"What are you going to do?"

"Talk to the boss. Because I don't run. Hell, I don't even run after bad guys, I just shoot their ass. Now I've got to jog with a judge? I don't think so."

"Are you okay, Scott?" Karen asked again.

She sat across his desk from him.

"I'm fine."

He went back to the bowl for another toffee.

"You were abducted ... and you finished off the whole bowl this morning."

She gave him a concerned look.

"So, what did you think about oral arguments?" Scott asked.

She realized he wasn't going to talk about the kidnapping and gave up.

"The government made a good point about enforcement resources," she said, "but that's not the point."

"What's the point?"

"The point is, your job isn't to rule on whether Congress will fund immigration enforcement. That's a political question. Your job is to rule on the constitutionality of the executive order. That's the legal question. Nothing else matters in this room."

She pointed at the window.

"Not those protestors, not public opinion, not politics, and not the president who appointed you."

The attorney general called at ten.

"I missed you," Scott said.

"I'm sure you did."

"What now? I detained Mustafa."

"The president is on my ass about the immigration case."

"Are you going to call me every day about that case, too?"

"Are you going to dismiss the states' lawsuit?"

"You're kind of pushy, aren't you, Mac?"

"The president put you on that bench, Scott."

"He still wants to jog?" Beckeman said.

He had been reading the latest arrest log for the Muslim roundup. Agent Jones had knocked on his door immediately after the morning manhunt meeting. He wanted off the judge's security detail.

"Apparently. But I don't jog."

"Obviously."

Beckeman studied his round agent. Jones had actually once been a fit man, but the divorce had put him on a liquid diet. Alcohol is fattening. But even with the extra weight, Jones was a good agent. And right now he needed good agents giving him good news. They had none that morning. It was as if the two Arabs had vanished into thin air. The president had called the director; the director had called Beckeman. As if he needed more pressure than the pressure presented by one hundred thousand lives at stake Super Bowl Sunday. But he was a Marine; he could handle the pressure.

"Replace me, boss."

Beckeman sighed and gazed out through the glass walls of his office at his agents in their cubicles. His gaze paused on a pretty face.

"I've got just the agent for the job."

FIFTEEN.

Wednesday, 27 January 11 days before the Super Bowl "This is bullshit."

"What are you pissed about?" her partner said. "It's easy money, babysitting a judge. Let the other guys chase the Arabs. Me, I want to finish out my twenty, then bass fish the rest of my life."

Ace Smith was close to retirement. She was not. So she was pissed. Special Agent Catalina Pea had signed on with the Joint Terrorism Task Force to hunt down terrorists, not to babysit a half-senile, decrepit old judge on his morning walk. But she had opened her mouth to Beckeman once too often, and he had exiled her to the judge's security detail.

Unbefuckinglievable.

She hadn't met or seen Judge Fenney, but no doubt he looked like every other federal judge she had met and seen: white hair, black reading glasses, brown liver spots, and grey suit. Old white men. Senior citizens who had earned enough political favors to warrant a lifetime appointment to the federal bench living out their lives at taxpayers' expense. And now she had to jog with the judge, which would be about as enjoyable as jogging with Donald Trump.

The air was crisp and cool, a perfect morning for a run. Scott walked out the back door and around to the front of the house. He did not find Agents Smith and Jones but instead Agent Smith standing next to the black sedan and a young female perched on the hood. She wore running clothes; he wore a suit. She was drinking a Starbucks coffee; he was eating a breakfast taco. She did not abandon her perch when he arrived. She did look him up and down with a bemused expression.

"You like Under Armour?"

Scott checked his attire; he was wearing all Under Armour except his shoes.

"Uh, Cat ..." Agent Smith said.

"I must," Scott said.

"You running with the judge, too?"

"Pardon me?"

"Uh, Cat ..." Agent Smith said again.

"You work for the judge?"

Scott glanced from her to Agent Smith and back to her.

"I am the judge."

She had taken a big drink of the coffee but froze. Her eyes got wide; she swallowed hard then slid off the hood of the sedan.

"You're Judge Fenney?"

"You're an FBI agent?"

"You're not what I expected, sir."

"Neither are you."

They regarded each other a moment, then she abruptly backhanded Agent Smith hard across the chest.

"Why didn't you tell me, Ace?"

"I tried." Agent Smith grinned and said through a mouthful of taco, "But you were doing such a good job making a fool of yourself."

"Thanks. I'll remember that next time a bad guy tries to shoot you in the back." She turned back to Scott and stuck a hand out. "Agent Catalina Pea, sir. You've met Agent Smith."

He looked every inch the FBI agent; she did not. Her inches were lean and muscular and covered by a long-sleeve yellow running shirt, white running tights, red running shoes, and a black waist pack. Her brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail.

"I hear you need a runner?"

"Apparently."

"Track team at UT. Two and four hundred meters."

As if applying for employment.

"You're over-qualified for the job."

"Did you run in college?"

"On a football field."

"You don't look big enough."

"I survived on stupidity and speed, at least before the knee operations."

"How many?"

"Two."

"Ouch."

"You ready to run?"

"Judge, I was born to run."

Agent Smith waved them off with the taco. "I'll watch the home front. But don't worry, Judge, Cat can shoot."

Competitive athletes moved differently than normal people. Even past their prime-she figured the judge was twenty years past his prime and she was ten-their bodies still retained the grace and gait of their competitive days. The judge ran with grace, his long legs keeping pace with her track team stride. They ran past other runners, lawyers and businessmen who were born lawyers and businessmen plodding hard on the concrete as if their feet were pounding nails, men who ran each morning because it was good for them, not because they had been born to run. Cat Pea had been born to run. She loved to run. Her feet felt light, as if they barely touched the ground. She always felt that she glided more than ran, and she always ran alone. A competitive athlete could not run with an amateur; consequently, she hadn't run with anyone in a very long time. She kept an eye out for bad guys, but she enjoyed running with a man. This man. An athlete. A judge.

It wasn't bullshit after all.

"That is a lot of shit," his little brother said.

"Actually," Abdul said, "it is not shit. It is better than shit. Spread it on fields, and the crops will grow. Add some diesel fuel and a detonator, and it will explode."

Abdul had studied the Oklahoma City bombing in detail. That seven-thousand-pound bomb had worked perfectly. But he needed a bigger bomb. So they had amassed fifty thousand pounds of ammonium nitrate.

"We will soon be ready, my brother, to bring death and destruction to America."

His brother sighed. "You know, Abdul, I liked you better when you wanted to be a professional soccer player."

"Get to the photo shop."

Two hours after his run with Agent Pea, Scott sat at his desk. Karen sat across from him.

"We got Bookman's brief," she said.

"And?"

"Not what I had expected."

"Seems to be the day for the unexpected."

She studied Scott a moment. "Okay."

"I'll read it tonight."