Prologue
"Welcome to game seven of the World Series. This is Mickey Calloway at Carver Park in Tampa Bay. It's the bottom of the ninth. Tampa Bay Bombers four. Richmond Rogues three. Rogues have two outs with one man on base. The on-deck hitter, center fielder Risk Kincaid, is headed for home plate."
Cheers and boos, clapping and stomping erupted outside the commentator's booth. The plate glass shook. In his thirty years of broadcasting, he'd never heard anything like it. The noise was deafening.
Calloway stood, sat, then stood again, as restless as the crowd. "Aaron Grayson is throwing major heat," he continued his commentary. "A southpaw with a clocked speed of ninety-eight miles per hour, he'll raise the hair on Kincaid's forearms."
He reached for his glass of water and took a quick sip. "Kincaid's digging in, taking a few practice swings while staring Grayson down. The men have been competitors since the minors.
"Catcher signals. Grayson drops his head, rocks back, and… strike one! Backdoor slider. The pitch appeared out of the strike zone, but broke back over the base.
"Kincaid shares a few choice words with the umpire, knocks the head of the bat against his heel, then takes his stance. If anyone can pop it out of the park, Kincaid can, given the right pitch. Grayson has no plans to oblige him."
The noise of eighty thousand fans built around Calloway as the crowd grew wild, so wild he could see the whites of their eyes clear across the field, mouths moving as they screamed and begged the Bomber's pitcher to bring the pennant home.
Mickey Calloway was about to hyperventilate from the excitement. "Kincaid's set, and Grayson winds up, throws… strike two! He swung on the curve, fanned it. His lack of expression says it all, folks. Kincaid's in his own zone. A look toward the runner on third, and Zen Driscoll extends his lead off the bag. Kincaid plans to bring his teammate home."
Calloway narrowed his eyes along with the fans as Kincaid raised his left hand and slowly drew it from right to left field. "A change in the wind?" Calloway grew watchful before slowly shaking his head. "I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes. Kincaid's jabbed his finger toward left field, telling the fans where he plans to stick the next pitch. Arrogance or confidence, folks? He's promised a home run."
The crowd went ballistic. Calloway motioned to the cameraman to pan the left-field crowd for the fans' reaction to the batter's boast. Amid the bounc-ing, jostling bodies in Rogues jerseys and faded jeans, the cameraman zoomed in on one young woman in a bright yellow T-shirt and hip-hugging red jeans. Short, spiky Valentine pink hair was complemented by aviator-style sunglasses.
Her hand gestures had Calloway agreeing to flash her on the big screens displayed throughout the park.
"Bring it on, baby," the announcer interpreted her outstretched arms, the wiggling curve of her fingers. "I'm not certain if she's encouraging or daring him."
He couldn't help chuckling. "Kincaid's spotted her on the Jumbotron. A second jab of his finger toward left field just warned our fan to duck."
Tension thickened in Calloway's throat. "Two practice swings, and Kincaid digs in. Catcher signals, and Grayson sets up, ready to throw. Hearts are hammering. Everyone's holding his breath. Grayson sends a cutter—slam-bam. The ball is long and gone! It lands two rows above the lady with pink hair, bounces off the bleachers, and nearly knocks her in the head. Kincaid takes the bases while fans scramble for the winning ball.
"Congratulations, Rogues! This is Mickey Calloway handing over coverage to my colleague, Gary Swift, who's down on the field."
Two heartbeats, and Swift took over the commentary. "Rogue fans are shouting, embracing, and dancing in the aisles." The cameraman scanned the stands. "Bomber supporters have settled into tears and a five-month wait until next season. Security circles Risk Kincaid as he's surrounded by teammates and press."
Fireworks exploded overhead as Swift jabbed his microphone between two reporters and under Kin-caid's nose. Risk backed up a step. "You pointed and delivered," Swift yelled, struggling to be heard over the barrage of questions fired like bullets.
"I connected with the sweet spot," Kincaid returned easily.
"What if—"
"I never recognize failure," Kincaid said, cutting Swift off.
"You've never played better." A woman reporter had gained his attention. "A double, two triples, and a home run."
Kincaid glanced toward her. "Total team effort."
"What about the girl with the pink hair?" someone called.
"What about her?" he shot the question back.
"You nearly slammed the ball down her throat."
A corner of his mouth turned up slightly. "She needs to learn to duck."
"Where are you headed after the series?" Swift shouted. "Disney World?"
Kincaid tipped back his baseball cap and stared directly into the camera. "Frostproof, Florida. I owe my hometown a visit."
Chapter 1
"Damn, Opie, are we in Mayberry?"
Risk Kincaid cut Zen Driscoll a look. "Not funny, man." Downshifting his Lotus to a crawl along Wall Street, he cleared his throat, then directed, "You can release the dashboard now."
Zen shook out his cramped fingers. His death grip was imprinted in the black leather. "You drive like a bat out of hell."
Sleek and dangerous, the Lotus shot through traffic like a silver bullet. Team management had encouraged him to drive his Hummer from Richmond to Frostproof. A big vehicle with lots of protection on the highway. He'd debated between his Harley and the Lotus. Deciding to kidnap Zen for company on the drive, Risk had settled on the sports car. They'd arrived in record time.
"Quaint little town," Zen commented, looking around at the tree-shaded sidewalks that banked brick storefronts, all aged and faded. Globe streetlights flanked black-pole traffic lights on every cor-ner. A two-pump gas station was wedged between Wall and Third. "Goober?" Zen pointed to a mechanic working on an Astro van.
"Still not laughing."
They passed two city police, sitting on a cement bench outside the courthouse, drinking coffee, eating doughnuts. One of the men was broad-shouldered with a full head of hair, the second thin and wiry. Barney Fife wiry.
"Say it, and you can walk from here," Risk warned.