commanded another voice.

“Stay strong, Riley,” called a third.

“Shut up, I said!”

“We love you, Riley!”

“Jesus is with you!”

“Shut up!”

“Hang on, man!”

“God’s got you in His hands, Riley!”

“Don’t let them break you!”

“God bless you, Riley!”

“Shut up! I said, shut up!”

The calls continued as Riley was carried through an archway into a small room he recognized from the videos. Wilson Bay. This is it. Better hurry, Scott.

Riley was flopped down onto a tarp. He looked up to see a camera at the ready.

Hands grabbed him again, and he was leaned in a sitting position against Woodrow Wilson’s tomb. Every part of his body was screaming at him, and the weight resting on his battered hips was almost more than he could take.

Saifullah sat on a stone bench across from him. “So, Riley Covington, any regrets yet?”

Riley slowly shook his head. “No regrets,” he said in a voice that sounded like he had been tucked away for the last two days in a seedy bar on a weekend bender.

Saifullah leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “I must admit, you have me baffled. Your reputation is that of a Mr. Perfect—one of those holier-than-thou Christians—but yet you hurl the most offensive of insults at my warriors.”

“Told you . . . don’t like being touched.”

Saifullah smiled. “Also, you are a marvelous football player, but you throw your career away over foolishness.”

“That is a long story. . . .” Drag it out. Keep him talking. Hurry, Scott! “Ever hear of Rick Bellefeuille?”

“And to top it all, in your last act of irrational contradiction, you, a Christian, trade your life for a Muslim—and a woman, no less.”

Riley tried and failed to smile again. “That’s seriously . . . one of those you-had-to-be-there stories.”

Saifullah shook his head. “Even now, at death’s door, you are making jokes. It makes no sense.”

Riley could feel his strength fading and his mind starting to clutter. Keep it together. Finish strong. “Not to you. . . . To me? Perfect sense. . . . It’s hope, man. Right here.” He nodded toward his chest. “My body? You can have it. . . . My life? Oh, well. . . . My hope? Sorry, bub. Off-limits.”

“Two minutes,” said Alavi, who looked down at Riley with intense hatred. Riley noticed that he was now the one with the long blade in his belt.

“Well, Riley, I’m afraid your end is at hand,” Saifullah said, standing up.

“Old man . . . one more thing. . . . I forgive you.” The imam stared at Riley a moment, then turned away.

Looking up at Alavi, Riley said, “I even forgive you.”

Alavi responded by bringing his hand across Riley’s face, knocking him back to the tiles. Then he began kicking him, one blow after another to his head, his ribs, his gut. Riley wouldn’t have believed he could feel more pain, but with each strike, waves of agony like he had never felt before ripped through his already-battered body.

Oh, Jesus, give me strength! You’ve been here. How did You keep loving? How did You keep forgiving? Help me, Jesus! Help me to die well!

When the cameraman called thirty seconds to air, Alavi stopped. The pain, however, didn’t. It was everything Riley could do to suck in a breath of air. He knew at least one of his lungs was punctured, and there must be bones broken throughout his face.

Saifullah took his place in front of the camera. Alavi took a handful of Riley’s hair and lifted him up to his knees. The cameraman counted down.