He turned to Stryker.

"Call in HRT."

TWENTY-FIVE.

Sunday, 7 February Super Bowl Sunday 7:00 A.M.

9 hours before kickoff The Hostage Rescue Team stood massed outside the small guesthouse in Highland Park. They were waiting for first light. The HRT operators wore helmets and body armor and wielded assault weapons. They would go in hard, they would go in fast, and they would rescue the two hostages and capture or kill the two bad guys.

That is, if they were lucky.

If they were not so lucky, if the bad guys knew they were coming and opened fire when they kicked in the door or had rigged the house with explosives, some of them would die; the bad guys would hopefully die; the hostages would surely die. Hostage Rescue Team leader Roger Dedman lived for these moments. And one day he would die in these moments.

Was today that day?

"Today is the day, my brother. Today, we meet Allah."

His big brother actually seemed excited. They had both bleached their hair blond and shaved clean, the better to look American and not Arab. Abdul stood in front of the full-length mirror in the bedroom. His little brother lay on the bed watching the morning news; he was already dressed in his uniform. He stared at his big brother's bare torso. Across his chest two words had been tattooed: Allahu Akbar. Across his back in fancy script were more words: We will put terror into the hearts of the unbelievers -- The Koran 3:151. His brother was definitely a committed jihadist, he had to give him that. He was not. But he had no choice. He had pledged on his father's soul to help his brother if his brother did not kill the girls. Abdul did not kill the girls; so he would honor his pledge. He ate his Honey Nut Cheerios, but he thought he might throw up.

Ten minutes later, the sky had brightened enough to see the small guesthouse. A Kia Sorrento registered to Abdul jabaar Siddiqui sat out front. The Hostage Rescue Team stood ready to make entry into the house. The entire block had been evacuated in case the suspects had set explosives in the house-in case they chose to meet Allah rather than face American justice. Everyone knew this could be a suicide mission-for the suspects, the rescuers, and the hostages. Beckeman turned to HRT operator Roger Dedman, the man in charge of this rescue mission, the man who would be first through the door, and said, "Go get the hostages."

"We'll bust the door," Dedman said.

"Wait." Beckeman dug deep in his pocket and pulled out a key. "Here."

"You've got a key to the house? How?"

"Long story."

Dedman turned to the judge and said, "I'll bring your girls out myself."

Dedman walked off, and Beckeman regarded the judge. The man was pale with fear. But not for himself. For his girls. The judge had wanted to go in himself when they found the house; Beckeman-and Pea-had convinced him that it was safest for his girls to wait for HRT.

"Judge, we've got EMTs and an ambulance on standby to take your girls to the hospital." He turned and stuck an open hand out to Agent Pea. "Gun and badge, Pea."

She hadn't surrendered either yet. She started to say something, but the sound of a news helicopter hovering overhead drowned her out. Beckeman pointed at the nearest agent.

"Get that helicopter out of here!"

The media had gotten word and descended on the scene. Which didn't make Beckeman happy. But at least the American people would see the FBI in action, risking their lives to save lives.

Inside the house, Boo held the nail clippers and clipped the rope holding her hands. She had been working most of the night. She could hear Pajamae stirring next to her.

"Mama?"

Pajamae often called for her mother while sleeping.

"It's me, Pajamae. Boo."

"Oh, no, I thought it was a nightmare. But it's real. We're still tied up."

Pajamae started crying. Wailing. Loudly.

"Shh, you're going to wake up the brothers."

Boo worked the clippers even faster.

The HRT entry team stood on the front porch. Two operators held bomb blankets; upon entry into the house, their job was to locate the hostages and cover them with the blankets and their bodies before the bomb exploded. If there were bombs. Roger Dedman put his ear to the door.

"They're crying," he said in a low voice. "We need to get inside. Now."

Abdul jabbar admired himself in the bedroom mirror.

"Father would be proud of us today. Allahu Akbar, my brother."

"Allahu Akbar," his brother said, as if he were about to swallow a deadly pill.

"Pajamae, don't cry."

Boo worked the clippers on the rope fast. She needed to get her hands free before the brothers woke up. She needed to free herself and then her sister so they could escape! Before Abdul cut their heads off!

Beckeman watched the entry team fifty feet away at the door but listened to their communications over the handheld radio. The judge and his people had gathered around.

"They're crying?" the big black bailiff said.

Dedman inserted the key into the front door lock. He turned the key. The key wouldn't turn.

Dedman's voice came over the radio: "Key is a no go. We're going in hard. Bring up the battering ram."

Beckeman heard the bailiff's voice again: "They're crying?"

"Today, my brother, we strike a blow for our father. For all Muslims. For ..." Abdul cocked his ear. "Brother, did you hear something?"

"I don't think so."

"Check the front door.

"I'm eating my Cheerios."

Abdul sighed and walked to the front door.

"They're crying?"

Louis Wright could take it no longer. His girls were crying, and he was doing nothing about it. He decided to do something about it.

"I don't need a battering ram."

Louis broke for the front door.

"Big man!"

Carlos saw Louis's massive body making for the door like cops were chasing him. He followed his friend.

"I'm coming, big man!"

Louis weighed three hundred thirty pounds; Carlos only two hundred. Consequently, Carlos caught up with him halfway to the front door. They ran harder. Ten feet from the door, the HRT guys saw them and dove out of the way.

"Let's kick some ass!" Carlos shouted.

Scott looked at Louis and Carlos running toward the house then at Cat; they both broke ranks and ran after them.

Boo's hands came free of the ropes. She yanked the blindfold off. She blinked against the light. She looked around. She pulled the blindfold off Pajamae.

Abdul arrived at the front door. He put his hand on the doorknob. He turned the knob.

Louis and Carlos threw their bodies at the door, five hundred and thirty pounds of pissed-off black and brown Americans. The wood splintered on impact.

CRACK! The front door crashed in; it sounded as if the home were crashing down on them. Boo and Pajamae screamed.

Abdul stood at the open front door. He grunted. Must have been the paperboy. He leaned down and picked up the morning newspaper on the doorstep. He shut the door and returned to the bedroom.

Louis and Carlos fell through the shattered door, rolled, and jumped up like commandos. Carlos pulled his switchblade.

"Come and get me, you crazy-ass Muslims! You ain't never tried to behead no Mexican!"

Louis saw the girls. "Pajamae! Boo!"

"Louis? Carlos?" Boo said. "What the heck are y'all doing here?"

He dove on top of them and waited for the bomb to explode.

Dedman jumped over what was left of the front door and ran inside. They were in a small main living area with a kitchen at the far end. He saw only the big black man and two girls huddled on the floor. Well, there was no bomb.

"No suspects in the first room," he said into his mike.

The black man sat up. The white hostage threw her hands into the air like a bank robber caught in the act. Dedman realized he was pointing his weapon at her; he lowered the gun. The black hostage lay bound on the floor; she was curled up in a ball and sobbing.

Scott and Cat followed HRT into the house. Scott ran to the girls and dropped to his knees; Boo jumped into his arms. Cat untied Pajamae and hugged her. Then Pajamae came to him. They all cried. Scott embraced his girls. His life.

Beckeman entered the house. Agents were running through the house; he heard no gunshots or explosions. The agents returned to the main room with their weapons down.

"The house is clear."

Beckeman stood next to the judge's Mexican man and said, "Put the blade up before you hurt yourself."