Hector gazed out the sliding glass doors at his woman lounging by the pool. She looked like a glamorous Hollywood movie star from the sixties with a white one-piece bathing suit, a white wide-brimmed sun hat, and the big sunglasses. She drank iced tea through a straw.

"Yes, that is true."

"Hector, if I have made a mistake in judgment, I will pay you what you have lost in this matter."

"How can you pay me for four dead men?"

"I cannot."

"No, Tomas, you cannot. There is only one method of repayment for death. And that is more death. These people, they think they are terrorists. But I will show them true terror. We have cut off more heads than they can dream of cutting off. We have seized control of our country while they dream of an Islamic State. We have spread terror in America with our drugs while they still dream of an attack on this continent. We, m amigo, have experience in this sort of thing. Their men in America must die. And die they will. So help me God."

Denny sat before an Apple laptop connected to a twenty-four-inch flat-screen LED monitor. The Hannah Montana phone rang. Denny answered.

"Hello."

"Is Boo there?"

A kid's voice.

"No."

"Will you take a message?"

"No."

Denny disconnected. The phone rang again. The same voice.

"That was very rude. My name is Audrey. I want to ask Boo if I can borrow her study notes from history class-"

Denny disconnected again. The phone rang again.

"Look, I don't have time to take-"

"Denny, it's Judge Fenney."

"Oh. Sorry. Kids have been calling your daughter."

"Anything?"

"Audrey wants to borrow Boo's study notes-"

"On finding the Arabs."

"Oh. No. Takes time, Judge."

"We don't have time."

He must go to the FBI!

Abdul typed a response to Zaheed.

I have tried everything! You said if I told him not to go he would go. That reverse psychology bullshit.

He sent the message and waited for a response. He looked around the computer lab in the law school library. Students studying for their future. Little did they know their future was about to end. Zaheed's response soon came.

Behead his daughters.

TWENTY-TWO.

Thursday, 4 February 3 days before the Super Bowl Cat Pea arrived at Scott's house early that morning with a plastic container of her mother's tortilla soup. It would be good for the girls. She parked the government sedan at the curb and got out with the soup. Agent Smith had been taken off the security detail. Beckeman had decided that the threat against the judge had diminished enough to warrant only one agent. He needed Ace on the manhunt for the two Arabs; he did not need her mouth. She walked around to the back door and knocked; the door swung open. Even in Highland Park, that wasn't good. And at the house of a federal judge who had been abducted just ten days before, that was not good at all.

She drew her weapon.

She stepped inside. There was no beeping alarm system. There was no noise at all in the house. No Consuelo cooking, no girls giggling. It was quiet. Too quiet. She placed the soup container on the kitchen table. She put her back to the wall and stepped silently down the hall. She stopped at the girls' bathroom. The door was ajar. She gently pushed on the door; it swung open.

Their bathroom was empty.

She stepped to their bedroom just down the hall. She stood next to the open door. She heard a sound from inside. She raised her weapon, jumped in front of the door, and pointed her weapon at- Scott.

He sat on their bed, bent over, his elbows on his knees. He looked up at her. Tears rolled down his face. She lowered her weapon. She stepped inside.

"Where are the girls?"

"My knees hurt," the little black girl said.

"Shut up."

Abdul jabbar bit off half the Krispy Kreme glazed donut. He stood in front of a green screen set up in the kitchen. He would insert the background before sending the video to Zaheed; perhaps he would make it a scene from Disneyland. Zaheed would get a kick out of that.

"Can I stand up?"

"Shut up."

He wore all black, including a black headscarf and bandana he would pull across his face so only his eyes would be visible, but he wore the yellow sneakers. He had checked himself out in the bathroom mirror; he thought black suited him well. The black ISIS flag hung on a stand to his side. The hostages knelt in front of him, blindfolded with black cloths and bound hands and feet. They were not gagged. He wanted the camera to capture their screams. Abdul held a sword.

"Brother-what is this?"

His little brother had just showered and dressed and entered the room.

"Exactly what it appears."

"Why?"

"Orders from Zaheed."

"No, brother. This is not happening."

"Yes, little brother, it is. I must behead the unbelievers."

"They are not unbelievers. They are children."

"They are the children of the unbelievers. If we kill their children, the unbelievers will submit to Islam as the Koran requires."

"Fuck the Koran! Fuck Zaheed! Fuck you, Abdul! If you want to kill them, you will have to kill me first."

"Kill?" the little white girl said. "Them who?"

"Oh, Lord Jesus!" the little black girl said.

His brother came and stood between Abdul and the hostages.

"Have you no conscience? That is what separates humans from animals. Animals have no conscience, so they can kill without feeling. Humans cannot. Because we are not animals. You killed those two Mexicans, but you feel no guilt, do you?"

"Why should I?"

"Because you are human-humans suffer guilt when they do something wrong."

"A, guilt is for the weak of mind. And B, I did nothing wrong."

"This is wrong."

"This is Allah's will. This is my destiny."

"God wants you to kill these two little girls?"

"Kill?" the little white girl said again.

"No, Abdul, this is not what God wants. If your god wants that, he is not my God. If I must kill to be Muslim, I will not be Muslim."

"You will be an apostate. We kill apostates."

"Then kill me, brother. Behead me."

Abdul could not raise his sword to his brother. The Koran forbade that. His little brother was weak. Weak in body and mind. He wanted to be a lawyer. Live the American Dream. Watch football and barbecue organic meat from Whole Foods. Drink Budweiser. Another year in America and he'd be a regular at NASCAR races. His brother had forgotten from where he had come and what had happened there. He had, as they say, moved on. Abdul had not. He stuffed the last of the donut into his mouth, pulled the bandana across his face, and said, "Stand aside, brother."

"Do you still think it's a diversion?"

Scott had given the abductors' note to Cat. She had read it and dropped down hard into a chair at the kitchen table. It took her a few minutes to gather herself.

"When did this happen?"

"Monday."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

She wasn't mad; she was hurt.

"You read the note."

She nodded. Her face changed from hurt woman to hard FBI agent.

"Scott, I've got to tell Beckeman."

"They'll kill the girls."

"If we don't find them and stop them, they'll kill a hundred thousand people in three days."

"Beckeman knows these two men are out there, they abducted me. He just doesn't know they abducted Boo and Pajamae. How would that knowledge change his manhunt?"

"It wouldn't."

"Exactly. That's why I haven't told the FBI. It doesn't matter. Except to me."

"Child abductions matter to us."

"But those hundred thousand people matter more. And they should. Those two girls matter to me. So I'm going to find them."

"How?"

He told her about Denny Macklin.

"I can help."

"This stays between us. For now."

She nodded. "For now. But if it gets to the point of affecting the manhunt for the Arabs, I'll have to tell Beckeman."

"Agreed."

"We need help."

"We've got help."