"Bullshit!"

Beckeman pointed the remote at the television as if to shoot it.

"A fucking college professor."

The attorney general had gone to the airport to fly back to D.C. in his private jet; the U.S. Attorney had gone back to his office; Beckeman had gone back to work. There was no time off in the war against terror. Fact is, he was married to the Bureau, just as he had been married to the Corps. He was forty-seven years old. Soldiering was all he knew, but he knew it well. His father had often shared his philosophy for success with his son: Do one thing really well. Do it over and over. Eric Beckeman knew how to kill Muslim terrorists. He had killed them in Iraq and Afghanistan; those wars had defeated al Qaeda and created ISIS. That was a game changer. They were Islamic, they were barbaric, and they were coming to America. We can't kill them in Syria because of bad press over collateral damage-hell, kill two civilians in a drone strike, and The Hague wants to try you as a war criminal-so we have to kill them at home. The FBI needed someone with the skills, experience, and determination to do just that. The jump from the Marines to the Joint Terrorism Task Force had not been a change in job description, only a change in uniform. The operational objective remained the same: kill or capture every Islamic jihadist in the world. It wasn't a job. It was a mission. His mission in life.

"I do not know about any plot to blow up the stadium. All I know is that Aabdar had nothing to do with it. He was a good boy."

The television screen had cut to an older woman identified as "Aabdar Haddad's mother."

"Mothers are always the last to know," Beckeman said.

He hit the pause button; the screen froze on the face of Aabdar Haddad's mother. He turned back to his task force assembled in the war room.

"I want every face at that funeral ID'd and investigated," Beckeman said. "Haddad was a bad guy. They were friends of Haddad. Therefore, they are bad guys, too. Any questions?"

Three agents raised their hands.

"Walker."

Agent Walker waved a sheet of paper. "Do the breakfast tacos have onions? My gut can't handle onions."

Beckeman stared at Agent Walker a long moment then turned his hands up at Agent Pea.

"No onions," she said.

"Maxwell."

"Are the tortillas flour or corn?"

Beckeman dropped his head.

"Your choice," Pea said.

"Carson," Beckeman said without looking up.

"Can I get eggs, cheese, and beans?"

"Yes," Agent Pea said.

The last six months since the tip had come in had been intense and round the clock for his Task Force, right up until the raid at the mosque Friday night. Once the suspects had been placed in the jail cells, the team had acted as if the game had been won. They had relaxed. He had given them the weekend off; they had come in that Monday morning like frat boys, joking and laughing and cutting up, more worried about breakfast tacos than terrorists. They had not served in Afghanistan and Iraq; they didn't understand that you could never relax.

"Are there any other questions?" Two more agents raised their hands. "Not about breakfast tacos."

They dropped their hands. Agent Pea raised hers.

"Yes?" Beckeman said.

"I thought you said we got all the bad guys?"

Beckeman glared at the young female agent. She had a great body, sure, and her mother sold the best breakfast tacos in Dallas to the Task Force; but any tactical advantage those facts offered her was negated by her mouth. She had a hell of a mouth on her, and she didn't know when to keep it shut. Like now. He had not wanted her on the task force, but she had been forced upon him. For political correctness. So he had her, as well as black, Asian, and even Muslim agents. During World War II, the government put Japanese-Americans in prison camps for fear of espionage in the fight against the Japanese; now the government puts Muslims inside central command in the fight against Muslims. He was fighting terrorists; the Bureau was playing politics.

"We got the bad guys this time. But we'll never get all the bad guys. They're breeding terrorists faster than we can kill them. But these bad guys are in federal detention, and we've got to keep them there."

"Is the judge going to let Mustafa out?"

"The president said he stays in that cell until after the Super Bowl. And that's exactly what's going to happen. Because we're going to find the evidence to keep him there." He pointed at the screen. "Those Muslims might lead us to that evidence. Find them. Find the evidence. We got the bad guys. All we've got to do now is find the evidence to prove it."

Which was why Beckeman preferred to avoid the proof issue and just shoot the bad guys.

"Shit, Scotty, remember that Dibrell case? Sexual harassment? What was my client's name?"

"I can't remember."

"What's Tom up to?"

"I don't know."

Scott had called his last resort, Franklin Turner, famous plaintiffs' lawyer.

"Frank, I need a favor."

"You want to borrow the jet?"

"Uh, no. More along the lines of a job."

"You want a job?"

"No. I've got a job for you."

"What kind of job? Toxic tort?"

"It is toxic."

"Asbestos, formaldehyde ...?"

"Muslim."

"Muslim?"

"I want you to defend Mustafa."

Frank laughed. "That's a good one, Scotty."

Scott did not laugh.

"You got the case?"

"I do."

"You're serious?"

"I am."

"Why me? I'm a personal injury lawyer, not a criminal defense lawyer."

"You were a prosecutor once, and a damn good one, you can handle a high-profile case, you're not afraid of public pressure, you thrive on controversy, you're the best damn trial lawyer I know-"

"And all the defense lawyers in town turned you down?"

"Yep."

"What's in it for me?"

"The chance to do good."

"Defending the most dangerous man in Dallas?"

"Defending the Constitution."

Frank did not respond.

"I'm in a bind, Frank. Detention hearing is Friday at nine. The PD isn't up to it. Frank, I wouldn't forget this."

Frank breathed into the phone. "I'd need a staff."

"There's a PD on the case. Marcy Meyers, just out of school."

"Young?"

"Very."

"Pretty?"

Frank had been married and divorced three times. He had an eye for the ladies.

"Quite. You can have her ... professionally."

Frank grunted. He was weighing the upside and downside. The downside was steep, the upside small. But there was an upside.

"The press is all over this case, Frank. You'd be the most famous lawyer in America."

"I wouldn't mind that."

"I didn't think you would."

Frank loved the cameras. Conventional wisdom was, the most dangerous place in Dallas was between Frank Turner and a TV camera. There would be a lot of TV cameras for this case. In terms of publicity, this was a once-in-a-lifetime case.

"And it'd be a change of pace," Frank said.

"Criminal instead of civil?"

"Trying a case before I judge I haven't bought off with campaign contributions."

Franklin Turner, famous plaintiffs' lawyer, took the case.

SEVEN.

Tuesday, 19 January 19 days before the Super Bowl "Who's Frank Turner?"

"Only the best trial lawyer in Dallas," Mike Donahue said. "Maybe in the country."

"I thought you were," Agent Beckeman said.

"I'm second best."

"Never heard of him."

"He's a plaintiffs' lawyer."

"Why'd he take a criminal case?"

"The publicity, no doubt. He loves the cameras."

"You can kick his ass."

"He ain't that pretty little PD. Frank used to be a prosecutor, a damn good one. He knows what he's doing."

"Which means what?"

"Which means I can't count on him losing. I've got to win the hearing. And I can't win without evidence, not with Fenney presiding. Find me some evidence, Beckeman. I don't want to walk into court Friday morning holding only my balls."

"We let Mustafa go free Friday, the president is going to castrate both of us."