Denny Macklin was a pain in the ass. A genius, but still a royal pain in Buddy's butt. Buddy, the cellblock C guard, had already delivered a fancy chair and a second laptop and big screen to Macklin's cell that day. Now he delivered a large pepperoni pizza with black olives.

"Have a piece," Macklin said.

"Really?"

"Sure. I can't eat a whole pizza for breakfast."

But Buddy could and often did.

"The president won't let us do our job," Beckeman said to the Task Force assembled in the war room, "so we're not going to find the Arabs by game time. Our focus now is to secure the Super Bowl. If we can't find them, we've got to keep them out of that stadium. Set up a perimeter at the street all the way around the parking lot with checkpoints at every entrance. Every vehicle gets searched, every occupant frisked, and every purse examined. Every delivery truck is searched by an FBI agent. We're gonna get dirty. We've been authorized a drone-"

"With hellfire missiles?" Agent Stryker said.

"You wish."

"-that will be over the stadium the entire day. We're on site at daybreak."

Denny ate pizza and drank coffee and rubbed his eyes. His brain was fried, his butt numb, and his eyelids felt like sandpaper against his eyeballs every time he blinked. He had stayed up all night, again, but had come up empty, again. He was trolling the dark Net, but there was nothing but- "Well, well, well ... what do we have here?"

A message from Syria.

"I see you, asshole. Now I'm going to ride you all the way to Dallas and-"

What the hell? The asshole disappeared.

"Oh, okay. You think you're good, huh? Smarter than Denny Macklin. We'll see about that."

Scott sat behind his desk in chambers. Cat and the crew occupied the chairs and couch. It was three. They had waited for a call all day. But none had come. Until now.

His phone rang.

Scott snapped forward in his chair. Everyone gathered around the desk. Scott put the call on the speakerphone. A familiar voice came across.

"So, Judge, have you released the Imam?"

"No."

"Are you going to release him?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"Soon."

Sound could be heard in the background. Was it music? In the distance? Everyone leaned in close to hear.

"Let me talk to my girls."

"No."

"Why not?"

"They are not ... available. You will see them soon enough."

He hung up.

"Oh, God," Karen said. "Did he hurt them?"

"No," Scott said.

But did he?

"What was that sound in the background?" Cat said. "Music?"

"Must have had a radio on," Bobby said.

"Didn't sound like radio music," Cat said. "And it didn't sound as if it were coming from nearby. It was a distant sound."

"Maybe a neighbor was playing their music loud."

"But what kind of music was that?"

"Wasn't country western."

"Or rock."

"Wasn't soul," Louis said.

"Or Latino," Carlos said.

"Or jazz," Bobby said. "Not with that boom boom boom sound. What was that?"

"Tuba."

They all turned to Frank Turner standing in doorway.

"It's marching band music," he said.

"How do you know?" Cat said.

"I played tuba in the band for four years. What the hell's going on, Scotty?"

"Shut the door, Frank."

Frank shut the door and stepped to the desk.

"Same people who grabbed me, they kidnapped my girls."

"Your daughters? When?"

"Monday."

"Are they alive?"

"They were yesterday."

Frank faced Cat. "What's the FBI doing to find them?"

"I didn't go to the FBI," Scott said.

"Why not?"

"They left a note, said they'd behead the girls if I did. I begged Mustafa to tell me where they're at. He refused." Scott turned his palms up. "We don't have a clue where they're at."

"They're in Highland Park."

Frank pointed at the cell phone on the desk but looked at Scott.

"That was the SMU marching band, practicing in the stadium on campus."

"There are no Muslims in Highland Park," Bobby said.

"There are two," Scott said.

The Town of Highland Park comprised two square miles. It was the hole in the donut that was Dallas. SMU sat in the middle of Highland Park, and the football stadium sat on the campus. The girls were being held in Highland Park. Everyone stood around Scott's kitchen table.

"Check the Highland Park phone book," Louis said.

"There isn't one," Bobby said. "Highland Park is included in the Dallas phone book."

"I checked our databases for the males at the mosque," Cat said. "None had a Highland Park address."

"They're here," Frank said.

Scott spread a town map on the kitchen table. He drew a circle around the stadium then marked off search grids starting at the stadium.

"What are we looking for?" Carlos asked. "Them Muslims, they know the FBI is looking for them, so they ain't gonna just walk around."

"The FBI's not looking for them in Highland Park," Cat said.

"We're not looking," Louis said. "We're listening."

"For what?"

"Prayers. Evening prayers. They'll face toward Mecca, that's east. So listen for chants on the east side of the houses."

"What'll the chants sound like?"

"Allahu Akbar."

"Shit, what are the odds of finding them?"

"There are no odds," Scott said. "But we have to try. We'll search in pairs. Cat carries a gun so-"

"I've got a gun, too," Carlos said.

"How'd you get a gun with your prior convictions?"

"Arrests. No convictions."

"I carry a gun," Frank said.

"Why?"

Frank shrugged. "Plaintiffs' lawyer."

Scott turned to Bobby. "Do you have a gun?"

"No ... but Karen does."

"Louis?"

"No, sir. I'm big enough not to need a gun."

The Gerald Ford Stadium-named not after the former president but after a billionaire banker; it is Dallas-stands at the south end of the SMU campus. To the east of the stadium are campus buildings, a retail strip center, and the George W. Bush Presidential Library abutting North Central Expressway. The Arabs weren't holding the girls hostage in a dorm room, the Starbucks, or the library.

The campus stretched north of the stadium eight city blocks, close to a mile; only there did a residential area begin. That the band could be heard a mile away was doubtful. But residential areas began only two blocks west of the stadium and just south of the stadium on Mockingbird Lane. Everyone had agreed that the search should focus south of the stadium.

They had marked off the map and divided up into teams: Scott and Cat; Bobby and Carlos; Louis and Frank. Each team carried a map, a flashlight, a cell phone, and a gun. It was 1:00 A.M. and cold. Scott and Cat were bundled up in Under Armour, coats, gloves, and knit hats.

"I'm trying to be an FBI agent," Cat said, "but the girls ... you do know I love them?"

"I know you do."

"If these men hurt them ..."