THREE.

"FBI! You're under arrest!"

The SWAT team wore full body armor and carried assault weapons as if they were storming a fortress instead of a mosque. Special Agent Eric Beckeman followed the assault team into the Masjid al Mustafa in Dallas where Aabdar Haddad had prayed to Allah. Haddad hadn't been a lone wolf; he had been part of a larger conspiracy, the leader of which was the imam of this mosque.

Omar al Mustafa was the most dangerous man in Dallas.

The number one job of the FBI post 9/11 is to prevent another terrorist attack in America. The Super Bowl is the biggest media event in America each year. A hundred thousand spectators watch the game in the stadium; a billion people around the world watch the game on television. It is the dream of every practicing Islamic jihadist for a billion people to watch a hundred thousand Americans die on live TV. It was Beckeman's mission in life to kill or capture the jihadists before that happened. Three weeks before the Super Bowl, his Task Force had done exactly that-killed one bad guy and captured the others.

FBI agents led handcuffed males out the door and into the vans for transport to the holding cells at the federal courthouse. Beckeman had staged the raid during evening prayers when he knew the Imam and his co-conspirators would be at the mosque. Agent Stryker escorted a small middle-aged man wearing the traditional Muslim attire-a black skullcap and a long white robe buttoned to the neck-and handcuffs over to Beckeman. Grey hair and beard and dark evil eyes, he looked like every other Islamic fanatic Beckeman had killed or captured.

"Look who I found, Captain," Stryker said.

Beckeman regarded the man with disdain.

"Omar al Mustafa, you're under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney and to have him present with you while you're being questioned. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed to represent you before you are questioned."

"Why?"

"Because it's your constitutional right. You live in America, you get a lawyer."

"No. Why am I under arrest?"

"Domestic terrorism."

"Can you be more specific?"

"Conspiring to detonate a bomb in Cowboys Stadium during the Super Bowl."

"Why would I do that?"

Beckeman got in Mustafa's face. "I don't know. Maybe because you're a fucking Islamic jihadist asshole." To Stryker: "Get him out of my sight."

Beckeman felt as if he had just arrested Osama bin Laden-three weeks before 9/11.

FOUR.

Saturday, 16 January 22 days before the Super Bowl Scott woke the next morning at 6:30 A.M. He had slept like a baby: up every two hours. He did not sleep well alone.

And he was still alone.

He sat up. He never lay awake in bed. What was the point? His thoughts always returned to the early days with Rebecca, when morning sex was so good. When she wanted morning sex with him. When she loved him. He missed waking up with a woman who loved him. And whom he loved.

He loved his daughters, but he missed being in love.

He rubbed his face then stumbled the five paces to the bathroom. He took care of his bathroom duties then looked out the French doors leading to the patio to check the thermometer mounted to the exterior wall. Thirty-three degrees and sunny; it would get into the upper fifties that afternoon. In Dallas, you could fry eggs on the sidewalk in summer; but you could play golf on New Year's Eve. That was the Texas tradeoff. He dressed in his black Under Armour Cold Gear shirt, black Nike nylon sweat pants, black Adidas knit cap and running gloves, and red Brooks Cascadia running shoes. He looked like a NASCAR driver on his day off.

He walked down the hall and looked in on the girls-he saw only one big lump under the comforter on their bed-then locked the back door behind him. He didn't worry about leaving them alone for an hour; there was no crime in Highland Park. He inhaled the cold air and felt invigorated. His morning run was his time, time to think of his life, past and present, and plan his future, today and tomorrow. He seldom looked farther out than his docket sheet.

Scott always ran west on Lovers Lane into the heart of Highland Park, never east into Dallas. He ran five miles every morning. Same time, same route, same result. Winter in Dallas was not winter in New York City, but the world was still barren and dull as the concrete. Traffic was nonexistent early on a Saturday morning, so his thoughts turned to things other than his personal safety and- "Shit!"

-a car veered fast around the corner and nearly hit him. And the driver honked at him! Scott's gloved right hand instinctively came up to give the guy the finger, but he thought better of it. His luck, someone would snap a cell phone photo of Federal Judge A. Scott Fenney flipping off a Highland Park driver. That would make the Sunday paper. So he resisted the urge and ran on.

But the near-death experience made him ponder his own mortality again. He had two daughters who depended on him. If he died, who would take care of them? Bobby and Karen were the guardians named in his Last Will and Testament, but they had their own child now. How would they afford three? Scott had a $500,000 life insurance policy that would be paid into a trust for the girls. The house would sell for more than the mortgage, but not a lot more; a fifteen-hundred-square-foot home qualified as a master suite in Highland Park, not a home. There would be death benefits under the Judicial Survivors' Annuities System paid to the girls until they were eighteen. But he had no stocks or bonds or real-estate holdings. No investments. No assets. No nest egg. The estate of A. Scott Fenney consisted entirely of a life insurance policy and federal death benefits.

Which thought depressed the hell out of him.

He was forty, in his prime earning years, but he was earning only a fraction of his potential. His career decisions affected his daughters' lives and futures. In many parts of the world, your parents' class determined your future; in America, your parents' money did. Money determined your health, education, opportunities, careers, socioeconomic status, and longevity of life. Rich people lived longer than poor people. It was democratic but not terribly comforting if your parents had no money. With him, his daughters shared a bed and bedroom and could look forward to sharing a dorm room at a public university; without him, they would share a life insurance policy and a dorm room at an Ivy League college. Their futures were brighter with his money than with him. They were thirteen; he had five years to prove that they were better off with him alive. At the next intersection, he looked both ways for oncoming vehicles.

An hour later, Scott entered the back door to the glorious smell of bacon cooking and Consuelo de la Rosa-Garcia in the kitchen. Esteban, her husband, dropped her off each morning on his way to work; he worked six days a week so she worked six days a week. Fact is, she and her daughter were members of the Fenney family as well. Consuelo was thirty-two, and Maria almost three; she sat in a high chair and Boo at the table with sleepy eyes and a blood pressure cuff. A stethoscope lay draped around her neck. She held out a bottle of yellow water to Scott.

"What's this?" he asked.

Boo shrugged innocently. "Water."

"What's in the water?"

"Emergen-C."

"Which is?"

"A flavored fizzy drink mix containing twenty-four nutrients and seven B vitamins along with antioxidants and electrolytes."

"You sound like a commercial."

"Come on, try it." She gave him a fake smile. "It's tangerine flavored."

Scott took the bottle, sniffed it, and then tasted it.

"Not bad."

"See? Would I steer you wrong?"

Scott drank the Emergen-C then sat and fed Maria with his right hand; he extended his left arm to Boo. She wrapped the cuff around his upper arm and pumped it up. She put the stethoscope over his inside elbow and released the pressure.

"One-ten over seventy. Not bad."

She removed the cuff then wrote the results in her notebook. She had given him the blood pressure kit for his fortieth birthday. He had hoped for a tie. "At your age," she had said, "you need to check your blood pressure daily." He hadn't, so she had. Kids could learn anything on the Internet.

"Boo, I'm not going to die on you."

"Good. Because I'd have to kill you if you did."

She watched his health like a hypochondriac watched her pill supply. She had prescribed a statin, but his doctor had not. He still weighed in at his playing weight, one-eighty-five, perfect on his six-two frame. He was still fit at forty. He didn't smoke, drink, or do drugs. He ate right. He exercised. He did everything a man could do to stay in good health. Except have sex. A course of treatment Boo continued to recommend.

"A. Scott, you need some stress relief. Why don't you call Ms. Dawson, go out tonight? We're thirteen. You can leave us home alone. Nothing bad happens in Highland Park."

She bounced her eyebrows and gave him a devilish look. The girls knew too much about sex. He knew less each day.

"Go back to bed."

She stood and gave him a kiss on the cheek. She turned away then turned back. Her expression was serious.

"You know, A. Scott, we're big girls now. You could invite Ms. Dawson for a sleepover if you want. Pajamae and I, we discussed it. We're okay with it."

"Go to bed."

She shrugged and padded away in her footed pajamas. Scott finished off the water and stood. He could not go back to bed. What's the point of sleeping in if you're sleeping alone? He stood, grabbed a piece of bacon, and headed to the shower. One piece of bacon wouldn't kill him.

"Six months ago, the FBI uncovered a plot to detonate a bomb in Cowboys Stadium during the Super Bowl. Our investigation led us to a twenty-two-year-old American citizen named Aabdar Haddad. Mr. Haddad lived in Arlington in the shadow of the stadium. Our investigation culminated in a raid on Mr. Haddad's apartment Thursday night to execute an arrest warrant. Mr. Haddad resisted arrest and was shot and killed."

Scott sat stunned. He had showered, shaved, and dressed for the day in more Under Armour clothing. He wore a suit six days a week; Saturdays were casual. Even a federal judge needed a break from a necktie. He sat at the kitchen table, ate scrambled eggs (no bacon), wheat toast with peanut butter, and coffee with cream, his only regular dietary vice (other than toffee). He had turned on the morning news to catch the sports but had gotten terrorism instead. A square-jawed, middle-aged white man wearing a whitewall haircut, a dark suit, and a stern expression stood erect at a podium before a clump of microphones and a crowd of reporters. Across the top of the screen in red letters was Breaking News: ISIS IN DALLAS. The byline below read: FBI Special Agent in Charge Eric Beckeman, Joint Terrorism Task Force, FBI Headquarters, Dallas, Texas.

"Twenty-four male individuals, including Haddad, were charged with conspiracy to detonate a weapon of mass destruction in a sealed indictment handed up by a secret federal grand jury. Last night the FBI raided the Masjid al Mustafa in Dallas and arrested Haddad's co-conspirators, including the imam, Omar al Mustafa. Mr. Mustafa is well known for his radical views supporting the Islamic State of Iraq and Syria, also known as ISIS, which views have attracted many young Muslim males to Dallas. The mosque is essentially an ISIS recruiting center. We believe that at least a dozen young men from the mosque have traveled to Syria to join the ISIS forces. We believe that this plot was funded and coordinated by ISIS. We believe that Mustafa radicalized Haddad, as well as the other co-conspirators. We are convinced that Mustafa was the mastermind behind the stadium plot. If he and his co-conspirators had been successful, tens of thousands of fans might have been killed during the Super Bowl. But the plot was discovered and thwarted thanks to the hard work and determination of dedicated FBI and Homeland Security agents. After nine-eleven, the Joint Terrorism Task Force was created to encourage cooperation instead of competition among law enforcement agencies. It paid off today. The suspects will be arraigned in federal court Monday morning. Questions?"

The reporters' hands shot up; the agent pointed at one reporter.

"ISIS in Dallas?"

"They're everywhere in America."

"Will the Super Bowl be safe?"

"It will be now."

"Did you capture all of the conspirators?"

"We're confident we apprehended all participants in the plot."

"Can you assure the American people that they're safe?"

"At the Super Bowl?"

"Every day."

"Of course I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because other Islamic jihadists are plotting every day to kill Americans, to do here what they just did in Paris. That's what they do. But we fight every day to keep the American people safe. That's what we do. We won this time. But the war on terror is not yet won."

Hands punched the air; he nodded at a reporter.

"How far along were they in the plot?" the reporter said. "Did they have a bomb assembled?"

"We have not found a bomb. But we are still following leads."

"What evidence was recovered at Haddad's apartment?"

"We're not at liberty to disclose all the evidence at this time, but we did recover architectural plans for the stadium."

He pointed at another reporter.

"Why are we just now hearing about the Haddad raid and his death?"

"We didn't disclose the Haddad raid until we conducted the raid at the mosque. We didn't want any of the suspects to get word and run."

Another reporter: "What put you on to Haddad?"

"An anonymous tip to our terrorism hotline."

"Were you previously aware of Haddad?"

"No. He wasn't on our radar or in the database. There was nothing on Twitter or Facebook that alerted us to him. If we didn't get this tip, this story might have had a different ending."

"Do you get a lot of anonymous tips about bombing plots?"

"We do. Hundreds already this year."

"How many ended with a dead suspect?"

"One."

"Is Omar al Mustafa the most dangerous man in Dallas?"

"Not as long as he's in that jail cell."

Scott drank coffee and read the Motion for Summary Judgment in the Robinson case; two corporations claimed the other infringed on patented cell phone app technology that made it easier to order a pizza while driving. It seemed silly after a terrorist plot to kill one hundred thousand people, as if he were being asked to referee a schoolyard dispute. Of course, it wasn't as silly as a federal judge being asked to decide if a quarterback deflated a football in order to get a better grip during a cold game, but still. This was federal court not small claims court. A federal case should be important. It should mean something. He pushed himself out of the chair; he needed another cup of coffee to stay awake. If he could bottle motions filed in federal court, he'd have a sure cure for insomnia. He reached for the coffee pot, but his phone rang. It was Bobby. He was at the courthouse handling weekend intakes.

"You believe that? ISIS in Dallas? Plotting to blow up the Super Bowl? Kind of creepy, knowing they're downstairs in the detention cells."