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  What Others Are Saying

  About Jack Patterson

  “Jack's storytelling feels as natural as James Patterson's, and the short-chapter setup is the literary answer to Lay's potato chips: you just want one more and before you know it, you've gone through the whole thing.”

  - David Bashore, The Times-News, Twin Falls, ID

  “Jack Patterson does a fantastic job at keeping you engaged and interested. I look forward to more from this talented author.”

  - Aaron Patterson, bestselling author of SWEET DREAMS

  “Patterson has a mean streak about a mile wide and puts his two main characters through quite a horrible ride, which makes for good reading.”

  - Richard D., reader

  “Like a John Grisham novel, from the very start I was pulled right into the story and couldn't put the book down. It was as if I personally knew and cared about what happened to each of the main characters. Every chapter ended with so much excitement and suspense I had to continue to read until I learned how it ended, even though it kept me up until 3:00 A.M.”

  - Ray F., reader

  Acclaim for Dead Shot

  “Small town life in southern Idaho might seem quaint and idyllic to some. But when local newspaper reporter Cal Murphy begins to uncover a series of strange deaths that are linked to a sticky spider web of deception, the lid on the peaceful town is blown wide open. Told with all the energy and bravado of an old pro, first-timer Jack Patterson hits one out of the park his first time at bat with Dead Shot. It's that good.”

  - Vincent Zandri, bestselling author of THE REMAINS

  “You can tell Jack knows what it's like to live in the newspaper world, but with Dead Shot, he's proven that he also can write one heck of a murder mystery. With a clever plot and characters you badly want to succeed, he is on his way to becoming a new era James Patterson.”

  - Josh Katzowitz,

  NFL writer for CBSSports.com & author of Sid Gillman: Father of the Passing Game

  DEAD LINE

  A Cal Murphy Thriller

  JACK PATTERSON

  For the 12th Man

  “Journalism will kill you, but it will keep you alive while you’re at it.”

  - Horace Greeley

  SIGN UP for Jack Patterson's monthly newsletter and get the first book free in the Cal Murphy Thriller series, Dead Shot, along with other insider information. Click here to sign up

  CHAPTER 1

  NOAH LARSON WATCHED RAINDROPS cascading down the window over the kitchen sink, racing to a predictable end. Most drops would find their way to the bottom of the sill before joining others to form a small stream that spilled into a dormant flowerbed. A few lucky ones would take control of their fate, resisting the urge to be like all the others by clinging ever so tenuously to an open spot on the glass. But even they were susceptible to being washed away by a collision with just another raindrop or a blast of air. It was a depressing thought, but momentary when the reality of Noah’s life collided with it. Who had time to ponder the depths of existentialism when there was a Super Bowl to win?

  In three hours, Noah was scheduled to join his teammates on a charter flight to Houston where the Seattle Seahawks would attempt to bring home the city’s first Lombardi Trophy. And it was going to happen—he just knew it. Nothing could stop destiny. Ever since he began playing peewee football, Noah’s talents were apparent to everyone, including himself. He had boxes of personal trophies, plaques and accolades stored in unmarked containers on a shelf in his garage to prove it. The only trophy Noah wanted to show off was the smooth silver one, hoisted above his head while confetti rained down from the rafters of Gillette Stadium. That destiny was only six days away.

  “Dad, did you pack my lunch?” came the question from across the kitchen. Noah snapped back to the present.

  “Sure, Jake. Got it right here.” The pro quarterback handed his six-year-old son a Spiderman lunch box. “I even remembered to put your favorite Capri Sun in there, too.”

  “Apple?”

  “I thought you liked grape.”

  “Daaaaad! You always mix up my favorite flavors. I like grape jelly but apple juice.”

  “Well, we can fix that right now.”

  Noah shuffled to the pantry and ripped open a six-pack of apple-flavored Capri Suns, grabbing one for Jake.

  “Here you go, son. I’ll get it right next time—don’t you worry.”

  “It’s OK, dad.” The first grader stuffed the bottle into the lunch box. “You know, I’m really gonna miss you this week.”

  “I’m gonna miss you too, sport. But I’ll see you on Friday. You and mom are flying down and we’ll do something fun when I’m not busy.”

  “I can’t wait! Can we go see the Dynamo’s stadium while we’re down there?”

  “The Dynamo? Son, I’m playing in the Super Bowl on Sunday and you want to go see an empty soccer stadium?”

  “Aww, dad. Soccer is cool, too. Maybe if you win, the Seahawks can have a parade just like the Sounders did when they won the MLS Cup.”

  Noah tried not to let his son’s remark bother him. Jake loved soccer and preferred using his dad’s celebrity status to rub shoulders with the city’s star soccer players rather than visit the NFL locker room. What gnawed at Noah the most was the fact that Seattle threw a parade befitting of royalty when the city’s pro soccer team won the championship the previous fall. The cash-strapped city never dreamed another title might come so soon. But if the Seahawks won, forget budget restraints. Seattle would have a Super Bowl champion and it would celebrate.

  Noah knew the city would go into debt in six days to throw a matching parade. He cared less about competing with the city’s other pro sports teams but more about the overall sense of despair hovering over Seahawk fans’ mentality. Doom and gloom held season tickets for the Seahawks—all 67,000 of them. Noah would change all that, maybe even turn his son into a die-hard football fan in the process.

  “Don’t worry, son. You can ride with me in the parade next week after we come back home with a trophy.”

  “Go, Seahawks! Beat the Dolphins!” Jake pumped his fist in the air and without reservation, sprinted across the kitchen to give his dad a high-five. They both laughed. Noah picked his son up and spun him around once. They shared a hug that ended with a tight squeeze.

  “Don’t forget your rain coat, buddy. It looks like you’re going to need it.”

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  “Better hurry before you miss your bus.”

  “Dad, you’re beginning to sound like mom.”

  On cue, Ellen Larson wobbled down the stairs, trying to stay upright in her four-inch stiletto heels. Her naturally blonde hair clung smoothly to her head as her usually flowing locks were twisted into a tight bun and held in place with a diamond-studded hair stick. She wore the shimmering red dress well, which outlined the contours of her curvaceous figure. The silk shawl draped over her shoulders toned down the image of a woman that would put most men’s head on a swivel.

  Noah drew out a long whistle and shook his head in delight as he watched his wife of eight years come down the staircase. Who cared if she wasn’t the most graceful woman at the moment? Noah certainly didn’t. And neither did Jake.

  “Jake, don’t think you’re going to school without giving mommy a kiss.”

  Jake didn’t wait for his mother to make it to the front door. He liked being the first kid to arrive at the bus stop and wasn’t going to let the obligatory kiss from his mom prevent him from achieving his daily goal.

  “I love you, Mommy,” Jake planted a wet kiss on her cheek

  “I’ll pick you up from school today and then we’ll go shopping. We need to get some warm clothes for our trip.”

  “OK, Mom. See you then.”

  Elle
n went to plant a kiss on Jake’s cheek, but he dodged and resisted. If there was one thing that was sure to get a first-grade boy laughed at, it was having bright red lipstick on your cheek. Instead of getting her way, Ellen withdrew and blew a kiss. Jake’s face lit up with a toothy grin as he put on his raincoat, grabbed his book bag, and ran toward the door.

  The large number of students living in the Larsons’ neighborhood who attended Westminster Prep necessitated a school bus. Jake’s walk to the bus stop for the city’s most prestigious prep school was less than a block. Noah and Ellen had no reservations about letting their son walk alone to the corner of this quiet, tree-lined street. Even on a day that registered as extra blustery and rainy by Seattle’s sopping wet standards.

  Noah watched Jake pull the door shut and hustle down the steps. Once Jake reached the sidewalk, Noah could see Jake tossing his Sounders soccer ball in the air as he skipped toward the bus stop. Noah craned his neck to watch Jake until he disappeared from his field of view. Noah smiled and shook his head, proud of his little guy.

  “Don’t you look nice,” Noah spun around and turned his gaze toward Ellen.

  “Thanks, honey. I am going to miss you. I can’t wait for Sunday to get here and this season to be over with. It’s so much better when you lose and don’t make the playoffs.”

  Noah moved closer to Ellen. He put his hands on her shoulders and looked her in the eyes.

  “I don’t know how to respond to that. Wouldn’t you rather be married to a Super Bowl champion quarterback to impress all your socialite friends?”

  “I don’t care about that—I just want you to be done with football so we can enjoy life together again. This football stuff just gets in the way all the time.”

  “Well, we’ll see.”

  Ellen suddenly grabbed Noah’s arms.

  “Seriously? Are you going to retire from football?”

  “Well, I’ve been playing football for a long time, living up to a lot of people’s expectations and doing what everyone else thinks I should do. I’m kind of tired of it. Besides, what better way to go out than on top and be the king of this city?”

  Ellen began shaking Noah, giddy with excitement. She was careful not to jump up and down in her unstable shoes.

  “I can’t believe this!”

  “I was hoping you would react like this. Honestly, I’d like for this to be the last game I play and go out with a Super Bowl win. It’s time.”

  Ellen smiled.

  “You’re not just going to win,” she said, poking Noah in the chest, “you’re going to destroy the Dolphins!”

  She turned and headed back upstairs to finish primping for her shopping outing. Noah watched her put her fist in the air and mumble something about “no more football.” He knew retiring would make her happy—and it was time to make it official.

  Noah glanced at his packed bags by the door. He then walked back to the kitchen and resumed raindrop watching. Noah stared out the window, grappling with the fact that he had uttered aloud the thought that had been tormenting him for the past six months: Did he have the nerve to walk away from the game that had consumed his entire life? But there was no going back now. Ellen had likely already committed to memory their entire conversation, word for word. And Noah knew she would make sure he kept his word. It was one of the things he liked best about being married to Ellen. It was also one of the worst.

  * * *

  CARLOS RIVERA NURSED the cup of coffee in his right hand. It wasn’t cold yet but it was getting there quickly. Another minute or two and it would be undrinkable. Not that he minded. He thought the claim that Seattle was home to the best coffee in the United States was a chiste. It had been a week since he arrived in Seattle, and this was the fifth different brand of coffee he had tried. He remained unimpressed. However, he knew next month Seattle would be invaded by Buenisimo!, the best coffee south of the border. It would make his return trip more palatable.

  Yet a chance to sample Seattle’s famous coffee was hardly the reason Rivera found himself far away from his family. Not that he had a choice. When Mr. Hernandez said, “Go to Seattle,” he went. No questions, no protests. Yet this job made Rivera sick. He told himself he was a professional and he could do this. It’s what he told himself every time that Mr. Hernandez required him to do something distasteful. Rivera hated dipping a rival gang member’s hand in acid. Neither did he care for shooting a man’s beloved dog just to make a point. But this assignment? This one was exceptionally cruel. It was so monstrous in its nature that Rivera wondered if Mr. Hernandez even had a conscience anymore—or a heart. Of course, Rivera could refuse. But he loved his family too much. He preferred ever so slightly this sordid existence over death, even if it was a half-step above. Choosing one over the other was about a 50-50 proposition. Rivera chose to live.

  Rivera shook his partner, Juan Morales, who had just dozed off in the passenger’s seat.

  “It’s time. Wake up.”

  Morales rubbed his face and looked through the rain-speckled windshield at their target meandering down the sidewalk. The pulsing wipers swept away a handful of raindrops, gliding across the glass creating a clean space for more raindrops to gather.

  “That’s him,” Rivera said.

  He eased the car forward and stopped about 10 feet past the target.

  With great precision and efficiency, Morales jumped out of the car and grabbed the confused boy. Noah resisted his abductor yet was only able to make one muted call for help. Rivera secured the boy’s arms and mouth; Morales snatched his legs. The boy squirmed and tried to kick free, but in less than two seconds, he was in the backseat of the Town Car wedged between the seat and Morales’ left knee. It was a fight the boy had no chance of winning. His muffled cries went unheard.

  Morales grinned and patted Rivera on the back as they pulled away from the curb and headed down the street.

  “We got him!” Morales said.

  Rivera said nothing. He adjusted the mirror so he could only see Morales. Seeing the terror in the boy’s eyes as Morales was wrangling him in the street was too intensely personal for Rivera. With a six-year-old son of his own, Rivera could hardly stomach this task. But he couldn’t let this get personal. This was business, a business he had to conduct professionally and efficiently or his own family might end up victims of Mr. Hernandez.

  Morales couldn’t stop grinning as he basked in his moment of triumph, albeit a sick one—a 28-year-old man overpowering a six-year-old boy 180 pounds his junior. He looked down at his catch, brooding over him with a gruff voice.

  “Hola, Jakie boy.”

  CHAPTER 2

  CAL MURPHY FINISHED a rare morning meeting with his editor and was taking care of a few last-minute details when Josh Moore approached his desk.

  “So, hotshot reporter, are you ready to cover the Super Bowl?” Josh was unable to hide his jealousy with the snarky question.

  “It’s just the nineteenth game of the season, Josh,” Cal answered trying to sound cool and professional. “Just a really overhyped game.”

  Cal knew downplaying his exuberance for covering the Super Bowl was the quickest way to end any possible tete-a-tete with his former college roommate. It took Cal just two years to land most sportswriters’ dream job. In such a competitive environment, Cal’s friends on the sports staff were scarce. Not wanting to push away his best one, Cal dropped the act.

  “Look, Josh, I’m super excited about this opportunity—and I really wish you could join me,” Cal said. “It would be a lot of fun.”

  “But then who would be here to write about Seattle Prep and Rainier Beach’s big game this weekend?”

  Cal shook his head and smiled. Josh had returned to benign sarcasm rather than the harsh ridicule. Their friendship had risen above jealousy, at least for the moment.

  “Have a great time. I’ll expect lots of great stories from the award-winning Cal Murphy.”

  Cal smiled and stuffed the last of his files into his computer bag then zipped it shut
. He flung the strap across his shoulder and saluted Josh as he began walking down the stairs. It was 8:30 and he had just enough time to make it to the airport for his 10 a.m. flight. He would also squeeze in a call to Kelly Mendoza.

  After the pair of journalists exposed a cover-up in Statenville, Idaho, two years ago, Cal and Kelly had their choice of jobs. Cal chose The Times in Seattle. With offers in Seattle as well, Kelly instead opted for a job with the Associated Press bureau in Salt Lake City. Her decision disappointed Cal. He wanted to pursue the romantic inklings that he sensed between them. However, Cal didn’t let his heart override his professional ambition. He wanted to cover a team in the NFL and Salt Lake City didn’t have one. Besides, Seattle contained all of Cal’s favorite boyhood teams, his familiar stomping grounds near the University of Washington, and an awesome music scene. He chose familiarity and opportunity over romance. But he hadn’t given up on Kelly yet.

  He dialed her number.

  “Hey, Cal,” came Kelly’s familiar voice from the other end. “You in Houston yet?”

  “Not yet, but I will be soon. What about you? Are you going?”

  “Well, the bureau isn’t sending me, if that’s what you mean. But I’ll be there as a fan. My uncle asked me to go with him. He usually goes with an old war buddy, but he couldn’t make it—so I got invited. And he didn’t have to ask his favorite niece twice.”

  “That’s great. We’ll have to catch up then when I get some free time. When are you leaving?”

  “Our flight gets in Tuesday night at 9:30. Want to meet up then?”

  “Sure. Call me when you land.”

  Cal pressed “end” on his iPhone and let his giddiness spread throughout his body. If he and Kelly were just friends, why did he always feel so excited about seeing or talking with her? It was a question he hoped to answer in Houston.

  But he couldn’t deny the fact that his excitement over this trip was also due to the fact that he was covering his first Super Bowl—with his favorite team playing in it. Even better was his scheduled one-on-one interview with Seattle quarterback Noah Larson the next morning. Sometimes Cal felt like it was all a dream.