"What kind of pledge?"

"To help him bring the stadium down on Sunday."

"You saved us by promising to kill a lot of other people?"

"Yes."

"But they'll die."

"But you will not."

"If Abdul killed us, would you still help him kill all those people?"

"No."

"Then let him kill us."

"You would die for them?"

"Yes."

"Me, too," Pajamae said.

"It would not matter. Those people will still die."

"Even if you don't help him?"

"Yes."

"We can't let them behead those girls and put it out on the Internet!" the president said. "It'll be open season on Muslims in America."

"YouTube must've pulled it," the FBI director said. "It went down as soon as it went up."

"Find those girls!"

Denny sat with his head in his hands. He had deleted the video fifty-two times so far. As fast as it went up, he knocked it down. Like playing whack-a-mole. It was the least he could do for the judge. He still couldn't watch the ending.

Beckeman had watched Taken a hundred times. It was 3:00 A.M., and he needed a good movie. He often watched a movie to decompress after a stressful day, which is to say, he watched a movie every night. Till he fell asleep. Usually in the recliner.

If he had a daughter and someone grabbed her, he'd go after her with everything he had. He'd find the bad guys and kill them. He'd rescue his daughter. They'd live happily ever after. Just like in the movie.

He often wished life had happy endings like Hollywood.

He slid the Taken DVD back into its slot on the shelf and thumbed through the rest of the T's. He had organized his extensive collection alphabetically. He started into the U's. Unfaithful ... Unforgiven ... Untouchables. He pulled that DVD out and plugged it in. He needed an Eliot Ness moment.

Why had Frank Turner told him to watch it again?

Beckeman dropped into his recliner and started the movie. Mustafa was going to get off scot-free. The son of a bitch was a bad guy, but he would walk out the courthouse a free Muslim. Because Special Agent Eric Beckeman couldn't find any evidence that he committed any crimes.

Damn, Costner was so young when he made the movie. Sean Connery was fantastic as the Chicago cop and Andy Garcia was cool and a dead shot, but who was the hero? The nerd accountant. Al Capone killed people and made millions bootlegging, but Ness could never nail him. But the nerd did.

Beckeman jumped out of his chair.

Scott rolled over in bed. It was dawn, but he could not sleep. They had searched through the night but had found nothing. They might have walked right past the house where the girls were being held. An arm fell over him. She held him tight from behind.

"I'm not leaving you until we find them," Cat said. "We'll sleep a few hours then search all day and night. We will find them."

TWENTY-FOUR.

Saturday, 6 February The day before the Super Bowl "You find the guys. We'll find the girls."

It was nine the next morning. The FBI team had met at Scott's house for breakfast and strategy; Consuelo had fed everyone through tears and three rosaries. The FBI could not conduct a manhunt in broad daylight in Highland Park. It would be too obvious. Someone would call the media. Once the TV trucks arrived, the manhunt was over. And chances were good that the Arabs would spot them; if they did, they would kill the girls and run. If they had not already killed them.

"How are you going to find your girls?" Beckeman said.

"I've got help."

"Macklin?"

The judge nodded.

"What's he doing?"

"What the FBI can't."

Denny Macklin sat up straight in the leather captain's chair with lumbar support. He couldn't save the judge's daughters, but he could still save a hundred thousand people at the Super Bowl tomorrow. He grabbed the Bausch & Lomb and squirted the saline solution in each eye; he wasn't even going to blink while he had the asshole on the screen. He hadn't seen the asshole in two days, and then suddenly he's there. Another message from Syria that ... disappeared before Denny could climb aboard.

"What the hell is he doing?"

Beckeman stood outside the judge's house with Agent Stryker. Pea and the judge had left to search for his girls.

"The president and the director, they both ordered us to find those girls," Stryker said.

"It's a diversionary tactic."

"What?"

"They grabbed the girls to keep us occupied looking for them while they bomb the stadium."

"That's what Pea said when they snatched the judge."

"I know."

"So what do we do?"

"Secure the stadium."

"What about the Arabs?"

"Tomorrow is Super Bowl Sunday. They're coming to us."

"You go to them. And you kill those fucking Arabs."

It was all he thought about these days. Hector stared across his desk at Jose and Gilberto, his top two sicarios, who stood before him in his hacienda.

"These are my orders: Cross the river into America tonight. Drive to Dallas without delay. Find Jorge and Manuel. Collect my money. And kill the fucking Arabs."

Hector held out his prized machete. Jose took it. He and Gilberto had flown to Cancun from Nuevo Laredo that morning on one of Hector's Gulfstream jets. They would fly back, enter America, and then drive to Dallas. They would arrive early the next morning and kill the fucking Arabs. Of that, Hector had no doubt. They had completed numerous assignments in America without apprehension or identification; their faces existed on no law enforcement database. In America, they were ghosts.

"Bring me their heads, por favor."

"Oh, Hector-"

The woman walked into the office with her pretty head in a glossy magazine. She looked up and squarely at Jose and Gilberto. She saw their faces. Did she hear Hector's order?

"I'm sorry. I didn't realize you had company. We'll talk later."

She twirled and bounced out. Jose and Gilberto stared at her butt. They quickly realized their error and became red-faced. They now stared at the floor with embarrassment. But Hector stared with sadness at the open doorway through which she had walked. They had been together for a year; she had lived with him for the last ten months. It had been the best ten months of his life. But just like that, it had come to an end. He sighed.

"So, m muchachos, do you have any questions regarding your assignment?"

Gilberto raised his hand like a schoolboy.

"S?".

"I have two questions."

"Okay."

"Jefe, I have killed many men for you, but never before have I cut a man's head off."

"Ah. Are you reluctant due to your religious beliefs?"

Gilberto had been an altar boy before he became a sicario.

"Oh, no, jefe, it is not that. I'm just wondering if we should kill them before we cut their heads off or after?"

Jose rolled his eyes.

"Well, Gilberto," Hector said, "once you cut off their heads, they will be dead, you see, so there is no after."

Gilberto nodded. "Ohh. That makes sense."

"There is less chance of getting blood on your boots if you kill them first and let the blood settle then cut off their heads," Jose said.

Hector gestured at Jose. "See, a practical hombre. That is why Jose is m sicario numero uno. He never lets emotion affect his judgment. He is all business."

Jose shrugged. "I never liked Jorge that much anyway."

Hector grunted in response. "So, Gilberto, what is your second question?"

"Jefe," Gilberto said, "tomorrow is the Super Bowl. The Cowboys are playing. I love the Cowboys. Can we not kill the fucking Arabs on Monday? I want to watch the game."

Jose again rolled his eyes and started to reprimand his young protege, but Hector stopped him with a raised hand. Gilberto was only nineteen, so Hector had to be patient. He was just a boy. A stone-cold killer, but still just a boy.

"If you kill the fucking Arabs tomorrow morning, you can go to the game tomorrow afternoon. I have season tickets, so I got two tickets on the fifty-yard line for the Super Bowl."

"You have season tickets to the Cowboys games? How many games did you go to this year?"

"Unfortunately, none. The outstanding federal warrants for my arrest in the U.S. prevented my attendance."

Hector tossed the Super Bowl tickets on the desk.

"The tickets are yours upon completion of your assignment."

Gilberto snatched the tickets off the desk and regarded them as some men do gold.

"Jefe, s, we will kill the fucking Arabs tomorrow. And then go to the game. I always wanted to see the Super Bowl live. Gracias, jefe. Gracias."

He was just a boy. Hector pulled out his wallet and counted out one thousand dollars U.S. for each hombre.

"For the game." He then added another five hundred. "For my children. Please buy them Cowboys jerseys, I think maybe Tony Romo."

Agent Stryker stood at the fifty-yard line on the second level. The stadium was not just a football stadium; it was a multi-use venue. It hosted rodeos, pro wrestling, soccer, college Final Four basketball, concerts by the Rolling Stones and George Strait, the American Country Music Awards, motocross rallies, monster truck competitions, and Boy Scout sleepovers. The floor could be transformed from a football field to a monster truck dirt course in hours. And the dirt, props, turf, goal posts, stages, lighting, and equipment for each event were stored in dozens of huge storerooms below where Stryker stood. Storerooms large enough to store a massive bomb. The FBI had searched every storeroom in the stadium. There was no bomb in the stadium.