He jumped out of the trailer and went over to the tall package wrapped in brown paper leaned against the wall. He removed the wrapping and stepped back to admire the photo panel. It was perfect. He carried the panel to the trailer and set it inside; he climbed up and maneuvered the panel in place. It fit precisely; one hundred inches wide and one hundred ten inches tall. He secured the panel in place in front of the bomb. Standing only five feet away, he would swear he was staring at crates of beer. He had to give Abdul credit; he was a very smart jihadist.

He jumped down from the container and fired up the forklift. He loaded the crates of beer all the way to the door. When he finished, he stood where the FBI agent would stand; he shone a flashlight into the container. All he could see were crates of beer, back to front. The bomb was completely concealed behind the photo panel. Abdul Khalid's Plan A might actually work.

Which would be a much better death than Plan B.

"There it is. That is the warehouse."

Jose parked the vehicle. They checked their weapons. They got out and walked to the entrance door. It was open. They stepped inside. A partition blocked their path. On top of the partition was a shelf; on the shelf was a bell. They held their weapons down their legs; Gilberto slapped the bell. Once. Twice. Again.

"I hear you!" They heard a voice from the back. "Yeah, yeah, I'm coming. Hold your horses."

An old Anglo man appeared from around the corner.

"Yep?"

"Uh," Jose said, "we are looking for Abdul and Saadi."

"Who?"

"The Khalid brothers."

"No such folks here."

"But is this not one-nine-zero-zero?"

"It is. What street?"

"Sixth."

"That's your problem. This is Fifth. Sixth is that way."

The Anglo pointed to the entrance.

"Oh, we are very sorry."

"No problem, partner."

"Can I use your restroom?" Gilberto said.

Saadi sat in the driver's seat. He had been to a Cowboys game. He knew what the people in the stadium would be doing when the bomb detonated. Most would be watching the halftime show. Some would be shopping in the pro shop, paying $100 for jerseys and $50 for shirts and $25 for caps. Others would be drinking beer at $8 a bottle or margaritas at $12 a glass. They would be eating nachos and hot dogs and hamburgers. They would be alive.

For a few more minutes.

Then the bomb would detonate. They would hear the massive explosion; the glass walls at that end of the stadium would shatter and shards would fly through the air and impale tens of thousands. The stadium itself would shudder, and then the arch would buckle. The weight of the video screen would pull the roof down. They would see the roof come down upon them. Bury them as the entire structure collapsed upon itself, much as the floors of the Twin Towers had collapsed upon the one below. It would all drop into the massive hole in the ground. When the dust cleared, the stadium would be a mass grave. The thought of that made Saadi nauseous. He did not want this. He wanted to be a lawyer. He had hoped to finish college and get into law school, perhaps at SMU with the help of the Siddiqui brothers. He had plans; but his brother had other plans. He wanted desperately to walk away from his brother, walk away from all this madness, but he had made a pledge in order to save the girls. At least they would be far away when the bomb detonated. He had that at least.

And even if he walked away, would it matter?

The madness was already in motion. Those people were going to die, if not from this bomb, then from a more horrible death. There was no stopping the madness.

Jose and Gilberto arrived at the warehouse.

"One nine zero zero. Sixth Street."

"Let us kill these fucking Arabs and get to the game," Gilberto said.

Jose parked the vehicle next to the warehouse. The two sicarios exited the vehicle. The boy was all business now. He had that look in his eye that told Jose the stone-cold killer had returned. They checked their weapons and walked to the front door. Jose figured on a small amount of C-4 to blow the door, but Gilberto grabbed the doorknob and turned. The door swung open.

"Could be a trap," Jose said.

They drew their weapons and entered the warehouse. Again they were surprised. The place was lit up like a whorehouse on Saturday night. And it was vacant except for a forklift, several dozen crates of beer and two steel barrels sitting in the center of the floor.

"Where the hell are the fucking Arabs?" Gilberto asked.

"They are gone."

"How are we supposed to kill them if they are not here?"

They walked to the barrels.

"And where are Jorge and Manuel?"

Gilberto looked around the warehouse while Jose tried to open the top of one barrel. It was on tight. He reached down to his ankle and pulled his jeans up. He grabbed the Rambo knife strapped to his leg. He put the blade under the lid and gave it a rap with his pistol. The lid popped open. He removed the lid.

"I have found Jorge," Jose said.

Jorge Romero stared at Jose from inside the barrel. His eyes were wide. And his pupils, they were just tiny black pinpoints. His hair was matted and clothes were wet as if liquid had been poured over him.

"What the hell happened to him?"

Jose felt a sudden tightness in his chest. He tried to take a deep breath, but he couldn't. He couldn't breathe. He grabbed at his chest. He sucked for air but none would come into his lungs. His body began twitching uncontrollably.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Gilberto said.

He laughed but quickly realized that Jose was not playing. He went to Jose and grabbed him by the shoulders; but Jose looked right through him. He clawed at his chest. Gilberto released him, and he fell to the floor.

"What the-"

And now Gilberto felt his chest tighten like a vice. He too clawed at his chest and gasped for air. He too fell to the floor. And he realized he would never see the Super Bowl live.

TWENTY-SEVEN.

3:00 P.M.

1 hour before kickoff "Hamburgers and root beer floats for the Super Bowl," Scott said.

"Perfect," Boo said.

Pajamae said nothing. The girls did not want to spend a night in the hospital for observation, so Scott had taken them home. Consuelo's cooking would be better for them than a night in the hospital. She had come over to welcome them home with a big breakfast. They had then showered and slept for several hours. Now the entire crew-Scott, the girls, Bobby, Karen, and Little Scotty-and Cat, she was suspended, sat in front of the television watching the Super Bowl pregame show. The stadium was almost full. One hundred thousand people, including Louis and Carlos.

The pregame show was interrupted for a news brief. The reporter updated the audience on the stadium plot case. Cameras caught the Siddiqui brothers in a perp walk from the house to the FBI sedans. They carried shocked expressions. The younger boy looked into a camera and said, "We're innocent. We're not the jihadists. They are still out there."

Pajamae started crying. Scott put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. She hid her head in his chest.

"They said they would cut my head off," she said.

Scott glanced at Cat and shook his head.

"Honey, they're not going to hurt anyone ever again."'

"And Boo's head. And yours. And Consuelo's and Maria's."

He held her tight. He didn't know how to comfort her, convince her that she was safe.

"Pajamae, the bad guys are in custody. You saw them in handcuffs. We got them."

"No, Judge Fenney. We didn't get them." She turned her face up to Scott. In her eyes was fear. "But they're going to get us."

"What are you talking about?"

She pointed at the Siddiqui brothers on the television.

"That's not them."

"What do you mean? Those are the men who kidnapped you and Boo. I saw that one at Whole Foods, and I saw Abdul wearing the same yellow sneakers at the law school."

"Did you see his face?"

"No."

"I did."

"You did what?"

"I saw his face. Abdul's. And his brother's."

"We were blindfolded," Boo said.

"My blindfold slipped down one day, when you were in the bathroom. The good brother pushed it back up, made me promise not to tell you, or Abdul would cut all our heads off. I saw them, Judge Fenney. I saw the bad guys."

She again pointed at the television.

"That's not them."

Two FBI agents hurried Scott, Cat, and the girls down a corridor to a door marked "Interrogation Room." They could see inside through a two-way mirror. The Siddiqui brothers sat side-by-side at a table facing the mirror; their hands were on the table and cuffed. On a side table sat the sword, the black ISIS flag, and the yellow sneakers. Agent Beckeman sat opposite the brothers with his back to the mirror. One of the agents knocked on the mirror. Beckeman stood and came outside.

"What's this all about?"

"Tell him, Pajamae," the judge said.

"Those boys in there, they're not the bad guys."

"How do you know?"

"I saw the real bad guys."

"But-"

"My blindfold slipped down. I saw them. That's not them."

Beckeman studied her a moment. "Come on."

He opened the door to the interrogation room and gestured them inside. He led them to the Siddiqui brothers.

"Take a close look at these men," he said to the judge's daughter. "Have you ever seen them before?"

She pointed at Saddam Siddiqui. "I saw him."

"Aha!"

"In the produce department at Whole Foods. He picked up our broccoli."

"Broccoli?"

"I did," Saddam said.

"Look, are these the men who kidnapped you?"

"No, sir."