"Ma'am, we're the FBI and this is a crime scene."

"A crime scene? What crime?"

Beckeman pointed at the men. "Your tenants plotted to blow up Cowboys Stadium."

She turned to them. Her mouth fell open. "Oh-my-God!"

"Yes, ma'am," Beckeman said. "They-"

"Have a cat! In the house!"

Saddam grimaced and said, "Aw, shit."

The woman stepped to him and pointed that finger in his face. "I have a strict no-pets policy. You just forfeited your deposit!"

"Get her out of here!" Beckeman said.

Two agents dragged the woman out; she was still screaming about the cat. What a fucking zoo. Beckeman gestured at another agent and then the brothers.

"Take them to headquarters. We'll question them there."

The agent led the brothers outside. Agent Stryker held a cell phone out to Beckeman.

"It's the president."

Beckeman put the phone to his ear. "Mr. President."

"Agent, are the girls safe?"

"Yes, sir. The hostages are safe and unharmed, and we apprehended the bad guys. The Super Bowl is safe."

"You're safe," Louis said.

Boo wiped tears from his face. He gave her and Pajamae a big bear hug. Carlos pushed in.

"I want some of that," he said.

He was a tough guy, but not too tough to cry.

"Damn, y'all kicked the shit out of that door," Boo said.

Agent Beckeman ended the call with the president then stepped over to them.

"Judge, I need to ask your girls a few questions. We can do an in-depth briefing in a few days, but I need some answers now."

"Girls," Scott said, "are you up to answering a few questions for Agent Beckeman?"

"As long as you and Cat are with us," Boo said.

Scott nodded to Beckeman, who turned to the girls.

"Did you hear them talking about blowing up the stadium?"

"Yes, sir," Boo said. "Abdul, he's the bad brother, he wants to kill everyone in the stadium because we killed his father."

"We who?"

"You. The government. In someplace called Pakistan. With a drone. Whatever that is."

"Ah. This is about revenge."

Boo nodded. "That's what Abdul said. They would avenge their father's death. The good brother, he doesn't blame us. He said it was an accident."

"Did you hear them talking about the bombs, where they would place them, how they would get them into the stadium?"

"No, sir."

"Anything else you heard them say that you think might be important?"

"I think you should play good cop/bad cop with the brothers. Abdul is mean, he won't break. But the one with the cat, he's a nice boy. He'll spill his guts."

"Good cop/bad cop?"

"I heard that on TV."

Beckeman grunted then turned to her sister. "Pajamae, do you have anything to say?"

Her eyes dropped to the floor; she shook her head.

"No, sir. I don't know anything."

"There is one thing," Boo said.

"What's that?"

"Their voices just now, they sounded different than before."

"They were probably talking in a different tone before, so you wouldn't recognize their real voices."

"Ohhh. That's smart."

"They're smart. All right, thanks, girls. In a few days, I'd like to talk to you more about all this, when you feel up to it."

"Okay," Boo said.

Pajamae nodded without enthusiasm. Beckeman stuck a hand out to Scott.

"Judge, thanks for your help. I don't know if we would have found them without your hacker."

"How did you find us?" Boo asked.

"A hacker traced messages from Syria to the law school," Scott said. "They're law students."

"Duh. Why do you think I said 'whereas' on the phone that day?"

"That's what you were trying to tell me?"

"Took you long enough to figure that out. We could have died on that falafel they were feeding us."

The adults laughed. Beckeman turned to Cat and stuck an open hand out to her.

"Gun and badge, Pea."

She glared at him then slapped her badge into his hand then held out her gun to him. He took it.

Carlos wiped his eyes on his sleeves then slapped Louis on the back.

"We kicked some ass, big man. Or at least a door."

They looked back at what was left of the door.

"We smashed the shit out of that door," Louis said.

"What do you say, big man? Our work here is done. Let's go to the Super Bowl."

TWENTY-SIX.

9:00 A.M.

7 hours before kickoff FBI Special Agent Gene Manning admired Cowboys Stadium. There was much to admire. He had never seen anything like it in his thirty-four years of life. He normally worked the Los Angeles division, but he had been assigned to the Super Bowl that year. He had seen the stadium on television, but it was like seeing the Grand Canyon on TV; a camera couldn't capture the reality of it. Standing there and looking up at the stadium reminded him of the first time he had stood on the steps leading up to the Capitol in DC; it was a monument to man. What man could dream. What man could build. What man could achieve if he put his mind and $1.2 billion to the task.

"Agent Manning!"

Another eighteen-wheel tractor-trailer had arrived at the delivery entrance on the north side of the parking lot. The FBI had set up a perimeter around the entire parking lot; no truck, van, car, motorcycle, man, woman, or child would enter the parking lot that day without being searched. One hundred thousand fans and ten thousand law enforcement personnel would be in attendance that day. Police, police with dogs, SWAT teams, police and FBI helicopters overhead, a Defense Department drone way overhead-they had the place locked down.

Manning's assignment that day was to search every delivery truck entering the stadium premises. The bomb plot may have been thwarted with the arrest of Mustafa and his followers-and he had heard some reports that Beckeman and the Task Force had captured two other Muslims that very morning-but the FBI would not let their guard down. They could never let their guard down. Other agents led bomb-sniffing dogs around the perimeter of the truck and stuck mirrors under the truck. Manning checked out the driver.

"Sir, please step down from the truck."

The driver opened the door and climbed down. He was young, medium build, ethnic, perhaps Eastern European.

"Name?"

"Hu. H-U."

Or Asian. Manning checked his iPad for "Hu." The Bureau had run background checks on every executive, employee, staffer, security guard, cheerleader, coach, player, referee, ball boy, and hot dog vendor. No one except the fans got inside that stadium that day without a criminal background check. On the iPad he saw the driver's name and photo: Hu, Al A. Employee of the beer distributor servicing the stadium. On the job for almost two years. His employee photo on file with the company matched his face and description. Blond hair, brown eyes, somber expression.

"This your rig?" Manning asked.

It was a big black Peterbilt hooked up to a trailer with a beer logo painted on the sides.

"Yep. All the drivers, they made us independent contractors so they don't have to give us benefits. And we had to buy our own trucks. Cheap bastards."

"Hey, cheer up, buddy. You look like you're going to a funeral. It's the Super Bowl."

He waved a hand at their surroundings: smoke rising into the sky from the RV'ers tailgating at the far end of the parking lot; happy fans arriving early to buy out the pro shop; the big exterior screens on the stadium previewing the game, a marquee matchup between the two most loved and hated football teams in America; the world's media present and accounted for-hell, it was Mardi Gras with endorsement contracts. But Manning got no response from the driver. Some people were just that way.

"Mr. Hu, please open the trailer doors."

Manning followed the driver to the rear of the trailer where Agent Bryan waited. The driver unlocked the double doors and swung them open. Inside the trailer, crates of beer were stacked almost to the ceiling and all the way to the front. Bryan wore sneakers, nylon sweats, and gloves; the container was refrigerated. He was junior to Manning; hence, he had the dirty duty that day. Bryan climbed into the forty-foot-long container and crawled over the tops of the beer crates with a flashlight. He disappeared into the darkness.

"That's a lot of beer," Manning said.

"They sell them for eight bucks a bottle," Hu said. "If I got a dime for each bottle, I could retire."

Agent Bryan reappeared and jumped down. He rubbed his hands together.

"Damn cold in there."

"Anything?" Manning said.

"Beer."

The agents with the dogs and mirrors gave Manning a thumb's up. He turned to the driver.

"You're good to go, Mr. Hu."

The driver shut and locked the doors then climbed back into the cab and drove toward the tunnel entrance where deliveries and players arrived.

"Are we there yet?" Gilberto asked.

"No," Jose said. "Check the map."