It was 7:00 P.M. They had searched all day. Walking the streets and alleys around the SMU campus. Looking for any sign of the girls or the Muslims. Of course, trying to find a Muslim in Highland Park was like trying to find a Democrat in Highland Park. It was a "needle in a haystack" type of thing. Knowing that his daughters were near, maybe in this house or that house, threatened Scott's sanity that day. He had to find his girls. He had to save them. A father protects his children.

So you did not behead the hostages as I instructed?

No.

Why not?

It was not feasible.

Did your brother interfere?

Yes.

You allowed your little brother to prevent you from following my orders?

He said if I killed the hostages, he would not help me with the stadium. I need him. So I secured his pledge on our father's soul that he would carry out the stadium mission if I spared the girls' lives.

Ah. He has grown attached to the hostages. That can happen, particularly when they are young and female. It is always a better practice to abduct older white males, preferably Jews, as there is little chance of becoming attached to them.

But the emotional impact of two little girls as hostages is critical.

That is true. Just make sure your brother does not lose his nerve tomorrow.

He wants to be a lawyer.

I wanted to be the next Rinaldo. Allah had other plans for me.

Beckeman gazed upon the green artificial turf on the playing field. He had played football in high school, as most boys do, and he had dreamed of playing pro ball, as some boys do.

But God had other plans for him.

Playing football for a living. How simple that life must be. Play one game a week every week for six months. Each game is contested within the white stripes delineating the field. Referees call fouls and impose penalties. The game is played according to rules set out in a rulebook. Everyone played by the rules, more or less. The biggest rules violation the commissioner had to worry about was that a quarterback might deflate the football for a better grip.

He did not have to worry that an Islamic terrorist might blow up the stadium.

In less than twenty-four hours, one hundred thousand spectators would fill the stands. They would wear their team colors, jerseys, and face paint. They would drink beer and margaritas, eat nachos and corn dogs, cheer and boo. They would watch the action on the field and replays on the video screen hanging above the field. They would be happy and free and alive. They would not know that their lives were in danger. That their lives were always in danger. How comforting it must be to live in utter ignorance of the danger all around. In blissful innocence. Beckeman felt like Agent Kay in Men in Black, the first one where he says to Agent Jay, "There's always an alien battle cruiser or a Korilian death ray or an intergalactic plague about to wipe out life on this planet, and the only thing that lets these people get on with their hopeful little lives is that they do not know about it."

"Captain, we found brothers at the mosque. Named Siddiqui."

Stryker had walked up.

"And?"

"They're law students at SMU."

"And?"

"One is tall, one short."

"And?"

"Tall one plays soccer."

"And?"

"His name is Abdul."

A hundred thousand people might die the next day because Denny Macklin had failed to find the bad guys. He sat in the captain's chair in his command center; his two laptops were up and running, and the software scanned every word coming out of Syria on every message board and every chat room.

Nothing.

It was 9:00 P.M. in Dallas and 5:00 A.M. in Syria. The prior messages he had seen had all been sent from Syria in the 4:00-7:00 P.M. range. They were way out of range now.

Shit.

He was the smartest hacker in the world. But he was in this cell because he was too smart for his own good. He had finally figured that out. He had failed his father. Himself. The world. And now he had failed the judge's daughters. Denny Macklin was a failure.

Allahu Akbar, Zaheed.

At first the words on the screen didn't register with Denny's brain. Too many sleepless nights, too many hours staring at digital text on the screens, too many Starbucks.

Allahu Akbar, Abdul.

Now the words registered. Denny jumped up in his chair and on board the message. This time he stayed on. They bounced from Syria to Cairo to Casablanca to Lisbon to London to Quebec to Chicago to Dallas to- Shit.

Scott and Cat were walking east on University Boulevard on the west side of the SMU campus. Walking. Searching. Hoping. Praying. It was night, but Highland Park had street lights. His cell phone rang. He answered.

"Judge, it's Denny. I found them. They're law students at SMU. One is named Abdul. And he's on a computer in the library right now talking to someone named Zaheed in Syria. Get over there and grab that asshole. And Judge-I'm sorry about your girls."

"They're alive, Denny. He didn't kill them on that video."

"Oh, thank God."

Scott disconnected the call and said to Cat, "One of the Arabs is in the law school library, on a computer. His name is Abdul."

They broke into a run. They were only a block from the law school. They dodged oncoming traffic on Hillcrest and crossed onto the campus. They turned north and cut between the buildings and ran up the stairs to the main entrance of the Underwood Law Library.

Abdul glanced out the third-story window and saw the judge and his FBI girlfriend running through the illuminated quadrangle and up the steps to the library entrance on the second floor. Shit. They had found him. Somehow.

It was time.

He logged off the computer and stepped outside the computer lab and to the adjacent atrium. He could see down to the entrance. The judge and the FBI agent stood one floor below him; would they take the stairs or the elevators? He waited and watched; they stopped a student. The student pointed up. Abdul ducked back then peeked out. The judge and the agent walked toward the elevators beneath him. He pulled his knit cap down low on his face and ran to the stairs on the other side of the atrium. He joined a group of students heading downstairs.

Cat stepped into the elevator. Scott followed then stopped.

"You take the elevator," he said. "I'll take the stairs."

Scott backed out. The elevator doors closed; he jogged to the stairwell. He took the stairs two at a time. A group of students hurried down past him; nothing about them caught his attention. He arrived at the third-floor and- -he froze.

One of the students wore yellow sneakers.

He looked down the stairwell to the second-floor landing; he saw yellow sneakers. That was the man who took his daughters. The man who swung the sword at his daughter's neck. The man he was going to kill. The man stood only fifteen feet below Scott.

"Abdul!"

The man hesitated but did not look up. He ran.

"Shit!"

Scott ran back down the stairs and into the lobby. He stopped and looked around. He didn't see the man. He ran out the main entrance and spotted the yellow sneakers; the man ran fast across the law school quadrangle and into the dark trees. Scott ran after him.

The elevator doors opened, and Cat stepped out. She drew her weapon from her waist pack. She held it against her leg to avoid attention. The computer lab was adjacent to the elevators. She stepped to the door. LAW STUDENTS ONLY the sign read. She stepped inside and scanned the room. Only a few heads were visible above the cubicles. She walked down the center of the room and checked each cubicle. No student appeared Arab. She glanced out the window and saw Scott running under the lights outside the building and into the trees.

"I lost him."

Scott had chased Abdul but had lost him in the dark on the treed campus. He returned to the law school to find Cat chasing after him.

"What do we do now?" she asked.

"Call the dean."

"Why?"

"Abdul's a law student."

They met the dean at his office in the main law school building. He arrived just minutes later; he lived only a few blocks away. When a federal judge says it's an emergency and needs his help, the law school dean helps. Scott knew the dean personally; he introduced him to Agent Pea.

"Scott," the dean said, "it's after ten. What's the emergency?"

"Richard, the same men who kidnapped me took my daughters from my house Monday. They're holding them right here in Highland Park. They're part of the conspiracy to blow up the stadium tomorrow, and we just learned that they're law students."

"How?"

"Long story. But we need your help."

"Of course. What can I do?"

"Do you have any Muslim law students?"

"A few."

"Any brothers?"

"Two. Abdul and Saddam-"

"Siddiqui," Beckeman said as he entered the dean's office.

"And you are?" the dean said.

"Special Agent Beckeman, Joint Terrorism Task Force."

The dean gestured at Cat. "I thought she was FBI."

"She's suspended. We need to find the Siddiqui brothers. Fast."

"They're the terrorists?"

"They are."

The dean sat behind his desk and consulted his computer screen.

"They haven't been in school the last week."

"Any idea why?"

"No."

"Do you have photos of them?"

He again looked at his screen. "No. Nothing in their files. But they're just normal looking law students."

"They don't dress in traditional Muslim attire?"

"No. They dress in traditional Highland Park attire."

"Phone numbers?"