It was past ten. The drive up Interstate 35 had been slow; apparently all of Texas was going to the Super Bowl today. You would think the state would tip toward Dallas. Now they were driving around Dallas like two blind men. They needed GPS. Gilberto spread the map of Dallas across his lap. The map was very large.

"Where the hell is this place?"

"Uh, somewhere in Dallas."

"We should have gotten a GPS."

"Gosh, I am so excited."

"About killing the fucking Arabs?"

"No. About going to the Super Bowl. I want to get to the game early. I want to buy a Cowboys jersey. And perhaps we can get Tony Romo's autograph."

Jose sighed. Gilberto was just a boy.

Louis pulled up in front of Carlos's house in the black Dodge Charger. It was 10:30. He honked. Carlos wanted to go to the game early so he could meet some of the cheerleaders, maybe get a date; the boy lived in a fantasy world, but he seemed happy there. Carlos's mother opened the front door and waved him in. Louis cut the engine, got out, and walked to the door.

"Louis, come have breakfast. I am cooking for Carlos now."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hernandez."

Louis Wright wanted a Mexican mother.

"Turn right," the boy said.

The man did as the boy instructed. That was a mistake. Jose checked the street sign.

"Martin Luther King Boulevard?"

Gilberto frowned. "I do not think this is the place. There are only the black people here."

The vehicle hit a pothole and bottomed out; when it came out of the hole, the right front tire clunked.

"I think we have a flat tire," Jose said.

He steered to the side of the road. They got out and examined the tire. It was flat.

"You fix the tire," Jose said. "I will figure out where we are."

"Okay."

Gilberto never complained. He had come up from the farm to the border; he had grown up dirt poor, so he was thrilled to work for the cartel. Hector paid good wages to his men, particularly his sicarios willing to risk a lifetime in an American prison. Gilberto retrieved the spare tire from under the vehicle and jacked the front end up. Jose studied the Dallas map.

"What you greasers doin' in the 'hood?"

Jose looked up from the map. Two Mexicans fixing a flat tire had attracted a crowd. There must not be much to do in the south of Dallas, Jose assumed. Ten black males faced them. Jose decided to play dumb.

"No habla ingles."

The leader of the black posse laughed. "Don't speak no English, he say. Dumb fuckin' Mescins."

He was big and muscular and without a shirt, which seemed odd since it was quite cold at that time of the morning. Perhaps he had warmed himself with the alcohol or the drugs or both. He took a step toward Jose. Which was a mistake, although he did not know that yet. Jose reached inside the vehicle and pulled out two Uzis. He pointed both at the man.

"You want trouble, hombre, you have come to the right Mescins, as you say. If you wish to die, here and now, take one more step forward. If you wish to live, then walk away. It is your choice. Once Gilberto changes the tire, we will leave your neighborhood."

The man stared at the twin barrels staring back. He made the correct choice.

"Yeah, well, you better leave."

"Come on, Louis," Carlos said. "Let's go. The cheerleaders are waiting for me."

Louis finished his breakfast while Carlos's mother checked him out: black leather boots, black leather pants, black leather jacket over a black tee shirt, black hair slicked back. Carlos could be going to church or court or Cowboys Stadium for the Super Bowl. She smoothed his hair and kissed his cheek and sent him on his way, like a mama sending her little boy to his first day of school. Mrs. Hernandez's little boy wouldn't last a day in South Dallas.

She took his plate and went into the kitchen. Louis had eaten three servings of her tacos, enchiladas, tortillas, and refried beans. It was a little early in the morning for dinner, but he had been starving; he hadn't eaten since ... he couldn't remember since. All he had done the last week was search for the girls.

"You got any weapons on you?" he asked Carlos.

"You expecting trouble at the game?"

"No, man. They're going to search us."

"Oh."

"Well?"

Carlos shrugged. "I have my gun."

He pulled a nine-millimeter Glock from his back waistband. Louis sighed. "You got to leave it here."

"Damn. I feel naked without my gun."

He placed the gun on the table.

"Anything else?"

Another shrug. "My blade."

"Can't take it in."

"They won't let me take a switchblade into the stadium? This is America!"

"Leave it."

Carlos pulled the blade from his boot and put it on the table next to the gun.

"That it?"

"Yep."

Louis gave Carlos a suspicious look. Carlos gave Louis his innocent look.

"What?"

Louis didn't blink. Carlos surrendered.

"Okay."

He pulled a pair of brass knuckles from his coat pocket and dropped them on the table. He shook his head and sighed.

"You've clearly never been to a bullfight in Juarez."

"Good thing you didn't have to shoot all those black people," Gilberto said. "We'd really be late for the game."

Jose grunted. It was one. They were finally heading north to the warehouse where they would kill the fucking Arabs.

"We meet again, Mr. Hu," Agent Manning had said.

It was three hours before kickoff. The same driver had returned with another load of beer. These beer truck drivers were making run after run.

"Football and beer, like apple pie and ice cream," Manning said.

Mr. Hu offered only a lame smile and said, "Yep."

The dogs and the mirrors circled the truck.

"Let's take a look at your load."

The driver opened the trailer doors; Agent Bryan climbed up but didn't scramble over the top of the crates all the way to the front this time. He had climbed into so many refrigerated containers that day that he might soon suffer frostbite. So he only crawled over a few crates then shone the flashlight to the front of the container. He returned and jumped down.

"All beer," he said.

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

The driver locked the doors, returned to the cab, and drove toward the tunnel.

"We had a good day, big man."

"Indeed we did."

"And it's gonna get better."

"Indeed it is."

"Indeed. I like the words you use these days."

"You should ask Ms. Herrin to teach you, too."

"Shakespeare? I don't think so."

"That's not Shakespeare. That's just English."

"Close enough."

They were almost to the stadium. Traffic on the interstate was bumper to bumper. The drive had taken almost two hours. Carlos rode slouched in his seat.

"You know, I used to want to be famous like the judge," Carlos said. "I don't no more."

"Anymore."

"Don't start with me."

Carlos suddenly sat up straight and pointed out the front window.

"There it is."

The stadium rose before them.

"We are close now," Jose said.

"Good," Gilberto said. "Because I have to pee."

"Thanks for sharing."

"And the kickoff is in just one and a half hours. We must kill the fucking Arabs fast. No talking."

"Do I ever talk?"

"I'm just saying."

"Well, don't."

Saadi Khalid loaded the bomb-actually, five bombs-into the back of the beer truck with the forklift. He had pulled the truck and trailer into the warehouse and closed the overhead doors; he had then unloaded the shipment of beer he was taking to the stadium. He climbed into the container and pushed the crates holding the bombs forward; the rollers made the job easy. He locked the rollers and secured the crates in place. Abdul had vacuum-wrapped the bombs in plastic to evade the bomb-sniffing dogs. His brother was very smart.