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go call Ziafat to welcome him to the Mustang family. I hope all of you will
     extend him that same courtesy.” Before the media could rebound, Burton sprang from the platform and was through the door.

    Back in the Mustangs’ war room, Burton called out, “Anything new?”
    “It’s been pretty quiet, Coach. We don’t pick again until number fifty-two, so things will start speeding up around number
     forty-five,” responded Mark Schlegel, Burton’s right-hand man.
    Burton dropped into his chair and heaved a deep sigh. The first round of the draft had been agonizingly slow. Virtually every
     team had taken its full ten minutes to make a selection or trade its pick. The second round would proceed much more quickly
     since each team received only seven minutes per choice. However, speed didn’t equate to carelessness. Most organizations would
     continue to be very calculated with their selections; millions of dollars would still be at stake on a second-rounder.
    After the first day, though, rounds three through seven would be much faster. The risk and the investment were far less, and
     the greatest hope was that a team could find a diamond in the rough during their allotted five minutes.
    Everyone in the war room was watching the ESPN reports and speculating on who would be picked next. Two large, white boards
     flanked the giant television screen. The board to the left listed on thin magnetic strips the top one hundred offensive players.
     The board to the right did the same for the defensive prospects. Each strip listed a player’s name, ranking, college, height,
     weight, and forty-yard-dash time. Once a player was selected, his strip was taken away, and the waiting game continued.
    As Burton looked around the room, he could see that Todd Maule was still visibly upset.
    Just then, Liberty University left tackle Bob Fiala, a player Maule had wanted, was selected with the twenty-eighth overall
     pick.
    “That’s perfect,” Maule cried out. “We pass on Fiala for Ziafat! That’s like passing on Riley Covington for Mahmoud Ahmadinejad.”
    Burton realized it was time to take control of the room again. Ignoring Maule’s outburst, he said, “I want to make sure we
     have plenty of depth at linebacker, fellas, so over the next few rounds I want to stay defensive. Of course, if someone else
     has a significant drop, we’ll need to consider that.”
    Again Maule couldn’t resist. “Why do we need more at linebacker when we’ve got the Hezbollah Kid? I can see the headlines
     now. ‘Ziafat Terrorizes the Quarterback’. Or ‘Ziafat Intercepts a Bomb’. Oh yeah! The press is going to love this!”
    “Son, I’ve had enough of you. This isn’t a democracy around here,” Burton said with authority. “I’ll have your office boxed
     up and sent to you. Now get out of my war room.”
    With that Burton motioned to the off-duty Denver policeman who had been watching from the rear corner. Within seconds, Todd
     Maule found himself being escorted from the Inverness Training Center—permanently.
    8:41 P.M. CRST
EDUARDO CASTILLO MEMORIAL HOSPITAL
SAN JOSÉ, COSTA RICA
    “I expect a call back within the hour, and you better have some answers! Otherwise, I’ll be on the phone with my jefe , and before you know it, he’ll be on the phone with your jefe threatening to turn this into an international incident. So, how about you save us all some trouble, amigo , and get back to me with some names!” Khadi had been on the SatCom phone nonstop since yesterday’s attack. She was trying
     to get identities on the gunmen from Costa Rican authorities, but that information was not coming easily.
    Riley had been working out of Skeeter’s hospital room, planning their return to the U.S. with help from his connections at
     Homeland Security. Whenever he wasn’t on the phone, Riley was trying to calm an increasingly agitated Skeeter.
    “Pach, I’m telling you I’m fine. Now get me out of here.”
    “Quit your bellyaching,