Louis Wright wiped a tear from his face. He loved the Dixie Chicks, he loved the national anthem, but more important- "I love this country," Carlos said.

"Me, too."

"Would you die for this country?"

"I hope so."

Saadi Khalid steered the truck to the side of the road and stopped. He checked his watch. Timing was critical. It was almost time for kickoff. The first half would run just over an hour. Then the halftime show would start. Detonation had to occur during the halftime show when everyone would be in their seats in the stadium and in front of their televisions at home. When the whole world would be watching.

As one hundred thousand Americans died.

His hands trembled. The gravity of what he was doing hit him again. He knew that once he arrived at the stadium, there would be no turning back. Al Qaeda had killed three thousand people on 9/11. The Khalid brothers would kill thirty times that many that day. Their names would be said in the same sentence with Hitler and Stalin and bin Laden. He wiped a tear from his face. His cell phone rang. It was Abdul.

"Saadi, are you in position?"

"Yes, my brother."

"Stay there until I call. I will tell you when it is time. Do not let me down, Saadi."

"I will honor my pledge, brother."

"Allahu Akbar."

He could not stop the madness.

The president's face appeared on the video screen hanging above the field. The crowd hushed.

"My fellow Americans. I come to you from the Oval Office in Washington, D.C. As you may have heard, ISIL tried to destroy our football game, just as they have tried to destroy our way of life. They failed on both counts. We defeated them today, and we will defeat them every day. We have them on the run!"

The crowd cheered. Abdul Khalid laughed. "Oh, yes, Mr. President, we are running away."

On the screen: "So enjoy the game knowing that you are safe. That America is safe. God bless America!"

In the old days, they would have played the game outside, in an open-air stadium, in the freezing temperature that enveloped Dallas that day. Like the Ice Bowl, the 1967 NFL championship game between the Cowboys and the Packers played in Green Bay in minus-fifteen-degree temperature and minus-forty-eight-degree wind chill. The field was an ice rink. It was too cold for the referees to put whistles in their mouths, so the game was played without whistles. Football was meant to be played outside in the elements. It wasn't tennis. You played in ice, snow, rain, and heat. It was messy and it was ugly, but that was football. But it made for bad TV. No one wanted to watch games where the players slipped and fell instead of ran and caught. And television rules the NFL. So now the Super Bowl is played in climate-controlled sealed stadiums. Seventy-two degrees of air-conditioned comfort.

Beckeman gazed down at the stadium as the chopper approached the landing pad. The translucent roof panels were shut tight. The glass gleamed in the sun. The parking lot was packed. Tailgaters barbecued beef and drank beer and watched the game on the giant screens on the outside of the stadium. Super Bowl Sunday was a bright, shining day, cold but sunny. Perfect for America's game. Or a terrorist attack. The chopper came in for a fast landing.

Carlos and Louis stood and cheered. The Cowboys took the kickoff and were marching down the field when Louis's cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out and read the message.

"What the-"

"What?" Carlos said.

"The judge is here. Says to meet them in the control room on the concourse level."

"The judge is here?"

"And the girls."

"That don't sound good."

"Doesn't."

"Don't start with me."

Two dozen video screens hung on the wall of the control room in front of computer stations. It looked like the NASA control center in Apollo 13. Beckeman had called ahead to summon his agents for an emergency briefing.

"Our suspects are Abdul jabbar Khalid and Saadi Khalid. They are in the stadium. They didn't carry a fifty-thousand-pound bomb in a backpack."

"Maybe it's in a bus," Stryker said.

Beckeman thought for a moment. "No. They planted the bomb weeks ago."

"How?"

"They work here. Search every storeroom, every space big enough to hold a bomb."

"We searched every inch of this place."

"Search it again. They're watching us. They know our search patterns. They're watching then moving the bomb."

Agent Stryker checked his iPad. "Captain, there are no employees, vendors, or anyone else named Abdul or Saadi Khalid working in this stadium today."

"They're working under false IDs."

"Several thousand people work here. How will we find them?"

Beckeman pointed at the judge's black daughter. "She will. She's going to find them on these monitors." To the technicians: "Put up the employees' photos on one monitor, the interior and exterior cameras on the others."

The technician pointed to one screen. "The employee photos will run on that monitor, they're in alphabetical order."

"When she spots the brothers, we have to move in fast and hard. So spread out and be ready. Check every male who looks Arab, but await my call."

The agents exited the control room. Beckeman came over to Scott and Cat.

"Pea, you stay here with the girl." To the judge: "I need your girl in here checking the employees' faces and the stadium monitors. They're here. They're in the stadium. These cameras can see a face three hundred feet away. And the software will pull up anyone with Arabic features."

"Your software racially profiles?" Scott said.

"Yes, and there's no Santa Claus."

"What?" Pajamae said.

Carlos and Louis ran up to the entrance to control room. Two FBI agents blocked their path.

"We work for the judge."

The door opened, and other agents walked out. The agent named Beckeman saw them.

"Let them in," he said.

They entered the room and went over to the judge.

"What's going on, Judge?"

Pajamae focused on the monitor that showed the employees' faces. The others focused on the other monitors. Whenever they saw someone suspicious, they called to her and she checked the face out.

"What about him?" Louis said.

"No," Pajamae said.

"Him?" Louis said.

"No."

"Him?" Carlos said.

"That's a her."

By halftime, she had looked at hundreds of faces. She was up to the employees whose names started with S.

Saadi's cell phone rang. He answered.

"It is time, brother. We will be together till the end."

Saadi plugged the cord into his phone and pushed the ear bud into his ear. Abdul was in his ear. In his head. In his heart.

Saadi shifted the truck into gear.

Beckeman stood at the railing outside the control room. Detonation would happen during the halftime show. He was sure of it.

Inside the control room, Louis said, "Him?"

"No," Pajamae said.

"Him?"

"No."

"Him?"

"No."

"Welcome back, Mr. Hu," Agent Manning said.

The familiar black Peterbilt truck had pulled up to the delivery entrance with another load of beer. The driver spoke down to Manning through the open cab window.

"Yep, my last run. They stop selling beer at the end of the third quarter. If you're not drunk by then, you gotta get drunk somewhere else."

Manning laughed. "And all those drunks will hit the road after the game. Okay, let's take a look at the back."

Mr. Hu unplugged his phone from his ear and climbed down from the cab. The agents led the dogs around the vehicle and examined the underside with mirrors.

Pajamae had looked at hundreds of employees' face, but none resembled the brothers, the good brother or the bad brother. She rubbed her eyes then glanced at all the other screens. Most showed places inside the stadium, but some showed outside. One screen caught her attention. She stood and pointed.

"Zoom in!"

"Which one?" Cat said.

"That one. The big truck."

The technician moved his mouse, and the shot on the screen zoomed in close, first on a man in a suit.

"Not him. The other man, the one in the uniform."

The camera caught the man's face close-up. Pajamae sucked in air.

"That's him! That's the good brother!"

"Are you sure?" Cat said.

"Yes. They're green."