"What's his type?"

"You."

The judge's other daughter nodded. She had scored thirty-two points; her team won handily. They all went for pizza after the game, a Friday night tradition for the Fenney family. Cat ate one piece and a salad. Ace was finishing off a large meat-and-cheese deluxe pizza all by himself.

"Best meal I've had all week," he said.

He was fifty-five and divorced with no prospects. Certain jobs made personal relationships difficult, if not impossible. The FBI was one such job. The magistrate judge walked over and whispered in Cat's ear.

"Please watch out for Scotty."

Each of the judge's people had made the same request to her that night.

"I will. I'm armed and Latina."

"Good."

The magistrate walked to his place on the other side of the table next to the bailiff who sat next to the judge. He was apparently willing to take a bullet for the judge.

"Have you ever shot anyone?" Boo asked.

Cat pointed a finger at her partner. "I want to shoot him all the time."

They talked and laughed and even joked about the judge's abduction only five days before. The Arabs remained at large.

You shot the Mexicans?

Abdul jabbar sat in front of a computer at the law school and typed in Arabic.

In the legs.

A response came quickly: Why?

He typed again: To test the product.

A response came: And was it effective?

He typed: Very. But they brought only eleven containers. Now only ten.

That will be sufficient.

It is effective.

Did you acquire the Tovex?

Yes.

Excellent. From who?

A disgruntled former employee of a mining company.

Was the price high?

Indeed it was.

Did you pay him in full?

Indeed I did.

Very good, Abdul. You are proving yourself a capable lone wolf.

Indeed I am.

A lone wolf. He liked that image of himself. One dangerous man bringing death and destruction to America. If he brought that stadium down on one hundred thousand people, his name would live on in history. Like Osama bin Laden.

This is a one-time shot, Abdul. Like 9/11. Succeed or fail, you are dead. It is a suicide mission either way. Is your little brother up to the task?

Abdul thought a moment then typed: Yes.

He waited for a response. It came soon.

Of that you are certain?

He typed: Yes. He is just ...

Just what?

A nice boy.

Yes. He is. But nice is not a good trait in a jihadist. He must be able to cut his best friend's head off if necessary. Can he do that?

Abdul pondered the words on the screen. He would have to drag his little brother kicking and screaming to meet Allah. And he would. He typed.

No. But I can do it for him.

The response was a long moment in coming. Finally, words appeared on the screen.

Do not fail me, Abdul.

Cat walked in the back door of her house in East Dallas to find her parents sitting at the kitchen table. She sighed at the sight.

"You don't have to wait up for me. I'm past my quinceaera."

Her parents offered innocent expressions, like suburban drug buyers caught in the act.

"We are not waiting up for you, are we, Diego?"

"That was a glorious day," he said. "Your quinceaera."

He looked as if he might cry.

"Your father wanted a snack."

He held up an Oreo cookie. He kept the company in business.

"Sit," her father said.

She sat and took the Oreo. Her mother poured a glass of milk. She dipped the cookie in the milk and ate it whole. Her parents regarded her as one does a newborn.

"So who did you meet?" her mother asked.

"I didn't meet anyone."

Her mother gave her a look. She was a human polygraph machine.

"Okay, I met someone."

Her mother nodded knowingly at her father.

"And who is he?"

"He's a judge."

"A judge? Like on American Idol?"

"No, not like on American Idol. Like a real judge. A federal judge."

"Have we heard of him?"

"No, but you will."

"Why? What did he do?"

"He didn't do anything. He's presiding over the stadium terrorist case."

"I thought the Muslims kidnapped that judge," her father said through a mouthful of Oreos.

"They did. That's how I met him. I'm on his security detail."

"You are protecting him?"

"Yes."

"But you are also in love with him?"

"Yes ... No ... I don't know."

Her father grunted and gave her another Oreo. Her mother patted her hand.

"Bring him over Sunday for lunch. I will cook for him. So you don't have to."

Cat did not cook.

"We're not there yet, meeting my parents."

"How old is he?"

"Forty."

"He's forty and never been married?"

"He's divorced."

"Does he have children?"

"Two girls. Thirteen."

"Twins?"

"Not exactly."

"Do they live with their mother?"

"No. They live with him."

"Where is their mother?"

"She ran off with a golf pro."

"Oh, my."

"Did he win any majors?" her father asked.

SEVENTEEN.

Saturday, 30 January 8 days before the Super Bowl The alarm went off at seven. Scott jumped out of bed and ran down the hall to the living room. He peeked out the front blinds. Agent Pea sat perched on the hood of the black FBI sedan; Agent Smith was nowhere in sight.