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Keith said. “I’m not sure that I’ll ever get past what’s happened in the last year. I have no idea how I’m going to feel the first time I walk back into Platte River.” Last December, Keith had taken some shrapnel to his thigh during an attack at Platte River Stadium during a Colorado Mustangs Monday Night Football game. The physical damage had healed completely, but the emotional wounds were still open and raw.
    Afshin, who was the only one of the three who had not been in the stadium that night, said, “I can’t imagine, guys. I mean, I don’t even know what to say when you start talking about it. But you know I’ll be there for you both, praying you through and encouraging you however I can.”
    Keith and Riley nodded their appreciation. Silence surrounded the men for a time.
    Riley took a sip from his protein smoothie, then asked, “So what do you guys think of Zerin?”
    â€œMan, if I could take back any moment . . . I can’t believe how I let that taping get out of hand,” Keith said. “One minute I’m laughing, holding on to one of his legs. The next minute I’m wondering what just happened.”
    â€œWe were just as bad,” Afshin said. “We just sat back and watched. We should have stepped in and stopped it.”
    â€œI tried apologizing,” Keith continued, “but he’d have no part of it. He just turned and walked away.”
    â€œYeah, me too,” Riley said. “I even invited him to come to our workouts, but I got the same response.”
    Afshin shook his head. “Don’t expect much else from him. It’s an honor thing now. That’s one thing about us Persians and the Arabs. If you insult our honor, then it’s game on.”
    â€œSo what do we do?” Riley asked.
    â€œYeah, is there any way to repair the damage done?” Keith added.
    â€œTime and prayer. That’s how I got over your warm little welcome, Riley,” Afshin kidded.
    Shame circled through Riley’s stomach, even as he laughed with the others. Forgive yourself and let it go. Z’s forgiven you and moved past it; you’ve got to move past it too. But even as Riley thought those words, he knew it would still be a while before he would get over the guilt of his prejudice.
    â€œSpeaking of repairing the damage,” Riley said, turning to Keith and changing the subject, “how’s the work coming on your cabin? I still feel bad over that.” During the events of a month ago, Riley had holed up in Keith’s mountain cabin/mini mansion, trying to draw out the terrorists who had killed his father. Unfortunately, Riley’s plan had worked a little too well, and Keith’s home had burned to the ground.
    â€œWell, don’t,” Keith said. “I told you, it’s just stuff. Besides, I had some sweet insurance on the thing. They’re just finishing clearing the rubble from the old place, and we’ve already got the plans for the rebuild. Puts the old one to shame. Seriously, it’s almost embarrassing. Hey, why don’t you cook me and Z some barbecue this weekend, and I’ll bring over the blueprints?”
    â€œSounds like a date,” Riley said.
    As he slid a little deeper into the hot water, Riley said a quick prayer of thanks for good friends. Maybe things really can get back to normal for me, he thought with a smile.

Tuesday, July 7, 7:15 p.m. EDT
    Washington, D.C.
    The brilliance of the halogen lamp shining on the kitchen table banished any sign that outside the windows the sun was setting. Not that Hassan al-Aini could have seen the oncoming darkness anyway with the window shades drawn and fastened down with duct tape. On the side of the brown brick building ran a fire escape, and the very thought of a fleeing drug dealer clomping down the metal stairs or a love-struck girl cautiously sneaking her way past the window on her way to a secret rendezvous