The Terror in the Emerald City (A Thomas Austin Crime Thriller Book 5)
Date: 2023-05-22T16:00:00+00:00
Rights: Copyright 2023 D.D. Black. All rights reserved.

THE TERROR IN THE EMERALD CITY

A THOMAS AUSTIN CRIME THRILLER,

BOOK 5

D.D. BLACK

DARKNESS AND LIGHT PUBLISHING

CONTENTS

I. A Perfect Night for Football

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

II. A Race Against Time

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

III. The Skies Over the Emerald City

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Also by D.D. Black

A Note From the Author

A Note on Setting

While many locations in this book are true to life, some details of the settings have been changed. Only one character in these pages exists in the real world: Thomas Austin’s corgi, Run. Her personality mirrors that of my own corgi, Pearl. Any other resemblances between characters in this book and actual people is purely coincidental. In other words, I made them all up.

Thanks for reading,

D.D. Black

“Grief, unprocessed, curdles.”

- Jeff Sharlet

“Lose your dreams and you will lose your mind.”

- Mick Jagger

“The only truth is music.”

- Jack Kerouac

PART 1

A PERFECT NIGHT FOR FOOTBALL

CHAPTER ONE

Seattle, Washington

Monday 2:41 AM

Anwar al-Raymi stood motionless, his dark eyes scanning the stadium as the moon emerged from behind a cloud, reflecting its light off the giant steel trusses that supported the roof.

The roof, al-Raymi knew, was one of the elements that made this stadium unique. Designed to amplify crowd noise, it was one of the loudest in sports, giving the Seahawks a home field advantage matched by few teams.

A slight chill hung in the air and mist clung to the ground. Al-Raymi’s breath formed tiny clouds in the cold, the weight of responsibility settling heavy on his shoulders. The journey had been long, but the end was finally in sight. If all went according to plan, within 24-hours the roof of the stadium would be in rubble, along with so much more.

Two black vans, inconspicuous in the dim light, pulled into the service entrance behind him. They’d chosen the far side of the stadium for their entry. It was out of sight from the main road and provided enough cover for his team to work undisturbed.

The power to the stadium district in downtown Seattle had gone off two minutes ago, the backup generators disabled one minute later by their asset in the stadium security department. The vans stopped, the low rumble of their engines cutting through the silent stillness of the early morning.

Al-Raymi watched the passenger side of Van 1 for Darius, who hopped out and quickly took his place, standing next to al-Raymi as planned.

The drivers shut off the vehicles and the morning went quiet except for the shuffling of feet as twelve men and three women emerged. They wore dark, unassuming clothing. All were silent as they took their places around the two leaders. It sickened al-Raymi that they were using women for the job, but Darius, who’d lived in America for years, had convinced him it was necessary.

When all had gathered, al-Raymi cleared his throat. “Today we do a great thing,” he whispered. “These acts will be spoken of for all times. Everyone knows their part. In all things, move quickly and quietly. Do you have your radios?”

Everyone either nodded or tapped the radios hooked to their belts.

Al-Raymi stepped back.

Darius took a single step forward, his slight frame almost disappearing in the darkness. It had never sat right with al-Raymi that such a small, physically weak man could wield so much power in their operation. Half al-Raymi’s size, Darius looked like he could be blown over by a gust of wind.

And yet, he was the most gifted planner in the world. Darius was a prodigy, a genius.

Sure, al-Raymi could squash him like a bug with one his size thirteen boots, but there was no one else on earth who could have gotten them to this moment.

The whole plan hinged on Darius’s ability to put together a team that could infiltrate the SCADA system, exploiting an undiscovered zero-day vulnerability and executing a flawless remote shutdown of the power grid. Assuming Darius had done what he said he could do, their digital footprints had been meticulously erased by a sophisticated array of proxies and VPNs. Even if they were eventually tracked, they’d be long gone by then.

Darius spoke English with no accent, his short, staccato sentences were like quick and deliberate bow strokes on a violin. “Constant communication. Go.”

Immediately the crew split into two groups. Darius would lead the tech and communications team, al-Raymi himself the explosives team.

Before they began, al-Raymi had one more thing to say. “Does everyone remember the abort code?”

Everyone nodded.

Then he locked eyes with Darius. “I want to hear you say it, little one.” Despite the genius of the man, al-Raymi needed him to know who was in charge. He needed them all to know.

Darius let his pale blue eyes fall to the ground and mumbled the agreed upon phrase in his almost-American accent. “Yippee-ki-yay.”

* * *

Darius moved through the dusky corridors of the stadium with purpose. His sharp eyes scanned the surroundings, the tension in the air palpable. He barked quiet commands, his words a mix of English, Arabic, Italian, and French, reflecting the multinational origins of his team.

"Presto, prestissimo, quickly,” he whispered, urging his team forward. “Rapidement. Bisur'ah. We need to move bisur'ah."

The four men and three women trailing him followed without hesitation. Each had been handpicked for their unique skills and unwavering loyalty. They were a silent, lethal unit, their every movement a study in efficiency.

And yet, al-Raymi had found it necessary to humiliate him in front of his team. Again. Al-Raymi, a lover of American movies from the eighties and nineties, had chosen the famous line from Die Hard as their abort code in what he thought was a joke. And because he knew how much it infuriated Darius.

He shook off the memory of the slight, focusing on their destination: the stadium's control room. It was there that they would strike a crippling blow to the venue's communication and electrical systems. As they neared the beating heart of the vast complex, Darius's pace quickened, his senses on high alert.

"Silence," Darius ordered, his voice a whisper, as they approached the control room. The heavy door loomed before them, its matte black surface seeming to swallow the light. He listened. No sounds came from inside.

Darius exchanged a brief, tense glance with his team, then reached out to grasp the handle. To his relief, it turned easily, a testament to the work of Marcus, one of their stadium assets.

As they slipped inside, they were greeted by the low hum of electronic equipment and the faint glow of monitors casting eerie shadows across the room.

Darius smiled. Marcus had done his job. A lean figure with a nervous energy, their inside man stood by one of the consoles, a satisfied grin on his face. “Good timing. Rerouted the power to this room only. Two minutes ago. Cameras are down.” His voice was barely audible above the hum of machinery. “Wifi too.” He pointed to a group of boxes in the corner of the room. “Wireless jammers.”

Without a word, Becca and Fatima began unpacking the boxes.

“You know your locations?” Darius asked them. “Mawaqeek?”

The women nodded and left the room with the first batch of jammers.

A thrill of anticipation coursed through Darius as he took stock of the consoles, switches, and dials that controlled the stadium's PA system and lighting.

"Pierre, PA system. Karim, lighting," he instructed, his voice low and measured.

As they worked, Darius kept a watchful eye on their progress, his mind racing with contingency plans and backup strategies. Pierre and Karim worked quickly, efficiently.

Twenty minutes later, Becca and Fatima returned for the second batch of jammers, their headlamps casting odd shadows in the dimly-lit room. They disappeared just as quickly.

"Time?" Darius asked, his voice tense.

“Three-thirty," Karim replied, his fingers flying over the delicate electronics with practiced ease.

Finally, with a barely perceptible nod from Darius to Marcus, Marcus flipped a switch and the control room returned to darkness. They all popped their headlamps back on and began to pack up their tools and equipment. Their task was complete.

As they slipped back into the shadows, leaving the altered control room behind, Darius allowed himself a grim smile. Even al-Raymi’s insults and bullying couldn’t ruin this moment for him.

He’d planned the most sophisticated attack on America since 9/11. Now he needed only to wait for the music to begin.

* * *

Al-Raymi walked quickly through the labyrinthine passages beneath the field, a map of the stadium's layout etched in his mind. Far from the carefully manicured turf and gleaming grandstands, the dark tunnels that snaked beneath the stadium were lit only by their headlamps, light bouncing with each step.

Al-Raymi’s muscular frame cut through the shadows, a formidable figure honed by years of rigorous training and combat experience. The men following him moved with the same precision and discipline, their footsteps barely making sound.

As they approached one of the final sites of the stadium's structural supports, al-Raymi paused for a moment, taking in the massive steel beams that crisscrossed overhead. He felt a sense of awe at the sheer scale of the engineering. Designed to withstand an earthquake, the stadium didn’t have a single critical weak point, but even the most impressive structures had vulnerabilities. Darius had found them, and figured out how to exploit them.

Al-Raymi gestured to his team and they spread out, each moving with purpose towards their designated targets. He watched them, his eyes flicking from one to the next, ensuring every movement was perfectly coordinated.

One of the men, a Russian explosives specialist named Michael, knelt beside a steel beam.

Al-Raymi watched as he removed a small, rectangular package from his backpack. The C-4 was a dull gray, its surface marred by the imprint of his gloved fingers. With painstaking care, Michael affixed the charge to the beam, using a strip of industrial adhesive to secure it in place.

Next to Michael, Farid was working on a neighboring support, using a small brush to apply a layer of dust to the C-4, ensuring that the charge would blend seamlessly with its surroundings. Next, he attached the circuit board and the cell phone trigger.

As the team worked, al-Raymi’s keen eyes watched each movement to ensure it conformed to the plan. He glanced at his watch as they moved from section to section, the fluorescent numbers glowing against the darkness.

As they placed the final charge, al-Raymi felt a cold knot of anticipation in the pit of his stomach. He hadn’t felt this nervous since his wedding day, and he smiled in the darkness.

From the passages beneath the field they made their way up a level.

"Stay low and quiet," he murmured as he found the passage that held the gas lines. Al-Raymi halted, senses on high alert. The air grew heavier, a skunky smell of the mercaptan in the gas faint, but unmistakable. He held up a hand, signaling the team to stop. His eyes met those of a tall, lean man named Idris, who nodded in understanding.

“Michael, you and Idris take the left,” he whispered, his tone firm yet measured. “Farid and the others, you're with me.”

Michael and Idris disappeared down a tunnel to the left while Farid and the others followed al-Raymi. They moved with the precision of a finely tuned orchestra, each member performing their assigned tasks with unwavering focus. Reaching their destination, a key gas line, Farid unpacked the Semtex while al-Raymi affixed the detonators to the charges.

"Careful," al-Raymi murmured, eyes locked on their work.

As they moved from one gas line to the next, al-Raymi tested the radio. “Michael, how close are you?”

"Two more to go," Michael reported, his voice tight with strain.

Al-Raymi scanned the shadows as he assessed their progress. "Stay focused. We're almost there."

Finally, with the last charge in place, al-Raymi allowed himself a moment to survey their handiwork. The Semtex charges were barely visible against the gas pipes, their deadly secret hidden from view. "Good work," he whispered, eyes meeting those of his team as they regrouped in the main hallway. "Now, to the vans.”

* * *

Darius stood next to the van, passing his phone from hand to hand and watching the tunnel nervously. He glanced at his watch. He and his team had reached the vans at 4:03 AM, seven minutes ahead of schedule.

It was now 4:27 AM. Al-Raymi’s team was running late.

They needed to get power restored to the stadium as soon as possible. He heard footsteps, then saw al-Raymi’s stocky frame emerge from the darkness.

Darius offered a questioning look. “It took longer than it should have.”

Al-Raymi waved a hand dismissively, as he always did when Darius questioned him. “Maybe your timing was not as perfect as you thought.”

Darius cocked his head. He wanted to say, Or maybe you idiots are slower than overheated camels, but he held his tongue.

When the team had gathered outside the vans, al-Raymi smiled.

Darius braced himself internally for whatever stupid thing their leader would say next. Would it be another Die Hard reference? Or maybe something from the Terminator franchise, or perhaps one of his favorite lines from Stallone or Chuck Norris.

Within five minutes, power would be restored.

In roughly fourteen hours, all hell would break loose.

“Going to the game tonight will be like a box of chocolates,” al-Raymi said, a broad grin spreading across his face. “They won’t know what they’re going to get.”

Darius cringed internally and sent the text to their man on the inside.

Let the symphony begin.

CHAPTER TWO

Monday, 1 PM

Thomas Austin's lungs burned as he pushed himself along the shoreline, his sneakers sinking into the sand with each stride. The day was warm, but the wind had picked up and the rhythmic crashing of the waves drowned out the sound of his heavy breathing. His legs burned, but he felt better than he had in years.

His corgi, Run, stayed close by his side, her short legs pumping furiously to keep up. He’d left her at home for his first one-mile loop, and, despite being quite athletic for a corgi, she was struggling to keep up for the second.

Slowing to a brisk walk, he turned away from the water and made his way up to his apartment, which was attached to his café, general store, and bait shop in the small beach town of Hansville, Washington.

The scent of baking bread beckoned from within and made his stomach rumble. Austin was a skilled cook, but authentic French bread remained his culinary nemesis. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he checked the oven. He’d thrown the loaf in on his way out the door, but the light gold crust looked like it still needed a few minutes.

Run, panting from the jog, was still a small bundle of energy. After lapping some water from a bowl in the corner, she positioned herself half in and half out of the doggie door, her eyes fixed on Austin as she sniffed the air. Her legs were short, supporting a long, low-set body, which was more muscular than most corgis. The white stripe that came between her eyes met her muzzle and connected to her smile, which was framed by the white ruff collar around her neck. Her feet were perfect white socks. The rest of her fur was a warm orange shade he’d heard called ‘fawn.’ She had a distinct fox-like expression and alert, intelligent eyes, but her disproportionately large ears lent her an endearing, almost comical appearance.

Staring at him, her silent communication from her straddled doggie door stance was clear: "I know something delicious is happening, and I must be part of it. But it's much too hot indoors so the back of me will stay outside to catch the breeze." Austin couldn't help but smile as he tossed her a tiny slice of prosciutto-wrapped camembert he was saving to eat with the bread, large enough to let her know she was getting a treat but not so big it would ruin her figure. Run deftly caught the morsel without leaving her spot.

Austin had heard that a Corgi would eat itself into debilitating obesity. The way that Run always focused on what Austin was up to in the kitchen made him believe that she could, if allowed, easily eat herself to a belly-dragging weight, given her low-set frame.

Austin wanted to perfect the bread by the next day, when his parents would visit him for the first time since he’d left New York City and moved west nearly three years earlier. His father's Alzheimer's had slowed with the aid of medications, but Austin knew the inevitable decline would continue. This could well be his father’s last trip of any kind, and even so it was only possible with the help of a full-time caregiver, who was accompanying his parents throughout their brief visit. French bread was his father's favorite, and Austin was determined to bake him the perfect loaf.

The ringing of his phone jolted him from his thoughts. Austin glanced at the screen, pleased to see Ridley’s name. The lead detective in the Kitsap County Sheriff’s department, Ridley had recently returned from an undeserved suspension. Though he’d told Ridley he’d be unavailable to consult on any cases while his parents were in town, Austin was meeting him at the Seahawks game that evening, an invitation Ridley had made last week.

"Hey,” Austin said. “Just finishing some things up before I head out. Nothing wrong with the tickets, I hope."

As a Navy brat, he’d been moved all over the country as a kid so he’d never had a consistent team to root for. He’d become a Giants fan when he’d settled in New York, and they were still his number one team. But he’d decided to make the Seahawks his secondary team when he made the move to Washington State. As long as they weren’t playing the Giants, he was all in.

"Nah,” Ridley said, “Tickets are fine. Hawk’s Nest, loudest seats in the house. Rachel wanted me to call. She’s doing last minute shopping for the tailgate and wanted to make sure the menu works. You eat everything, right?”

Austin was surprised, and a little confused. “Wait, I didn’t know Rachel was coming. I figured you were offering me her ticket. How is she?”

Ridley chuckled. “I made the mistake of asking how she felt this morning and she glared at me like I’d insulted her mother, like I was the devil himself.” He sighed. “Eight and a half months pregnant, tired all the time, but unwilling to miss the game for any reason. Seahawks versus 49ers games are a religious experience for her. It’s like church during a holiday sermon mixed with the Superbowl mixed with the birth of a child.”

Austin smiled. “Good for her.”

“If I’d even suggested she watch from home, she probably would have divorced me on the spot. Or worse.”

Austin laughed. “It’ll be great to see her.”

“The seats are a set of season tickets owned by the Snohomish Police Department. JB, a buddy I met at a police conference a few years ago. He and his wife Darlene will be there. He invites me maybe once a year. We got lucky this time. Opening night. Monday Night Football. Whole country will be watching. Bright lights, cold beer. Game on.”

“Three o’clock, right?” Austin asked, cracking the oven and pulling out the bread, which now looked perfectly golden brown. “Just finishing up some things, grabbing a shower, then I’m headed to the ferry.”

“Rachel and I will be there at two, right when the gates open. Gotta get the charcoal going.” He paused. “Okay, right, why I called… so I can tell Rachel… hot dogs, Kielbasa, hot links, brats… you like it all?”

Run, still straddling both sides of the doggie door, cocked her head as though wondering whether any of the sausages Ridley was describing might find their way back to her.

“I’ll be happy with any of those,” Austin said, “and I’m planning to show up hungry.”

CHAPTER THREE

Monday, 3:11 PM

When Austin arrived, Lumen Field's parking lot was bathed in warm September sun. The tailgating scene was in full swing and people filled the area, their vehicles adorned with mostly Seahawks but also a smattering of 49ers flags and window decals. The aroma of grilled sausages and burgers wafted through the air, blending with the animated chatter of hundreds of excited fans.

It was a perfect night for football.

Ridley and Rachel stood out among the crowd, dressed in Seahawks and 49ers gear, respectively. Rachel was nearly six feet tall with long dreadlocks tied into a bun and a baby bulge that could be seen from halfway across the parking lot. And at Ridley’s size, he looked like he could be one of the players in the game they were about to watch. Nearly six and a half feet tall, with broad shoulders and a tight-fitting Seahawks jersey that showed off arms that—while not as toned as they were when he was a young man—were impressive for a guy nearing fifty.

Austin stopped, confused, when he saw Anna Downey step out from behind Ridley’s truck. She was a local crime reporter with whom Austin had shared an on-again off-again flirtation for the better part of a year now. They’d tried a couple dates, but each time something had gone wrong. The first time he’d been distracted by a lead in a case he was working. The second time her editor had called her into work. Their last meetup had been canceled when he’d been stranded on Bainbridge Island in a rare summer storm.

As Austin approached, Ridley skillfully tended a small portable grill set up on the tailgate of his truck, flipping sizzling sausages with a pair of tongs.

Anna offered an embarrassed smile and nodded toward Ridley. “The surprise was his idea. And I was gonna be in Seattle anyway.”

Rachel settled into a folding chair, her baby bump accentuated by a snug-fitting red and gold 49ers maternity shirt. “You didn’t really think we’d invite you to the game solo, did you?”

Austin hugged Anna awkwardly. “Good to see you. In Seattle to see your kid?”

She shook her head. “Joined a rock climbing and wine club for women over forty. We climb, badly, then drink wine. Our motto is, Climbing high, gripping tight, drinking wine by twilight!”

“Sounds fun,” Austin said. He approached Ridley with a smile, shaking his hand and patting him on the back as he accepted a beer. “My mom really must’ve gotten to you, huh?”

A few months back, Austin’s mother had called the Sheriff’s Department looking for him and, apparently, had somehow gotten connected with Ridley, whom Austin had spoken highly of. Based on Ridley’s report on the conversation, it seemed that his mother had tried to recruit Ridley to the project of finding Austin a wife and, as she put it, “Making me some grandkids before I hit the grave.”

Anna grabbed a beer of her own and turned her attention to Rachel, asking, "How are you feeling?"

“Uh oh,” Ridley said. “Careful.”

Anna shot Austin a quizzical look. Austin shrugged. No way he was getting in the middle of this one.

“Oh no,” Rachel said, defusing the situation. “It’s fine if she asks me. She’s a mother, she can understand.” She turned to Anna. “I feel like a watermelon in a pressure cooker. But that’s nothing a four quarter beatdown of your Seahawks won’t fix.”

Anna laughed. “Well, as long as you don’t go into labor due to the stress of the Seahawks kicking the 49er’s collective butts, we should be fine.”

“If the Niners lose, Anna, you’re not getting a ride back across the water.” Rachel offered Anna an icy stare, but her playful eyes told Austin she was joking.

“How about one of those sausages,” Austin asked Ridley. “I’m starving.” He’d planned to have a few slices of the French bread to hold him over but, after letting it cool, he’d discovered that—despite a perfect crust—it was raw and doughy in the center. Inedible. He’d cooked it at too high a temperature and would have to try again.

Ridley cast an odd look at Rachel. “She ate the first batch. These need a few minutes.”

“She’s eating for two,” Anna said.

“Three, actually,” Rachel corrected.

Austin raised an eyebrow. “Twins? I hadn’t heard that.”

Rachel nodded, smiling. “That’s why there’s no food ready.”

Ridley chuckled, flipping a sausage with the tongs. “Your mom really is hot on this grandkid thing, isn’t she?” He looked from Austin to Anna, then back to Austin. “You two would have some good-looking kids, I gotta say.”

Anna frowned. “We’ve been on like three dates, zero of them successful.”

“At our ages, there’s no time to mess around,” Rachel said. "I don’t know Rid, an ex-cop and reporter couple? Sounds like a cliché. Like a classic detective novel with a romantic twist.”

Austin glanced over at Anna. She was about his age, with ashen blond hair and a look he thought of as Northern European. Not unlike Fiona, she was pretty, with a round face and a look like a Norwegian farmworker who’d moved to the big city. He found her attractive, but maybe it was the resemblance to Fiona that made him a little unsure, a little uncomfortable with her.

“Not only that,” Ridley said, “if you two got married Anna would be legally required to only publish positive stories about our department.”

Anna scoffed. “Hell with that. If we got married he’d be legally required to give me every crime-related scoop there is.” She scooched closer and leaned on his shoulder, playfully adding, “All this time I’ve only been trying to date you to enhance my career.”

Austin put an arm around her waist, a little more awkwardly than he would have liked. Anna was joking, of course, but it was a joke that spoke to a tension in their relationship. As a general rule, law enforcement and journalism co-existed uneasily, their aims often at odds. And even though Austin was only a private investigator now, his relationship with the Kitsap Sheriff’s Department meant he often heard things he shouldn’t share with her.

“Sausages are done,” Ridley said, grabbing a paper plate. “And if nothing else, their relationship would give new meaning to the phrase partners in crime.”

“Sad trombone sound, Rid,” Rachel said, rolling her eyes.

As Ridley plated up a sausage, a man staggered into Austin’s view from the left, weaving like a drunken sailor. He careened off the side of Ridley’s truck, then barrelled into Ridley’s chest.

“Hey,” Ridley shouted, pushing the man away.

The man mumbled something that might have been an apology, then tripped over Rachel’s chair and crashed into Ridley’s folding table, knocking the grill, the condiments, and all the food onto the filthy parking lot.

Austin was stunned, but Ridley looked pissed. “What the hell?”

“I… sorry…” The man dry-wretched. He’d clearly had too much to drink. Just then, a pair of yellow-vested security guards ran up and ushered the man away.

“Well,” Ridley said, “that was…” he trailed off, eyeing a sausage, which had rolled to a stop next to a cigarette butt. He frowned. “That was everything we had left.”

“I’ll get something in the stadium,” Austin said.

They settled into small talk, enjoying the weather, the beer, and the camaraderie. Leaning on the side of Ridley’s truck, Austin’s mind drifted back to New York City. Having served in the NYPD for twenty years, he’d retired and moved to Washington State after the murder of his wife. Last week he’d traveled back to New York for the first time since his move west. But it was no pleasant homecoming. He’d returned to attend the funeral of his friend David Min Jun—DMJ, as Austin called him—an NYPD detective who’d died helping Austin on a case while he was supposed to be on vacation.

The visit had left a mark, and not only because of the tragedy of DMJ’s death. It reminded him that the wounds from Fiona’s death had not healed; they’d barely even scarred over. For the better part of two years he’d been working from afar, trying to figure out who killed her, and why. But lately he’d hit a series of dead ends in his investigation, and returning to New York had been like ripping out stitches.

But David’s death—tragic as it had been—inspired him to get back into shape, to think less and enjoy life more. It also reminded him to savor the little moments. Moments like this.

He grabbed another beer from the cooler. "It's good to be here with you guys," he said to everyone at once.

The sun began to dip lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the parking lot, and by the time Lumen Field's stadium lights flickered on—a beacon drawing fans toward the game—Austin was slightly tipsy and couldn’t wait to get some stadium food in his belly.

He offered his arm and Anna obliged, intertwining her arm with his. They followed Ridley and Rachel into the stadium, smiling at their playful bickering about which team had the upper hand in the game.

CHAPTER FOUR

Monday, 4:44 PM

Ridley led the way to the Hawk’s Nest, a special section of seating at the north end zone known for having some of the loudest and most boisterous Seahawks fans.

They found their row and Ridley introduced Austin and Anna to Darlene and JB Macintosh before excusing himself to head to the pro shop to pick up a couple onesies for their unborn babies.

Darlene was a petite woman in her late forties with short, curly red hair and a smattering of freckles across her nose. She greeted them with an enthusiastic “Hey y'all,” her gentle voice warm, her smile welcoming.

“Lemme guess,” Anna said, “Alabama?”

Darlene smiled, nodding. “Never thought I’d swap sweet tea for coffee, or sunshine for rain, but JB made me an offer I couldn't refuse.”

“What was the offer?” Anna asked, sitting on the bench next to her. “Marriage?”

“Oh no,” Darlene said, “he was begging me to marry him from the get go. And I was happy to oblige. The offer was a job. I was finishing up my degree and, well, I had to get something out of the marriage.” She blew her husband a little kiss, which he pretended to catch, crumple up, and throw over his shoulder with a mock frown.

“You two married?” Darlene asked.

“Uh, no,” Austin said. “I, um, used to be, and, well…”

“This is our third date,” Anna interjected quickly. “Or first, depending on what you count.”

Darlene frowned. “Oh, right. Sorry. JB said something about your wife and… I’m sorry. I forgot.”

“No worries,” Austin said. “What do you do?” he asked Darlene.

Ridley had mentioned that JB was Chief of Police for Snohomish, Washington, a medium-sized town less than forty-five minutes from Seattle.

“You’re looking at the best evidence technician the city of Snohomish has ever had. Like JB, I work for the town, not the county.”

JB laughed. He was tall and broad-shouldered, like Ridley, but a little older, with a salt-and-pepper beard and a bald head. “You’re the only evidence technician the city has ever had.” He spoke softly, which somehow contrasted with his large frame. He turned to Austin. “We literally created the position for her. Not that we didn’t need one anyway with the way the town is growing. Now our SUV is a top of the line 24-7 mobile evidence unit. We drive that thing everywhere. Sometimes I think she loves that vehicle more than me.”

“Much more,” Darlene confirmed, blowing him another playful kiss, which he pretended to dodge.

“How’d you two meet?” Anna asked.

“Odd couple, right?” Darlene chuckled. “Me a bubbly Alabama girl with a background in theater and line dancing. Him a crusty old Washington State cop who’d sit all day in rainy darkness listening to grunge music if he could. We met online in a Facebook group.”

“What group?” Anna asked.

Austin noticed that JB grimaced, but Darlene didn’t miss a beat. “Both lost people on 9/11,” she said, her voice only slightly less bubbly and enthusiastic.

“Oh no,” Anna said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

Darlene waved it away. “It’s okay. It’s good to talk about our people. Keep their memories alive. I lost my younger sister. She was in New York City for a high school trip of all things. JB lost his brother on light 93. It’s the only thing JB and I have in common.”

“I really am sorry,” Anna said.

“Me too,” Austin added, not knowing what to say.

“It’s okay,” Darlene assured them. “But anyhoo, now JB and me are like a pair of mismatched socks—we don't look like we belong together, but we sure do keep each other’s feet warm at night.”

JB laughed. “How did your mom put it when we went down south last year?”

Darlene slapped her knee. “Well, she always said I’ve got a personality like a jalapeño milkshake—it's a wild ride, and you're never quite sure if you're laughin' or cryin'. JB, on the other hand, well, she had a couple for old JB.” She made her voice older, creakier. “JB is like a biscuit without gravy, plain and simple, but you still can't help but eat 'em up.”

Austin and Anna both laughed.

“Oh, she had plenty,” Darlene continued. “Though my personal favorite was, JB is like grits without salt or butter. A bit flavorless, but they’ll fill ya nonetheless.”

Ridley and Rachel returned and sat between them, continuing an argument about whether they would raise their new twins as Seahawks or 49ers fans. Apparently they’d purchased onesies for both teams.

Austin leaned back and took in the crowd, eyeing a popcorn vendor a few rows away as his stomach grumbled. The evening was cooling, but it was still warm enough not to need a jacket, and the multitude made him feel like he was part of something bigger than himself. Kickoff was only forty minutes away.

A man’s voice from the level below caught Austin’s attention. The man was shouting something and Austin recognized the voice, though he didn’t know from where. He peered over the railing. Below them was a section of maybe twenty rows of seats and below that, a section of field-level luxury suites.

Though he couldn’t see who was shouting, this time he could make out the words. “Mendoza, you stink! And Jefferies, you blew it last year. They should have dropped your ass off at the airport for missing that kick!” The man’s voice was somehow both booming and whiney at the same time and it was enough to ruin the pleasant mood Austin had settled into.

Then Austin saw him. Dressed in a powder blue blazer, his hair gelled into a perfectly imperfect disarray, was Chad Buckminster.

“Jefferies! I know you hear me,” Chad yelled, his voice dripping with arrogant disdain. “That miss cost me eighty grand! You’re a bum! Go back to Detroit!”

Chad was a local businessman focusing on real estate both in Seattle and Bainbridge Island, an affluent area a short ferry ride across the Sound. He’d been dating the victim in a recent case and had, indirectly and inadvertently, led DMJ to the place where he’d been killed. Anna had recently written an article about Chad’s scheme to bribe local elected officials and environmental inspectors, but the story hadn’t gained much traction and Chad had simply shifted his focus to developments in Seattle.

Anna joined Austin at the railing. “Oh, no. Is that…”

“Good old Bucky Boy,” Austin said, glancing over at Anna. “Yup. How did he get seats on the field?”

“When they built this stadium,” Anna said, “they pioneered the concept of Red Zone Suites. Premium indoor-outdoor spaces on the field level. Best field views, private restrooms. Unlimited food and drink. Waiters.”

“I guess that tracks for him,” Austin said. “In a luxury suite, abusing the players. Right where you'd expect him to be.”

“Try to block him out,” Anna said, putting a hand on Austin’s forearm.

Austin looked down and, just then, Chad looked up, scanning what, to him, were probably the “cheap seats.” Their eyes met and, for a long moment, Austin thought he could make out a condescending smile on the arrogant bastard’s face.

Then Chad disappeared back into his suite.

As Austin turned his attention back to the field, something else caught his eye. Something much more positive. A hot dog vendor. He tried to wave him down, but the vendor looked away. The man looked like he was in his mid thirties, with deep brown hair cut short and a sharp, angular nose that dwarfed the rest of his slim, bony face. His skin was a pale pink and he had a look Austin thought might be eastern european or Russian.

Austin waved again, but the man seemed distracted, staring off into space and touching his ear. He appeared to be wearing a clear earpiece, almost invisible. Since when did food vendors wear earpieces? Austin was way behind the times when it came to technology, but it was surprising.

Maybe it was one of those wireless earbuds. He guessed that it wouldn’t be allowed, but he doubted it would be the first time an employee broke that rule. Or maybe it was a noise canceling earpiece to drown out some of the crowd noise.

Austin glanced left, where a beer vendor was finishing up a sale. Waiting for him to turn his head, Austin confirmed it. The other vendor wasn’t wearing an earpiece.

He watched the hot dog vendor walk up and down the stairs, occasionally calling out “Hot Dogs!” but showing little interest in actually selling any. In fact, when another fan tried to wave him down, the vendor ignored him and headed for the stairs.

Austin couldn’t help it. Maybe it was his hunger driving his decisions. But he’d recently vowed to be a bit more like David, and that meant getting out of his head and trusting his gut the first time it warned him that something wasn’t quite right.

Excusing himself, he hurried down the stairs after the vendor, following ten yards behind so as not to draw attention to himself. The man walked briskly past a concession stand, weaving his way through the crowd. Suddenly, he stopped, pressing his hand to his ear, then continued walking, turning away from the field and heading into a little concourse area. Leaving his hot dog vending tray on a folding table against the wall, the vendor waved a keycard at a sensor and disappeared through a door marked “Employees Only.”

Austin approached the tray. It was insulated stainless steel with a large magnet affixed to it that read “Hot Dogs, $8.” Austin figured that the insulated tray could be used for different items on different days, swapping out the magnets depending on what was being sold.

He glanced around then, grabbing a napkin from the tray, he slowly peeled off the magnet. Part of him knew he was being odd, maybe even paranoid. But there was no doubt in his mind that the vendor had been acting strangely.

He wasn’t going to overthink it.

If he was lucky, Darlene’s SUV was as well-equipped as JB said it was.

CHAPTER FIVE

Monday, 5:05 PM

Ridley and Anna had moved to sit next to each other, so the spot next to Darlene was open. Austin sat next to her, wondering how to begin. He figured that the request he was about to make would strike her as somewhere between surprising and insane.

“What’s up?” Darlene asked. “You look more nervous than a cat in a room full of rocking chairs.”

It took Austin a minute to figure out what this meant, and he couldn’t help but smile. “You have an interesting way with words.”

She smiled, "I like to wrap my thoughts in ribbons and bows before sending them out to play." Down on the field, a team of stadium workers were setting up a small riser for a performer, who was waiting nearby with a guitar, ready to perform the national anthem.

“So, I’ve got a hunch,” Austin said. “It’s probably nothing, but, well… any chance we could head out to your SUV? You have an evidence kit there, right?”

She cocked her head. “Not as accurate as a lab, but it’s pretty damn cool. Why?”

Austin shrugged, half embarrassed. “Humor me?”

She cast a look down at the field, then stood. “Kickoff is in about twenty. Why not?”

They left the stands and made it into the concourse, where hundreds of fans were grabbing last minute beers and food before the start of the game. Austin hadn’t been to a football game in years, and he was shocked by the variety and quality of food offered at the stadium—sushi, gourmet burgers, authentic BBQ, seared local salmon. “What happened to beer and hot dogs?” he asked.

“Honey, the grub here is so good it'd make a preacher speak in tongues. I’m still trying to decide between sushi and lobster mac and cheese from that local cheese place.”

“Why not both?” Austin asked.

She stopped walking and put her hands on her hips. “Look at me. I’m five foot nothin’, a hundred and nothin’. I eat like a bird.”

“Fair enough.”

A tall man in jeans and a Seahawks jersey stopped in front of them. “Hey, little lady,” he said in an exaggerated southern drawl that sounded like a bad actor attempting an Alabama accent. He looked to be no more than twenty-five, with a Disney-prince jawline and a clean shaven face that hadn’t seen a lot of sun.

Darlene got on her tiptoes to offer him a one-armed hug. “Denny, this is Thomas Austin.” She turned to Austin. “Denny’s Seattle PD. Works undercover security for the stadium.”

“Not today,” Denny said. “I work every other game. Today I’m here as a fan.” He pointed at the “12” on his Seahawks jersey. “JB here?”

Darlene nodded back in the direction they’d come. “He’s up in the regular seats.”

“Cool, cool.” Denny turned to leave, calling over his shoulder. “Maybe I’ll see you. I’m about twenty rows below.”

They walked on in silence and, once they hit the parking lot, out of earshot of the crowd, Darlene asked. “So, what’s really going on?”

Austin explained the suspicious vendor and how he’d lifted the magnet off of the hot dog tray. By the time he finished, they were standing at Darlene’s SUV and she was shaking her head, a wry smile across her face. “Damn, sugar, Anna was right about you.”

This took Austin by surprise because, as far as he knew, Anna and Darlene hadn’t known each other until they met at the tailgate. “What do you mean?”

“I’ll tell you, but lemme get this thing started.”

The parking lot was nearly empty now—just a few fans hurrying into the stadium. Austin took out the magnet and unwrapped it from the napkin, careful only to touch its edges. He handed it to Darlene. “Prints?”

She nodded, her face becoming serious.

As he watched her work, he could hear faint notes of the national anthem drifting on the wind. Her fingers were nimble as she handled the mobile fingerprint scanner, her brow furrowed in concentration. She set the magnet on a sterile cloth on the hood of her car. Next, she carefully applied lifting tape to the magnet and pressed it firmly, her eyes narrowing in determination. She peeled the tape back slowly, the outline of a fingerprint now captured on the clear adhesive.

"Got it," Darlene announced.

Austin nodded. “Nice work."

Next, Darlene placed the tape on a fingerprint card, smoothing it down with precision. She then fed the card into the mobile scanner. Austin watched as the small device hummed to life. “I hope I’m not wasting your time.”

“No time wasted, honey,” she said, leaning on the hood of her car. “I’m always happy to show off my souped-up SUV. It’ll be a couple minutes.”

It would probably lead to nothing, but it was cool to get to see Darlene at work.

Both wanting and not wanting to know what she’d meant about Anna, Austin asked, “How do these new mobile scanners compare to what they use in a lab?"

Darlene glanced at him before focusing back on the scanner. "Well, the technology in mobile scanners has come a long way. This is the MorphoIDent scanner and wireless matcher. More compact and portable than previous models, and way more so than lab equipment, but still quite accurate. As my dad would say, technology marches on like Sherman through Georgia.”

Austin nodded. "It sure does. And more and more I feel like I’m getting left behind on the farm. Tell me about the process."

"In a lab, they'd typically use a combination of chemical and optical techniques to enhance the fingerprint and compare it to a database," she explained. "With this mobile scanner, we're using digital imaging, which streamlines the process. But it's not without its limitations."

Austin was impressed with her ability to turn on professional mode. “What kind of limitations?"

"The mobile scanner relies heavily on the quality of the lifted print and can sometimes struggle with partials or distortions," Darlene said. "In a lab, they have more advanced equipment and techniques to help overcome those challenges."

As she spoke, the scanner's screen flashed, and the seconds ticked by. Darlene continued, "There can be false positives, and the database may not be up to date. But it’ll give us a good start.”

The unit flashed a green light. “Now it’s searching the database. Should be soon if you got a match.”

Darlene leaned against the car, casting a playful glance at Austin. "You know, there are three kinds of police officers in this world," she said, seemingly laying her accent on a little thicker than normal. "There are the ones who work hard, do their job, and don't let it consume their every waking moment. That’s most of them. There are a handful of baddies. Corrupt, inept, brutal. We don’t have any of them in our department, but with nearly a million officers in the country, you’re gonna get some. And then, there are guys like you, Austin.”

He said nothing, just took her in, trying to decide whether he should be insulted or flattered.

Darlene let out a soft chuckle, her eyes amused. "I mean, here we are on a perfect night, a perfect game. Inside you’ve got a gorgeous, smart, independent, single woman who’s nuts about you.” She frowned. “And you're out here in the parking lot trying to solve a crime that doesn't exist. And you’re not even a detective anymore, to boot. It literally isn’t your job. You’ve…” she trailed off, shaking her head. "You've got to learn how to relax, Austin. Enjoy life a little, ya know? Not every moment has to be about solving a case or uncovering some hidden truth.” She looked right into his eyes, and he could tell she liked him, but was delivering what she thought was a harsh reality. “I only agreed to come out here with you so I could tell you that."

He sighed. “So, what did Anna say?”

“When you were collecting evidence, I asked her about you. I already knew she was into you from the way she protected you when your wife came up.”

Now Austin was confused.

Darlene let out a chuckle. “Earlier, when I asked if you two were married—sorry about that, by the way—she knew it was a difficult subject and she steered the conversation away from it. To protect you.”

Austin hadn’t even noticed.

Darlene winked at him. “Women give off all sorts of clues, Thomas Austin, but you have to be paying attention to them, not to random hot dog vendors.” She sighed. “Anyway, she told me she’s worried you’re unavailable. Emotionally. That you’re not ready. And—not to be a downer—but here you are in the parking lot with me instead of up there with her. So, maybe she’s right.”

Austin was hit with a pang of guilt.

“If I was your therapist,” Darlene joked, making her voice sound stuffy and uptight, “I’d say something like, ‘Mr. Austin, is it possible you’re using your work—even made up work that isn’t your job—to avoid forming close personal relationships with those around you?’ Or, if I was my grandad I’d say, Are you plumb out of your noggin?”

Austin knew she was right, but he didn’t seem to be able to help it.

Darlene put a hand on his shoulder. “Free advice?”

“Sure,” Austin said.

“I’ll tell you something else my mama told me. Love's like a game of hot potato, only the potato's a cactus and you ain't got no gloves—you're gonna get pricked, but you gotta play anyway.”

Just then, a beep signaled the end of the search. Darlene's eyes widened. “We've got a hit," she said, her voice excited.

Austin felt his heart begin to race. “Who?”

Darlene angled her body to block the glare on the screen. “The name Michael Bolov mean anything to you?”

“No,” Austin said, “but I’m not really in the loop these days.”

Darlene scanned the device. “Russian born Arab man from the Republic of Dagestan, Caucasus region. No arrests since 2009, but he’s on a list or two. Hmm, this is interesting. His nickname is The Dagestan Demon.”

CHAPTER SIX

Darlene’s eyes were on her phone as she walked across the parking lot. “Tell me if I’m gonna run into something, okay honey?”

“Will do,” Austin said, steering her around a puddle of some unidentifiable liquid.

In the police database she had available to her, all Darlene had found about Michael Bolov was his arrest and conviction record. So as they made their way back across the parking lot, she read from a site called Terrorist Tracker. Austin had no idea whether it was accurate or not, but it was a starting place.

“Michael Bolov, born August 25, 1985, is a Russian-born Arab man who has been loosely linked to various bomb plots and other acts of terrorism. Some believe he is the infamous ‘Dagestan Demon,’ a mysterious figure responsible for a series of high-profile attacks throughout Russia and Europe. Bolov hails from the Republic of Dagestan, a federal subject of Russia situated in the Caucasus region, known for its ethnic diversity and occasional unrest.”

Austin put a hand on her back to steer her away from a car. She looked up, but was back on her screen almost immediately.

“Bolov's early life remains shrouded in mystery,” she continued, “with few verifiable details about his upbringing or family. Some reports suggest that he was raised in a radicalized environment, where he was exposed to extremist ideologies at a young age. However, these claims have never been conclusively proven.”

“Anything about crimes?” Austin asked. “All that seems like a lot of rumor and not much substance. Or, as your grandma might say, all sizzle and no steak.”

Darlene raised an eyebrow. “Not a bad impression of my grandma actually.” Scanning the page, she continued. “This thing is long, but… oh, here’s something. ‘The first major incident linked to Bolov occurred in 2007 when a series of coordinated bombings targeted public transportation systems in Moscow, resulting in dozens of fatalities and hundreds of injuries. Investigators discovered evidence that Bolov had been in contact with the perpetrators before the attacks, leading to suspicions of his involvement. However, no direct links could be established, and he was never charged with any crime related to the bombings.’”

She paused as Austin led her around a man who’d overdone it at the tailgate and was being helped off the ground by a couple friends in Seahawks jerseys. Continuing, she said, “Here’s the arrest, which is why his prints are in the database: ‘In 2009, Bolov was convicted of a felony in the United States, where he had been living in Seattle. He was found guilty of providing false identification to purchase restricted communication equipment, a crime with potential but indirect links to terrorist activities. Bolov received a two-year prison sentence for the offense. Following his release, he chose to remain in Seattle, where law enforcement agencies have kept him under close surveillance due to the lingering suspicions about his past.’”

They stopped to scan their tickets again to get back into the stadium. Austin guided her up the stairs as she continued.

“‘Despite the lack of concrete evidence linking Bolov to the ‘Dagestan Demon’ persona, various theories continue to circulate. Some claim that he is a low-ranking member of a terrorist organization, while others suggest that he might be a lone wolf operator. Still others insist he was wrongly convicted, an innocent man who has suffered from unjust racial profiling resulting from his minority status as a Russian-born Arab. At 38 years old, Bolov's life remains a source of intrigue and debate among security experts and investigators. With no definitive proof of his involvement in any major terrorist attacks, the question of whether Michael Bolov is the notorious ‘Dagestan Demon’ remains unanswered. As of now, he continues to reside in Seattle.’”

The game was about to kick off and Austin could feel the anticipation of the crowd as they reached the base of the stairs that led to their seats in the Hawk’s Nest. Darlene shoved her phone back in her pocket. “Remember,” she said, “this is a damn blog. To actually know anything we’d need the federal database, and we aren’t getting that out here.”

Austin nodded. “Yeah, but assuming the print scan was accurate, you gotta wonder how a guy like that gets a job at a stadium. I’m all for giving folks a chance when they get out of prison having served their time, but… I don’t know… something’s not adding up. I’m gonna go talk to security.”

Darlene was noncommittal. “Fine, but please leave me out of it. I’m sure it’s nothing, and you know as well as I do that running that print was borderline unethical, and absolutely not evidence that could ever be used for—”

“I know,” Austin said, “and I’m sure there’s an explanation. Guy was probably ill or something and that’s why he left his wares. Just gotta put the hunch to rest.”

Austin looked up at their row, where Anna was sipping a beer and chatting with Ridley, whose eyes were glued to the field. Austin knew that both he and Rachel watched the game differently than others. Rachel’s father had warmed the bench for the 49ers for three seasons when she was a little girl and she still watched each game like her next meal depended on the outcome. Ridley had played football in college and understood the game at a level most casual fans didn’t.

Still, Austin wondered whether he might be able to pull him away from the game to help with what he planned to do next.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Austin was momentarily taken aback when he met the head of security. He wasn’t sure what exactly he’d expected, but it wasn’t the petite, middle-aged woman who greeted him with a friendly “Hello” after a five minute wait. “Evelyn Harris,” she said. “They call me Eagle Eye.”

Austin had convinced Ridley to come with him, hoping Ridley’s status would give him a better shot of speaking with someone in charge. And he’d been right. Ridley had mentioned that he was lead detective for Kitsap County—just across the water from Seattle—and the young man at the desk had called in their head of security right away.

“Saw something suspicious,” Austin said, shaking her hand, “and I thought you’d be the person to tell.”

Evelyn’s short, silver hair was neatly combed back, and she wore a navy blue uniform with the logo of the stadium embroidered on the left breast pocket, a pair of well-polished black boots, and a duty belt that held her essential security gear. The uniform was crisp and perfectly tailored, projecting an image of authority and competence. She had a colorful hummingbird tattoo on her left wrist, peeking out from beneath the sleeve of her uniform. She raised an eyebrow. “Absolutely, what’s going on?”

“Any chance you have an employee named Michael Bolov?” Austin asked.

Evelyn let out a long sigh, shaking her head and looking at the ground. “Damn Bonding Program.”

Austin was confused. He waited for her to look up, then asked the question with a subtle tilt of his head.

“Oh, sorry,” she said. “Not everyone has to deal with this crap. Federal Bonding Program is a thing to get jobs for felons. It’s supposed to help individuals with criminal records overcome employment barriers and gain work experience, which can lead to increased self-sufficiency and reduced recidivism. Blah blah blah, right? Basically the bond guarantees job performance. That’s the official line, anyway. Ask me, they ought to let bastards like Bolov rot in prison or die on the streets.” She took a breath. “I’m sorry. I know how bad that sounds, but…”

“So he does work here?” Ridley asked.

“Did work here, until about twenty minutes ago,” Evelyn said, rubbing the hummingbird tattoo on her arm. “Lemme guess, you saw him acting odd?”

Austin nodded. “I saw a man with an earpiece, which I thought was weird. Could be nothing. I just wondered.” He hoped she wouldn’t ask how he knew it was Bolov, and, thankfully, she didn’t.

Evelyn put her hands on her hips. “He’s been caught listening to podcasts on his bluetooth headphones like three times already. I’m in touch with the head of concessions and basically he just walked off the job. Abandoned his hot dog tray and took off.”

Austin considered this. “How long has he worked here?”

“I’d have to look it up in his file. Maybe a year. I’m not his supervisor, but they made me aware of his hiring when he came on. Honestly, he’s one of three former felons we have, hard as it is to get employees these days.”

Ridley asked, “Never had any trouble with him?”

“None that would rise to my level. Crappy employee, sure, but nothing to worry about.”

Austin frowned. “So he just quit in the middle of the shift?”

She nodded. “Got him on video leaving the parking lot.”

Ridley seemed skeptical. “Anything else unusual going on?”

“Nothing. We keep an eye on him just like we keep an eye on everything around here. I know all the rumors about him. Maybe they’re true, maybe not. He could be heading back to Russia right now to join some extremist group. But during his time here, all he did was sling hot dogs. Poorly.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Monday, 5:30 PM

At the bottom of their section, Austin spotted Chad Buckminster, who seemed to be getting off a cellphone call while standing in the center of the walkway that led up to their seats.

“I know you,” Chad said, shifting to get in Austin’s way. “Can we talk a minute?”

Austin met eyes with Ridley. “I’ll meet you up there.”

When Ridley was gone, Austin glared at Chad, gripping a beer tightly in each hand. “What is it? The game’s about to start.” The stadium had filled to the brim and kickoff was minutes away.

Chad shoved his cellphone in the pocket of what looked like designer jeans. They were bright white, like something from the eighties, Austin thought. Combined with Chad’s light blue blazer he looked like he’d be at home on an episode of Miami Vice. Austin didn’t keep up with style trends, but maybe the eighties were back and no one had sent him the memo.

“I wanted to apologize,” Chad said. “I know what you must think of me. I know I’m a douchebag. And I know you probably blame me for what happened to David.” His face twitched uncomfortably, as though he was physically allergic to apologizing.

But still, this was the last thing Austin had expected from Chad. “If you hadn’t left your house, David never would have ended up in the same place as the….”

He trailed off, his senses overwhelmed by the memory of what happened to David. He tasted many flavors at once—sweet caramel, spicy hot sauce, umami mushrooms, bitter grapefruit, and a half dozen others. It was as though someone had dumped an entire grocery store into a crock pot. He’d experienced this overwhelming sensation in the months following Fiona’s death. It was the way his synesthesia acted up when faced with grief too painful to feel.

He swallowed hard, forcing the taste—and the feelings—aside. He steadied his eyes on Chad. “Does no good to relitigate the past. If you want to apologize to someone, call David’s widow.”

Chad ignored the suggestion. “I have nightmares about how it all went down. Danielle won’t even talk to me anymore, and she’s probably right not to. I just want you to know, I thought I was helping. When I left my house, it was to help. I know how wrong it was, and I really am sorry.”

Austin stared into his eyes. There was a confident blankness there and Austin wasn’t sure if Chad was BS’ing him, or if they were just so different that there was no possibility of real connection. Still, it was an apology and seemed sincere enough. “Thank you,” Austin managed. “I know your intentions weren’t bad. And if David hadn’t been quite so reckless… well, ultimately he’s responsible for what he did, not you.”

Chad let out a long sigh. “Thanks. Takes a load off to hear you say that because I really don’t think I did anything wrong and—”

Austin held up two hands to silence him. “Chad, just stop there. Let’s not draw this out more than we have to. Get in touch with me if you want his wife’s number.” Austin took a couple steps up toward his section, then turned. “And lay off the players. We can hear you from way up there…” he pointed up at the Hawk’s Nest… “and blaming them for the fact that you made stupid bets is not a good look.”

He headed back up the long row of cement steps, plopping down next to Anna and handing her a beer. “Sorry,” he said. “I promise I’m here now.”

“You didn’t get yourself any food?”

“Damn,” Austin said. He’d been so distracted by the thought of Michael Bolov, he’d forgotten how hungry he was. “Gonna wave down a vendor.” He scanned, but none were in sight.

“You wanna tell me what you’ve been doing?” Anna asked. “I mean, Darlene told me a little but…”

“No, it’s nothing. I had a hunch about something, but… no… it’s handled.” He held up his beer. “Cheers, okay? Let’s enjoy the game.”

Anna lifted her cup and softly tapped it against his.

The crowd grew loud and most stood for kickoff. The Seahawks had won the toss and deferred possession to the second half, so when the 49ers received the opening kickoff and the returner was leveled at the fifteen yard line, the crowd erupted with a cheer so deafening Austin felt himself go dizzy. He’d been to enough football games in his life to know they got loud, but he’d never heard anything like this.

Anna said, “And that’s just the opening play. Wait until you experience a close game in the fourth quarter. When the other team has the ball, it’s like the crowd is trying to break the quarterback in half with their noise. NFC Championship game back in 2014, I think they killed an offensive lineman or two.”

Austin smiled. “A little louder than Hansville. But I like it.”

“One hundred thirty seven point six decibels, that’s only two point four decibels from permanent hearing damage,” Anna said. “And one hundred ninety five decibels will kill you.”

“How do you know all of these details?” Austin asked.

“I read it on the internet while I was waiting for you.” Anna gave him an accusatory look.

Austin smiled and mouthed, “I’m sorry.”

For the next half hour they watched the game, exchanging a few comments here and there, but mostly cheering as the Seahawks defense forced the 49ers to punt multiple times. The Seahawks moved the ball, but a turnover gave it back to the 49ers, who promptly went three and out.

The biggest play of the game came when the punt returner for the Seahawks broke a forty-yard return that got the home team into field goal range. The offense wasn’t able to advance the ball, but a field goal made the game 3-0 by the end of the first quarter.

Austin stood and stretched his arms. “This is intense,” he said.

The crowd had quieted down a bit for the long commercial break between quarters, and Austin took the chance to say something that had been on his mind. “Before,” he began awkwardly, “when Fiona came up, you steered the conversation away. To protect me.”

Anna stood as well and smiled, a little embarrassed. “I wouldn’t want to talk about my ex with new folks. Not that I went through what you did, but still, it’s a touchy subject for you. I can tell.”

“I appreciate it,” Austin said. “It was a thoughtful move.”

She reached down and squeezed his hand. Her face suddenly grew serious. “Look, we’re both in our early forties, right? We’ve both had some bad shit go down in our lives. Remember the plaque I gave you, The world is worth fighting for. I think the same is true in our personal lives. You didn’t deserve what happened to you, to Fiona. But it did happen. I was listening to a podcast the other day and the speaker was talking about some political terrorist group. He said something about grief. That when you leave it unprocessed, it curdles. It can spoil everything. I know your grief about Fiona is lingering. But I think your happiness is worth fighting for.”

Austin smiled and was tempted to lean in and kiss her, but Ridley’s voice distracted him. “Where’s Darlene?”

Austin was sitting at the end, with Anna next to him and Ridley next to her. Rachel and JB filled out their row on the wooden benches, and with the crowd noise it was impossible to converse with anyone except your immediate neighbor unless the game action had paused.

“Back at the car,” JB said, standing and waving down a pretzel vendor. “When she went out there with Austin, she left her purse and was worried it’d get snagged.”

Anna tugged Austin’s hand. “Kinda felt like we were having a moment there.”

He looked down into her eyes and paused. Suddenly, she leaned in and kissed him on the lips. It was a quick peck, nothing more, but it made him smile.

Austin squeezed her hand. He wanted to say something, but couldn’t find words.

Anna’s face flushed red and she gestured over at Rachel. “Look how mad she is. Her team is only down three nothing and she looks like she’s gonna spit.”

“You sure it’s not just because she's eight months pregnant and is sitting on a hard wooden bench?”

“Nah,” Anna said, “from what Ridley’s told me, she gets mean, like for real mean, when the Niners are losing.”

Austin laughed.

Rachel yelled down at the field, to no one in particular. “Second quarter! You’ll see.”

Austin looked over at JB who was on his phone, a concerned look on his face. “What? Wait, slow down? What?”

Austin leaned over to try to hear.

“And they won’t let you back in?” JB asked. “Why?” He listened for a moment, then said, “You have your phone to scan and… that doesn’t make any sense…” He saw that everyone was listening in now as it was clear he was speaking to Darlene. He held a hand over the phone. “They aren’t letting her back in the stadium. Something about… I don’t know.” Back to Darlene, he said, “Honey, lemme talk to them.” He waited, then said, “Hello? Hello?” He held the phone out, looking at the screen. “The call dropped.” He tried dialing. “It won’t dial out. Signal went caput. Zero bars.”

Austin pulled his phone from his pocket. He had zero bars as well.

JB was trying again, but still the call would not connect.

“Maybe the cellphone tower went out or something,” Rachel suggested.

“Possible, but for Verizon?” Ridley said, looking down at his cell phone. “There’s no storm and around this area there are backups upon backups.”

“Nothing for AT&T either,” Anna added. “And the WiFi is out too.”

“There’s WiFi here?” Austin asked.

“Not right now there isn’t,” Ridley said. “It was on earlier in the game.”

Austin glanced around their section, then down on the field. The players were gathering for the start of the second quarter, and at least a few dozen people were staring down at their phones, apparently wondering the same thing they were.

Austin’s stomach tightened and he tasted a dry, burnt-toast bitterness. Dread.

He didn’t know what was going on, but he couldn’t help but think of Michael Bolov.

CHAPTER NINE

Monday, 6:29 PM

Darius slipped into the shadows of the coaches box as his team swept in, black-clad figures storming a brightly-lit area. Their movements were synchronized, like the bows of violins in a symphony. The room smelled of stale coffee and sweat, the floor littered with crumpled papers and diagrams sketched in fading marker.

In seconds his team had overpowered the coaches and assistants, yanking off their headsets in a tangle of wires. Some shouted in protest, struggling uselessly as their arms were wrenched behind them and bound with zip ties. Others were too stunned to say anything. One reached for his phone, only to find no connection. His men had spent weeks studying the habits of everyone who would be in the room. They were tough men, but, unarmed, they stood no chance.

Within two minutes, the room was empty except for Darius. The bound coaches had been led out, where his team would lock them away in the designated holding area.

Darius emerged from the shadows, his eyes scanning the stadium of 60,000 unsuspecting fans. The metallic scent of fear hung in the air, and the bright stadium lights cast harsh shadows across the room. Down below, confused players looked at one another on the field, wondering why the game wasn’t starting back up. Any second they’d hear from the referees that something was wrong with the TV signal and the game would be delayed temporarily.

It should have been Darius’s proudest moment, and yet he felt a pang of regret for the path his life had taken.

As a boy, he’d wanted to be a musician, inspired by Adham El-Sayed's Fourth Symphony, The Dark Symphony. It had changed Darius's life when he first heard it. Darius had been enthralled by El-Sayed's masterpiece—the haunting ney flute solo opening the first movement, representing the sorrow of Egypt's faded glory. But the loud melody rising from the chaos gave him hope. Its poignance reminded him of Egypt's strength, its culture that persisted through centuries, millenia. By the final movement, orchestra and traditional instruments joined as one, reclaiming past grandeur and celebrating Egypt's eternal spirit. El-Sayed's had married the rhythms of the Nile with Western forms, channeling five thousand years of history into eighty seven minutes of organized sound and silence.

El-Sayed's genius was Darius's inspiration, the reason he dreamed of playing music himself one day. As a young boy in Cairo, he took music lessons. Along with practicing stringed instruments, he was required to study the Italian terminology commonly used in classical music: pianissimo, very soft, da capo, from the beginning, al fine, to the end.

He had a mind for memorization and language. But despite the lessons, he’d had no talent for music. Sharp as his mind was, his hands and fingers never cooperated. His parents, both professors at the University of Cairo, had encouraged him to learn about technology instead, and that is where he ended up excelling.

Now it was time to play his own dark symphony. The symphony of terror he’d been composing for the last two years. It was one he never wanted to compose, but here he was nonetheless.

And he was a master conductor.

His plan had gone off flawlessly. Cell phone signals and Wi-Fi had been successfully blocked, leaving the stadium in a state of technological isolation. Only he and his team had the means to communicate, thanks to their walkie-talkies and satellite phones. Bluetooth, Wi-Fi—all other forms of communication were rendered useless.

He glanced at his watch. Two minutes left on the countdown. And everything was ready.

At that moment, Anwar al-Raymi was conducting a series of coordinated fortifications. Al-Raymi and his team would be sealing off exits, posting men in key sections around the stadium, and securing important areas.

Their insider men—some blackmailed by Darius himself, some strategically placed in positions of power—were performing various tasks as well.

As he contemplated the next steps, Darius's mind wandered to the head of security, Evelyn. So much rested on her shoulders. It had taken a lot to bring her on board, but she’d proven herself to be a natural liar. She had carefully selected the security staffing roster for the night, ensuring the most incompetent and easily corrupted guards were on duty. Most of the honest, seasoned, and hardworking men and women had been given the night off, leaving the stadium vulnerable.

Darius looked at his watch again. Ninety seconds.

Soon, a small explosion would occur at the far end of the stadium. Evelyn would spring into action, calling over the majority of the security staff to respond to the incident. They would be walking right into a trap. As they came together in the chaos, al-Raymi and his crew would seal off the area, locking them in and eliminating most of the potential resistance in seconds.

His heart raced in anticipation and Darius took a deep breath, the time had come to unveil his twisted magnum opus—a symphony of chaos and destruction.

He held up an invisible baton, moving like a master conductor, the baton becoming an extension of his hand as he swept his arms in the air, effortlessly guiding his orchestra into a crescendo of chaos. The distant roar of the crowd was the timpani drum roll that would start the movement, the audience oblivious to the danger that lurked just out of sight.

Soon, they too would hear the music.

CHAPTER TEN

Monday, 6:35 PM

The sound was deep and low, resonating like the roar of the crowd as it was amplified by the shape of the stadium. Austin looked up, trying to find the source, but the boom seemed to be everywhere at once.

“What the hell was that?” Anna asked. “Sounded like thunder.”

Austin moved his eyes across the sections of spectators. Everything seemed normal. “Not sure, but...” He scanned the field, where many of the players had taken off their helmets and were glancing around in confusion. A referee waved his arms, as though calling off play. Some players jogged to the sidelines, others talked in small groups.

For a long moment, everyone around him appeared as confused as he felt. Then the voice of the stadium PA announcer came through the loudspeakers.

“Ladies and gentlemen, your attention, please. We have experienced a minor incident in the southeast corner of the stadium. A malfunctioning electrical box. We would like to assure you that everything is under control and there have been no reported injuries. Our team of stadium professionals is currently assessing the situation, and we ask for your patience and understanding. Please remain calm and stay in your seats. There is no cause for alarm. The safety and well-being of our fans, players, and staff is our top priority, and we are working diligently to ensure that everyone remains safe and secure.”

Anna touched his arm. “What do you think he means by a minor incident?” Anna asked.

Austin’s mind went immediately to Michael Bolov, but he just shook his head. The sound could have been any number of things, but a small bomb was certainly on the list.

The PA announcer continued, his voice more uncertain. “We will be suspending play for a brief period while our crews respond to the incident. Again, we ask for your cooperation and understanding as we work to quickly and efficiently address the situation. Your safety is our primary concern, and we are doing everything in our power to ensure a swift resolution.”

Anna stood. “I’m gonna go check it out.”

“No,” Austin said before he could think through what he was saying. “I mean, they say they have it under control and…” He checked his cellphone again. Still no signal.

“I’m a reporter,” Anna insisted. “This could be a story.”

Austin turned to Ridley and the others. “Anyone getting a signal?” he asked.

They all shook their heads.

Ridley said, “To me, that rumble sounded like an explosion of some kind.”

“I gotta get out to Darlene,” JB said, standing. “Our call dropped and—”

“In the meantime,” the PA announcer continued, “please stay in your seats and refrain from attempting to leave the stadium. We want to assure you that our response teams are addressing the situation. We appreciate your assistance in this matter.”

Anna laughed sarcastically. “Stay in my seat? Ha!” She moved to head down the row, trying to shove past Ridley and navigate around Rachel’s belly.

As though he could see her, the PA announcer said, “Please remain seated. Once more, we would like to reiterate that there have been no reported injuries, and the situation is well in hand. We apologize for any inconvenience or concern this may have caused, and we thank you for your continued support and—”

Anna was at the end of the row when Austin heard the gunshot. It came like a loud, crackling pop over the PA system and it ended the PA announcer’s message with a deafening silence.

Anna shot Austin a look. Austin met her eyes briefly, then looked down to the bottom of the staircase that led toward the field. A small scuffle had broken out and he saw two men, each holding what appeared to be a submachine gun, emerging from the tunnel. One of them—a man clad in blue jeans and a green sweatshirt—took up a position at the bottom of their section while the other moved right to take up a position at another section. He had a head of light brown, puffy-hair that looked like it was trying to escape from his head.

Isolated screams burst the silence like sharp notes of pain.

Someone somewhere let loose a torrent of gunfire into the air.

More screams.

The feeling that something was wrong had been lingering for an hour and now it was shoved aside by a horror he’d never felt before. Pressing his feet into the ground, he tried to steady himself. Anna was the only person in their section standing and the man at the bottom of the staircase aimed his gun at her, gesturing for her to get back to her seat.

She hurried down the row and sat next to Austin, her arms and legs shaking.

Austin locked eyes with Ridley, then JB, sharing a silent communication that spoke to their years of police service. Austin knew that, like him, they were calculating their next move. Like Austin, they were probably thinking that, between the three of them, they could rush the puffy-haired terrorist and get the better of him. But, also like Austin, they were glancing around the stadium. Austin counted over forty men and women taking up spots at the base of different sections.

Even if they overpowered the one in their section, it would do no good.

Ridley’s eyes dropped and he held a hand up in front of him, indicating a quiet No to Austin and JB. Or at least a Not yet.

Austin scanned the once-bustling crowd around him. Everyone had gone stone still, gripped by fear. An occasional scream cut through the terrifying silence.

Suddenly, the video boards above them flickered. The screen went completely black, and the thousands of people around him looked up in unison.

After a long moment, the screen lit up, now displaying ominous white text atop the stark black background. Austin's heart clenched in his chest.

"We are the Al-Rus Yeminiyah, a united Yemenese-Russian freedom fighting group.” The words scrolled slowly across the screen, giving everyone time to read them. “We demand the immediate release of Hussein Zulfiqar, who is being illegally detained in the Colorado Ultramax Federal Prison. If our demand is not met, at midnight—five and a half hours from now—this stadium will be reduced to rubble. No one enters or leaves. The four main exit ramps are wired with enough explosives to kill anyone within fifty yards. The sections you’re sitting in are wired with twice that amount. If you dare to confront the freedom fighters among you, we will detonate your section without hesitation. Our observers are stationed in every corner, watching you. If you obey, no one will be harmed. If the U.S. government submits to our demands, no one will be harmed. However, if you choose not to comply, or if they refuse to act, each and every one of you will face your ruination tonight."

As the screen flickered to black once more, Austin could feel the cold grip of fear tighten around his heart. He tasted metallic bitterness laced with an acidity so sharp it felt as though it would burn through his tongue, like he’d bitten into an old nickel dusted with citric acid.

Then he saw movement on the field, three people were being marched to the fifty yard line, hands on their heads, guns pressed into their lower backs.

A new voice came back on the PA system, speaking clear English with a slight Russian accent that made Austin wonder whether he was listening to the voice of Michael Bolov. “We have chosen three among you.”

All three hostages were forced to sit cross-legged on the field as terrorists held guns to their heads. Their faces appeared on the jumbo screen, filmed by a cameraman working at gunpoint.

“Please meet Timmy Smith, from Bellingham, Washington. He is twelve years old and just returned from Disney Land. He likes soccer and watching YouTube videos about cooking.” The chubby-faced boy was forced to stand and wave, tears streaming over his cheeks, then forced to sit down again.

“Now let me introduce Sally McDougal.” A stocky woman with bright red hair was made to stand. “She’s the Chief Financial Officer of InfoTech Systems Management here in Seattle. She has three children and always provides gluten free baked goods for school fundraisers.”

The man on the PA continued, introducing the final hostage, a tall man around seventy years old. “And this is Javier Julion Garcia, the 3rd. He served in the U.S. Navy from 1975 to 1999, achieving the rank of Lieutenant Commander. During his tenure, he was awarded multiple commendations for his leadership and service. Now retired, he enjoys spending time salmon fishing and volunteering in his community.” The terrorist shoved Garcia to the ground. “Any attempt to escape by any among you, any attempt on the life of one of our brothers, and we will shoot one of these three people as you all watch on the jumbotron.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Monday, 6:47 PM

Austin switched places with Anna to sit next to Ridley. JB had moved as well so the three could hear each other. Eyes straight ahead, mouth barely moving, Austin said, “JB, Ridley. Where are you on this?”

Ridley was the first to reply. “I count thirty six armed men I can see from here. Likely there are more.” His voice was steady. He was all business. “This is not a bluff, not a drill. This is the worst attack since 9/11, and we’re in the middle of it.”

Austin estimated that the stadium held roughly three hundred sections, each with around two hundred fans. Combined with all the suites and press areas and staff, there were over sixty thousand hostages in the stadium, all under threat for the release of one man, a man Austin had never even heard of.

JB’s eyes were also straight ahead, his voice tight. “Crazy as it sounds, I’m glad Darlene is out there, not in here. That was my first thought.”

Austin’s mind flashed. Darlene knew about Michael Bolov. “She’ll be able to tell the Feds about Bolov, assuming they’re on their way.”

Austin could imagine the chaos spreading through every law enforcement agency within a hundred miles, not to mention what must be happening in the governor’s mansion and Washington D.C.

“FBI will be here in minutes,” Ridley said. “Outside the stadium, I mean.”

“Plus JTTF,” JB added.

The Joint Terrorism Task Force was a multi-agency collaboration that included federal, state, and local law enforcement partners working to prevent, detect, and investigate terrorism. In the battle for jurisdiction, they’d likely defer to the FBI, which usually took the lead when hostages were involved.

“Not to mention the SPD and field offices of DHS and ATF.” Austin shook his head. “It’s gonna be an alphabet soup of agencies out there.” After a long silence, he continued, “What I want to know is, how the hell did they pull this off? Michael Bolov, he’s part of this. Evelyn, the head of security, said he left the stadium. Had a whole story…” he paused, cursing himself under his breath… “that means she’s in on it, too. She lied for him.”

“Damnit,” Ridley said, his jaw popping. “She convinced me. But how the hell…” he trailed off, pressing his hands to his temples as though trying to release the tension building there. He looked like steam might escape from his ears.

“Me, too,” Austin said, watching the puffy-haired terrorist pace back and forth a few dozen rows below them. “But there’s no time to kick ourselves. We need to do something.”

“No,” JB said, turning his head slightly to meet Austin’s eyes. “I want to fight back as much as anyone, but think of it from the point of view of the folks outside the stadium. They’re professionals. The best men and women of the FBI, local and state police, and JTTF will be coordinating within minutes. Homeland Security, like you said. They have a better shot of getting in than we have of breaking anyone out.”

Austin considered this. He might have been right, but still, Austin felt like a caged animal, and there was no feeling he hated more. He looked over at Anna, whose face was ashen. Her usual confident, snarky look was gone and she was blinking slowly as though stunned.

Ridley said, “Austin, there’s something I need to tell you. I—” A commotion a few dozen rows below them caught Ridley’s attention and he stopped mid-sentence. “Oh no. Oh God, no. Don’t…”

Austin leaned forward, straining for a better view down to the section below. A man was charging at the puffy-haired terrorist who’d been patrolling the aisle, submachine gun gripped casually in his hands. It was Denny, the off-duty cop Austin and Darlene had been chatting with only an hour earlier. His face was set with determination, but Austin knew this was suicide.

Denny grappled with the terrorist, desperately fighting to wrestle the submachine gun from his grasp. The terrorist was caught off guard but reacted with cobra-quick reflexes. He pivoted and swung the gun like a club, smashing the stock into Denny's face.

Blood spurted from Denny's nose, but he refused to loosen his grip, driving forward to plow into the man and seize the gun with both hands. They crashed to the ground, bodies twisting violently as they fought for control of the weapon.

The terrorist's eyes were filled with fanatical rage and he let out a guttural scream and spat on Denny through gritted teeth. Denny yelled in effort and pain but held on as they rolled, the submachine gun pinned between their chests.

Austin stood instinctively, moving to help, but JB grabbed his arm in an iron grip and shoved him back into his seat. "Look!" JB pointed as two more armed terrorists came racing toward the melee.

Austin's hands were clenched fists of frustration. His instincts screamed to intervene, but to what end? Bloodshed and futility?

Rachel buried her face in her hands, unwilling to watch the oncoming slaughter. But Anna lifted her phone, snapping photos in detached professionalism. The communications blackout didn't extend to cameras, it seemed. Austin started to object but said nothing. Anna was doing her job. More than could be said for himself.

With a sudden burst of enraged strength, the terrorist threw Denny off. Austin noticed the terrorists' walkie-talkie fly off his belt, sliding under a row of seats a couple yards away. Denny staggered back, panting, as the terrorist raised his gun and opened fire without hesitation. A roaring cacophony filled the stadium as Denny's body crumpled the ground, lifeless.

The shots seemed to echo endlessly. Austin stared at the spreading pool of red as it reached the end of a step and trickled down to another. Anger and bitterness welled up in his throat like bile as the terrorists moved on through the crowd, weapons tracking left and right, cowing anyone who dared lift their eyes.

People around them reacted in horror, some sobbing uncontrollably, others frozen in shock. A woman nearby clutched her child, shielding his eyes from the gruesome sight. A young couple clung to each other, trembling with fear. The puffy-haired terrorist, now in control of the situation, scanned the crowd with a sinister grin, his wild hair and eyes daring anyone else to challenge him.

After a long, painful minute, the voice came back over the PA. “We expected a cowboy or two. Now you will see.”

“No,” Austin muttered, clenching his fists even tighter. “Damn it, Denny!” Austin had worked with enough macho officers to know that, when their judgment was off—even when their motives were true—they sometimes did more harm than good. Others often paid the price for their hubris.

In a flash, a small woman strolled purposefully up to the fifty yard line. Austin didn’t see the gun, but she extended her arm and a single faint shot split the silence. Javier Julion Garcia, the 3rd, who’d been sitting cross legged on the fifty yard line, toppled over instantly.

A handful of screams and sobs came from the crowd, but most were silent.

“Do not test us again,” the voice said. “We will be selecting another from among you to replace your Navy man. Your chubby little friend will be next.”

Austin's jaw clenched. Every fiber of his being screamed to take action. They sat like this, no one speaking, for what felt like hours. It was probably only ten minutes.

Finally, Austin said, “Ridley, JB, Anna, Rachel, you have to decide what to do for yourselves.” He’d decided on a course of action, the one with the best odds of actually helping, and he spoke with a confidence that surprised himself. “I’m going after Evelyn. If she lied for Bolov, that means she’s in on it. Maybe she’s well paid, maybe she’s being blackmailed. But she’s their inside man, so to speak. If not the main one, one of them. I have no doubt she’s communicating with the outside world. If I can get to her, maybe I can—”

“Maybe you can what?” Anna demanded.

Austin was momentarily distracted by a flash of color on the jumbo screen. It was a still photograph of Javier Julion Garcia’s lifeless body.

A warning. A threat.

Austin looked at her. “I don’t know. But I have to do something.”

He turned to JB, whose face had gone white. His eyes were still locked on the body of Denny. His cheeks were wet with tears. He shook his head slowly.

Ridley made eye contact with Rachel, who offered a subtle nod. Then he scanned the crowd and met Austin’s eyes. “From what I can see, only one part of their plan is a bluff. They don’t have eyes in the sky, so to speak. And they’re understaffed. They have one terrorist watching multiple sections, and no one up above watching us all. If we can get past him…” he nodded down toward the puffy-haired terrorist… “we might be able to do something. What’s the plan?”

“Well,” Austin said, “it starts with getting a hold of that walkie-talkie, and we have to be quick.”

PART 2

A RACE AGAINST TIME

CHAPTER TWELVE

Monday, 7:02 PM

The terrorist who’d killed Denny was again pacing back and forth, leaving Denny’s body on the stairs for all to see. He seemed to have not yet noticed that his walkie talkie had flown off his belt in the fight. Still, there was no time to waste.

Rachel stood first, holding her hands out in front of her as she made her way to the end of the row and down the stairs. Ridley followed, hands high in the air to indicate that he wasn’t a threat. He passed Rachel on the stairs, leading the way.

Austin watched for his opportunity as Ridley came to within ten yards of the terrorist at the bottom of the stairs. The man aimed the gun at him, and Ridley stopped in place. Rachel stood behind him, arms spread out wide.

“I’ll be back soon,” he said to Anna, not looking at her.

“Be careful,” she said, her voice neutral.

She’d tried to object to his plan, arguing that they should all stay put for now. JB had agreed, but was distraught over Denny’s death and eventually gave up trying to convince them.

Austin could see Ridley speaking with the terrorist, arms still out to make himself look unthreatening. Ridley would plead with him to let Rachel use the bathroom, using her pregnancy as an excuse. Watching the face of the terrorist, Austin waited for his attention to shift. Rachel stepped to the right and the terrorist’s eyes followed her.

Austin dropped to the ground, sliding over the feet of other spectators and trying to avoid knocking drinks over as he crawled on his belly to the stairs at the opposite end of the row. Peeking up from behind a woman in a Seahawks hat, he saw that Ridley was still pleading with the man, Rachel holding her belly and shifting from foot to foot uncomfortably.

Austin slid down the stairs, staying close to the seats to shield him from view.

When he reached the row where he’d seen the walkie talkie land, he turned in, ignoring the surprised mumbles from the terrified fans. Crawling past purses, cups, and discarded hot dog wrappers, he made it to the middle of the row and found the radio under a seat next to a pile of peanut shells. Tucking it in his waist, he turned around and crawled back to the aisle. Just as he was about to make his way back up the stairs, he noticed something. Two rows down, a low railing blocked off the entrance to a tunnel, which led to the concourse and the concession stands.

He glanced at the terrorist, who was pointing Ridley and Rachel back up to their seats and watching as they began to ascend.

Before he could convince himself not to, he’d leapt up, casually taking two long strides toward the railing and hopping over it. He dropped eight feet into the darkness of the tunnel.

He had his plyometric exercises to thank for being able to stick the landing. Tuck jumps, clap push-ups, and lateral bounds, not to mention the jogs on the beach with Run, had left him in the kind of shape he needed to execute a drop like that without shattering an ankle.

The concourse was eerily quiet. It appeared as though the terrorists had forced all the spectators and employees to the seats, likely because there they would have a clear view of everyone and have a better chance to control the crowd.

Austin glanced right, then left, the direction of the main security office where he’d met Evelyn earlier. Walking along the wall, he made his way as silently as possible, reaching the door without being seen.

He leaned in, listening. For a moment, all was quiet.

It made sense. Assuming Evelyn was somehow in on the plot, no doubt she was in some central command center or else moving around the stadium giving orders. Then he heard something, a voice from behind the door.

But it wasn’t Evelyn. It was a man’s voice. “Gotcha. Yes. Okay. Where is that? Behind section 220. Got it. Be right there.”

Austin stepped behind the door as it swung open. Crouching, he waited, his heart pounding in his chest, his breaths slow and silent.

When the man’s blue uniform came into view, Austin sprang into action, surging forward and grabbing him from behind. His fingers clawed at the gun holstered on the man's belt, but the guard responded with lightning speed. He threw a powerful kick up and back, catching Austin in the gut and forcing him to stagger sideways.

A brutal, no-holds-barred fight erupted between them. The air cracked with the sound of fists striking flesh and bone. Austin, driven by raw survival instinct, grappled with the guard, his hands seeking the weapon once more. The guard snarled and landed a crushing blow to Austin's side, forcing him to gasp for air.

Gritting his teeth, Austin mustered his strength and shot out a swift punch that connected with the guard's jaw. The guard's head snapped back, eyes wide with shock. Seizing the moment, Austin lunged for the gun again, his fingers closing around the cold metal.

The guard, desperate to regain control, swung a wild elbow at Austin's ribs. But Austin anticipated the move, dodging to the side and driving a forceful knee into the guard's midsection. The guard wheezed, momentarily winded.

With a final, unrestrained effort, Austin ripped the gun from the guard's grip and smashed the butt of the weapon into his temple. The guard crumpled to the floor, unconscious.

Adrenaline surging through his veins, Austin hauled the guard into the security office, gasping for air the whole way. He found a pile of zip-tie handcuffs he assumed were generally used to restrain overindulgent fans who turned violent. Austin used them to tightly secure the man to a heavy table.

He inspected the weapon in his hand: a Glock 19 Gen5. He’d used one before, and knew that its polymer frame, short recoil-operated locked breech barrel, and high velocity 9mm rounds made it reliably precise.

Bad as things were, they’d just gotten a little better.

He grabbed a few more of the disposable restraints and shoved them into the pocket of his jeans. As he did, he heard something. Soft footsteps coming toward him.

Finger on the trigger, he inched toward the door, leaning his head out just far enough to see Ridley.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The door closed with a nearly inaudible click and Austin turned to Ridley. “Why’d you follow me?”

Ridley raised an eyebrow. “Why’d you deviate from the plan?”

The plan had been for Austin to grab the walkie talkie, then retreat back to the seats, where he’d meet up with Ridley. They figured that they might be able to sneak a half dozen rows up, to the very top of the stadium, where a little walled-off area under the big screen might obscure them from view. But when he’d seen the clear path to the tunnel, he’d gone for it without thinking.

Austin said, “I saw an opening. I thought I’d get back to Evelyn and…” He shook his head. “Maybe let’s skip the recriminations. I appreciate you coming after me. I honestly don’t know what I was thinking.” The security guard Austin had knocked out and cuffed to the table shifted, but didn’t open his eyes. Austin could now read his name badge: Baxter. He gestured at him. “That guy almost got the better of me and I don’t know if he’s with the terrorists or if I just knocked out a legitimate security guard.”

Ridley took a long stride toward the man and crouched, inspecting his head. “Gave him a helluva lump. But what do you mean? Don’t you think they would have gotten rid of all the real security?”

Austin paced, inspecting the framed photos on the wall of the small office. Most were of important moments in Seahawks team history, but one was of Evelyn posing between the Governor of Washington State and the owner of the team. “Maybe, but this is a big stadium and, like you said, they don’t have the manpower to cover every square inch. Possible he was roaming the hallways and they missed him. I jumped him before I had the chance to ask him any questions.”

“We’ll have time for that, but first…” Ridley held out his hand… “I need to check out the walkie talkie.”

Austin had almost forgotten. He reached for it at his waist, but it was gone. “Hold on,” he said, cracking the door. Peering out, he looked, listened. Nothing.

Quickly he stepped into the hallway and scanned the area where he’d struggled with Baxter. He didn’t remember hearing the walkie talkie fall out, but he spotted it up against a wall. Grabbing it, he hurried back into the office and quietly shut the door behind him.

He’d barely even inspected the thing at first, but now he took a good look at it. Right away, he knew it wasn’t actually a normal walkie talkie. The device was sleek and black and fit comfortably in the palm of Austin’s hand. It had a two-inch, high-resolution LCD display that highlighted a range of information, including various frequencies being monitored, the channel name, and any active transmissions.

“It’s a radio,” Austin said.

“Good,” Ridley said, taking it from him. “Wait, this is a dual band.”

Austin nodded. Dual-band radios operated on two different frequency bands simultaneously, allowing users to communicate on one band while monitoring the other. “I figure they’re listening to police frequencies while using the PTT for one on one or small group communications within the stadium.”

“All the cell signals and wifi signals are blocked,” Ridley said. “My hunch is, they also have satellite phones for exterior communications, assuming they have some escape planned that involves folks on the outside.” He flipped on the radio, his fingers tapping buttons and turning little knobs. The first few channels he tried were static. Then he found one that was playing a high-pitched note, like a computer-generated whistle. “Damn.” He turned the dial again, then again, and again. All three channels played the same high pitched sound. “Damn, damn, damn.”

Austin didn’t understand, and Ridley must’ve seen the look on his face.

“The first few were the basic emergency channels. They blocked those clean,” he explained. “The others are the special emergency channels used for cases like this. They are harder to block. But somehow they found out what channels we use and are broadcasting that sound over them to make them unusable.”

“Can we unblock them, or, I don’t know… do anything?”

Ridley shook his head.

“Okay,” Austin said, “but we can still use it to listen in on these guys, right?”

Ridley flipped to what Austin assumed was the local network channel. The line was silent, but it was clear.

“I think this is something, at least,” Ridley said. “The guy we got this from was low level. My hunch is that whoever is running this thing isn’t gonna say much over the airwaves, but let’s keep it on in case.” He nodded toward Baxter, who seemed to be moving a little more.

“Time to find out what he knows.” Austin nodded at the restrained security guard who was writhing against the desk in his cuffs.

Ridley grabbed a bottle of water out of a mini-fridge under the desk and splashed water on the man’s face. Baxter blinked, shaking the water away. Slowly his eyes opened and he shifted his gaze from Ridley to Austin, then back to Ridley. “Oh, shit,” he said.

“Oh shit is right,” Ridley agreed, his voice a snarl.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Monday, 7:28 PM

“Who are you?” Baxter asked, his voice weak and throaty.

“Ridley Calvin, chief detective, Kitsap Sheriff’s Department.” He jabbed a thumb in Austin's direction. “The guy who knocked you out is Thomas Austin. He’s a consultant with our department.”

Baxter blinked again and shook his head as if trying to regain focus. “You jumped me. Are you with the terrorists?”

Ridley grabbed the collar of his uniform. “Listen, pal, I just told you who we are, stop screwing around.”

Austin read genuine confusion on Baxter’s face. He crouched next to Ridley, took Baxter by the chin and turned his face toward him. “I jumped you because I assumed you were with the terrorists.”

“I’m not. Not really. I mean… I didn’t want to be.”

Ridley sighed, stood, and leaned against the wall as the young man explained his situation. Through a rapid back and forth with Austin, Baxter divulged that he’d only been on the job for six months and Evelyn had promoted him faster than he ever thought possible.

“At first,” he explained, “I was just a regular security guard, working games, checking bags and scanning tickets. But then, things started happening really fast. I got promoted to supervisor after just a few weeks, and then to assistant manager a few months later. I was making three times as much as a ticket checker. I don't even know how it happened. I guess Evelyn liked the way I worked, or maybe she needed someone to fill the position quickly. But I'm just a kid, you know?”

“Then what happened?” Austin asked.

“About a month ago, when Evelyn published the work schedule for today’s game, I was surprised at who’d been put on duty. She’d chosen the worst team we had. And she put me in charge of more and more. Like, I don’t know, at first I thought I was just doing an awesome job. But then it was like, can I handle this? The money was good, so…”

Austin glanced at Ridley, whose brow was furrowed. No doubt he was thinking the same thing as Austin. Evelyn had been in on the plot for a long time. The plan had been to take the stadium by force, but it had relied on making sure that most real resistance from stadium security would be absent.

“So you were suspicious?” Austin asked.

“I thought she had a grudge against some of the older security guards. She’s a woman, some of them are older, retired Seattle Police or former SPD who got let go. Thought maybe she was just trying to put them in their place by not having them work opening day.” He shook his head, blinking away tears. “It’s like when you know something but don’t really know? You have to believe me, I never would have… I don’t know… I didn’t know. I swear it.”

Austin said, “Baxter, open your eyes. What I’m about to say is very important, so think hard before you answer. Where would Evelyn be if not here? This is her office, right? So where would she be right now?”

Baxter shook his head.

Austin grabbed his chin. “Baxter, right now, this moment. What you do right now will forever be what you did at the most important moment of your life. If we can get to Evelyn, we can find out who’s in charge, what the plan is, where the explosives are, maybe where the masterminds are.” He paused, his face tight. “In this moment you can begin to rectify some of the damage you’ve done, or it can compound it. Now, think!”

Baxter’s face quivered, then suddenly his eyes lit up. “Off the Seahawks locker room, there’s this… like… holding room place. Not a jail. But it’s an old, extra large security closet, or it used to be. They use it for drunks. Like if someone gets out of hand in the crowd and starts a fight, sometimes they’ll put them in there until the local police can take them away. But mostly it’s just empty. Evelyn would go down there sometimes for private meetings.”

Ridley crouched and got in his face. “And it’s off the Seahawks locker room?”

“Not really. It’s near it, but you don’t actually have to go through the locker room.”

“Where is it?” Austin demanded.

“Right outside here, off the food court, there’s a stairwell. You go down two flights, then take the door to the left. Outside that door is a hallway. To the right is the locker room, the field. To the left, it looks like a dead end but there’s a door at the end of the hallway. Behind that door.”

Ridley said, “Baxter, you work for us now. Got it?”

Baxter nodded.

“If anyone finds you here,” Ridley continued, “you say you don’t know what happened. You got jumped from behind and woke up here. You are pretty sure it was one of the terrorists who jumped you. Understood?”

Austin and Ridley locked eyes and Austin could tell they were on the same page. If they could get to Evelyn, they could find out the full extent of the plan. They might also be able to find a way to communicate with the outside world.

Austin had his hand on the doorknob but, before he could turn it, Ridley put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m thinking, Austin, what if I carry the gun?”

Austin turned. “You know I was a pretty decent shot, right? While back I shot out the tire of a moving SUV while hanging out the window of a limousine. That’s damn near impossible.”

“Heard about that,” Ridley said, “but how long has it been since you shot at a human?”

Austin thought back. Something in the question hit him hard, and it took him a moment to figure out what it was. “Years ago. I told you about that one. Young man, maybe seventeen. Convenience store.”

Ridley nodded. Austin knew his face was pained, and Ridley read it right. “Sounds like it got to you.”

“I’m fine,” Austin said, though he wasn’t sure that was true.

He’d only had to fire his gun once while he was an officer, and it hadn’t been when he was a detective. In fact, he hadn’t even been on duty. In his second year in the NYPD he’d been on his way home from a shift and had stopped in at a bodega to grab milk and bread. He’d been trying to perfect French toast, Fiona’s favorite. He wanted just the right loaf of sourdough. He’d walked into an armed robbery in progress, two men no older than eighteen. After identifying himself and ordering them to drop their weapons, one of the two had turned on him. Austin shot him in the shoulder before the kid could squeeze off a round. The other guy fled. The kid he’d shot had lived and been sentenced to six years.

The shooting had kept him up at night for weeks afterwards, but not because he felt guilty. He didn’t. The shooting kept him up because of what he didn’t do. The thoughts triggered a moldy raw sourdough-starter taste in his mouth. The taste made his eyes water. He jerked his head to the side to shake off the sensation.

“Point is,” Ridley said, taking a step back and waiting for Austin to meet his eyes. “I know what’s what. Most people watch a cop show or movie or, hell, maybe they’ve seen Lethal Weapon too many times, and they think it’s easy to take someone’s life and move on.” He grimaced. “I’ve had to do it twice. Two lives. Don’t regret either of them. Not for a second. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t leave a scar. If it didn’t, you wouldn’t be human.”

Austin nodded.

Ridley continued, “There’s a decent chance we don’t make it out of this thing. If we do, every single action we take in the next few hours will be scrutinized.” He met Austin’s eyes, his face more serious than he’d ever seen it. “Every. Single. Action. I’m talking about a fine tooth comb. The press, for sure. Politicians will use whatever happens next to their own advantage. The FBI will question us for days, weeks.”

Austin considered this. He’d been acting on instinct, and was shocked to hear how far ahead Ridley was thinking.

“First task,” Ridley continued, “save as many people as possible. But know right now: If we make it out of this, what you thought of as your private life is over. Got it? Over! Not only have I had more recent experience with a gun, I’m active law enforcement. You could get in a world of shit if something goes sideways.” He held out a hand.

Austin stared down at the gun in his palm, then handed it to Ridley. “I shot one person in my twenty years in the NYPD. As a detective, I took down some of the most horrible people hell ever spat out. But in most cases there weren’t high speed chases or dramatic shoot outs. Usually we found them making toast or asleep in their beds.”

Ridley raised an eyebrow. “So why’d you give me the gun?”

Austin shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “I mean, you’re right about the scrutiny. Your active duty. None of this is gonna be by the book, but it’s closer to the book if you have the gun.”

“But that’s not the real reason,” Ridley replied. “I can tell.”

Austin shook his head. “Only guy I ever shot, I had an easy chest shot. Aim for center mass, right? Like they train us.”

Ridley cocked his head sideways. “And?”

“I missed on purpose,” Austin said, dropping his eyes. “I was top in my class in the Academy and I had the guy eight feet ahead of me, dead on. Double tap to the chest, easy.”

“You lived. He lived. He went to jail. The store owner lived. Not a bad result.”

“Yeah,” Austin said, “but it was a risk. Hit him in the chest and he goes down. Probably dies. But I hit the shoulder on purpose. He could have gotten off a round still. Could have killed me, killed the store owner. I went against my training.”

“So, why’d you do it?” Ridley asked.

“Instinct. They trained me to shoot for center mass, but something in me took over. Some instinct to harm, not kill. It overrode all my training.”

“Sounds like your instinct was right.”

Austin sighed. “Maybe, but…” He wasn’t sure what was bugging him, and maybe it didn’t matter now.

The gun was out of his hands.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Austin and Ridley edged out of the security office and crossed the food court. Using Baxter’s security keycard, they opened the door, then descended two flights, following the security guard's instructions. After passing through the door and taking a left, they found themselves in a lengthy, dim hallway.

The air was cool and damp, with a musty odor. Flickering lights cast shadows on the walls, giving Austin a tense, unsettled feeling. The hallway was flanked by two doors, one on each side, while far-off the drone of some unseen machinery bore in on their senses.

Austin stopped, his brow creasing. He whispered to Ridley, "He said there'd be one door at the end of the hallway. There are two."

Ridley gave a half-smile, his voice barely audible, "You might've scrambled his brains a bit the way you rang his bell.”

Before Austin could respond, he tensed instinctively, his ears straining to make sense of the peculiar sounds emanating from behind the door on the left. They were unlike anything he'd ever heard. Odd, high-pitched squeals or squeaks were barely audible and interspersed with scraping, like fingernails on a stone wall. The noises were bordering on animalistic, but that couldn't be right.

It almost sounded like a human in agonizing pain.

Austin and Ridley locked eyes, their breathing shallow and muted.

“What the hell?” Ridley said, listening. The noises had gone quiet. “We need to maintain a low profile and stay out of sight. I choose door number two.” Ridley stepped toward the other door.

“Wait.” Austin leaned in, ear pressed to the door. Suddenly there was a low, almost guttural groan. “It sounds like… Could someone be getting tortured in there? We can’t just retreat.”

Ridley leaned in to listen. He shook his head. “You’re right.”

In a resolute whisper, Austin said, "Like you said, no telling what comes next. But let’s take our chances against whatever's behind this door."

Ridley, clutching the gun, took the lead position. Austin opened the door, stepping aside quickly for Ridley. With a quick, fortifying breath, Ridley burst in. Austin followed, steeling himself to confront terrorists inflicting unspeakable pain on a hapless victim.

What they encountered, however, was a terrified woman of approximately sixty years, sitting cross-legged on the floor. She was desperately trying to hush a collection of exotic animals in cages.

A baby parrot let out nearly silent mini screeches. A pair of monkeys jabbered back and forth, and a small cheetah-patterned serval spat menacingly at the intruders. The woman's disheveled gray hair and wild eyes only intensified the surreal scene. As she shushed and cajoled them, she nervously spun her hair around a pencil, trying to keep it from falling in her eyes.

Relief washed over Austin, the tension in his shoulders ebbing as he realized they were not in danger. The woman, her voice quavering, stuttered, "I-, I-, I'm sorry. I was part of the pre-game show. I hid in here when… when…” She closed her eyes. “The animals got spooked, and I'm trying to settle them down. Please don’t hurt us.”

One of the monkeys leapt toward Ridley, grabbing onto its cage and rattling it as though that might scare them away.

“We’re not going to hurt you,” Austin said, his breaths slowing.

“We’re with the police,” Ridley said. “We’re…” He let out a long, exasperated breath. “We don’t have time to explain.”

“Stay here,” Austin said. “Lock the door after we leave and don’t open it for anyone.”

“It doesn’t have a lock,” the woman said.

“We’ll try to come back for you if we can,” Ridley said, moving toward the door. “For now, this is the safest place for you and your animals.”

Back in the hallway, they tried the other door, which led to a tiny storage room crammed with cleaning supplies.

Austin said, “There was another flight of stairs down. I think he meant for us to go down three flights, not two.”

Ridley nodded and they retraced their steps, back down the hallway to the stairwell and down another flight of stairs. With each step, Austin grew more confident that the terrorists didn’t have as many people as they needed to truly secure the stadium. No doubt they had people at the exits, and he’d seen the ones patrolling the sections of seating out in the open, but the hallways were deserted. Eventually they reached a doorway three flights below the office. To the left, there was one door at the end of the hallway, as the security guard had said. To their right, a more brightly-lit corridor that was at least a hundred yards long. That one was lined with photos and freshly painted.

“This feels like it,” Ridley said. “Off to the right, that leads to the locker room. My guess is they have all the players stowed away there.”

Austin followed Ridley down the hallway to the left, coming to the door and stopping. They listened for what felt like minutes before finally hearing a voice. It wasn’t Evelyn, Austin could tell that for sure, but he couldn’t make out what the person was saying. He locked eyes with Ridley. “What do you think?” he whispered.

Ridley shrugged. “Screw it. Let’s go.”

He stepped back. Austin put his hand on the door knob and gave it the tiniest turn. Locked.

He shook his head at Ridley, who took another step back. Austin moved aside and Ridley's body tensed, ready for action. He gave a quick nod before swiftly kicking the door open, revealing a lean, bony man dressed in jeans and a black shirt. The man turned. He had a gun in hand but, caught off guard, he barely had time to react as Ridley lunged at him with lightning speed.

Austin bounded to the corner of the room, where Evelyn stood, arms crossed, as though this was exactly what she expected to happen. She didn’t resist. Grabbing her, Austin spun her around and pressed her against the wall with his forearm. “I’m unarmed,” she said quickly, as Austin turned back to Ridley, whose powerful fist was connecting with the bony man’s wrist, only inches from the gun he was holding. The wrist gave a sickening crack, forcing the man to drop the weapon.

In an instant, Ridley grabbed his arm, twisting it behind his back.

Ridley's other hand shot out, grabbing the fallen gun and tossing it to Austin in one fluid motion in an effort to keep it as far away from the man as possible. Austin caught the weapon effortlessly, his other arm still holding Evelyn against the wall.

It was a .22, and a nice one. The lean Sig Sauer P322 was popular among concealed carry enthusiasts, Austin knew, and this particular weapon had been customized with a 25-round mag. It made Austin certain of what he already knew. This guy wasn’t one of their inside men who’d been on the job, he’d been with the crew that snuck themselves, and their weapons, into the stadium.

The bony man gasped in pain, his face contorted as he struggled against Ridley's vice-like grip. Ridley pressed him down and the man dropped to his knees.

“Are there any more weapons in here?” Austin spat.

Evelyn shook her head, her shoulders drooping, her face exhausted. To his surprise, she almost looked relieved to see them.

Meanwhile, the bony man continued to struggle in Ridley's grasp, his breaths coming in short, desperate gasps. But Ridley seemed unfazed by the man's efforts, his face a mask of determination.

In a final, desperate attempt, the guy threw his weight against Ridley, trying to break free. But Ridley was prepared for the move, using the man's own momentum to slam him face-first into the floor, effectively knocking the wind out of him.

“Don’t hurt me,” Evelyn said. “I swear I won’t… I don’t…”

Then the tears started.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Monday, 7:49 PM

Ridley closed the door, locking them in. “Stop crying,” he said. “Now.”

Evelyn wiped her face. “I’m sorry.”

“Let us do the talking,” Austin said. “Where is the firearm you had on your belt when we spoke with you earlier?”

“They took it from me,” she said. “I swear. They never fully trusted me and… after the attack…” she pointed down at the bony man… “Igor. They sent him, he took it when we were upstairs.”

“Will anyone come check on you here?” Austin asked.

“N- n- no,” she stammered. She pointed at the guy again, who’d now gone still. “He was supposed to kill me if I didn’t follow the plan.”

Austin took a zip tie from his pocket and secured her to a short metal bookcase that had been bolted to the ground in the corner of the room. "Start from the beginning," he demanded, his voice low and steady, his eyes locked on Evelyn. “Who is running this thing?”

Evelyn hesitated, her eyes darting nervously before she began. "Darius. Darius something. I don't know everything, but he was born in Egypt, moved to Yemen, I think. He's lived in America for years, probably planning this for… God I don’t know. A long time. He came to me a year ago, and it started off slow—just trying to get info, nothing major." She took a shaky breath, her eyes unfocused. "He seemed harmless at first. He started by offering me money for small bits of information about the stadium's security. Somehow he knew I’d lost money betting on games. It’s not my fault. I’m sick. Addiction is a disease.”

“We don’t care about the whys right now,” Austin said. “Just tell us what happened.”

Evelyn held back a sob. “Soon his requests got bigger, more dangerous." As she spoke, a distant bang echoed through the building, making her flinch.

Austin turned in the direction of the sound.

Evelyn almost smiled. “That’s just a dryer. The laundry is through there.” She pointed at the wall. “Anyway, by the time I objected, maybe two months ago, it was too late. You have to believe me: they never fully told me what they were gonna do. Just, like, bits and pieces. Little things. They threatened to turn me in, then kill my family."

“Who threatened you?” Ridley asked. “Darius?”

“No, Darius has another guy. Anwar al-Raymi. I don’t know which of them is really in charge, but I don’t think they like each other.”

Austin knew that name. “Isn’t al-Raymi the bastard who planned the bombing of the French embassy in Aden?” If Austin was remembering right, al-Raymi’s followers had detonated a truck packed with explosives outside the front gates, killing 87 people and wounding over 200 more. The explosion leveled half the embassy complex, leaving behind only smoke and rubble where the main building had stood for decades.

Ridley said, “The Lion of Sana'a. He’s been on every damn watchlist for a decade. Hates every western country with a passion. How the hell did he get into the U.S. without triggering a dozen agencies?”

Austin shook his head.

Evelyn said, “I think Darius is the brains, al-Raymi the braun. He has generations of blood on his hands. Ex-military, explosives expert, a decade of guerrilla warfare. I didn’t know he was involved until recently, when I tried to back out.”

"And Michael Bolov?” Ridley asked. “Everything you said about him was a lie, right?"

She looked down at the ground. "Darius made me hire him. I swear to God, at the time I thought he was just trying to get a friend a job."

Ridley shook his head in disgust.

Evelyn continued, her voice trembling, the desperation clear. "They don’t come down here, but they check in with Igor every fifteen minutes." She pointed at the bony man, who was still unconscious on the floor. He had a head of messy brown hair, the ends damp with sweat.

Austin's brow furrowed, his voice tight. "How will they contact you?"

"Radio,” Evelyn replied, swallowing hard. “They have a controller or booster or whatever on the roof and it beams down here. Scratchy, but it works. They also have real satellite phones, but they didn’t give me one of those."

Ridley cut in, his voice cold. "The attack. What do you know about their target and their objectives?"

Evelyn shook her head, eyes welling with tears. "I don't know anything more than what they put on the jumbotron. They want the release of that prisoner. Hussein something."

Austin pressed on, his tone firm. "How many terrorists are involved?"

"Maybe forty," she whispered, her voice barely audible. She rubbed at the hummingbird tattoo on her forearm. “It was supposed to be more. I don’t know the details, but a van of them didn’t show up. Delayed or engine trouble or something. Maybe they just backed out. They have a compound in Idaho and were supposed to come to the game as fans. Another twenty or thirty. I heard Darius and al-Raymi talking about it on the radios. Darius said, ‘The show must go on!’ That guy’s always making things about music.”

That was the first good news Austin had heard in a while, and it made sense. Their crew was remarkably thin for such a huge venue. "What else do you know?" Austin asked.

"Players are locked away," Evelyn said, her voice strained. "High-value hostages, business leaders, politicians—they're being rounded up. They… they asked me where the rich people sat, the important people."

Ridley frowned, his voice tense. "Why?"

"To negotiate," she explained.

Austin considered this. The threat had been against everyone in the stadium. If what they’d put on the big screen was to be believed, they were going to blow up the entire stadium if Hussein Zulfiqar wasn’t released from the Colorado Supermax prison.

He glanced at Ridley. “Why would they need to gather a handful of valuable hostages when everyone is going to die anyway if they don’t get their man released?”

Ridley nodded. Apparently he’d been wondering the same thing. “Maybe for their escape?”

That tracked. If the prisoner was released, they’d still need to escape, and taking high value hostages with them might make that easier. And if he wasn’t released, well, maybe they didn’t intend to be martyrs. Maybe they intended to escape with hostages, then detonate the stadium on their way out.

Ridley turned back to Evelyn, his tone sharp. "What type of weapons or explosives do they have, and where are they located?"

"I don't know the details," Evelyn admitted, her eyes downcast. "But I know they're not bluffing."

“How do you know?” Ridley asked.

“Once, when I was meeting with Darius, he took another call. He went outside. He thought I couldn’t hear him, but I listened through the window. He was talking with someone, I don’t know who. They were talking about vans, how many they’d need for the explosives. Six tons of C4. Six tons of Semtex.”

Austin shot a quick look at Ridley. He didn’t know how much damage that would do, but he knew it would do a lot. It was well beyond a bluff. He turned back on Evelyn. “You heard that and didn’t immediately call the FBI? You… don’t answer that.” His gaze was unyielding, his voice commanding. "Is their deadline real? Will they actually let people go if the government releases the prisoner?"

Evelyn's eyes flickered with uncertainty. "I don't know. They told me the least they could. These people know where I live and they’re dangerous. It’s not my fault.” Her breathing became rapid and shallow. Then she sucked in a deep breath and continued, “It started out small and for the money,” she spoke in a rapid whimper, “and then evolved into a relationship that threatened my career and…” Her voice was threatening to give way to tears again. “I have an addiction and—”

“Stop.” Ridley's voice was icy. "Just stop. Are they communicating with people outside the stadium? Others involved with the attack?"

Evelyn nodded, her face pale. "Yes, they asked me once about helicopters landing on the field.” She was maintaining her composure, trying to be helpful. “I know they have a team outside—that’s who they communicate with on the satellite phones—but I don't know anything more."

Austin and Ridley exchanged glances, the gravity of the situation settling in like a heavy fog. Austin tossed Ridley a zip-tie handcuff and nodded towards Igor, who had slowly come to and tried a few times to sit up.

“Where’s Darius?” Austin asked, grabbing the radio from Evelyn’s desk as Ridley cuffed Igor to the bookcase next to her.

“Top of the stadium,” she said. “Coaches box, where the coordinators watch and call down plays through the headsets.”

Austin glanced at Ridley. “Let’s go.” Then to Evelyn, he said, “Anyone comes down here, tell them Igor turned on you and you knocked him out. Zip-tied him to protect yourself. Do not mention us.”

She shook her hand, which was still zip-tie cuffed to the metal bookcase. “They won’t buy that if I’m still cuffed.”

Austin glanced at Ridley, who said, “We’re not letting her go.”

Austin agreed. “Tell them one of their co-conspirators has turned on them,” he said to Evelyn, heading for the door. “Make something up.”

At the door, Ridley paused. Austin watched him hesitate. “What is it, Rid?”

He glanced at Evelyn, and Austin could tell he was considering whether to say whatever he was about to say in front of her. “Earlier, you asked why I followed you.”

“I should have come back up with the radio. I don’t know what got into—”

Ridley held up a hand. “Lemme finish.” He looked at the ground briefly, then looked up. “You know how your mom called a while back and asked to speak to me?”

Austin’s stomach got heavy, like he’d swallowed a stone. He didn’t know where this was headed, but sensed it was somewhere bad. “Yeah?”

“Austin, she’s here. Tonight.”

“What?”

“Your mom is in this stadium. Right now.”

“That’s not possible.” Austin shook his head. “I mean… I’m seeing her tomorrow. With my dad.”

“At halftime of the game,” Ridley said, “they were supposed to do a Navy honors ceremony for folks who served in Washington State. The man they shot, Javier Julion Garcia, my guess is that he was part of it. So was your mom. She had me set this whole thing up as a surprise. You were supposed to see her come out of the tunnel at halftime, then she was gonna come visit us at our seats.”

Austin’s stomach twisted, like the rock he’d swallowed was trying to escape. Maybe it was better that he hadn’t eaten anything since that bite of the underdone bread. “And my dad?”

Ridley shook his head. “Your mom explained that he’d be at the hotel with his caregiver. He couldn’t deal with the crowd and all that. The whole night was supposed to be a cool surprise.”

“Where do you think she is?”

Ridley grimaced. “I have no idea. One thing I know, we need to get somewhere more secure and figure out what the hell to do next.”

“What do you mean, ‘more secure’?”

Ridley glanced at Evelyn. “We’re not going to kill her, right? So we shouldn’t say much more.”

Austin nodded, ignoring Evelyn, who’d once again broken out into quiet tears. He opened the door and leaned out, peering down the long, empty hallway. “I have an idea.”

He knew where they could talk over their plan more securely, but in his gut he already knew what they had to do next, assuming Evelyn was right.

They had to find a way to get to Darius and al-Raymi.

And they had to do it fast.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Leaving Evelyn and Igor tied up side by side, Austin and Ridley retraced their steps and hid in the storage closet they’d happened upon earlier.

Flicking on the light and leaning on a stack of cardboard boxes, Austin said, “Look, Rid…” he could feel his lips quivering, and he was overcome by a wave of emotion. “Here’s where I am with this. Remember Flight 93? On 9/11?”

Ridley’s temples popped and he let out a long thin sigh. “There’s gotta be some other option.”

“Hear me out. If Anwar al-Raymi is really involved in this, you and I both know there is no bluff. The explosives are not likely on a timer. Someone is in control of a detonator. Maybe al-Raymi, maybe this Darius guy, maybe Bolov or someone else. Could you and I escape? Yeah, probably. Their crew is a lot thinner than they want to let on. My hunch is that they don’t have every exit perfectly guarded. We could escape, but so what? Maybe we could even get a few hundred, a few thousand people out with us. But again, so what? We also get a lot of people shot or, worse, trigger them to blow up the whole stadium.” He paused, thinking. “If they are planning to escape with helicopters, fine. But my bet is they’re ready to be martyrs, too. If we try to lead an escape, they could blow the whole neighborhood to hell.”

Ridley picked up an empty plastic spray bottle from a metal supply shelf and squeezed it so hard it crumpled like a paper cup. “I can’t stop thinking about my kids. They’re at a sleepover for their soccer team right now. If they know what’s going on with their mother and me here, they’re terrified.” He shook his head. “I’m used to thinking of myself in dangerous predicaments, but Rachel? The twins? This is more than I can bear.”

“I know you, Rid. And I know you can bear it. You have to. We have to.”

Ridley looked up. “And you’re thinking?”

“We have two firearms.” Austin tapped the .22, which he’d holstered to his belt after Ridley had taken it off Igor, whose wrist he’d snapped. “We both know what we’re doing with a gun. If we find al-Raymi and Darius, take them out, maybe the whole plan falls apart.”

Ridley squinted. “Or maybe the explosives are on a timer and we take out the only guys who can stop it.”

Austin considered this. “I don’t know, I joined the NYPD pretty soon after 9/11. We had a lot of training in counter terrorism. General rule of thumb is most terrorists don’t use timers when they’re going to be present in a location. Save that shit for the movies. Especially now, cell phone detonators are cheap and easy.” He shook his head. “No way whoever is running this thing doesn’t have a detonator. Not to mention, they said they wouldn’t blow up the stadium if the hostage gets released.”

“And you trust that?”

“I don’t know,” Austin said. He paused, hearing some sort of scraping or banging sound. “Do you hear that?”

“Sounds like they’re a floor above us,” Ridley said. “Moving furniture, or… I don’t know.”

Austin listened for a moment, then continued when the sounds stopped. “I say we go after Darius and al-Raymi. I think there’s a good chance they won’t blow the stadium if they get their hostage. They probably want to escape. If they escape without blowing the stadium, but retain the ability to blow the stadium, maybe the FBI lets them escape, at least until the people inside are secured. If they blow the stadium, fighter jets are here in ten minutes shooting their helicopters out of the sky.”

Ridley shook his head. “Not if they’re full of valuable hostages. You heard what Evelyn said.”

Ridley was probably right about that, but it didn’t change anything. They had a buffet of bad options, and trying to find Darius and al-Raymi was the best dish on the table.

“David’s death…” Ridley said, “it must’ve really got to you, huh?”

Austin shrugged. “What do you mean?”

“You told me about him. DMJ, you called him, right? Brave, but reckless. When bravery and recklessness mix, it can be hard to tell which is which until it's too late.”

Austin shook his head. “When there’s one obvious course of action—even if it’s a high-risk option—the plan isn’t reckless, it’s a rational response to the situation at hand.”

Ridley pulled out the radio. “This is not the only option, though. I’ve been thinking about JB. All of the frequencies I know are blocked. But it’s possible he could use this to access one of the Snohomish channels and connect with Darlene on the outside.”

It was an interesting thought. The terrorists had blocked all the channels they could, and were broadcasting noise over the others. But it was certainly possible they’d missed a channel for Snohomish. But even if they had, and even if JB could reach Darlene, there was no guarantee that would help.

He was about to object, but Ridley’s face grew hard and he sped up his words like a train running over Austin’s thoughts. “If we go after Darius and al-Raymi, we likely get killed. That accomplishes nothing. Remember, there are hundreds, probably thousands of FBI agents, local officers, and JTTF people outside the stadium right now. They’re just as capable as we are and they’re likely in direct communication with these bastards. They’ve given them a few hours, at least. We rush in on Darius and al-Raymi now, we might trigger them to detonate. Best thing we can do is find a way to reach the folks on the outside.” He held the radio in front of Austin’s face. “With this.”

Austin nodded reluctantly. “One other thing. Anna, my mom, Rachel. What about them? Do we try to get them to a basement, to a corner of the stadium?”

Ridley’s face looked pained. “Where they are is probably as safe as anywhere. My first thought—and I hate to admit it—was screw everyone, how do I get my wife and the babies she’s carrying somewhere safe. But the truth is, I can’t right now. Reckless or no, I’m doing the only thing I can think of to force a good outcome. Well, not a good outcome. The best possible outcome given the circumstances.”

Austin let out a long breath. “So we sneak back to the seats, find JB, try to get somewhere safe, and see if he can use the radio to contact Darlene?”

Ridley nodded and moved for the door.

“Okay,” Austin said. “But if that doesn’t work, I’m heading up to the top floor. The coaches box.”

Austin followed Ridley closely as they navigated back the way they’d come, hand on the butt of the .22 on his belt. The knowledge that his mother was in the stadium forced itself into his mind every few seconds, and each time he pushed it away.

He tried to tell himself that every life in the stadium was as valuable as his mother’s. And they were. And yet, his heart twisted at the thought of her being somewhere among the 60,000, probably terrified. If he knew his mom, she’d be worried about leaving his dad alone more than anything else.

As much as he wanted to do something about it, the simple fact was, he was doing everything he could. And even that might not be enough.

Each footfall echoed through the dim passage, amplifying his nerves. Austin's grip tightened around his weapon, the cold metal reassuring in his clammy hand.

The staircase loomed ahead, and Ridley took the lead, ascending with deliberate steps. Austin trailed a few paces behind. They’d gotten lucky on their way down, but with every step he thought he heard someone. Around every corner he expected to see a terrorist with a submachine gun.

They were mere steps from the door when it struck. An explosion, abrupt and deafening. The blast's force reverberated through the stairwell, shaking its foundations. Dust swirled around him, a choking fog of debris that stung Austin's eyes and filled his lungs with the acrid taste of burnt concrete and metal.

Then the floor beneath him shook and gave way. He grabbed at the wall, grabbed for anything he could. He kicked his legs, searching for solid ground.

There was nothing beneath him but air.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Austin fell.

And as he fell, it was as though time had stopped and all his senses heightened.

The sickening crack of concrete and the deep moan of bending rebar. The acrid odor of burning debris and chemical explosives. A thousand tiny pinpricks of concrete dust striking his face.

Then, just like that, he was back.

But the world was off kilter. He listed to the right, reaching out to brace his fall. First his forearm, then his hip, then his head struck something hard. The concrete had fallen out from beneath him and he slid down what had been the stairs, now a wrecked platform.

The world closed in around him. Concrete rained down like hail. Austin instinctively shielded his face, falling debris striking his arms.

"Austin!" Ridley's voice pierced the chaos from above.

Austin looked up. The concrete below him had buckled and he lay on what remained of the stairwell. One side was still connected to the undamaged part of the building. The side of the stairwell that had fallen left Austin on top of mounds of debris, which had dropped onto the floor below.

Austin couldn’t see his friend, but it sounded as though Ridley had somehow managed to stay on the floor above when the stairwell gave way.

Austin took a deep breath, his lungs burning as they filled with the smoke that engulfed the demolished stairwell. The smell of dust, burning, and hot metal hung heavily in the air. Though his synesthesia sometimes made him smell and taste things that, strictly speaking, weren’t there, this was something much more intense.

Slowly coming to stand, his ears ringing from the blast, Austin struggled to focus. Losing his balance, he careened into a wall, then tripped over a pile of broken concrete. The ground beneath him was slick with water from ruptured pipes, making each step treacherous. Pushing himself up, he steadied himself against a wall that had managed to remain standing. “Ridley, you okay?” he called into the smoke.

He looked around frantically to see if anyone else had been hurt by the blast. He listened for screams. Nothing.

His initial fear had been that the whole stadium had blown up, but now it seemed like it had only been a small section. The terrorists had managed to keep everyone in their seats, it appeared. So why had they blown up a stairwell in a back corner of the stadium? Unless it was an accident, which was certainly possible. He thought he’d heard the explosion from above him, but it had been the floor beneath him that had given way.

“I’m okay, you?” Ridley’s voice cut through the haze in his mind and, for a moment, relief flooded him.

“Yeah.” He tried to shout it, but the word came out as a choking gasp. Smoke or dust, maybe both, burned his throat. Coughing violently, he managed to shout, “I gotta get out of here.”

“That was one hell of a slide you took,” Ridley added.

The only way out was back the way they’d come, and Austin hurried down the corridor, limping but no more than bruised from the fall. This time he’d gotten lucky. He wondered how many more times his luck would be pressed if he were to make it through this.

He blinked rapidly, his vision blurry. The smoke had burned his eyes, but now that he was clear of it, he realized something else was wrong. He’d had a concussion once before, when he was a teenager, and the wooziness and disorientation were similar.

He pressed his feet into the floor, trying to stay steady.

He needed to think, needed to…

He slid down the wall and sat, head spinning. He touched his head where it hurt most, then looked at his hands, surprised not to see any blood. He thought of Anna, or was he thinking of Fiona? The ringing in his ears and tightness in his chest made him realize he hadn’t completely cleared the pressure wave from the explosion.

A terrifying thought entered his mind. What if another bomb went off?

He tried to stand, but his legs wobbled and he couldn’t see clearly.

The only thought that could form was that he needed to find out who had killed Fiona. No. Not that. Not now.

The taste of grief struck him and jolted him to the present. He needed to get to Darius and al-Raymi, to find the men who… the men who…

That’s what David would do.

That’s what…

Who was he kidding? He couldn’t stand, could barely think. He certainly couldn’t shoot anyone.

He had a gun, a radio, and a half dozen zip-tie handcuffs. As much as he’d love to be wielding his gun standing in front of the people who killed his wife, or Darius and al-Raymi, his best bet was to get back to JB and put the radio to use.

But first he needed to throw up.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Monday, 8:29 PM

Ridley edged up the stairs, creeping away from the bitter smoke and dust. His breaths were quiet, measured, the gun held firmly in his hands. The sound of his footsteps mingled with the distant echoes of the stadium, which was still eerily quiet.

His mind raced, uncertain of what the hell he was doing.

Fifteen minutes ago, he’d argued that he and Austin shouldn’t try to find al-Raymi and Darius. Not yet, at least. And now he was going after them.

If Evelyn was right, they were in the coaches box, which was only a couple floors above. Austin was alive, but—separated by the collapsed stairwell—Ridley hadn’t been able to reach him. Anyway, he thought, Austin could take care of himself as well as anyone he knew.

Ridley ascended a flight of stairs, then another, his lungs feeling better the further he got from the smoke. He stopped on the landing at the top of the stairs, peering down to where he could still see the rubble from the explosion two floors below. Some of the smoke still lingered, but most had dissipated.

The door on the landing led into a short hallway lined with photos of famous Seahawks players and he crept down it slowly, silently. At the end of the hallway he stopped at a door marked, “Private.” He’d thought this was the coaches box, but now he wasn’t so sure.

Gently, he turned the handle, easing the door open.

Disarray. The room was a mangled mess, its innards torn apart by an explosion. Wires dangled from the ceiling, lights flickered, and the bitter scent of burnt electronics filled the air. Ridley's eyes adjusted to the dim light, his gaze falling on a single lifeless body, half covered by a metal rack that had blown off the wall. This wasn’t a coaches box. It was some sort of control room for the stadium, one of many, he assumed.

He stepped closer to the body, gun at the ready. What the hell had happened here?

Broken glass was everywhere. Through the smashed-out windows he could see the crowd far below. The terrorists had set off explosives in this room and on the floor below the stairwell he and Austin had been in, leaving the rest of the stadium intact. But why?

A sound interrupted his thoughts—faint, barely perceptible. Voices.

Ridley strained his ears, trying to discern the language. Arabic, he was sure. And maybe Russian or maybe another Slavic language.

Moving slowly, deliberately, he made his way across the demolished control room, hiding behind a massive chunk of wall that had toppled onto a long desk holding dozens of computers, monitors, and endless cords.

Ridley's heart hammered in his chest, his breaths shallow and quick as he pressed himself against the jagged remnants of the busted wall. The control room was a smoldering ruin, the stench of burnt wires and scorched metal like nothing he’d ever smelled. His ears still rang from the explosion, but his thoughts were clear, and they were simple. He thought of Rachel sitting on the other side of the stadium. He thought of the two men approaching.

And he thought of the Glock 19 in his hand.

The footsteps grew louder with each passing second.

And so did the voices, but they were no longer speaking Arabic or any other language. They were speaking English.

"...Three pounds of C4," the speaker's voice boasted, a sickening pride dripping from every word. “This was only three pounds. As we said, we have thousands of pounds throughout the stadium. Three pounds was all it took to turn the press box into rubble.”

The press box. Ridley cursed himself. He’d come to the wrong place. Not that it mattered now. The man had a thick Russian accent and the way he spoke made Ridley think he wasn’t speaking to the other man he was with. It was as though he was performing, speaking to a camera.

"We told you that if you did not release the hostage within two hours we would demolish part of the stadium. We chose the press box for obvious reasons. As a courtesy, we had already rounded up all your so-called journalists. No one was killed. Oh, wait, apparently one person was killed.”

He stopped speaking for a moment, whispered something in Arabic to his companion, then continued. “Apparently we missed someone. Well, it couldn’t be helped. Your media spreads lies and propaganda against the Arab world each day. If we accidentally killed an American reporter, so be it. They call us terrorists for defending our lands, while your bombs massacre innocent villagers. Your reporters demonize the Yemeni cause and champion the invaders, those who torture and imprison my brothers. Remember the photos from Abu Ghraib? Those were the acts of savages, yet your press blamed a 'few bad apples.' My people are detained without trial for years, but your journalists cry only for their lost freedoms and lattes. They care nothing for our suffering. This was your last warning. We will not tolerate the lies and hypocrisy of those who claim to champion truth while spreading only deceit. Release our friend. Leaving the press box in ruins is but a small reminder of the destruction wrought by the poisoned words of your so-called 'free' media. Their malicious pens can dig graves as deep as any missile, and their tongues launch volleys as deadly as artillery."

Ridley clenched his jaw, his grip tightening on the cold steel of the weapon. Sweat trickled down his forehead, but he didn't dare wipe it away. He had to wait, had to bide his time until the right moment.

As the men drew nearer, Ridley's senses sharpened, his entire being focused on the sound of their footsteps and the rhythm of their voices. His training had prepared him for this, taught him to harness the adrenaline coursing through his veins and turn it into a weapon.

“Next time,” the man continued, his voice louder than ever, “well, next time the entire stadium will be left looking like this.”

Then the man said something in Arabic, the tone of his voice more natural, conversational, as though he was speaking with his partner, who replied with a grunt.

The footsteps had stopped and the voices were dangerously close. The anticipation had built itself into a coiled spring. Ridley took a slow, deliberate breath, steeling himself.

In a flash, he sprang, his weapon raised and aimed with lethal precision. The terrorists barely had time to register his presence before he pulled the trigger, sending two shots into each man in rapid succession—a double tap to the chest, just as he'd been trained.

Their bodies crumpled to the ground, lifeless and still.

Ridley let out a breath. He didn’t have to think.

Those gunshots would have been heard elsewhere in the stadium, and he had to get out of here.

CHAPTER TWENTY

As Austin emerged from the tunnel, the now-familiar voice came across the PA system. “Stay calm. You have been mostly well-behaved. Your government has not. The explosions were a message, the last warning to your evil and corrupt leaders. Your government has thus far refused to comply. You should all hope they do not refuse much longer.”

Austin’s mind had cleared slightly, and so had his vision. If he moved his head quickly he still saw a blur, but if he moved slowly, deliberately, his vision was almost back to normal.

The stadium was strangely quiet. Creeping along the hallway, he came to a stairwell that led up to the main concourse, where most of the concessions and restrooms were. Staying along the wall, he made his way to the landing and peered out.

The rich smell of charred meat lingered on a nearby grill. The grease that remained in the air seemed to cut through the cement dust that lined Austin’s nostrils.

His hunger pains knocked, stomach rumbling.

An armed man stood well across the concourse, facing the field. He appeared to be guarding a lower level of seating. Austin kept his focus—averting his eyes from a concession stand loaded with out-of-reach candy bars—and watched the man. He deliberately slowed and quieted his breath. He could shoot the terrorist in the back. He could kill him, he had no doubt.

But likely it would do more harm than good. The gunshots would attract attention and Austin was no match for multiple men with submachine guns.

When the man took a couple steps down into his section, Austin hurried to the left, taking cover in a small shop that sold jerseys and memorabilia, but no candy. He was only a couple sections from the Hawk’s Nest.

Peering out over the counter, he saw a clear path.

Still limping slightly, he came to the tunnel that led from the concourse to the lower level of the Hawk’s Nest. Down below, he could see a man guarding his section.

Leaping, Austin grabbed a railing and pulled himself up, dropping to the ground and sliding in at the feet of some unsuspecting fans.

“Don’t worry,” he said, not looking up. “Act normal. I’m with the police.” After a brief silence, he continued. “I need to get back up a few dozen rows. Tell me when the guard passes by the little corner, that outcropping, and his back is turned.”

“Okay,” a woman whispered.

Austin breathed slowly, listening for a long moment to the nearly silent stadium, an eerie contrast to the explosion of sound that had filled it recently.

“Now,” the woman said.

Austin sprang up and crept silently up the concrete steps. The sun had recently set, but the air was still warm and the stadium lights cast long shadows across the surprised faces of the terrified people in the seats. He spotted his crew and slid into the seat, breathing hard, then glanced down. The man assigned to their section had turned and was pacing back toward them, but his eyes were straight ahead and, dozens of rows below, it appeared as though he hadn’t seen Austin.

Anna stood as he approached, folding her arms over her chest. “Where the hell have you been?” She hugged him briefly, then pulled away, worry creasing her brow. “I get that you want to save everything, but this isn’t the way. Not this time.”

“Where’s Rid?” Rachel demanded, leaning over. “We heard gunshots from up there.” She pointed to a faraway side of the stadium, where windows appeared to have been blown out of a suite. “What the hell is going on?”

“Ridley is okay,” Austin said. “We got separated and… look, I don’t want to take the time to explain everything. We were right near the explosion. Rid was above me and I heard his voice.”

“Is he okay?” Anna asked.

“I think so. But we lost each other in the chaos after the blast.”

Austin pulled the small radio out of his pocket and turned it over in his hands. “We got this. It looks like all the main public frequencies are jammed.”

“Shit,” JB muttered. “That’s not good.”

Austin handed the radio to him. “Ridley thought you might be able to access one of the Snohomish County frequencies, try to reach Darlene.”

JB scratched the back of his neck, thinking. “The county frequencies are pretty well encrypted. It’s possible. They could have blocked them like the others, but they’d have to know which ones to block.”

“You think Darlene will be listening?” Anna asked.

JB shrugged. “Might be. Darlene…” his voice cracked… “she doesn’t give up easy.”

Anna leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “Okay but even if we connect, what can we actually do?”

“You can tell her everything I’ve learned, and maybe she’s in contact with the FBI,” Austin said. “Rid and I found the head of stadium security and she told us a lot. Right now we’ve got nothing else.”

JB nodded slowly. “Agreed.”

Austin glanced around the stadium, where things were strangely similar to the way they’d been when he snuck away. The hostages were still sitting at the fifty yard line. Most of the crowd sat still in their seats, though some were being allowed to go up and down the aisles to use open-air corners as restrooms. As he looked around, a plan crystallized in Austin’s mind.

He turned to Anna and JB. “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do.” Austin nodded down at the guard below. “We wait for him to move to a different section. How often has he been moving?”

JB said, “Every ten, fifteen minutes. He leans on the railing in one section, then paces for a bit, then heads one section over. Rinse and repeat.”

“Okay, so when he moves, Anna, you and JB head up to the roof. Try to reach Darlene. I’ll tell you what Rid and I learned, then I’m going after Darius and al-Raymi.”

Anna’s eyes went wide. “Austin, no. It’s…”

“I have to try. And first I need to try to find Ridley. He came after me. I have to go after him.”

He met Rachel’s eyes and she offered a slight affirmative nod. She said, “When you sneak away, I’ll get a few people behind us to fill in the row, take up as much room as possible, so there’s no empty space.”

“Good,” Austin said.

Anna opened her mouth to argue but Austin cut her off. “We’re running out of time. Please, just go to the roof. Get through to Darlene if you can. I’ll be careful.”

Anna frowned, clearly torn. After a long moment, she nodded.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Monday, 8:47 PM

Austin watched as the puffy-haired terrorist leaned against the railing, gazing at the fans in their section. His weapon loosely held in one hand while he yawned, seeming unconcerned, as if he were guarding an empty warehouse instead of 60,000 hostages.

He’d told Anna and JB everything Evelyn had told him, and now it was time to wait until the terrorist gave them their opening.

Austin turned toward Anna. “We have got to stop meeting like this.”

“No kidding.” Anna returned his half smile.

“I really want to spend time with you and have an actual conversation, but can you take the lead?” He spoke while not looking directly at her but not exactly looking away either. “Tell me something to distract us from the hell we’re wading through while I keep my eye on this guy.”

Anna said, “There’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about actually. It’s not a, well, fun subject.”

“Anything to fill the time while we wait to make our move.” Austin put his arm around her drawing her in.

“I’ve never really told you about my ex. As ridiculous as this sounds, I guess now’s as good a time as any.”

Austin could feel her eyes on him, “Not as ridiculous as terrorists taking over Lumen Field. You could have bet me any amount of money at any odds and I would have bet against something like this happening tonight.” Austin kept his eyes straight ahead, not looking directly at the terrorist, but making sure he was always in his peripheral vision.

"I don’t know, Thomas, this seems on par for our relationship.”

Austin was startled to hear Anna use his first name. “Regardless, I want to hear about anything you want to share.”

“We got married so young… I was working at my dad's shop, and my ex was a dock worker. He seemed fun, always the life of the party." Austin glanced over and she was gazing into the distance, as though seeing a different time. "But the partying and fun didn't last. Everything was always about him. How much he drank, how much he hung out with his friends. Nothing I did was ever good enough. By my late twenties, I’d had enough. Filed for divorce. He did not take it well."

“But you went ahead with it.”

“I did.” She paused, and, when she continued, her voice was even lower. "The day the divorce papers were signed, I came home too late. He'd rented a U-Haul with his buddies and taken everything that mattered. Anything valuable, of course, but also the little things. The quilt from my grandma, my books that were on the bedside table.” She looked over at him, but Austin kept his eyes trained on the path of the terrorist. “Guy never read a book in his life and he took mine just to be a bastard.”

She rubbed the back of her neck and continued. “He even took Trouble, my cat. The cat I’d had since before we were married, before we were even dating." Her voice cracked. "He left a note saying Trouble liked him better. It was Tom's way of proving he'd always control me. He’s in eastern Oregon now, living with some waitress he met at the bar. He made sure I found out she’s ten years younger than me and that my cat had run away. I've been working to build a new life, but trusting another man… trusting you… it terrifies me. If I come on too strong, it’s, well, it’s some reverse psychology BS.” She laughed at herself. “It’s because I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”

Austin looked at her—really looked—for the first time since she’d been speaking. Her face was pleading, but also strong. “That makes two of us,” he said.

The terrorist scratched his neck, then turned his back to them and moved along to the section next to theirs.

Austin gave her arm a quick squeeze. “Thank you. I don’t know what to say but I want to keep not knowing what to say, together.”

She smiled.

A commotion below caught Austin’s attention. Shouting on the field. He peered down, Anna and JB following his gaze.

On the field level, outside the luxury suites, Chad Buckminster was yelling and waving his arms, trying to get the attention of the terrorists patrolling the field around the fifty yard line.

Anna snorted. “He’s probably trying to buy his way out of here.” She rolled her eyes. “Hasn’t he seen Titanic? Even though some of the passengers were loaded, you can’t just throw money at a problem of iceberg proportions.”

Austin shook his head. What was Chad trying to do?

Two terrorists broke from their patrol, approaching Chad. He greeted them enthusiastically, all smiles and back slaps. Then one of the terrorists lifted a hand to his ear, listening to something on his radio. He grabbed Chad roughly by the arm. The other terrorist collected two others from the suite—an elderly man in a suit and a woman dripping in diamonds.

Austin frowned, confused. What the hell were they doing?

He scanned the rest of the stadium and noticed similar scenes unfolding—small groups being rounded up and marched away, primarily from the luxury boxes and most expensive seats.

A flash of familiar gray hair caught his eye and his breath stuttered. Down on the field, being herded along with a dozen others, was his mother.

Realization dawned, cold and sharp. “They’re taking hostages,” he said, noticing that the young boy and the red-haired woman were still being held at gunpoint at the fifty yard line, now joined by a tall black man around forty years old. “New hostages.”

Anna followed his line of sight. “Is that? Did Ridley tell you about the… well, oh damn… the surprise?”

“My mom,” Austin said, shaking his head in the affirmative.

Anna inhaled sharply. “High value hostages. People they can use as leverage.”

Austin saw an opening and nodded to Anna, who nodded back in understanding. “Keep this guy safe.” He jabbed a thumb in JB’s direction. “And JB…” JB turned his head… “keep her safe.”

“Of course,” JB answered.

Austin turned back toward Anna. “I gotta go,” he told her.

“I know.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Darius stood beside Anwar al-Raymi, gazing down through the skybox windows at the sixty thousand prisoners they held on the field below. An occasional scream pierced the thick glass of the windows, but the stadium was largely quiet. Their team had done a good job subduing the fans, and now they patrolled, automatic weapons glinting under the harsh stadium lights.

Al-Raymi clapped a meaty hand on Darius’s shoulder, nearly knocking the slighter man off balance. “A brilliant plan, my friend. The communications jamming worked perfectly. The police remain outside, helpless. But the van, what happened?”

“Don’t know exactly.” Darius shook his head. “They were pulled over. Detained. A third of our force. No, forty percent.”

“Still, we didn’t need them. Things are under control.” Al-Raymi threw back his head and laughed, his breath reeking of coffee.

Darius allowed himself a tight smile, his chest swelling at the rare praise from al-Raymi. The plan had been nearly flawless, it was true, and yet he sensed that al-Raymi wasn’t telling him something.

Al-Raymi’s expression turned serious. “Where is Evelyn? We should have heard from her by now.”

Darius tensed. He’d tried contacting their head of security twice in the last thirty minutes. “I will go check on her.” He started toward the skybox door but al-Raymi’s next words stopped him.

“The Americans claim they do not negotiate with terrorists.” Al-Raymi snorted. “But you were right. I believe they will release our brother. It will be done in secret, so they can deny any deal was made.”

Darius had assumed this would be the case. He’d assured al-Raymi of this and argued that they didn’t even need to bother wiring the entire stadium with explosives. “I told you we wouldn’t need to blow the stadium,” he said, cautiously.

Al-Raymi frowned. “We had to convince them we would really do it. Go super-size or go home, as the Americans say!”

Darius shook his head. He didn’t think Americans said that. “I will report back as soon as I have an update on Evelyn.”

Al-Raymi waved him toward the door, but Darius swung back. “We aren’t really going to blow up the whole stadium, are we?”

Al-Raymi offered only a sly smile. He perused the chaos below. “Have you chosen the lucky few who will accompany us when we depart?”

Darius swallowed, his throat tight. The plan was to land helicopters on the field to transport a dozen or so key hostages, along with their team, to a private plane waiting at the airport.

“They are being rounded up now,” Darius said. He steadied his voice. “The hostages will be secured in a holding area until the helicopters arrive. I’ve selected the team owner—he’s a billionaire, the authorities won’t interfere if he’s onboard. A few other wealthy patrons. Some celebrities. A few Navy personnel who were supposed to be honored at halftime.”

Al-Raymi nodded, satisfied. “Good, good. Taking the powerful and famous as collateral, that is the way.” His eyes gleamed. “And if they come after us, we start pushing hostages out of the helicopter one by one.”

Darius suppressed a shudder at the mental image. For someone who was so good at violence, he did not especially enjoy it, and he never reveled in it the way al-Raymi did. “Let us hope it does not come to that.”

“You are too softhearted, Darius. Sometimes blood must be shed for the cause to advance.” Al-Raymi gripped Darius’s arm, his fingers digging in. “Do not forget why we are here. Our brother rots in their dungeon. We will free him or lay waste to this stadium in the attempt. Then we move on to phase two.”

Phase two was the only thing Darius truly cared about, but he did not want al-Raymi to know this. “I have not forgotten,” Darius said. “But destroying the stadium gains us nothing and risks turning the entire world against us.”

Al-Raymi released him, eyes glinting. “Most of the world is already against us. And you worry too much about these foolish people and their love of spectacle. Once we are gone, all will be forgotten. The cause will live on.” He waved a hand. “Go see to what’s wrong with our head of security. Then proceed to the hostages and helicopters.”

Darius left the coaches box, sucking in deep breaths.

He was supposed to go check on Evelyn, but he had something else in mind.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Monday, 9:06 PM

Austin crept through the deserted concourse and made his way to the stairwell that had exploded beneath him, approaching from the top. He’d hoped to find Ridley there, but, as he peered over the railing, all he saw was the wreckage of busted concrete and twisted metal.

Small plumes of smoke still wafted up from the demolished staircase.

Giving up on finding Ridley where they had separated, he found another staircase and started up the steps, gun gripped tight, senses on high alert. Halfway up, he heard something—the echo of footsteps coming down the stairwell toward him. It sounded like at least a few people, but they were not speaking.

He leapt up a few steps to a landing, then pressed himself flat against the wall behind a door. Listening, the footsteps grew louder, closer, heavy feet were descending the concrete stairs.

Right on top of him now. He tensed, ready to fire, and leapt out.

It was Ridley, along with three men all in full NFL uniforms, two Seahawks and a 49er.

“You scared the hell out of me,” Austin said, lowering the gun. “Ridley? I—”

Ridley had tensed and raised his weapon, which he now lowered. “Austin, these are—”

“I know who they are,” Austin said.

The Seahawks’ players were Derrick Green, the backup running back who’d been born and raised in Seattle, and John van der Merwe, their punter, who’d risen to fame in the South African rugby league as a teenager before being invited to Notre Dame to kick footballs. He’d become a 6th round draft pick for the Seahawks. Finally, there was Jalen Robinson, the best wide receiver on the 49ers. One of the biggest stars in the league, Austin had seen Robinson in a dozen commercials for cereal, sandwiches, and cars.

“No time to explain,” Ridley said. Then, turning to the players, he said, “Good luck.” Without a word, they continued down the stairs. Austin noticed that Green, the running back, had a handgun.

“What the hell?” Austin asked.

Ridley ran a hand over his bald head. “Long story. First, tell me what’s going on. Did you make it to Darius, or…”

“Went back to the seats. JB and Anna have the radio. They’re trying to reach Darlene.”

“What about Rachel?”

Austin gripped his friend’s arm. “Rachel’s holding up okay. She’s staying put for now, but she’s worried.”

Ridley nodded, relief flooding his face. “Thank God. I need to get back there, make sure she’s alright. I managed to lift a satellite phone off a body.” Ridley held it up. “Might come in handy.”

“A body?”

“Two. They didn’t know what hit them.” Ridley’s expression turned grim. “I didn’t want anyone to be killed, but their deaths were unavoidable. I’m going to check on Rachel, I need to see her.”

“No, I barely made it here. Those guards will spot you in an instant, you’d only draw attention to yourself or worse, Rachel. Come with me.” Austin jerked his head, indicating that they should head down the stairs. “I’ve got an idea.”

Ridley hesitated, torn. “Rachel—”

“Will be safer if we can get help in here faster.” Austin met his friend’s gaze steadily. “Look, the longer this goes on, the more panicked those bastards will get. We need to end this now before they decide to start executing more hostages. Or worse.”

Ridley clenched his jaw, but nodded. “You’re right. Lead the way, I’m with you.”

Following in the path of the players, Austin led Ridley down the stairs, then down a dimly lit corridor to a janitor’s room he’d spotted earlier. He tried the knob. As expected, it was locked.

Ridley jiggled the handle roughly, then peered around for something to pry it open. His gaze landed on a crowd control stanchion that had been placed to divert people around a crack in one of the tiles. "Stand back."

Austin moved aside as Ridley grasped the stanchion turned battering ram. His hands tightened on the center of the post as he eyed the lever handle of the wooden door. Ridley reared back and slammed the round base into the door’s handle with as much force as he could muster. The wood splintered around the handle, but held.

"Again!" Austin said.

Grunting with effort, Ridley struck again. This time the door burst inward, lock and handle tearing free in protest, clattering to the floor.

"Subtle." Austin slipped past him into the closet. The space was filled with cleaning supplies and chemicals that lined sagging wooden shelves. The air was tinged with a biting scent of ammonia that made his eyes water.

"What now, MacGyver?" Ridley asked as he grabbed a metal folding chair to brace against the broken door, securing it shut. "Please tell me you've got a plan here beyond demolishing stadium property?"

“MacGyver?”

“You serious?” Ridley asked.

Austin shrugged, confused.

“It’s a show from the eighties,” Ridley said. “Government agent, famous for making tear gas out of kitchen supplies, that kind of thing. In one episode he made a jetpack out of a pressure washer.”

Austin shrugged again. “Then yes, we’re gonna go full MacGyver on these guys. Except we’re not going to make a jetpack. We’re gonna make a smoke bomb.”

"A what?" Ridley turned, incredulous, all mirth gone from his tone. "Have you lost your mind?"

Austin scanned the labels on the grimy shelves, looking for specific ingredients that would react enough to create large amounts of heat and, more importantly, smoke. His gaze caught on a large bag of potassium nitrate fertilizer and a half-used bag of sugar.

“Now, why would they have sugar in here?” Austin asked.

“Two reasons,” Ridley replied. “Even though I played linebacker, I wasn’t good enough to get a scholarship, so I worked in the football stadium to pay my way through college. Sugar is granular and can help scrub away stuck-on messes when mixed with other chemicals. Sometimes we used it for vermin bait, too.”

“When I was back at the seats,” Austin said, “I saw them gathering more hostages, including the team owner, and my mom. I believe they’re gonna escape, and I have no reason to believe they won’t blow up the stadium on their way out. Either way, going for the head of the snake is the only thing to do.”

Ridley opened his mouth like he was going to object, but said nothing. Finally, he shrugged. "I can't believe I'm going along with this. But why the sugar?"

“We’re going to mix it with the potassium nitrate.”

Ridley looked confused.

“You’ll see.”

While Ridley kept watch through the gap in the door, Austin measured potassium nitrate and sugar into the can in a three to two ratio, hoping the basic science he’d learned held true. If done right, it would burn hot and produce volumes of smoke. If done wrong… he didn’t want to consider the possibilities.

It had to work.

“How’d the players get free of the round up?” Austin asked.

“They were back in the locker room at the end of the first quarter. Green to have his ankle re-taped, Robinson to cool off after getting in a scuffle with a Seahawks cornerback, and van der Merwe to use the restroom. One thing we have going for us, this crew is under-staffed. They needed eighty, a hundred people for this job. But they don’t have eyes everywhere.”

“So what are the players going to do?” Austin said. “They seemed like they were on a mission.”

“They say they know of a secret exit, one that’s not even in the public architectural plans. Players use it to avoid press sometimes and, on occasion, to sneak paramores in and out of the stadium without their wives noticing. Only the players and owners and a handful of stadium staff know about it. They’re going to try to get out, so they can bring help back in.”

Austin considered this. “Risky as hell. Wouldn’t Evelyn have told her overlords about that exit?”

“They didn’t think so. The team staff and stadium security are different.” Ridley shrugged. “I tried to talk them out of it but…”

Every once in a while, the satellite phone beeped a quick double beep, which frayed Austin’s nerves. “What does that beep beep mean?”

Ridley said, “I’ve never used one of these things. I don’t know if I should answer it, try to listen in, or…”

Austin took it from him and inspected it. It looked like a boxy cell phone from a decade or so earlier, regular buttons and no touch screen. The only difference was a thick black antenna. “Let’s think this through,” he said, handing it back to Ridley.

Ridley nodded. “I already checked and there don’t appear to be any telephone numbers programmed into it. Likely only a dozen or so people have them, and they memorized the important numbers.”

“Does it send and receive texts?” Austin asked.

“It does. One came through right after I got it. It said, ‘forty minutes,’ but that was it.”

“How long ago did you receive the message?” Austin wondered aloud. “Forty minutes to what?”

“Maybe fifteen minutes ago.” Ridley took the phone back and shoved it in his pocket. “But your guess is as good as mine. So, if it rings we could answer it, but then we alert whoever is calling to the fact that I killed the men it belonged to, if they don’t already know.”

Austin sighed. “We just wait for texts. Maybe someone sends out a group text that gives us something.” He glanced around the storage area. “I need a fuse.”

Ridley picked up a microfiber mop. "Will a string from this work?"

“Yes.”

Ridley pulled a strand and tried to shake it loose from the mop head. It wouldn’t release. He looked around the room for something sharp, then took the strand and bent it over one of the posts on the metal shelving unit, rubbing it against the edge.

“Who’s the MacGyver now?” Austin asked. “Am I using that reference correctly?”

Ridley couldn’t hold back his smile. “Indeed you are.”

The mop strand came loose and he handed it to Austin.

Austin carefully placed it in the opening of the can, leaving it half protruding.

"There." Austin inspected their creation. "Now we just need a lighter."

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Monday, 9:11 PM

Anna waited for the puffy-haired terrorist to turn and pace past the bottom of their section, then, holding her breath, hurried up the steps to the top row of the Hawk's Nest seating area.

JB was right behind her.

Reaching the top row, they sat on the steps. As planned, a heavy-set man who’d been sitting behind them slid forward and filled in the empty space on the bench. Rachel and the others in their section had spread out as well, making the seating area look nearly as crowded as it had before.

Heart racing, she waited for the terrorist to make another pass. He glanced up in their general direction, but seemed to be paying little attention to details. Plus, they were far enough away now that to him they must’ve looked like just another pair of faces in a sea of people. When he turned away, they moved cautiously along the aisle, the cityscape of Seattle sprawled out behind them, the giant video scoreboard looming overhead. Anna scanned the area, her eyes finally settling on a small alcove tucked between the last row of seats and the base of the towering scoreboard.

“Here," she whispered to JB.

It was a tight, shadowy space that offered them cover. The sun's warmth had gone a while ago and a slight chill hit Anna as she huddled in the shadows next to JB, pressing her back against the cold concrete. The hum of the massive video board above them filled the air.

JB was already turning dials on the radio, his focus intense. A loud burst of static erupted suddenly and JB leaned down to cover the device with his chest as he fumbled for the volume button.

“Austin said that Ridley tried all the regular frequencies,” Anna said.

The volume low, JB scanned, the only sound the different tones of static. “He was right. They're jamming the channels between 150 MHz and 170 MHz. That's where most of the local law enforcement operates. But there's a special frequency Darlene and I use when we're both on duty," he continued, his fingers moving with practiced ease. "It's at 142.875 MHz. Here.”

The line was clear. No static. JB pressed the talk button and spoke, his voice formal and authoritative. “This is JB Macintosh, Police Chief, City of Snohomish. I am inside the stadium, which has been taken over by terrorists calling themselves the Al-Rus Yeminiyah. Does anyone copy?"

During the long silence, the terror she’d been feeling while sneaking out of their seats dissipated, replaced by a sense of unreality. Not long ago she’d been excited to meet Austin for a long awaited real date and now here she was, huddled under a giant screen, trying to reach the outside world on a radio taken from a terrorist.

“Does anyone copy?" JB repeated.

She imagined every television station in America—probably in the world—had switched over to live coverage. What she didn’t know was whether the terrorists were allowing any broadcasts from inside the stadium. Had they taken over the cameramen to allow disturbing images to be broadcast? Or had those been blocked as well? Either way, hundreds of reporters, maybe thousands, would be descending on Seattle. Those already in the city would be getting as close as possible to the stadium. No matter what happened, this would be the biggest news story in the world for years to come.

The gravity of it hit her and she looked up at JB, whose face was still as stone. In the cold shadow of the jumbotron, something else struck her. It was a certainty that landed in her chest as though it had invaded her body from the outside. Nineteen hijackers had carried out the September 11th attacks in 2001. No one knew the exact numbers who’d helped in the planning stages, but most estimates were between 25 and 100. There was no way, she thought, that a team of forty—likely supported by dozens more off site—would be put together for an operation like this for the sole purpose of securing the release of a single prisoner.

JB tried again, the urgency in his voice unmistakable. “Darlene, or anyone else, this is JB, are you there? Over."

Still, there was nothing but silence.

JB looked up at Anna. “No reason to think she’d be listening to that frequency,” he said. “It was worth a shot, but—”

“Maybe she’s made contact with the FBI, sharing what she knows from the inside view. Michael Bolov and whatever else Austin saw.”

JB nodded.

“Something I can’t get out of my mind,” Anna said. “You really think they’re doing all this for the release of one prisoner?”

JB looked confused. “Don’t know. Don’t especially care. Motive ain’t my business.” He nodded in the direction of the crowd. “Saving as many people as possible is the only thing that matters. For now at least. And I gotta think the people on the outside are doing their best to do just that. Darlene included.”

Anna agreed, and yet… in her years writing about crime, she’d learned that sometimes knowing the why behind a crime, or series of crimes, helped detectives solve it. In some cases, it helped them stop it.

JB tried again. “Darlene, this is JB, are you there? Over. Please, baby. Are you there? Over."

"Well, butter my biscuit!” Darlene’s familiar voice crackled through the radio. “JB, tell me again that’s you. Tell me you’re okay.”

“It’s me, honey, and we’re okay.” His voice was full of emotion. “We don’t have time for small talk. First, I love you. Second… we don’t have time for ‘second.’ What's the situation out there?"

Darlene took a deep breath. "It's a mess. SPD and King County Sheriff's Office got here first. They're establishing a perimeter and working on evacuating the area. Apartments, restaurants, everything. The Feds are on the scene too. I’m at the edge of the parking lot. Convinced them to let me stay.”

"Feds?" Anna asked, her brow furrowed.

"Homeland Security is in on it too, offering support and resources."

JB rubbed his temple. “That's a lot of cooks in the kitchen. Any problems?"

Darlene hesitated. “It’s a passel of possums in a peach orchard.”

“She means it’s a shitshow,” JB explained.

“Exactly,” Darlene agreed. “That’s what I’m telling you. And it doesn’t help that every news organization in the world is covering this thing live. They’re keeping a perimeter, but I think half the reporters in the world just parachuted into Seattle.”

“They’re just doing their jobs,” Anna said, always quick to jump to the defense of reporters.

“They need to stay out of the way,” Darlene said, “And anyway, Feds are working on getting a unified command structure set up to keep things under control."

"What about Washington ?" JB asked.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Darlene said. “We all know the U.S. doesn’t negotiate with terrorists, except when they do.”

Anna glanced at JB, who looked as confused as she felt. “What do you mean?” JB asked.

Darlene was quiet for a moment, then said, “Sorry, there was a tank rolling by. Uhh, Iran-Contra, Hezzbolah on the TWA flight in 1985. Even recently, we swapped five Taliban leaders from Guantanamo for one Army Sergeant. Point is, it’s a good stance to say we don’t negotiate. In practice, we do it all the time and, especially when it serves our interests, we cave. I’m guessing this might be one of those cases. Sixty thousand hostages versus one man. Cable TV shows are already bringing on pundits to debate.”

Anna stopped watching cable news years ago, but she could certainly picture it. Dozens of folks in nice suits and makeup debating the ethics of hostage releases while tens of thousands of lives hung in the balance. It made her regret how quickly she’d jumped to the defense of her profession.

She grabbed the radio. “Lemme tell you what we know from inside so you can pass it along.”

“Go,” Darlene said. “I’m taking notes on my phone.”

“Everything I’m telling you comes via Austin. He and Ridley pulled some Hieronymus Bosch shit and, well, here goes: Evelyn, the head of security, she was in on it for a year or so, although it sounds like they blackmailed her. She mentioned a man named Darius, another man named Anwar al-Raymi. I’m guessing you’ve heard of him.”

“They already know all this,” Darlene said. “It’s all over the news. Anwar al-Raymi claimed credit right away, or someone did on his behalf. Word is there was an explosion inside the stadium. Footage was recorded on a cell phone and sent to negotiators. A warning. It leaked and it’s already on TV.”

“Yeah,” JB said. “Seems they detonated a tiny portion of their explosives. A warning.”

“Austin said they incapacitated a security guard named Baxter,” Anna continued, “who does not appear to be a central player in the plot.”

JB asked, “Are you getting this, honey?”

“I’m typing like a caffeinated squirrel on a treadmill.”

Anna told her everything else Austin had told her and JB, concluding with the recent rounding up of high profile hostages.

When she’d finished, Darlene said, “Good, that’s all good. I don’t know if it’ll help or not, but I’ll pass it along. Something else you should know. They have a lot of the stadium security in on it. You mentioned Baxter and Evelyn, but there are many others, apparently. Don’t trust anyone.”

JB looked at Anna, who realized they hadn’t planned what they’d do next.

She said the first thing that came to mind. “For now, Darlene, let’s stay on the line together. You, me, and JB. We’ll tell you what we’re seeing and you tell us anything you’re seeing or hearing.”

As a brief silence settled over the line, though, Anna still couldn’t shake the thought: was the release of a single prisoner really the impetus behind the attack? And, if not, what was?

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Darius's mind wandered to his childhood as he descended the stairs to the field level, the harsh lights casting shadows that flickered like memories across his vision. The first time he'd heard Adham El-Sayed's Dark Symphony played like a movie in his mind.

Just a boy in Egypt, he'd stumbled upon the CD in a music shop, entranced by its colorful, enigmatic cover. He'd brought it home, eager to listen.

Alone that night, he'd pressed play. The music poured forth unlike anything he'd known. El-Sayed blended traditional Egyptian instruments into haunting, dissonant harmonies. Intricate melodies wove a tale of darkness, pain and beauty.

Over time, the Dark Symphony became the soundtrack of Darius's life. Its complex, melancholy strains mirrored the darkness growing within as he studied technology. His natural aptitude for computers and networking was evident, but after his parents were killed, his world collapsed.

His uncle in Yemen took him in, exploiting his talent for sinister ends, coercing Darius into using his skills to become a terrorist prodigy. The once comforting Dark Symphony now served as a chilling reminder of the path his life had taken. Its delicate balance of beauty and shadow mirrored his existence—intellect and talent corrupted by forces beyond his control.

Darius reached the holding area, a small massage room not far from the field, the Dark Symphony still playing in his mind. Darius inspected the hostages—an older woman in a Navy dress uniform, one of the team owners, a young man in an expensive suit, and many more. All seemed in order.

Satisfied, Darius left for the field. He had no intention of checking on Evelyn; she'd likely gotten cold feet, and they didn't need her now. Al-Raymi had made his own plans, Darius sensed.

The mastery with which El-Sayed wove melodies and rhythms was like Darius’s orchestration of terror. Both instilled fear, left lasting impressions. Both were artists, their creations evoking emotion.

Darius reached the bottom of the stairs and started through a dim tunnel. He wove between thick pillars, continuing into the depths of the stadium. He wandered, lost in memory and thought. Though never his choice, this was his life, and he would see it through. The cause was everything, the future uncertain. His once flawless plan was playing out of tune and seemed riddled with sour notes.

In a large basement area, Darius finally stopped. A giant column filled most of the space, its concrete base almost as wide as the room. As Darius approached, a flash of light caught his eye. Circuits and wires lined the column, snaking up its length and disappearing into the ceiling above.

Arrayed before him were rows upon rows of C4 and Semtex, enough to level the section of stadium.

In their arguments leading up to this day, Darius had tried to convince al-Raymi that it would be enough to use smaller amounts of explosives, enough to level small sections of the stadium and bluff their way to the release of the prisoner before moving on to phase two.

Al-Raymi had demanded that they get enough—more than enough—to destroy the entire structure. It had delayed their plans over six months—acquiring tons of explosives was not an easy task. It had to be done in small batches.

Each bundle of explosives connected to a small, nondescript device—an IED, the fatal link in this chain of destruction. He knelt down, examining one of the IEDs more closely. The cellphone was rigged just as he remembered—wires connecting it to the detonator, the SIM card inserted, ready to receive the fatal call. But as he looked closer, something was off.

He cursed under his breath when he saw it. “Ya lu'nat al-dahr!”

The original design had included a redundancy circuit, a fail-safe that required two distinct signals—like a two-key system—to trigger the detonation. It was supposed to be there, a second set of wires, leading to a separate, smaller circuit board. After receiving a call from al-Raymi’s phone, this board would wait, dormant until it received the signal from the second phone, his phone, at which point it would complete the circuit and trigger the detonation.

But it wasn't there.

The space where the redundancy circuit should have been was empty. There was just a single set of wires, leading from the cellphone to the blasting cap. His breath hitched in his throat as the realization hit him.

Al-Raymi had modified the design. Not al-Raymi, that brute couldn’t have done it. But the order could only have come from him.

Without the redundancy circuit, the IEDs could be triggered by a single phone. Al-Raymi's phone.

Darius stumbled out from among the columns and found the corridor. His head spun.

He felt his twisted pride crumble.

Though not his choice, this was the path of his life, and now he didn’t know where he was going. All he knew was he regretted everything he’d done in life to bring him to this point.

Nevertheless he would see the music through. He had to.

Phase two of their plan would make it all worthwhile.

Da capo al fine.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Monday, 9:31 PM

“Security will increase the closer we get to the field,” Austin said. “That’s my guess, anyway.” He stopped at the end of a long corridor and peered around the corner. “Clear.”

Ridley stepped around him and began leading the way. “And you’re thinking… what? We try to get near enough to the ringleaders to drop the smoke bomb and take them out in the chaos?” Ridley stopped suddenly. “Shhh.”

Austin listened. He heard nothing.

“Sorry,” Ridley said, continuing down the corridor, “I thought I heard something.”

Austin said, “But yeah, that’s what I was thinking. We wait until we hear the helicopters.” He stopped at a pair of blue double doors, listened, and heard nothing. He pointed toward the end of the corridor. “The field and the locker rooms are that way. We head through these doors, then see if we can get into the ducts. We get much closer in the hallways and we’re bound to run into someone.”

Ridley gave a silent nod and locked eyes with Austin. Austin reached for the handle and quickly pushed open the door as Ridley stepped into the room, gun at the ready.

“Clear,” Ridley said.

Austin followed him into what appeared to be an equipment room, locking the door behind him. The room was full of footballs in large bins, pads piled high in corners, jerseys in laundry bags and on hanging racks in various stages of being laundered.

“When we hear the choppers,” Austin said, “we know they’ll be gathering by the field with the high value hostages. We get close enough to throw the smoke bomb to create chaos, then…” he sighed, letting the unfinished plan hang in the room.

“Yeah,” Ridley said quietly. “Not much of a plan. Even if we take out Darius and al-Raymi, we could easily get hostages killed. Some of them. All of them. Let’s say they have six choppers each holding eight people, we—”

“I don’t think they will. My bet is that half of these bastards will be martyred. Al-Raymi and Darius escape with the hostages, leaving most of the foot soldiers behind, then they blow the stadium remotely when they’re somewhere safe.”

“Still,” Ridley said. “You and me versus twenty armed terrorists? I don’t love our chances.” He sighed. “Can’t say I have a better idea, though. Assuming they’re gonna blow the stadium when they get in the air…”

He didn’t need to finish the thought. There was a good chance they were about to trade their own lives, and possibly those of some hostages, for a chance at saving roughly 60,000 others.

Ridley holstered his gun, then, using a small footstool, removed the grate over an air duct, then pulled himself up. “Spacious,” he said. “This is the main air supply duct. It’ll branch off into narrower tube ducting, likely as we get further from the main line.”

Austin looked up. He reached for the smoke bomb, checking to make sure it felt secure between his lower back and the waist of his jeans. Ridley had been able to pull himself up with ease, his massive shoulder and arm muscles coming in handy. Despite working to get back into shape, Austin didn’t think he’d find it quite so easy.

Ridley reached down, offering Austin his hands.

Austin accepted it and, with a grunt and a little jump from Austin, Ridley pulled him up into the duct. It was bigger than he’d expected, maybe five feet in diameter. It made sense. This was a giant facility and it would need a lot of airflow.

Stooped over, they moved with their hands braced against the smooth metal walls to keep balanced. Austin followed Ridley for twenty or thirty feet, leaving the space above the equipment room, crossing what Austin thought was a hallway, and taking up a position above another room.

Ridley looked down through the grated vent. “Medical treatment room,” he whispered. “Empty.”

They stayed there, motionless for a long moment.

“Do you even know what Darius and al-Raymi look like?” Ridley asked.

If Austin had more room to move his arms, he might have slapped himself in the forehead. “Damn. I… Al-Raymi I know. He’s huge. Your size and looks like a stereotype of a former general. Mean as hell, busted nose.”

“And Darius?”

“No,” Austin said. “I’d never heard of him until Evelyn.”

“So, if we get anywhere near these guys, you go for al-Raymi first, I’ll take care of anyone else who… well… doesn’t look like a hostage. Anyone with a gun.”

Austin’s plan was sounding worse by the minute. “We aren’t hostages and we have guns.”

Ridley considered this. “I’ll use my best judgment.”

“I think the field is maybe fifty yards from here, which means we’re near the locker room. Let’s go another thirty or forty feet.”

They slowly crossed over the empty medical room. When they reached the end of the room, the duct narrowed. Ridley stopped and awkwardly folded himself, pretzel-like, into a sitting position. He could almost sit up straight, but not quite.

Austin sat up, leaning against the metal sidewall. “Think we’ll hear the choppers from here?”

“Sure. They’re loud as hell.” Ridley’s voice was low, but not only because he was trying to stay quiet. He sounded sad, almost resigned to some fate Austin didn’t want to think about.

Austin was about to say something, but Ridley surprised him. “Life hasn’t been easy, but I don’t think I’ve ever experienced real grief, true agony. Sometimes I wonder how I’d be different if I had.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m thinking about Rachel,” Ridley said, his voice low, “my twins on their way, my kids at home, probably watching this on… on TV.” His voice cracked slightly. “I don’t want to die, but I’d take it a hundred times out of a hundred to protect them. But if something happened to Rachel, I don’t know. Half the days, she’s the reason I get out of bed in the morning.”

“I understand.”

They sat in silence for a long time, listening for the sound of helicopters. Finally, Ridley said, “Tell me something, Austin. Tell me about Fiona.”

Austin had been thinking about the last time he was at an NFL game. “The last stadium I was in was Giants Stadium, with Fiona.” He let out a slow, quiet breath. “A lifetime ago. We bundled up against the cold, Fiona in her Giants beanie and scarf, cheering them on. Afterward we went for steaks at Torcello, our favorite place. In New York, locals don’t go to midtown much—it’s more of a tourist spot—but we’d go there once or twice a year.”

“I could go for a steak,” Ridley said.

Austin knew he must be starving, but he didn’t feel it anymore. He didn’t feel much of anything. “When we ordered…”

He paused, holding his breath, as he heard the sound of footsteps echoing down the corridor. Were they coming from above? Or heading his way?

The footsteps grew louder, closer, then faded as they moved overhead.

Austin exhaled, continuing with his voice barely above a whisper. “We almost always got the same thing at Torcello. Ribeye for two, asparagus, scalloped potatoes, bearnaise sauce. One glass of red wine each. It was our yearly or twice yearly splurge. That night…” His throat tightened at the memory. “I ordered one of everything. We’d been talking about having kids at the game, I’d had a couple beers, maybe I was a little tipsy. Along with our normal order, I added the truffle risotto, wedge salad with bacon, some sort of passion fruit soufflé dessert you had to order half an hour in advance.” He smiled sadly. “Fiona made fun of me to the waiter. But, you know, in a playful way.” Austin felt himself breaking down, the memory bittersweet, but mostly bitter.

“Sounds like you were trying to be a little more like DMJ, even back then.”

“Maybe,” Austin said. “She did wish I was a little less predictable. Maybe I was trying it on. Anyway, we ate maybe a third of it, got some to-go boxes and… well, an hour later she was gone.”

He clenched his jaw, trying to force the images from his mind. As Fiona bled out on the sidewalk, Austin crawled toward her, leaving a bloody trail from the four gunshots he’d taken. The last things he remembered were the screech of tires as the SUV peeled away from the scene and the bloody to-go boxes scattered on the midtown sidewalk.

“That was the day?” Ridley asked. “The day that…”

“Yeah,” Austin said. “That was the last day.”

“That’s what I mean,” Ridley said. “Life’s never easy, but my parents are both still alive, my kids are healthy, my wife is healthy.” He paused, then said, “What I’m saying is, I’ve been lucky, and I don’t always appreciate it. I’ve got a lot of respect for the fact that you’re still here, still trying, still living, still making a go of it. If anything happened to Rachel, I don’t know… I don’t know what I’d do.”

“Anna’s fond of saying that no matter how bad things seem, the world is worth fighting for.” He paused. “I think maybe that’s what makes us human. We keep going. Even when there’s no good reason to, we do it anyway. Either we don’t know any better, or something is guiding us. Something that wants us to keep going no matter what.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Darius hurried down a long, damp corridor, mind racing. He couldn’t help it, but every interaction he’d had with al-Raymi seemed to be coming back to him in little bursts like the staccato pulses of violins being plucked.

An argument about a crew member Darius didn’t trust but al-Raymi had insisted upon.

A strange phone call al-Raymi had refused to explain.

A disagreement over the number of helicopters they needed.

Theirs had been a strange partnership.

When al-Raymi had approached him about the plan, he’d begun by appealing to Darius’s desire for revenge. His parents had been killed in a bombing when he was only twelve, after all, a bombing that had been linked to an American drone that had mistakenly targeted them despite the fact that they were both academics and neither even slightly political.

But at first, Darius hadn’t agreed. Sure, he had been involved in plotting multiple attacks while he lived in Yemen in his teens and twenties, but he’d escaped to America, to Seattle, to try to live a normal life. He was out of the struggle.

Out, that is, until Anwar al-Raymi pulled him back in.

Darius stopped, panting, and pulled the small satellite phone from his pocket. What the hell was he doing? Where was he going?

He could call al-Raymi, tell him he knew he’d been betrayed, cut out of the decision about blowing up the stadium, but then what? He stared down at the little phone, gripping it tighter and tighter and tighter, rage he never knew he had building up as though it was trying to escape his hand. He remembered the call he’d gotten when his parents had been killed. The confusion, the pain, the overwhelming grief and rage.

He squeezed the phone harder, trying to crush it.

He heard a pop and, for a moment, he thought he’d broken the phone. But then the pain hit his hand and he realized it was his knuckle, or maybe a tendon. Pain shot up and down his hand and wrist. He pressed it gently and it was warm to the touch. He’d busted something, for sure, but he had no time to worry about that.

He turned the corner and slid into a small room full of yoga mats and medicine balls.

The day he finally agreed to arrange the attack, he’d been lying in bed all day. At the time he was working a remote tech support job for a small Seattle company—a job he was so overqualified for that he could do it with about a quarter of his attention. It was his day off and he’d been working on his book. He knew it would never be published, never be shown to a single person, but, in his mind, it was called, The True Story of a Reluctant Terrorist. He’d memorized his favorite passage and, all through the planning stages with al-Raymi, he’d had it running through his mind. Somehow, he’d use it to convince himself that what he was doing was, if not okay, necessary.

Imagine you are the greatest conductor the world has ever seen, he’d written, like Mozart or Beethoven, but your music poisons people instead of uplifting them. Imagine you are the greatest football player the world has ever known—Tom Brady or Joe Montana or Patrick Mahomes—but when people watch your performance on the field, they die.

That’s how he felt all those years in Seattle after leaving the struggle in Yemen, after going straight. That’s why al-Raymi had been able to pull him back in. And that’s how he justified the years of planning.

But now…

Now he saw it for what it was. A twisted justification for his crimes, for the sickness that lived within him.

He wandered across the room, stuffing the phone back in his pocket.

Where was he going? What was he doing?

He passed from one room to another, then another, getting further from the locker rooms, further from the field, further away from the spot where, soon, the helicopters were supposed to land to begin phase two. But he’d been pushed out of his own plan. If al-Raymi had betrayed him once, perhaps he didn’t even intend to follow through with phase two. Would there even be room on the helicopters for Darius?

His hand was beginning to swell. With every clench of his fist he felt a searing pain. He’d definitely torn a tendon.

He pressed his hands against the wall to steady his stance and bowed his head. He felt all the energy leaving him at once. He thought of his parents, of long afternoons at the university in Cairo before they’d died, before he’d been sent to live with his uncle in Yemen, before everything had gone wrong.

He thought back to the days when he’d imagined himself being a composer, then imagined himself being the greatest tech inventor in Egypt’s history. The Steve Jobs or Bill Gates of Egypt.

What had happened? What had he become?

Why had everything gone wrong?

He closed his eyes and began to cry, softly, ever so softly, and for the first time in years.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Monday, 9:52 PM

“Do you hear that?” Ridley asked.

Austin listened for the choppers, but heard nothing save for the steady, gentle woosh of the cool air streaming through the ducts. “I don’t hear anything.”

Ridley said, “Wait, it’s… nah, maybe I imagined it. Nevermind.”

After Austin had told Ridley the story of his last dinner with Fiona, they’d been quiet for a long time. Sitting cross-legged in the ducts, smoke bomb tucked under his shirt, Austin had listened for the helicopters. A strangely peaceful state had overcome him. In the silence, he’d wondered whether this was what it felt like when you knew you were going to die, and had come to terms with it.

He’d heard that hospice patients sometimes got deeply peaceful during their last days or final hours. As though all the cares and concerns of the world left them and, while still alive, they took on a distant stare. They were making a connection to something beyond our everyday world, seeming to transition to a place of peace and freedom. He didn’t know if this was true, but it was how he felt.

“There it is again,” Ridley said. “You hear that? What is that?”

Austin listened. Nothing. “You think you hear the choppers?”

“No, listen. It’s like crying. Whimpering.”

Austin listened. “I… yes.” It was coming from a room over, Austin thought, back in the direction they’d come. “Should we check it out?”

“Head back a bit,” Ridley said. “That way.”

Austin got back on his hands and knees and crept quietly down the duct. About ten yards on, he paused. It was definitely a person crying, sobbing actually. He turned to Ridley, who was right behind him. “What the hell?”

“An escaped hostage?” Ridley whispered.

Back over the supply room, Austin looked through the vent, trying to see who was there. Up against a wall was a slight man around forty years old. He wore brown pants and a black t-shirt, the light brown skin of his face glistening where the fluorescent lights hit his tears.

“We have to help him,” Austin said. “He needs to get away from this section.”

“No,” Ridley said. “We leave him.”

“Look at him,” Austin said. “He’s no threat and, hell, maybe he can help us.”

Austin pulled his gun from the holster and, holding it in his right hand, slowly removed the grate with his left, dropping his head through it, followed by his arms. “It’s okay,” he said as the man looked up, shocked. “I’m with the police. Don’t move.”

Quickly, Austin pulled his head back, then dropped feet first through the grate into the room.

The man lifted his head and withdrew his hands from the wall. “I’m… it’s okay.”

Ridley was right behind Austin. “Who are you?” he asked.

“A… I’m a… a fan,” he said. “I’m a fan. They… the men.”

“You need to get out of here,” Austin said. “Away from this area.” He pointed at the door on the other side of the room. “That way. Things are gonna go down near here and you don’t want to be anywhere near this place.” Austin put his gun back in his holster.

The man’s eyes followed his movements closely.

Ridley asked, “How did you escape? Where did you come from?”

“I… I was…”

Austin studied his face. His cheeks were damp, his hair disheveled. His nose straight and a little large on his gaunt face. “What’s your name?” Austin asked.

Beep Beep.

It was the satellite phone and its annoying double beep, which they still didn’t know the meaning of.

Beep Beep.

Austin felt a jolt of recognition cut through him, hitting his stomach, then his heart, then landing in his head. The noise hadn’t come from Ridley’s direction.

The double beep had come from the pocket of the man in front of him.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

In an instant, Austin had the man’s wrist twisted behind his back, face pressed into the wall. “You’re with the terrorists,” he said.

“I’m unarmed,” the man said, weakly.

“Rid…” Austin glanced back.

Ridley already had his gun out. “Pat him down. I’ve got you.”

Austin pulled the satellite phone out of the man’s pocket. It was identical to the one Ridley had taken off the man he’d killed. Next, Austin checked for weapons. Besides a pack of tropical fruit gum, he had nothing else on him.

Austin stepped back. “Who are you?”

The man said nothing.

Ridley stepped forward, towering over him. “Who the hell are you?”

The man’s face quivered and he slowly collapsed, using the wall to brace himself as he fell. He ended up sitting cross-legged on the floor.

Austin studied the man’s face. He hadn’t seen this guy around the stadium. Unarmed and at his size, he doubted this was one of the enforcers. He had an intelligent face and bright blue eyes that, while not kind, were not threatening, either. “Are you Darius?” Austin asked.

The man looked up slowly, then, almost imperceptibly, nodded.

The satellite phone again chirped its double beep.

“Who is trying to reach you?” Austin asked.

Darius said nothing.

“Why were you crying?” Austin asked.

When Darius didn’t respond, Austin paced back and forth, trying to think quickly. Ridley had his gun aimed at the man’s chest. Evelyn had told them that Darius was the brains behind the operation, Anwar al-Raymi the braun. And the fact that they’d found Darius in tears told Austin that something had not gone according to his plan.

“What did al-Raymi do?” Austin demanded.

This got Darius’s attention and his head jerked up suddenly. “What makes you think he did something?”

“A guess,” Austin said. He crouched in front of Darius. “Tell us what the plan was supposed to be, and tell us what’s happening now.”

Darius shook his head.

From behind, Austin heard the click of Ridley’s gun being cocked. He turned slightly. Ridley had altered the angle of his weapon, which was now aimed at Darius’s head. “Tell us everything,” Ridley growled. “Now.”

Darius was quiet a long time, then said, “I don’t care if you shoot me. I really don’t. I deserve to die.”

Austin glanced at Ridley, who lowered the gun slowly.

“I’ll tell you what’s going on,” Darius continued, “but not because I want to live. Just because… I don’t know why.” He sighed. “I was the organizer, the planner, al-Raymi was the muscle. Once your government releases the hostage, large helicopters will land on the field. We take a couple dozen hostages and head to the airport. That was the plan, at least.”

“Sea-Tac?” Ridley asked.

Darius shook his head. “North. Near Snohomish.”

“How were you going to control the airspace?” Austin asked.

“The explosives in the stadium are controlled by a cellphone. We make the call, and boom. Satellite phone. Can’t be blocked, even if we’re miles away. We’ve given your FBI evidence of that. It’s no bluff. Plus, with the hostages we have, they won’t shoot down the helicopters. It was a perfect plan.”

“And you were gonna leave men behind to secure the field?” Ridley asked.

Darius nodded.

“The explosives,” Ridley said. “Quantities? And can they be disarmed?”

“The stadium was built with earthquakes in mind, so there isn’t one main weak point, this isn’t that little port on the Death Star where one rocket causes a chain reaction to blow the whole thing. There are dozens of main supports. We have explosives on each one. All controlled by a single cell phone signal.”

“What about al-Raymi?” Austin asked. “He controls the whole thing with his cell phone?”

“We were supposed to control it together. That was the plan. Two triggers. He calls, then I call, and those calls trigger the bombs.” Darius smiled sadly. “He double-crossed me. Gave himself full control.”

“Why would he do that?” Austin asked.

“Cut me out of the deal because he knew I didn’t want to blow the stadium.”

Darius’s phone beeped again, but this time it was a different beep. A long, single beep.

“That’s a text,” Darius said. “Al-Raymi is probably upset that I'm not picking up. I always pick up.”

Austin looked down at the phone and read the text out loud. “Fifteen minutes, it says.” The text didn’t say who it was from, so he held the phone up to Darius. “Is that from al-Raymi?”

Darius read the number, then nodded. “Helicopters. Fifteen minutes.”

“Tell us exactly what is happening right now.” Ridley leaned down and pulled Darius up by the collar of his shirt. “Al-Raymi. How many men will be with him? What is going through his mind at this moment? How can we get to him?”

Darius closed his eyes, as though he could make the whole scene disappear by blocking it out. He spoke softly, as though each word pained him. “Fifteen minutes means he’s ordered the helicopters. That means your government has already released the hostage. We knew they would, though of course they will lie about it publicly. Al-Raymi has agreed to leave the stadium intact.”

“Will he?” Austin asked.

Darius opened his eyes wide, then closed them again. “No… I mean… I don’t think so. The plan was always to leave the stadium alone if we got our man—his man, really—released. When we agreed to have the double trigger, I knew I would not be making that call. But he cut me out and…”

Ridley’s voice was cold, clipped. “So he’s planning to blow up the stadium anyway? Whether he gets the hostage or not?”

Darius nodded. “I can only assume. It seems he wanted it both ways.”

“Right,” Ridley said. “Wait for the prisoner to be released, escape with the hostages to reach safety, and then blow up the stadium anyway, killing everyone inside.”

“Given his actions,” Darius answered, “that’s what resonates.”

CHAPTER THIRTY

Monday, 10:07 PM

The sun was long gone, the sky deep purple, nearly black, a color Anna would have found lovely on any other night. But now she sat cross-legged, huddled under the jumbotron with JB, waiting for Darlene to return to the radio.

After relaying everything they knew, Anna had suggested that Darlene pass it along to someone in the FBI, someone with authority, and they’d promised to wait there until Darlene returned, or until they were noticed. Or worse.

“So, how long have you two been married?” Anna asked.

JB, who’d gone so quiet Anna thought he might have fallen asleep, sat up and ran a hand over his bald head. “Ten years. We were both late to the marriage thing, but glad I waited. I wasn’t ready before.”

Anna chuckled. “Not being ready didn’t stop me.”

JB smiled. “So, you married young?”

“Too young.” Anna stretched her legs out before her. “The thing about being young is, even though everyone tells you you’re not ready, everyone tells you you’ll get wiser when you get older…” she tried to figure out how to phrase it… “it’s not what you don’t know that kills you. It’s what you don’t know you don’t know. It’s the categories of things you don’t even know are things.”

“Say more,” JB said, glancing down at the walkie talkie, which was silent on his lap.

“When I was in my early twenties, I knew enough to know that I didn’t know much about the world. Knew I was ignorant of all kinds of things. I wasn’t one of those Look at me, I’m twenty-two, fresh out of college and I know everything types. But what led me to my husband—my ex-husband—was all the shit I didn’t know I didn’t know. The kind of stuff you only find out about after a decade of ups and downs, and therapy, after your husband disappears with all your stuff, and your cat, leaving you a single mom.”

JB nodded. “I’m sorry.”

Anna shook her head. “Nah, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be… I don’t know why I’m talking about all this. Maybe it’s because we might be about to die.” She laughed bitterly, half smiling.

“We’re not going to die,” JB said, but even he didn’t sound fully convinced.

“Labor Day weekend is when he took off, so it always comes up around this time of year.” Looking for a way to change the subject, she pointed at a huge advertising banner strung along a wall just above them. “Fizz Lets You Fly!” she said. She could barely read it from this close up; it was designed to be read from further away, in other areas of the stadium. It read: FIZZ ULTRA BOOST ENERGY DRINK. Fizz lets you fly!

JB laughed. “I drank a couple of those by accident a year ago. You know how they’re canned to look kinda like normal sparkling water? Drank two of them back to back. Didn’t sleep for two days.”

Anna smiled.

“So, you and Austin?” JB asked.

Anna shrugged. “I don’t think he’s that into me.”

“Nah, he is.”

“What makes you say that?”

JB said, “He’s reserved, slow with things. That’s just his way. Hard to get in. But once you do, I don’t know, Ridley says he’s a helluva guy. Loyal.”

“I think he is.”

“Darlene has a saying for that, something like…” he raised his voice slightly and put on a terrible southern accent, “Love moves slower than molasses in January, but it gets where it's goin' eventually.”

He laughed and Anna laughed along with him. “That was a terrible impression,” she said. “Darlene know you do impressions of her?”

“Let’s keep that between us,” JB said, smiling. “Anyway, I used to think all that kinda stuff was nonsense. Kinda jaded, I was. Older I get, the more I think, none of it is up to me. Well, not none, but a lot less of the world is up to me than I used to believe.”

The walkie talkie crackled and Darlene’s voice cut the silence. “JB, honey, you there? I’ve got someone.”

Her warm southern accent sounded wonderful coming on the heels of JB's terrible impression.

“We’re here,” JB said, “loud and clear. Who’s there?”

“This is Brian Knight, Special Agent with the FBI's Counterterrorism Division, Seattle Field Office. I’m recording this call, with whom am I speaking?”

His speech was fast and direct, all business. His tone almost robotic.

Before JB could answer, Darlene said, “He doesn’t really believe me, thinks you guys might be with the terrorists.”

“What?” Anna said, stunned.

“I didn’t say that,” Special Agent Knight said. “It’s my job to be skeptical, especially in situations like this.”

JB held the radio close to his face. “JB Macintosh, Chief of Police, Snohomish. I’m here with…”

He handed the walkie talkie to Anna. “Anna Downey, um, well, I’m a reporter. We were sitting in the Hawk’s Nest, north end of the stadium when this went down. Can you tell us what’s going on out there? Are there rescue operations underway? Is the hostage going to be released?”

“I’ll ask the questions for now,” Knight said, his voice direct, though not angry or threatening. “Darlene told me what you told her. Quickly, but from the beginning, tell me everything.”

Anna glanced at JB. “You go.”

She was feeling flustered, distracted, and it was the right call to let JB tell it. His summary was fast and detailed, direct and to the point.

With each “okay” and “hmmm,” Special Agent Knight seemed to trust them more and more.

When JB had finished the summary, Knight was silent for a few seconds, then said, “Now I’m going to ask you some questions. And please, be concise and clear in your answers. Time is everything. Anything of value you give me will be relayed to our response team. We’re counting on you.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Beep beep.

Darius’s phone wouldn’t shut up.

“Al-Raymi will keep calling,” Darius said. “He’ll send people looking for me. You don’t stand a chance.”

Austin glanced at Ridley, raising an eyebrow.

Ridley cocked his head, thinking. “We could take him as a hostage,” he said, gesturing toward Darius. “March him out there and—”

Darius interrupted him with a laugh. “Anwar would love to see me dead. He needed me once. Needed my mind to set this up. The communications, the power supply, the tech, most of the team. He doesn’t need me anymore. With or without you taking me hostage—six of one, half dozen of the other—I’m likely dead.”

As little as Austin trusted this guy, he believed him on this point. Anwar al-Raymi was notoriously brutal, and he was clearly driven by a sense of purpose that—while twisted and evil—was unwavering.

The phone beeped again—the single beep indicating a text—and Austin glanced down at it.

The message read: All set on the island.

He held it up to Ridley. “The island?”

Ridley shrugged.

He showed it to Darius. “Is this part of your escape plan?”

Darius dropped his head. “Sort of.”

“Who is the text from?” Austin demanded. “It’s a 206 area code. Different from the last one. That’s Seattle.”

“Everyone we text with is using disposables,” Darius said, “but I’m guessing that’s Sandra.”

“Sandra who?” Austin asked.

“Oh, no,” Ridley said. “Please don’t tell me…”

Darius looked up, smiling. “You know her?” For the first time, he seemed to be studying Ridley’s face. “Are you police?”

Austin and Ridley looked at each other, then back at Darius.

“I should have known,” Darius continued. “Yes, that Sandra.”

Austin was confused, looking from Ridley to Darius. Then it clicked. A while back, Austin had worked with Anna on a case in Seattle, during which he’d had contact with Sandra Jackson, the Seattle Chief of Police. But there was no way she’d be involved with Darius and his crew.

Ridley looked crestfallen. He’d been friends with Chief Jackson for a long time and the two had worked together on multiple cases that involved overlapping jurisdictions. “How?”

“If it makes you feel any better,” Darius said. “She didn’t know, doesn’t know, the whole plan. We had things on her. Bad things.”

“What does All set on the island mean?” Austin asked.

Darius didn’t reply.

Nothing was adding up. Why would the Chief of the Seattle police be texting a message like that halfway through an attack like this?

If Austin knew anything about terrorism responses, by this point the Seattle Police Department would have been largely cut out of the deal, at least cut out of command. The FBI would be calling the shots, so what role could the SPD be playing? The escape, perhaps?

He was going to ask Darius, but decided against it. Austin was decent at reading people and he could tell that Darius was conflicted. There was no doubt that the little man sitting before him was a killer, a terrorist responsible for the deaths of dozens of people, but he’d also been betrayed. Darius was angry at al-Raymi and, if Austin was reading him right, he’d been ambivalent about the plot from the beginning.

“Sandra Jackson,” Ridley said, breaking the silence. “She’s in on it? Truly?”

“She’s only in on phase two,” Darius said.

“What’s phase two?” Ridley asked. When Darius didn’t reply, Ridley knelt down before him, grabbed his shirt, and slammed him into the wall. “What is phase two?”

Darius seemed unbothered. “Phase two is the whole point, the only good part of this plan.”

“The island?” Austin asked. Around the Puget Sound, there were dozens of islands, some small and uninhabitable, some larger and home to thriving populations. Many could only be reached by the ferry system that connected dozens of communities in the state. But as potential targets for terrorist attacks, none seemed as appealing as their current location, the stadium. “Which island?” Austin demanded. “Bainbridge? The San Juans, Whidbey?”

“What is phase two?” Ridley asked, again slamming Darius into the wall.

Darius shook out his head, not even trying to get out of Ridley’s grip. But he said nothing.

Austin tried another angle. “Why would al-Raymi blow up the stadium after he gets the hostage back? Let’s say that happens, the U.S. would come for him in ways never seen before. If ten percent of the people in this stadium die, that’s twice as many as 9/11.”

“Way more than ten percent will die,” Darius said, his voice resigned. “If all the columns are blown… half will die, maybe three-quarters.”

“Why not just take the hostages and escape?” Austin asked.

“I’m a planner, a composer, an artist. He’s crazy, a butcher, a thug. He wants the hostage back, yes, but maximum death is the point. At least for him.”

“What’s the point for you?” Austin asked. “Phase two?”

When Darius didn’t answer, Austin changed the subject, holding up the satellite phone. “If I make a call on this, will al-Raymi and the others be able to hear it?”

“Not if you dial a number directly.”

To Ridley, Austin said. “We should call out, tell whoever we reach everything he’s said. Maybe it’ll help. Maybe it won’t.”

“That’s what I was thinking. If they’re planning a rescue, well… they should know what we know.”

“You should call.” Austin handed the phone to Ridley. “They’ll listen to you.”

Ridley dialed 911. “Busy signal.”

“Keep trying,” Austin said. “It happened on 9/11, too. It’ll clear up. They’re just overwhelmed with calls.”

“I’ll try some people I know, see if I can get looped into the FBI,” Ridley said. He frowned. “Sandra Jackson is who I would have called, but I have some other ideas.”

Darius tilted his head strangely, as though listening to something in the distance.

At first, Austin wasn't sure he'd heard anything at all. It was a faint rhythmic pulse at the very edge of his perception, more felt than heard. As he strained to listen, it slowly dawned on him—a familiar beat, gradually building in volume and fury. It was the helicopters.

The languid thump-thump of rotors chopping air, still miles distant but closing fast. As the sound grew louder, its tempo mounted, a gradual crescendo of churning engines and spinning blades.

“That’s only one,” Darius said, shaking his head.

“What do you mean?” Austin asked.

“One chopper. Another change to the plan. Al-Raymi was planning to leave me behind all along, to die along with everyone else.”

Ridley was trying another number, dialing as fast as he could.

“Where are the hostages?” Austin demanded. “The high profile ones? Where are they being held?”

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Monday, 10:29 PM

Anna half listened as Special Agent Knight peppered JB with a series of questions. The first few were about JB and his role, apparently Knight’s attempt to further confirm that he wasn’t being played.

Next, Knight asked, "Have you identified the number of terrorists inside the stadium? Can you provide any physical descriptions or distinguishing features?"

As JB rattled over his best guesses about the total number of terrorists, adding physical descriptions where he could, Anna’s mind wandered back to a nagging thought she couldn’t escape: She simply didn’t believe that a team of terrorists this large—likely supported by dozens more off site—would be put together for the sole purpose of securing the release of a single prisoner.

Back when she was married, she and her husband had often argued about her belief in trusting her gut. She’d always said, “When I know something, I know something.”

He’d called her paranoid and pointed out that half the time she was sure of something in her gut, she turned out to be wrong. Maybe that was true, but she didn’t think this was one of those times. There was no way their true aim was a single prisoner.

But if not, what was their target? It could, of course, be the stadium itself. She didn’t know if they had enough explosives to turn it to rubble, as they claimed, but she had no reason to doubt them. Pure terror could have been the point. Massive death for political purposes.

Knight’s insistent tone broke her train of thought. “Can you describe the exact location where you are in the stadium? We need as much detail as possible."

JB described their location at the top of the stadium, then said, “We could look over the little wall and wave at you down in the parking lot, if you’d like.”

Knight asked, “That won’t be necessary. Have you observed any patterns in the terrorists' movements or routines that could give us an opening to intervene?"

Anna was growing frustrated, but JB relayed everything he’d seen, then stood and peered over the little wall they’d been hiding behind to take in anything else he could see before relaying it to Knight.

"Have you seen or overheard anything about the explosives?” Knight asked. “Locations, types, trigger mechanisms?"

“No,” JB answered.

"Are you aware of any hostages being singled out or treated differently? VIPs, or anyone they might use for leverage?"

As JB described the scene of various hostages being led onto the field, and others led back through the tunnel toward the locker rooms, Anna thought. If the stadium itself was the true target, why not just attack it? Why give people a chance to escape, or give the authorities the chance to thwart the attack.

If they wanted to kill as many people as possible, why tie it into a hostage release? No, she didn’t buy that either.

Her gut told her the stadium was a bluff. Maybe they’d brought in enough explosives to blow up little sections, enough to convince the authorities that they were serious.

Growing impatient, Anna waited for a pause in the back and forth, then blurted out, “Special Agent Knight, are you sure the release of the prisoner is the real goal of this attack? I mean, can you tell us anything about what’s really going on?”

“I think you know I can’t,” Knight said curtly.

“Are you at least keeping an eye on other high-value targets within the city, or the region? I’m thinking of Bremerton, the Naval Base out there. I don’t know, the Governor’s mansion, that kind of thing.”

Knight cleared his throat, annoyed. “I can’t say much, but, as you can probably imagine, damn near every law enforcement officer in the area is responding to this attack.”

It hit Anna like a bolt of lightning. That morning she’d been reading the paper and had come across a story about the upcoming G7 meeting, which was taking place in a couple weeks in Seattle. Every major hotel and conference center had been booked, and security would be tight. A preliminary meeting of planners from the seven nations was already taking place on Mercer Island, an affluent area near Seattle. “The G7,” she blurted out.

JB looked at her. “Huh?”

“It’s coming up. Most of the top business and political leaders on earth. Well, many of them, anyway. Tech, finance, politicians, NGOs, they all gather at the G7 meeting. Canada, France, Germany, Italy, the UK, Japan, and us. They decide on global economic policy, security issues, and major geopolitical issues.”

Knight asked, “Of course we’re aware of that. It’s not for two weeks. Please, Ms. Downey, let us finish and—”

“But there are gatherings happening now.” Anna stood, exasperated. “Maybe this is a diversion to somehow disrupt the G7, or…” This was it, she was sure of it.

Anna didn’t know exactly what the plan was, but she had no doubt that the attack was somehow connected to the upcoming G7. And if this guy wasn’t going to listen to her, she had to find someone who would.

Like JB had, she peered out from behind the wall and took in the crowd. Everything seemed the same. Even though she was much higher up now, she could still see the puffy-haired terrorist pacing back and forth. Glancing at their section, she saw the people who’d slid into their seats and… Oh, God.

Rachel was sprawled out on the steps, her face contorted in agony.

Had she been shot?

Another woman was behind her, holding her up like… like she’d gone into labor.

Anna ducked back behind the wall, her breath tight.

JB was answering a question about how many people had been injured or killed and Anna blurted out, “There’s a woman in labor up here.”

“I… uh…” Knight stammered. “I don’t know that I can help with that.”

Anna eyed the massive banner she’d been staring at earlier. Fizz Lets You Fly. It was only about six feet high, but stretched about a hundred feet along the wall, attached with metal bolts that had been punched through the vinyl banner and held in place with round grommets.

On her tiptoes, she peered over the wall to the parking lot, sixty or seventy feet below. She wasn’t much of a rock climber, but she’d done pretty well in the class on rappelling.

Fizz Lets You Fly.

She damn well hoped so.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

The roar of the helicopter had reached a churning crescendo.

“There’s a holding room,” Darius said. “Massage tables, therapy tubs. Off the locker rooms, to the north.” He pointed at the wall in, what Austin assumed, was the direction of the locker rooms.

“How many of your people?” Austin asked.

“A few dozen hostages, three or four of our men.”

Ridley was still dialing frantically, but it was taking a long time because he had to look up every number in his cellphone contacts, then manually enter it into the satellite phone. And many of the numbers were going straight to voicemail.

Austin looked at Ridley. “I’m going.”

Ridley let the phone fall from his ear. He opened his mouth like he was going to object, and Austin could see his mind working. Like Austin, he probably knew that there was no easy answer, no right answer.

By staying with Darius and trying to reach the outside world, Ridley might be able to aid any rescue operation. By going after the hostages, after al-Raymi, Austin might be able to stop the attack before it took place. Both were long shots.

Ridley cocked his head. “I’m staying. It’s your call.”

Austin nodded once, then moved to the door, turning as he reached it. “Phase two,” he said to Darius. “The island?”

Darius held his gaze but said nothing.

Austin said, “The stadium was never the main target, was it?”

Darius smiled sadly. “No, it wasn’t. I never wanted to hurt anyone in the stadium. Innocents. There are real terrorists out there, but they’re not me, not us.”

“You don’t call what you’re doing terrorism?” Ridley’s face flushed and Austin could tell his temper was boiling over.

“No, I do not.” Darius leaned back to avoid being scalded. “The real terrorists are the target of phase two. And as much as everyone in this stadium deserves to live, those people deserve to die.”

“If you think the people in this stadium deserve to live, do everything you can to stop the attack,” Ridley pleaded. “You said there are dozens of unique locations and triggers. Get to as many as you can. Show me.”

Austin hurried out the doorway and down the hall. The gun was in his hand. He no longer had time for sneaking around.

As he moved toward the locker rooms, the rhythmic thunder of twin rotor blades grew louder and louder. He crept along slowly, ears straining for any sound. At the end of the corridor he paused, back pressed to the wall. Then, rounding a corner, he heard heavy footfalls echoing down the adjacent hall. Austin’s pulse spiked as he scrambled to duck into a first aid room, pulling the door shut just as the footsteps drew close.

He held his breath in the darkness, gun gripped tight, as the tramp of booted feet passed agonizingly slowly. Each dull thud made his heart beat faster.

Standing there in the dark, he wondered, would he shoot if necessary? He would, he was sure of it, but would he shoot to kill?

After what seemed an eternity, the footsteps receded into silence. Austin crept from the room and continued down the hall, urged on by the furious pounding of the helicopter as its roar built to a fever pitch.

At the end of the corridor, he found a back entrance to the massage room next to the locker room. Peering through the half-glass door, his heart seized in his chest. There, dressed in her navy uniform, gray hair peeking out under her hat, was his mother.

She was packed tightly into the room along with two dozen other hostages including Chad Buckminster in his light blue blazer and white pants.

The group seemed to be alone. He didn’t see any guards, though it was possible they were out of his sight line, guarding the door on the opposite end of the room.

He tried the door handle. Locked, likely from both the inside and the outside. Austin considered his options as the pounding tempo of the helicopter blades increased in ferocity, droning engines whining at a fever pitch as it swooped lower overhead.

Just then, his mother turned toward the door, as though sensing him there.

Her eyes went wide with fear and confusion as they met Austin’s through the glass, clearly shocked to see him. Austin clenched his jaw, a mix of relief and dread churning in his gut at the sight of his mother.

His plan had been to somehow find a way into the room and throw the smoke bomb, creating enough confusion to kill al-Raymi. If Darius was right that all of the explosives were now controlled by a single cellphone, that might be enough to save the stadium.

But with so many people there, and al-Raymi nowhere in sight, the terrorists would just come in and spray the room with their submachine guns, killing everyone.

No, he needed to find another option. But first he needed to get into that room.

Austin took one last anguished look through the glass at his mother, then turned and raced back down the hall the way he had come. His heart pounded wildly as the roar of the landing helicopter reverberated off the walls around him.

He careened around the corner and threw open the door of the small first aid room, clutching at the lone stool inside. Dragging it beneath the drop ceiling panel above, he clambered up and shoved the panel aside, hoisting himself into the crawlspace that ran alongside the large air duct he’d been in earlier.

The space was dimly lit by pale yellow emergency lights covered in a film of dust. Austin crawled as quickly as the confined space allowed, navigating by feel through a maze of wires and cobwebs. At last he spotted a vent grate up ahead, pale light filtering through the slats.

Peering down through it, the massage room lay below. All its hostages remained huddled together in the center of the space. But their guards were nowhere to be seen.

Austin gripped the edges of the vent and heaved it up with all his might. He set it aside and, before the hostages had a chance to react, swung down from the opening, dropping lightly to the floor among them. His only hope was that there were enough hostages in the room that the terrorists wouldn’t notice that one extra had joined the group.

A few gasped at his sudden appearance, but Austin raised a finger to his lips as he moved silently through their ranks. Finding his mother near the back of the group, she threw her arms around him with a choked cry of relief.

“Shh… it’s okay,” he whispered, pushing her away gently. “We don’t know each other.”

The door opened and two gunmen entered.

As Austin glanced at them out of the corner of his eye, praying they didn’t notice him, he caught Chad staring at him, a strange and devious smile taking shape across his face.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Monday, 10:38 PM

After telling the fans around her what she was going to do, Anna tugged at the massive vinyl banner, struggling against an industrial-strength bolt securing it to the concrete wall. She kept a steady eye on the terrorist pacing far below, working at the bolt only when he had his back turned to her and sitting when he turned to scan the stadium seats.

After several failed attempts, she realized she couldn’t get the bolt out, but the grommet was beginning to bend. There were maybe twenty of them running along the top of the banner every five feet—little metal eyelets that had been inserted into punched-out holes in the vinyl. As she tugged, the grommet gave way. She balanced the grommet on the bolt so that the banner remained held in place as she worked each of them loose. Moving along the edge of the wall, another gave way, then another. After a few minutes, she had detached fourteen grommets. Only six bolts were left, holding the last thirty or so feet of the banner to the wall.

That would be enough to hold her weight, she thought.

She hoped.

Anna sat, waiting for her moment, shaking her leg to calm her nerves. When she saw the guard turn to look in on another section, she jumped up and pulled the banner off the wall in one swift motion. The loose grommets clinked off the bolts like a snap-buttoned shirt being ripped open. The 100-foot banner sagged under its own weight, still tethered in place by the remaining bolts.

She tossed the loose end of the banner over the wall, heaving as much as she could lift over the side. Each section she lifted grew lighter until the weight of the banner on the other side of the wall grew heavy enough to begin pulling bolts loose from its weight. Anna watched as it fell toward the parking lot below. Giving it a good yank, she confirmed that it was still held fast by the remaining bolts.

Her heart slammed against her ribs. This was it—no going back now.

Holding tight, she edged over the wall, her feet dangling.

Hand over hand, she lowered herself down the vertical drop of the stadium wall, using the massive banner like a rope. Her arms shuddered under the strain, barely able to support her weight. She tried not to look down at the chaos unfolding hundreds of feet below, focusing instead on keeping a firm grip and moving steadily down.

Halfway there. Her feet scrambled against the concrete, searching for any purchase to help relieve the pressure on her screaming arms and shoulders. She let out a whimper, fear and adrenaline coursing through her veins.

She briefly saw the crowd below move in towards her. The world spun and she felt as though gravity had lost its grip. Don’t look down. Keep going. Hand over hand.

Inch by inch, she descended. The banner billowed around her, snapping in the wind and threatening to tear from its remaining anchors at any moment. She blinked back tears of pain. She fixed her mind on safely reaching the ground below. Nearly there.

Only twenty feet left, her arms were giving out.

Steeling herself, she wrapped her arms and legs around the stiff material and began sliding down the banner. Her hands throbbed as blood returned to her fingers and her right arm shuddered and loosened when it scraped against an exposed grommet. The last ten feet were a blur. Her feet hit the concrete of the parking lot hard and she let go, collapsing in a heap as her legs gave out beneath her.

“Freeze! Hands up!” Officers swarmed around her, guns drawn. “Identify yourself!” one shouted.

Anna blinked away tears, her vision blurry. She raised her shaking hands, breath coming in ragged gasps. “I… I’m not one of them. My name is Anna Downey. I’m a reporter. Please, you have to believe me.” Her voice broke as panic welled up inside her.

A familiar voice cut through the chaos. “Wait! That’s Anna.” It was Darlene, pushing through the crowd of officers.

Anna almost sobbed in relief. As Darlene hurried over, Anna tried to stand, but her legs gave out again and she collapsed onto the asphalt, the last traces of adrenaline abandoning her.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Ridley paced the room, navigating between massage tables and keeping a close eye on Darius, who huddled in the corner, a broken man. The echoing thrum of the chopper had died, giving way to an eerie silence as he wondered what Austin was doing and when the thunderous blades would start up again.

“How long will it take from here?” Ridley asked.

Darius blinked a few times as though trying to forget a painful memory. “Ten, fifteen minutes to load and takeoff, then the flight itself… they will stay low, won’t hit top speed. But it’s only ten miles. Maybe five minutes in the air.”

“What about landing?”

Darius offered a crooked smile. “They won’t be landing.”

Ridley hadn’t yet reached anyone. Even though he was calling from a satellite phone, everyone he was calling operated normal cell phones, and the towers were likely overloaded. He tried every few minutes but 911 was still giving him a busy signal.

Every instinct Ridley had urged him to rush this guy, choke him out, force him to tell all, but he could tell that Darius was fragile, possibly mentally unstable. And he wasn’t certain, but he also thought that Darius might be close to flipping on Anwar al-Raymi entirely.

If there was any hope of that, he had to play it cool, for now.

He held up the satellite phone. “Two of your men died for me to get this.”

“What did they look like?” Darius seemed genuinely concerned.

“Black pants, green shirts, one was large and the other was—”

“Those weren’t my men. Those were Anwar’s.”

“Okay, well, I was going to give you my condolences. I wished things could have gone down differently. My wife is in this stadium. She’s pregnant, with twins. You have kids?”

Darius shook his head.

“Well, besides the soon-to-be-born twins, I have kids at home that still need raising too. So do a lot of people in this stadium. There are sixty thousand people here. That’s a lot of wives, a lot of children. A lot of husbands and aunts and uncles and grandparents. A lot of friends.” Ridley’s voice was firm, but he was trying to offer as much warmth as he could. “Do you understand, Darius?”

“A lot of parents as well. I had parents once.”

Ridley took a step toward him. “What happened to them?” As he asked the question, he felt he already knew the answer.

Darius said nothing, just stared at the floor.

“They were killed?” Ridley asked.

Darius nodded.

“By Americans?”

“Something like that.” Darius looked up. “Your people gave the order to blow up a car they thought was carrying an al Qaeda member. They were wrong. My parents, academics, they were a light in our community and then, in a moment, they were dead. Their life finished, a dissonant resolution.” His pinched face was a mask of anguish. “I went to live with my uncle in Yemen. I was already angry, already in pain. Then everything got bad.”

Ridley walked a slow lap around the room, stopping in front of Darius. He crouched. “I’m sorry for what happened to them, I really am. I know they didn’t deserve it. You didn’t deserve to have to live your life without them. I can’t imagine what you went through.”

Darius looked up, his blue eyes flashing. “Don’t speak about them. You have no idea what your government does in your name in foreign lands.”

Ridley called 911 again and was met by a busy signal. He matched Darius’s hard gaze with one of his own. “You might be right about that. You might be. But I know some things. As much as I’d like to be able to say that you’re wrong, that everything is black and white, good and evil, I can’t.” He paused, waiting for Darius to look up when he dropped his gaze. “There’s something I know for sure, though. What you’ve done here, what you’re doing, what al-Raymi is doing and is going to do, is not a remedy. Not for your parents, not for any wrongs my country or any country has done. Not now, not ever. I know that if this stadium blows, if whatever you are trying on the island is successful, I know that all we do is sign ourselves up for another decade of war, maybe two decades. After 9/11, it took twenty years for the U.S. to get out of Afghanistan. I lost friends there. Maybe you did, too. A lot of damage has already been done today. But if we don’t stop the next phase, it’ll be worse. Yemen, Egypt, maybe even parts of Russia.” He shook his head, the severity of what was to come hitting him all at once. “It'll be much worse for your people. For my people, for everyone. Selfishly, it might mean that my twins, who will be born any day now, end up getting shipped to Yemen in eighteen years because of what happens in the next hour. I know that…”

Ridley trailed off, feeling like there was nothing he could do to convince him. Then he thought of Rachel, of his unborn twins, his kids at home, the memories they shared, and their life and future together as a family. He figured he had to try anyway. “I know it might be too late. Maybe there’s nothing we can do. But part of being a person is that, even then, even when there’s no hope, you try anyway, you fight anyway. After what you went through, I think that’s something that—maybe in a strange way, maybe in a twisted way—you and I have in common. Darius… Darius look at me!”

“You know, I’ve likely heard the last music I will ever hear.” Darius slowly looked up, and there were tears in his eyes. “Do you know the last piece of music I heard?”

“No, I guess I don’t.”

“DJ Khaled’s, All I Do Is Win. They played it just before we took over the stadium, after the Seahawks field goal,” Darius recalled. “That’s the music that will be ringing in my ears as I leave this earth.” He lowered his head back into his hands.

Ridley put a hand on his shoulder. “Walk with me now, right now, to the nearest stock of explosives. Disarm it, and talk me through what you’re doing. Then go to the next one and disarm it while I use this…” he again held up the satellite phone… “I will keep trying. If that doesn’t work I’ll try to get out of here and tell someone. If we work together, we might be able to save some of the people here. And if I’m going to get blown up in the next twenty minutes, I want my kids to know that, when I died, I was still fighting.”

Slowly, ever so slowly, Darius stood.

He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t have to.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

“They’re gonna blow the stadium,” Chad said, his face still carrying his trademark condescending sneer, despite the circumstances. He shoved his hands in his pockets like he was going for a stroll while watching a polo match.

Austin’s eyes danced from Chad to the entrance, where he could see movement through a pane of thick glass that took up the top half of the door. “What makes you say that?”

“Two of the terrorists were speaking French. Anwar a dit qu'un seul hélicoptère. Les autres arrivent en retard. Je pense qu'il va faire sauter le stade par air.”

“Okay, so…”

“It means something like, ‘Anwar said only one helicopter. Others are coming later. I think he’s going to blow the stadium from the air.’”

Austin looked over. “And wait, one of the terrorists said this to another?”

Chad nodded. “The other replied…” he paused, thinking… “something like Il s'en fiche si on vit ou si on meurt. ‘He doesn’t care if we live or die.’”

Austin’s mind raced as he put this information together with what Darius had told him. They’d only heard one helicopter approaching, which would certainly not be large enough to carry all the hostages in this room, let alone all the terrorists around the stadium. He said, “Al-Raymi never had any intention of escaping with all his team. He’s going to fly away, blow the stadium, and…” he trailed off. He didn’t want to share what he knew about phase two.

“Whatever it takes,” Chad said, “I’m getting on that chopper out of here. Maybe they kill me later, but, well, sadly I think the safest place is on the helicopter with the killers.”

Chad stopped speaking as two armed guards burst through the door. Behind them, the massive head of Anwar al-Raymi loomed over them as he was half a foot taller than either of them. He had a dark beard to match his short dark hair and his busted nose looked even more crooked than in the pictures Austin had seen.

For half a second, Austin felt his hand move to the gun he’d concealed under his shirt.

Then al-Raymi spoke a single word. “Twelve.” He turned and disappeared.

The two guards stepped all the way in, closing the door behind them. One of them, a short, stocky man in a black t-shirt, began inspecting the hostages. The other covered him, a submachine gun at the ready.

First, the stocky terrorist approached an older man whom Austin recognized. He was Baker Hamilton, one of the minority owners of the Seahawks. At least eighty, he wore a classy gray suit with a napkin sticking out of the breast pocket that matched his bright white hair.

“I know who you are.” The terrorist shoved him toward the door. “One.”

Next, the terrorist approached his mother, the only woman wearing a military uniform. “Military. Good.” As he had with Baker, he pushed her toward the door. “Two.”

He was splitting them into groups, Austin realized. One group to go on the helicopter, probably the highest value hostages, and one to stay behind.

The terrorist approached a young woman of no more than twenty-five. “Who are you?” he demanded.

The woman’s face shook. “Chloe… umm… Chloe Dashembert.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m, like, an influencer.”

The other terrorist was younger and stepped up next to the stocky one. He said, “She’s famous. Instagram.”

The stocky terrorist shook his head and pushed her to the back, away from the door. For the next few minutes, the two men continued through the group, placing nine more hostages with Austin’s mother and Baker Hamilton, bringing the count to eleven.

He and Chad were the last two remaining. As the stocky terrorist approached, Chad glanced at Austin nervously, then flashed a charming smile at the man. “I’m very rich. Influential. I’m worth a lot to you. Alive.”

The stocky terrorist examined Chad, then turned to Austin. “Who are you?”

Austin didn’t reply.

The stocky man got in his face, breathing hot, salty breaths into his airspace. “Who are you?” he demanded.

Austin said nothing.

“He’s… he’s a cop,” Chad stammered. “Former NYPD… He snuck in here. I think he has a gun.”

The stocky guard took a quick step back and pointed his submachine gun at Austin.

Austin put his hands out wide. “I’m no threat to you.” He angled his body, letting his shirt pull up just high enough to show the gun, still holstered on his side. “See… take it.”

The younger of the two terrorists leapt forward and unholstered Austin’s gun. Then, with a smile, he swung it back and smashed Austin across the cheek with it with a sickening crack. Austin fell to the floor, head spinning. Slowly, he stood.

Chad pleaded with the terrorists, “I’m worth more to you. I guarantee it. I’m very rich and—”

Anwar al-Raymi appeared behind the stocky terrorist. “What is going on?”

The terrorist spoke to him in Arabic, gesturing at Chad and Austin.

Al-Raymi approached Austin, towering over him despite Austin’s above-average height. “Former NYPD? You work with the police?”

Austin nodded.

Al-Raymi stepped back and nodded to the stocky terrorist. “Him.”

The terrorist shoved Austin in the back with his weapon, pushing him toward his mother, toward the door, toward the group of hostages who would be boarding the helicopter.

“No,” Chad yelled, his voice somewhere between a shout and a whine.

“Don’t,” Austin said. “You’ll be safer here.”

Chad stepped forward, reaching out toward al-Raymi as though trying to grab his arm.

“Stop it,” Austin said firmly, but it was too late. Chad had lost it.

As he reached for al-Raymi, the behemoth pulled a handgun off his belt and shot Chad in the chest.

Chad lurched back, eyes wide in confusion, then fell to the ground.

A woman screamed, a man shouted something, and the two terrorists pressed their backs into the wall, waving their guns in the direction of anyone who dared move.

Austin took a deep breath, trying to hold the shock at bay.

They all stood like that for a minute as the life left Chad’s eyes.

“I don’t like to be touched,” al-Raymi said as he headed for the door.

No one else said a word.

Then, as though nothing had happened, the two men led the hostages out through a long tunnel and onto Lumen Field. The night was dark but the stadium lights were on, casting the turf in a surreal and beautiful bright light.

In the center of the field sat a single helicopter, rotors still. Austin wasn't an expert, but he recognized the profile of an SH-60 Seahawk right away. The Seahawk was the workhorse of the Navy fleet. This one had evidently been retired from military service, sold off as government surplus and found its way into the worst imaginable hands.

Its gunmetal gray hull showed some dents and scratches, but the twin jet engines appeared serviced and the rotors freshly refinished. The Seahawk had shed some of its normal equipment, missile pods and rescue gear had been removed to allow for the retrofits its new owners demanded.

In the place of a red cross, the fuselage bore ominous black markings. Once proudly emblazoned with insignia of the U.S. forces, every trace of the Seahawk’s noble history had been stripped away. Repainted in no identifying colors, it stood nameless and forbidding, awaiting the commands of anonymous figures consumed by zealotry.

Along the outside were racks of ominous silver canisters marked with yellow hazardous material labels. Austin's heart raced as he eyed the canisters. They weren’t bombs. But Austin feared they could be something worse.

The stocky terrorist directed the line of twelve hostages to stand up against the Seahawk, then slid open the large loading door. Before he could begin shoving hostages in, Austin heard a voice behind him speaking in Arabic.

Austin turned and he was again staring straight into the face of Anwar al-Raymi.

After a brief back and forth with his commander, the stocky terrorist nodded obediently and moved to the end of the line of hostages, patting them down one by one under al-Raymi’s watchful eye.

When he reached Austin’s mother, Austin slowly moved his hands behind his back, removing the smoke bomb and holding it close between his body and the helicopter.

Pressing in as tightly as he could, his shoulders touching hers, Austin waited for the right moment. The stocky terrorist stood as he finished inspecting his mother’s lower legs and shoes and, just then, Austin moved a hand swiftly from behind his own back to behind his mother’s.

With a shove, he jammed the smoke bomb into her lower back. He felt her hand grab it and he let go.

Austin then smiled and turned toward the man who would pat him down as though welcoming a guest into his cafe.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Monday, 10:56 PM

When she came to, Anna was in some sort of a tent, lying on a stretcher.

Blinking, she saw Darlene’s bright red hair.

“Who do you think you are?” Darlene said, but it wasn’t a question, more of an accusation. “Lara freakin’ Croft? I don’t know whether to slap you silly or buy you a beer for pulling off that stunt. You got more lives than an alley cat and more guts than a gut wagon!”

Anna sat up slowly. Physically, she actually felt fine. It was the terror that had caused her to pass out. “What the hell is a gut wagon?”

“A wagon full of guts. Duh! From the slaughterhouse, or something. I don’t know, it’s just something we say.” Her face grew stern. “But seriously, as you hit the ground, the terrorist looked over the wall. Didn’t you think he’d notice the missing banner? Our guys opened fire, but he retreated. Why’d you—”

“The G7 Summit,” Anna said, standing slowly. She felt a bit wobbly, but not too bad. “I don’t know how, but I know that’s the real target. I need to find someone who will listen.”

Darlene pushed her back onto the stretcher. “I vouched for you. Stay here.”

Anna didn’t relax, but she stayed still.

“After you disappeared from the call,” Darlene said, “I spoke with a friend in the Seattle PD. I promise, Anna, they are on it. All the places you mentioned. The Navy boosted security at the Naval Base Kitsap installations, including sub bases Bangor and Keyport. Coast Guard is patrolling waterways and critical ports. DHS and FEMA have identified critical infrastructure. Of course, FBI and Department of Defense are all over the main attack like white on rice. As for the G7, well, it’s two weeks away. They know about the preliminary meetings, but…”

“Still,” Anna met her eyes, “I have to say my piece. Just in case. Also, Rachel is in labor. She looked like she had someone helping her. A doctor, I hope, but I don’t know. Is there anything we can do?”

Darlene’s eyes went wide. “Damn. But she’s tough. Anyone can get through it, it’s her.”

As Anna walked out of the tent, two paramedics tried to get in her way, blocking her off from the bustling parking lot, but she pushed right past them.

“Some players escaped,” Darlene said, following close on her heels, “the only hostages who got out before you. I didn’t hear anything official, but I think officers might be preparing to storm the stadium.”

Anna saw a group of men and women in dark brown and dark blue suits, huddled together, half on cell phones and half speaking in hushed tones. “They FBI?” she asked, but she didn’t wait for an answer. Hurrying up to them, she said, “I’m Anna Downey and I just escaped the stadium to tell you, I think the G7 summit is the real target. Possibly they’re using today to set up bombs for the event, or maybe the target is the preliminary meetings. Mercer Island. Lot of important people there.”

One of the FBI agents stepped back, staring at Anna as though she had a rare disease. Another didn’t look up from his phone. A tall woman with straight black hair glanced at Darlene like she was Anna’s handler and Anna had just escaped from a mental institution.

The woman then glared at Anna, smoothing her dark blue pants suit. “You the reporter who scaled down the wall? Anna something?”

Anna nodded. “Downey. Anna Downey.”

She let out a long sigh. “I spoke with Special Agent Knight. He works for me. I understand you think you've uncovered some major scoop, but you clearly have no concept of the resources in play here. The G7 is one of the most secure events on earth. Locked down like Fort Knox. Every federal agency under the sun has already been deployed to Seattle. In the next week, thousands of agents, military forces, and first responders will gather here. No expense has been spared. The Secret Service is already at Mercer Island, even for the planning meetings. Every inch of every venue has been and will be swept clean. The Coast Guard owns the waters and the skies are on 24/7 military watch. FEMA's ready for armageddon.” She paused long enough to increase the ferocity of her glare. Anna wasn’t sure if she hated reporters, hated her personally, or was just in the middle of a very bad day. “There is no possibility of a threat we haven't anticipated,” she continued. “We—”

“Did you anticipate the stadium attack?” Anna interjected, just as fiercely.

“No, but the G7 is different. Global leaders don't meet up without preparing for war. I'm sorry to be blunt, but you're out of your depth here, little girl. This summit is so far beyond what your local newsroom can understand it's laughable. Stick to city council puff pieces and bake sale coverage. Leave counterterrorism to the professionals. This isn't a request. Back in your box before you get hurt.”

Anna glared at her.

“Focus on what you actually know,” she continued, “traffic jams and how to properly frost a cupcake. Global security is best left to those equipped to handle it. Are we clear?”

Anna’s glare deepened.

“Are we clear?” she repeated.

“Clear as glass after a wipe of windex,” Anna said. “I’ll head back to the medical tent.”

“You do that.”

Anna walked away with Darlene, who said, “I haven’t known you long, but that was a lie if I ever heard one.”

Anna smiled at her.

If she wasn’t going to be of any help on the outside, she was damn sure gonna try to do some good on the inside.

“You’re going back in there,” Darlene said. “Aren’t you, darlin’?”

“You bet your biscuits and gravy I am.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Darius led Ridley down a dimly lit corridor, their footsteps echoing in the concrete tunnel. “This way,” Darius said, pointing to a narrow opening in the wall.

Ridley eyed the gap doubtfully. “Through there?”

“It’s a maintenance crawl space. It will take us behind the stands. By now, al-Raymi might have given orders to kill me. Or perhaps he only wishes to blow me up along with the rest of you, entombed in a coffin of my own making.” Darius didn’t wait for a reply as he crawled through the opening on hands and knees.

With a grimace, sucking in his chest and angling his shoulders, Ridley followed.

The crawlspace was tight, filled with conduits and pipes. At last Darius stopped, pointing to a grate that opened onto the area under the stands. “There,” he said quietly.

Ridley peered through the grate and sucked in a breath. A massive concrete support column stood in the center, encircled by bricks of what could only be explosives. Wires trailed from the explosives to a cell phone duct-taped to a circuit board attached to the column.

“Shit,” Ridley breathed.

Darius eased the grate open and climbed out, Ridley on his heels. Darius hesitated, then pulled a Swiss Army knife from his pocket and held it out to Ridley. “Take this. You’ll have to cut the wires while I remove the detonators.”

“Me?” Ridley’s mouth went dry.

“Just do as I say.” Darius peeled the duct tape from the phone, then slowly disconnected the battery. The phone went dark. He turned to the column, scrutinizing the bricks.

“Anwar rewired these without my knowledge. There should be a redundancy circuit as a fail-safe, requiring two signals to trigger detonation.” Darius selected a wire and slowly eased it from the detonator cap, hands steady. “Without the redundancy, a single call could set these off. By disabling the phone, we’ve eliminated that risk. But he may have instructed his team to set them off manually if the cellphone trigger doesn’t work. That could be why he is leaving men behind. To martyr themselves if the phone doesn’t work. For example, if the FBI is somehow able to block the satellite phone’s signal. Not likely, but it’s something we discussed.”

Darius cut the wire, letting the end drop. “Your turn. Cut the red wire in half, there.”

Heart pounding, Ridley grasped the knife. He glanced at Darius, who gave an encouraging nod. Ridley steeled himself and sawed through the red wire with the blade of the knife.

“Do you hear that?” Darius asked.

Ridley listened. It was the helicopter starting up again, faint through all the concrete that separated them from the field, but unmistakable. “I hear it.”

“Hurry.” Darius clipped another wire. “Now the blue one.”

Ridley cut the blue one.

Darius rocked back on his heels with a sigh. “It’s done. This column is disarmed.”

Ridley stood, shaking out cramped legs. “How many more? And where, exactly?”

Darius rose with a grimace. “Stadium has six main levels—the field itself, the lower bowl, mid bowl, upper bowl, suites, and the Hawks Nest. The forty-eight concrete support columns extend approximately 150 feet high. They are situated around the outer perimeter of the stadium structure. The perimeter columns, along with the steel trusses, support the majority of the weight of the stadium. We just took out column seventeen. There are forty-seven to go.”

“What about the one that blew earlier?”

Darius laughed darkly. “If that had been a main column, you would have known. That was a baby, a cat’s meow compared to what will happen when a main column goes.”

Ridley pulled out the satellite phone and dialed Darlene’s personal cell, which he’d already tried three times.

“Hello?” Darlene picked up after only two rings.

“Oh my God, Darlene. Finally! Where have you been… don’t answer that, no time. It’s me, Ridley. I need someone, fast, someone in charge. I know how to defuse the bombs and I can tell someone.”

“Rid, they’re already getting ready to go in… I… damn. Hold on.” He heard Darlene shouting, but couldn’t make out what she was saying, or to whom.

Darius was staring blankly at his deconstructed weapon. Then, suddenly, he stood.

“Where are you going?” Ridley asked.

He looked back briefly. “To defuse as many of these as I can in the next ten or fifteen minutes. Before we all die.”

Ridley swallowed hard as Darius disappeared back the way they’d come. Darlene’s voice appeared back on the line. “Rid, I’ve got Knight, a Special Agent. He has the ear of, well, someone. He’s coming. Hold on. It took me a minute to convince him I had you… had a real officer… hold on, he’s almost. Oh, shit, did you know Rachel is in labor?”

Ridley froze. “What?”

“Who is this?” a voice barked through the phone.

“Ridley Calvin, lead detective Kitsap Sheriff’s Department. Look, I’m gonna make a long story short. You’ve just sent in… who, what?”

“Everyone. We’re sending everyone. ATF’s special explosives unit. FBI, a couple local SWAT teams.”

“Good,” Ridley said. “I just disarmed one of the bombs with Darius, the mastermind of this whole thing. If I tell you how we did it, can you get the information to everyone?”

“Sure as hell can. Go!”

Ridley did his best to block out the thought of Rachel being in labor.

As fast as he could speak while remaining coherent, he told Special Agent Knight everything he’d just seen, and everything Darius had taught him.

PART 3

THE SKIES OVER THE EMERALD CITY

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Monday, 11:08 PM

“We’re heading east,” Austin’s mother said.

“Southeast,” Baker Hamilton corrected.

“You should know,” Austin’s mother replied. “You must fly over Seattle by chopper a lot.”

“Not really. Haven’t been in one of these since Nam.” His voice was deep, with the hint of a British accent that had mostly worn off during the sixty years he’d lived in the U.S. “I prefer to drive, or boat. Nam gave me a somewhat skewed history with helicopters.”

The twelve hostages had been shoved into the rear cabin of the Seahawk, which had been gutted, all the medical equipment torn out. High-end gas masks hung on the walls, confirming Austin’s suspicions about the canisters on the outside of the chopper—probably a biological weapon. They also confirmed his suspicion that the terrorists wanted to keep the hostages alive.

They had installed two crude benches with seat belts, likely taken from a passenger helicopter. Now, all twelve hostages were strapped in, left to their own devices in the back while a pilot, a guard, and Anwar al-Raymi himself were secured in the front cabin.

Austin asked Baker, “I imagine you didn’t have polycarbonate thermoplastic in Nam.”

“What do you mean,” Baker asked.

Austin nodded toward the thick divider between their section and the front cabin. “I believe that’s a polycarbonate sheet, impact-resistant and bullet-proof. They can withstand multiple high-caliber bullets. Same as they use in bank teller windows.”

Austin’s heart hammered as the Seahawk groaned and rattled around him as if it, too, feared the lethal cargo it had been forced to carry, strapped to its hips like a mule.

His mother said, “What was that thing you handed me? It’s pressing into my back.”

Austin leaned in and whispered, “Smoke bomb.”

“We’re heading out of Seattle,” Baker said.

“There’s another target,” Austin said, his voice tense. “What’s to the southeast? Any idea—”

“Mercer Island,” Baker’s voice was full of horror and anguish. “I was supposed to go there after the game. It’s…” he trailed off.

“What?” Austin asked.

“You probably know, in a couple weeks the G7 is coming to Seattle. Teams of the presidents and prime ministers and business leaders come weeks in advance to plan, to prepare, to negotiate. Today, right now… look… no presidents are there yet, they will come later. But business leaders like me, folks from Japan, cabinet members from the UK, from France.”

“The canisters,” his mother said. “They must be… some type of chemical or biological weapon.”

“That’s what I was thinking,” Austin said. “But why attack before the big meetings?”

Baker swayed with the movement of the helicopter. "Probably know there’s zero chance of succeeding. It’d be like breaking into the White House. But now, Mercer Island is the perfect target. We have two hotels booked for the meetings. Lots of important people. Plus, symbolism. If they attack, the whole G7 might be moved, or even called off. The G7 is the heart of Western democratic power. Terrorists have wanted to hit it for decades. Retaliation for strikes against their allies. Publicity, fear, economic mayhem. They blame the G7's economic policies for global inequality and see disrupting trade deals and markets as a way to cut the West down." He laughed bitterly. “In terms of the highest concentration of western power—both economic and political—it’s like the Super Bowl, the Oscars. Even before the bigwigs show up.” He cleared his throat. “And that’s why it’ll never happen. We may well die in the next few minutes—I’m old, I’ve had a good run, so I’m at peace—but there’s no way they let us reach airspace over Mercer Island. Secret service protects G7, even the preliminary meetings. There’s no way… they’ll blow us out of the sky.”

Austin felt himself start to sweat. Would they shoot down the helicopter? He didn’t think so, assuming they knew about the hostages on board. Maybe the negotiators knew about phase two, or maybe they didn’t. Either way, would they risk blowing up a helicopter carrying biological weapons, along with various important people? He genuinely had no idea. It was an impossible choice.

And he had one of his own to make.

He could see that the polycarbonate sheet, while one of the strongest materials in the world, had been installed crudely, leaving about an inch of space between it and the floor of the Seahawk.

Austin gazed out the small window into the night. Lake Washington stretched into darkness, lights from houses and buoys mere pinpricks across the black water. Seattle's glow faded behind them as the chopper flew onward. Ahead, the gentle curve of the Evergreen Point floating bridge was visible.

In a few minutes they’d be over Mercer Island. If Baker was right, they’d be shot down. If he wasn’t, al-Raymi and his team might drop the canisters.

“I’m going to try to crash the chopper,” he said suddenly. “Mom, give me that can.”

Baker’s mouth fell open. His mother said nothing.

“Mom, these things are designed to survive water landings, right?”

She looked at him like he was nuts. “Yes, but—”

“How long until they sink?”

“I wasn’t a pilot, Austin. I was a Navy lawyer, I—”

“Approximately.”

“A few minutes,” she said, “depending.”

“I’m going to time it so we land in the water. I hope.”

Closer to the bridge, headlights danced briefly across the waves.

His mother moved slowly, sliding the can into his hands behind their backs.

“Baker, do you have a light?”

“Tell me why you’re doing this,” Baker said.

“Maybe you’re right that they shoot us out of the sky, but do you hear any F-15s coming at us? I don’t. My thinking is, they’re planning to deploy those canisters over Mercer Island. Probably at the hotels where your pals are. If we can crash this thing in the water, maybe they deploy, maybe they don’t. We probably all die, but maybe we save a few thousand, a few hundred thousand, people.”

Baker handed him a zippo lighter. “Wish I had one last cigar to smoke.”

Austin looked at his mom. “If we land in the water, if anyone lives, do your best to get everyone out of here.”

“They butchered this thing with their customizations,” she said, “but it still had the inflatable rafts on the outside. Maybe they work, maybe they don’t. They’re designed to inflate on contact with water.”

“Worth every penny of the $31 million our government pays for them,” Baker said, a wry glint in his eye.

The shape of Mercer Island took form ahead, bright along its edges with both light and dark patches in the center. Beyond, the horizon vanished into night, stars and moon alone mirrored on the water below.

“I never really got over Fiona,” Austin said. “I wish I’d done that before… well…”

His mother squeezed his hand. “I know. I’m sorry about that. And sorry we’ll be leaving your father with no one.”

Austin held the zippo lighter tight in one hand, the can behind his back in the other. “Been thinking about dad, you know how with the Alzheimers he’s not himself. He never really learned to, I don’t know, be emotional.”

“He did his best.”

“I know, and I’m not… I’m not trying to. I just wish I’d said goodbye to him.”

His mother wiped away a tear. “Same here.”

“When the smoke starts, wait a moment, then try to get these gas masks on people.”

Tilting his body slightly away from the front cabin, Austin snapped the lighter to test it. It lit up immediately. Ignoring the shocked looks on the faces of the hostages around him, he unbuckled his seatbelt and crept forward.

To his left was a small piece of cargo netting attached to the wall, a seatbelt-like strap with a metal buckle dangling idly. Popping the lighter, he lit the fuse and shoved the can and its now-smoking wick under the space between the floor and the divider. With his free hand, he pulled the strap around his chest and buckled himself into the cargo netting.

Anwar al-Raymi turned suddenly. He had a gun, but it wouldn’t do him any good on the other side of the polycarbonate thermoplastic.

His face turned from confusion to anger, then to fear as he disappeared in a cloud of smoke.

CHAPTER FORTY

Anna leaned on the hood of Darlene’s SUV, watching the tense, chaotic scene unfold around her.

At least a hundred law enforcement personnel had already gathered, most of whom were strapping into tactical gear as they rushed toward a nondescript metal door set into the side of the concrete stadium wall.

Listening to Darlene’s side of the conversation with Ridley, she’d known he was telling her something important. Then Darlene had waved down Knight, the Special Agent assigned to stay in touch with her in case she heard from someone inside the stadium again.

As Knight spoke with Ridley, Anna watched more and more vehicles arrive by the minute. She sensed that, if there was a plan to rush the stadium, it was about to go into motion. What she didn’t understand was, why now? One helicopter had come and gone, but there was no way it had been large enough to carry all the terrorists.

Still, she had to believe they knew what they were doing.

The ATF agents lead the way, clad in helmets and heavy Kevlar, submachine guns gripped in gloved hands. She watched as they streamed through the metal door in pairs.

Next came the FBI's elite Hostage Rescue Team, outfitted for full combat. They moved with swift precision, splitting into four units to descend into the tunnel from multiple access points. No shouting of orders was needed; they had drilled for crises like this many times before.

SUVs from the Joint Terrorism Task Force screeched into the parking lot, doors flying open before the vehicles fully stopped. Agents leapt out, grabbing long rifles and strapping on tactical vests as they double-timed it toward the tunnel. Local police followed close behind in a show of interagency cooperation rarely achieved outside of fictional TV dramas.

Eight ambulances idled nearby, back doors open and waiting.

Knight handed the phone back to Darlene, who put it on speakerphone so Anna could hear. “Anna, Darlene,” Ridley said, “I have to get to as many of these bombs as possible. We have minutes, five or ten at best, before al-Raymi blows the stadium. It’s… Please, if you can get to Rachel, do it. If not, get the hell out of the parking lot.”

Ridley didn’t wait for a reply. The call ended.

Anna’s insides twisted. She knew Ridley probably wanted more than anything to hurry back to Rachel and get her out of there. That kind of choice… she couldn’t even imagine making it.

Muffled gunfire echoed from deep within the tunnel, bursting out each time the metal door creaked open to admit another team. The staccato pops were met with returning fire.

Darlene was already leaning through the open door of her SUV. She emerged holding a handgun. Just then, her radio beeped. “Honey, it’s JB, you copy? I’m still up at the top of the stadium. Something is going down.”

Darlene grabbed the radio and pressed the button. “They’re storming the stadium, baby, and so am I.”

“No, don’t, I—”

“Way I see it,” Darlene interrupted, “the pros will have the stadium cleared in minutes. I’m going in. If it blows, it blows. I’m not gonna live the rest of my life knowing I ran. Babycakes, find Rachel. Meet me wherever she is.”

Darlene tossed the radio aside and moved toward the tunnel, where the last of the crews had disappeared into the stadium, leaving a clear path. “You coming?” she asked.

“Right behind you,” Anna said.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Austin’s chest heaved against the cargo netting as the Seahawk bucked and swayed, descending rapidly towards Lake Washington. Despite his efforts to hold the can under the gap between the cabins, sour smoke drifted into the back of the helicopter with the hostages.

After helping the other hostages secure their masks, his mother tossed him one. He held it up to his face, but couldn’t secure it tightly with his one free hand, leaving his eyes stinging, his throat burning.

The cockpit was a gray blur, but he could tell the smoke bomb was working. The chopper lurched hard to port, the lake rushing up to meet them as the pilot struggled to regain control.

Austin's knuckles went white as he grasped the webbing, his body straining against the jerks and sways of the chopper.

This was going to be a rough landing.

The windscreen and side windows were obscured behind thick plumes of smoke. Only one small window offered any view outside, giving glimpses of treetops lit by pale moonlight before they were swallowed again by the roiling darkness.

Through the smoke in the passenger cabin, he saw fellow passengers bracing for impact, some shouting last-second instructions to each other or muttering tense prayers. Then, as the men in the cockpit had, they all disappeared in the smoke, leaving him feeling strangely alone.

Various warning alarms within the cockpit sounded, indicating critically low altitude. The chopper plummeted the last twenty feet, rotors lowering in pitch as they thwapped more slowly as the Seahawk fell.

The craft pitched violently as it skimmed across the inky waters of Lake Washington and toward the dim lights of Mercer Island in the distance. Austin clutched the netting in front of him, bracing for impact.

With a violent thwack the Seahawk slammed nose-first into the surface of the lake, the deafening crunch of metal echoing through the cabin, a jolt shaking every bolt and rivet. The pontoons crumpled like tin foil, no match for the brute force of the crash. Austin was hurled forward, face smashing into the divider, fingers tearing against the netting, breaking his grip as the frigid water erupted through a smashed window in the cockpit and began trickling into the rear cabin. He dropped the smoke bomb as he leaned against the netting, teeth rattling in his skull.

The chopper skidded forward until the churning rotors finally spooled down.

Having dropped the gas mask, he coughed violently, his eyes watering. Then everything went strangely still, an eerie silence filling the cabin as the chopper bobbed gently, battered but still intact. Lake water lapped against the helicopter's metal hull, the only sound left to assure Austin he had not gone suddenly deaf from the impact.

Then he heard his mother’s voice. “Rear hatch.”

His heart thudded in his ears, muscles aching from tension and shock. He fumbled for the buckle, desperate to escape the netting. His fingers were numb. He couldn’t feel anything.

He heard footsteps and a metallic screech. He saw a patch of darkness, moonlight, and smoke spilled toward the opened hatch as though desperate to escape the cabin.

“The raft,” his mother said. “It inflated.”

* * *

Ridley burst through the tunnel, crossed the sidelines, and stopped in the center of the field. Chaos.

Dozens, possibly hundreds of officers from different agencies were pouring in. Some were firing weapons, others were hurrying through the stands, still others trying to lead groups of hostages out through various exits.

He couldn’t help but glance up to the Hawk’s Nest to look for Rachel. He’d told himself he wouldn’t, that if he saw her up there, he wouldn’t be able to help himself. He’d go to her, and not to the bombs. He was almost thankful when he didn’t see her.

Special Agent Knight had told him to escape when the tactical teams stormed the field, but there was no way in hell that was going to happen. Defusing the bombs had been much easier than he’d expected, and if he could get to a few of them before al-Raymi detonated them, he had to try.

Picking a spot by the end zone—an area where there seemed to be no units—he raced like a madman, off the field and through the tunnel. Stepping over the body of a dead terrorist, he stopped, crouched, and yanked off the guy’s bulletproof vest. It fit snugly as he strapped it on over his Seahawks jersey and continued on.

He tried three doors, three dead ends, before he found one with a crawl space that led to a main support column. The explosives were set up exactly like the one he’d defused with Darius. Using his cellphone flashlight, he took the battery out of the cell phone attached to the circuit board next to the explosives. He didn’t bother cutting the wires.

For now, that wasn’t necessary. It looked like the units who’d stormed the stadium had taken out most of the terrorists. If al-Raymi was going to blow the stadium by cellphone, disconnecting as many of the triggers as possible beforehand was the only thing that mattered.

From the column he retraced his steps, heading clockwise around the stadium until he’d done three more.

Sweating and panting, he hit a dead end and exited another tunnel back out onto the field, leaping over dropped food and crushed plastic cups, and, occasionally, a body.

Stopping at the fifty yard line, he scanned the stadium. Most of the lights had gone out—perhaps killed by incoming law enforcement, all of whom wore headlamps. The moon hung bright in a cloudless sky, illuminating pockets of activity. At least half of the fans had been evacuated, but people still streamed down from the higher sections.

Far off he heard the shouts of officers flooding in, their heavy boots thundering on concrete. An occasional rifle report rang out, followed by the meaty thump of a body dropping to the ground. More explosions of gunfire, sharp and metallic, sparked from the second level. Bullets sliced the air with a high-pitched zip, then embedded in the concrete with a crack.

Then he saw him.

Darius.

Under the bright moon, Ridley spied the scrawny figure slinking into one of the ground-level tunnels.

He glanced to the upper deck once more—the Hawk’s Nest—but it was dark and all he saw was the occasional flash of a bright piece of clothing. He had no idea whether Rachel was there, giving birth still, or whether she’d gotten out, or whether something terrible… something too terrible to…

He couldn’t complete the thought.

He didn’t know why, but he found himself rushing after Darius.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Panic flooded Austin’s senses, his pulse thunderous in his ears. He thrashed against the buckle holding his chest to the cargo netting, the straps were stubborn as steel.

His left arm had gone limp and his right hand had lost feeling.

The water inched in around his feet now as the smoke dissipated and hostages dove one by one out of the hatch and into either the water or—he hoped—the lifeboat.

He smashed his hand against his knee, trying everything he could think to regain feeling.

The water covered his feet, then his legs. The cabin dimmed suddenly as the helicopter tilted onto its side.

He shook his hand again and felt something in his index finger.

The last of the hostages disappeared from the cabin.

Water now poured through every opening of the Seahawk. It was slowly sinking.

The water hit his chest as he was finally able to pop the buckle. He sucked in a breath and dove down. Kicking off the wall, he propelled himself through the cabin, grabbing at the seats to drag himself through the frigid torrent and out the hatch.

His head struck something hard and he bobbed down in the water. Sinking, he tried to move his left arm, but it was still without full sensation.

Kicking violently and paddling with his good arm, he erupted from the water, gasping and sputtering. Around him survivors surfaced in the lake, shouting for help. In the chaos and darkness he heard his mother and Baker Hamilton directing people onto the raft.

In the wreckage behind him, the cockpit was still shut—but water had found its way in and it was filling fast.

He felt a tingle, a hint of life in his left arm. It was as though all the nerves had been turned off from his shoulder downward and were slowly being rebooted.

He swam around to the front of the chopper, where the nose was still out of the water.

The cockpit had been partially flooded. But the air trapped in the cockpit created buoyancy. This, along with the weight at the back, thrust the front end of the helicopter into the air.

Austin climbed up the side of the half-drowned Seahawk and stood on its nose, clinging to one of the propellers with his good arm to steady himself.

From his position he looked down through the cockpit windshield. Two men were inside, scrambling with gas masks and seatbelts and assessing how they could let themselves out without drowning in the process.

The dark eyes of Anwar al-Raymi looked up and locked on Austin.

Austin felt as though pure evil were piercing straight through him.

* * *

“Do you think she’s moved?” Anna asked, close on Darlene’s heels.

“Only one way to find out.” Darlene led the way, pushing against the tide of fans pouring out of the stadium.

Anna got shoved against a wall as the throng pressed in around her, but she broke free and emerged into the stadium on the field level. The gunshots they’d heard earlier had died down, giving Anna the sense that the agents who’d rushed the stadium had done their job.

A team of black-clad ATF agents were ushering fans into the tunnel. They tried to stop Darlene as she rushed in, but she flashed a badge and grabbed Anna’s hand, pulling her in.

Up in the Hawk’s Nest, most of the crowd was gone. It was dark, but Anna saw some movement. She sprinted, following right on Darlene’s heels. Leaping a railing to avoid a dead body blocking the stairs—a dead body defined by a full head of puffy hair—she ran up to the second level, then the third.

Huddled against a wall on a small landing was a group of three people, two standing, one kneeling. She heard a deep animal-like groan, then the wail of a tiny baby.

* * *

“Is everyone evacuated?” Darius asked.

Ridley had stopped behind him without saying a word, but the scrawny man seemed to sense him there. “I… mostly… law enforcement is coming in.”

Darius was sitting cross-legged in front of a few hundred pounds of C4, one hand on the cellphone trigger.

“Good,” Darius said. “I’m glad most of the people are gone. They were only trying to watch a game. I don’t mind if… well, you should get out of here.”

As Ridley inched to his left, trying to get a better look at Darius, he saw that the man had a strange, faraway look in his eye. Suddenly, his right hand moved, tapping another cellphone, which was sitting face up on the ground.

“What are you doing?” Ridley asked.

“Don’t come any closer,” Darius said. “The cellphone isn’t the only way to trigger one of these. I can do it manually.”

Darius tapped the phone on the ground again and, for half a second, Ridley knew he was dead.

His last thoughts were of Rachel. By now, he hoped, Darlene and Anna had gotten her out to safety, along with the twins, if they’d been born.

But he wasn’t dead. He was listening to music.

Darius hadn’t triggered the bomb. He hadn’t touched the cellphone trigger hooked to the explosives.

He’d pressed play on the music app on his phone.

* * *

A young woman standing next to Rachel held a bundle wrapped in a big, puffy jacket. Anna couldn’t see a baby in there, but the cries were unmistakable.

“We have to get her out!” Darlene shouted. “All of you, out.”

A man turned, his face dark in the shadows. “She still has another baby to deliver. I’m a doctor. She can’t be moved. She’s lost a lot of blood.”

Rachel let out a guttural moan.

The man looked no older than early twenties to Anna. “You’re a doctor?”

“Med student, but really, she needs to get this other baby born.”

“They’re evacuating right now. Now!” Darlene repeated.

“I can make it!” Rachel shouted.

Darlene pressed her hand into the back of the woman holding the baby. “You first. Out!” She pointed her down the stairs. “Get that baby out of here.”

Anna dropped to one knee and squeezed Rachel’s hand. “Can you stand?”

Rachel’s eyes were hollow, her face dimly lit by the moon. “I’ll try.”

Anna looped her arm through Rachel’s and stood, pulling her up with the help of the med student.

Darlene grabbed her other arm, then led them down the stairs, falling behind as the others took two and three steps at a time.

Rachel was weak, but her legs worked well enough. As long as they stayed slow and steady, it would be okay.

They made it to the second level, then the first, stopping only briefly for Rachel to brave through another contraction.

“Where's my baby?” said suddenly.

“It’s okay,” Darlene said. “The woman who had her—she handed her to the doctor, the med student—who was helping you. We’ll connect once we get out.”

Most of the stadium was empty except for teams of agents securing various areas. “Get out!” one shouted at Anna. “The place is about to blow.”

Then, without warning, strange classical music began playing softly throughout the stadium.

* * *

Ridley heard a solo flute, though it was not like any flute Ridley had heard before. Its soft tone and haunting melody seemed to echo from an ancient past.

It was coming from Darius’s phone but also—on an almost imperceptible delay—through the stadium’s sound system.

“That’s called a ney flute,” Darius said, his voice monotone, his fingers now inches from the trigger phone. “I had my phone patched into the speakers. I planned to play this instead of detonating the bombs. But here we are and al-Raymi has taken the first chair position. I’ve dismantled all the bombs I could. Let life be like music. And death a single note.”

A cello joined in, deep and rhythmic, like a heartbeat. More cellos followed, their harmony both sorrowful and strong.

“Don’t do this,” Ridley said.

A tambourine added a staccato beat, a desert rhythm.

Ridley took an uneasy step back. Darius looked far away. Ridley’s mind jumped between two possibilities. Turn and run or try to talk Darius out of what he was about to do. “Don’t,” he said. “There are still people here, there are—”

“Only cops!” he spat. “I don’t care if I kill some cops.” Then his voice grew quiet. “Shhh! This is my favorite part of the first act.”

Drums built to a pounding crescendo, a visceral rhythm Ridley felt in his chest. Woodwinds came in next, joined by clarinets and oboes, their melody verdant and vibrant.

“I’ll get you out of here,” Ridley said.

“Your people will shoot me the minute I walk out of here. I’d rather end it myself.”

“I swear it,” Ridley said, “I’ll put my body between you and their guns. This music is beautiful and you’ll have many years left to listen to it. You’ll be in prison, but it’s better than the alternative.”

The strings rose to a dramatic climax, cymbals crashing, as the full orchestra unified in a wall of sound as beautiful as anything Ridley had ever heard.

Tears fell from Darius’s cheeks. He let his hand fall slowly away from the trigger phone. “And that’s only the prelude.” He stood, picking up his phone. “I’ll go with you. Death is the easy way out. I have to face up to what I’ve done.”

Darius stepped toward the exit.

“The trigger phone,” Ridley said. “First defuse the bomb. Quickly.”

Darius smiled. “Right. I forgot it was still attached to the circuit board.”

He turned, reaching for it.

* * *

The pilot struggled futilely at his harness. He was trapped.

Austin watched al-Raymi and the other guard through the shattered passenger side window. The guard was in a panic, shouting something in Arabic and tugging uselessly at the straps of his harness with a hand that was shattered and bloody. Al-Raymi wrenched an arm loose and drew what appeared to be a knife from his boot. In seconds he sliced through his straps, then turned to the other man still thrashing in his harness. He tried to cut him loose, then handed him the knife.

Austin’s arm was coming more and more to life with each passing second, and he braced himself for al-Raymi to lunge out of the smashed window.

But he didn’t.

He wasn’t trying to escape. Al-Raymi was holding something, but it wasn’t a weapon.

It was his cell phone. Somehow, it had survived the crash.

Studying the screen carefully in the moonlight, Anwar al-Raymi was dialing.

* * *

Anna, Rachel, and Darlene hurried toward the nearest tunnel, which was mostly empty. Ahead of them—strangely—was an older woman with gray hair held in place by a pencil. She was shuffling out of the stadium, a pair of small monkeys clinging to her back. In one arm she carried some type of large cat that looked like a mini-cheetah. In the other arm, a parrot.

The bright lights of the parking lot blinded Anna as they emerged from the tunnel. But at least they were safe.

Rachel stopped, groaning deeply as she squeezed Anna’s hand so hard she heard her knuckles pop. “Where’s my baby?” she screamed.

“The med student,” Darlene said. “We’ll find him.”

A paramedic hurried up to Rachel, noticing that she was giving birth. “Ambulance. This way. We’ll get you to the hospital.”

“I want my baby!” Rachel yelled. “That doctor.”

Another pair of paramedics joined them. They helped Rachel onto a stretcher and wheeled her toward a waiting ambulance.

“What about that med student?” Anna asked, glancing around and growing worried when she didn’t see him.

He wasn’t… he couldn’t have been one of the terrorists, could he?

No, that made zero sense.

“We’ll find him, Rachel,” Anna said. “We’ll make sure to bring the baby to the hospital.”

“Find my baby!” Rachel screamed. The paramedics wheeled Rachel into the ambulance. “That kid, that med student. He was a Seahawks fan! Don’t let that man near my baby.”

Anna stood, mouth held open, as the ambulance door slammed shut. The lights flashed red and white and the emergency vehicle let out a series of whoops as it eased toward the exit.

* * *

“Quick,” Ridley said, “Take the battery out. We don’t need to bother with the wires for now.”

The last thing he saw was the slight man leaning over, reaching for the trigger phone.

The last thing he heard was a shrill ring, an incoming call, splitting the silence and unleashing a torrent of fire.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Austin lunged forward, grabbing al-Raymi’s leg when it emerged through the windshield, having kicked out the already shattered glass that remained connected to the window frame of the chopper. Steadying himself, he yanked with all his might, dragging al-Raymi out.

Al-Raymi grabbed the knife out of his guard’s hand and snarled, slashing blindly as he slid out onto the side nose of the chopper. The blade carved into Austin’s hand, forcing him to release his grip with a shout.

Blood streamed from his palm, the pain sharp and hot. Austin watched through a haze of agony as al-Raymi stood. Leering at Austin with a macabre grin, water sluiced down his face. “I already blew the stadium.” His left eye twitched. “I came here to chew bubblegum and kill Americans. And I’m all out of bubblegum.” Al-Raymi laughed at his own joke.

Austin swallowed hard, clenching his injured fist. As the Seahawk sank slowly into the churning lake, al-Raymi lost his balance briefly, slipping on the wet metal.

Austin saw his opening.

Leaping up, he rushed al-Raymi, striking his side with his uninjured hand. Al-Raymi snarled, slashing with the knife. Austin dodged as the knife sliced the air where his head had been, the helicopter lurching under their feet.

They grappled fiercely, exchanging blows. Al-Raymi slashed again, the knife catching Austin's arm, slicing through his jacket. Austin slammed his fist into al-Raymi's face, breaking his nose with a satisfying crunch. Al-Raymi stumbled and dropped to his knees to avoid falling into the water.

Austin grabbed his wrist, wrestling for control of the knife. They struggled, the helicopter pitching violently, threatening to throw them both into the churning lake.

Thrusting his knees into al-Raymi’s chest, Austin knocked him onto his back against the frame of the shattered windshield, then smashed his hand against the wet metal until his fingers went limp. The knife dropped and slid into the water.

But al-Raymi's giant frame pressed Austin off him, sending him sliding off the other side of the helicopter’s nose and into the freezing lake.

Pulling himself back up, Austin stood.

The green lights from the propeller tips were still lit, and the light bounced off al-Raymi, making him look even more villainous.

Austin put his head down and charged like a maddened bull. Al-Raymi braced himself, then at the last second sidestepped to the right. Austin ran his body’s full force into the busted windshield. As Austin struggled for balance, Al-Raymi grabbed a propeller blade and shoved it, swinging it toward him.

Austin ducked, but the next blade came around and slammed into his back.

Propelled forward, Austin grabbed the blade, legs dangling as he kicked his feet and swung around the nose of the sinking chopper. The helicopter tipped to the side, carried by al-Raymi’s weight.

He didn’t see al-Raymi fall, but he had heard the splash.

Austin dropped into the water as al-Raymi splashed frantically. “I can’t swim.”

Treading water, his eyes momentarily found al-Raymi’s. Austin wasn’t sure what he saw in those dark eyes, but he hoped it was the realization that he was going under for good.

Then Anwar al-Raymi slipped below the surface, bubbles erupting as he disappeared into the murky darkness.

Austin moved toward him, but the weight of the water pulled the Seahawk under all at once. Austin was sucked down. Submerged in the water, everything was dark except for the faint green lights on the tips of the propeller blades. As he floated to the surface, the lights faded to black as the chopper sank to the bottom of the lake.

Floating, trying to catch his breath, Austin wondered how long the electricity would last in that behemoth. He imagined a crew dragging the giant machine out of the waters tomorrow with the propeller blades still lit.

Exhausted, he swam as hard as he could away from the scene, ears ringing. Each stroke was agony, but at last he reached the raft. It was full, with three or four people clinging to the ropes around its edge.

“Austin,” his mother said. “We did it.”

Austin said nothing, but all he could think of was that they hadn’t done it.

Al-Raymi had blown up the stadium with one call from his cell phone.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

Tuesday, 1:02 AM

Roughly an hour later, Austin sat on a massive driftwood log on the beach at Slater Park, a small waterfront area on the western shore of Mercer Island.

Less than half a mile to the north, the lights of the bridge that led to and from Seattle flickered. Traffic had been stopped, the bridge shut down, but red, white and blue lights from police cars filled the night, flickering off the water and casting odd shadows on the shoreline. Beyond the bridge, to the northwest, Austin could make out the top of the space needle in downtown Seattle.

“You know why they call it the Emerald City?” his mother asked, touching his hand.

Austin considered this. “Something about all the trees, I imagine, and the parks. Hell of a lot greener than NYC.”

“Central Park is nice,” his mother said.

“It’s great, but here it’s different. Forests and parks everywhere.”

“I read once that people were already calling Seattle the Emerald City, then as The Wonderful Wizard of Oz got more and more popular, the novel not the movie, it became a whole thing because of the Emerald City in the book.”

“Makes sense,” Austin said, rubbing his face and squishing water between his toes. His clothes were soaked through and most of his body was either numb or throbbing with pain.

A young paramedic with short-cropped brown hair knelt before them, having finished with one of the other hostages on a nearby patch of grass. “Everyone is okay,” he said. “Some concussions and bruises, but alive. Nothing broken. I hear they’re gonna open up the bridge soon, take everyone to the hospital.”

“Thanks,” Austin said. The crew had arrived soon after their life raft made it to the shore, and had been attending to the older hostages for half an hour.

“Did you land that chopper?” the paramedic asked Austin.

Austin shook his head. “I made it crash.”

“Pilot did a helluva job, keeping everyone alive. Where is he, or she?”

Austin pointed at the black water that stretched out before them. “Drowned. He was one of the terrorists who took over the stadium earlier.”

The paramedic nodded gravely.

“Have you heard anything?” Austin’s mother asked.

“They’re not saying much. I heard there was an explosion at the stadium. Pretty big.”

Austin swallowed hard. His cellphone had somehow stayed in his pocket the entire time, but it was dead, as was his mother’s. And the police officers who’d met them at the shore hadn’t been able—or hadn’t been willing—to tell them anything.

In the absence of any real knowledge, Austin assumed the worst.

The only good news was that, as far as he could tell, the canisters hooked ominously to the side of the chopper had either gone down with the craft or remained floating harmlessly on the surface of Lake Washington. For half an hour he’d watched coast guard boats coming and going, carrying crews of Hazmat-suited experts from some agency or another, presumably gathering the… whatever it was.

The paramedic said, “You two good for now? We have another ambulance or two on the way. But, like most of the security in the city, they were all in the stadium district. He pointed west, across the water and toward the stadium, which couldn’t be seen from their vantage point at the water line.

“We’re good,” Austin said. He was anything but good, but his wounds could wait.

The paramedic left and, after a moment, Austin smelled smoke as Baker Hamilton strolled up, puffing a cigar as fat as a tube of toothpaste. “Good news,” he said, standing before them.

Austin and his mother stood.

“I borrowed a phone off a paramedic,” Baker continued. “Offered him seats at the fifty-yard line for next season for a cigar and one phone call. Called my number two man at the stadium. I don’t know who or how, but, well, the stadium is okay. Mostly.”

Austin released the breath he was holding. “Casualties?” He braced for impact.

Baker shook his head. “Don’t know. Apparently almost everyone was evacuated, then one section blew. A major support column collapsed, but mostly everything, and everyone, is fine.”

“Mostly?” Austin asked.

“Some officers were hurt or… maybe worse. Information is sketchy, but I’m going to head over the hospital the second they’ll let us off the island. Could be a while. They’ve got people at all of them, but most are at Harborview.”

“Tell us when they’re gonna let you off,” Austin said. He looked at his mom. “We’d like to hitch a ride.”

Baker nodded and strolled away, puffing his cigar.

After a long silence, his mother said, “I was thinking about what you said. About Fiona. About grief. There’s something I’ve learned, and it took a long long time. I’m kinda embarrassed to admit it, but I’ve been doing some therapy.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” Austin said, joining her again on the log and staring out at the water.

She sighed. “For your generation, maybe, and for younger folks, but it wasn’t as accepted for my generation. One didn’t just talk all about their feelings all the time, especially in the Navy, especially as a woman in the Navy.”

Austin looked at her. “What did you learn?”

“You know, when I was little, only eleven, my mom died. She was everything to me. Just… everything. First woman to get a PhD in the state of Texas. The actual first one. She was a role model.”

“I know.” Austin didn’t know all the details, but she’d always heard that her mom’s mom had died in a car accident.

“Just a random thing, right? There one day, gone the next.” She shook her head slowly. “I always thought I’d get over her death, that the pain of it would eventually go away forever. Disappear like a bad storm. But that never happened. Then when your dad got sick I thought, well, maybe I’ll try therapy. I’m old—old-ish, anyway—and maybe if I can process this grief, get over it once and for all, I won’t have to pass it along to my grandkids, if I ever have them.”

Her last words were a little more pointed, but Austin ignored the barb. “And?”

“I recently learned that I was thinking about it all wrong. You don’t ever get over that kind of grief. It doesn’t dissolve. You don’t process it until it goes away. All you do is make enough room around the pain so that it doesn’t dominate your life. You expand your sense of self so it’s big enough to hold the grief while letting in the rest of life. You make room for the good stuff. Whenever you can, as much as you can, you choose to be happy.”

Austin didn’t say anything, just stared at the lights on the boats as they slowly drifted around the area where the Seahawk, along with al-Raymi, had sunk into the lake.

His mother opened her mouth, but didn’t say anything else. She didn’t need to.

Austin knew that all she wanted for him was to make that kind of room in his life.

To choose to be happy.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

Tuesday, 5:56 AM

Dawn was breaking by the time they got to Harborview. Led by Baker, who’d arranged a special entry with the CEO of the hospital, Austin forced his way past dozens of reporters who’d posted outside, looking for a scoop. His mother had gone back to the hotel to check on his father as soon as the bridge opened.

Inside, the scene was remarkably calm.

As Baker went off to find various stadium staff members who’d been injured, Austin quickly found the nursing station and asked whether they had any patients named Anna Downey, JB or Darlene Macintosh, or Ridley and Rachel Calvin.

The nurse, sleepy-eyed and sipping coffee from a paper cup, stared at her screen. “Calvin?”

“What did you say your name was?” She didn’t look up from her computer as she spoke, only made micro movements with her wrist, scrolling and clicking the mouse.

“Austin,” he said.

“Thomas Austin?”

“Yes”

“I see that you are on their contact list. So, yes, I can tell you that we have both of them. Rachel is in the maternity ward.”

Austin nodded. “She was at the stadium. She’s pregnant. I—”

“Not anymore,” the nurse said. “Why the heck do you think she’s in the maternity ward?”

“Are the babies okay?” Austin asked, relief flooding him.

The nurse looked left to right. “I’m not supposed to say anything, but I’d bet every dollar in my pocket that she’s the first woman to give birth to twins, the first being born in an NFL stadium during a terrorist attack, the second in the maternity ward of a first rate hospital.” She smiled. “Rachel is fine, though we’re not allowing visitors right now.”

“And Ridley?” Austin asked excitedly.

“Ridley Calvin is on the eighth floor. Follow the green line down the hallway to your left, then take a right when you see the hallway with the yellow line, that will take you down a sloped hallway. Take the second hallway on the left, not the hallway past the doors, the true second hallway. From there, you’ll follow that along and you can’t miss the east wing elevators. Take those up to the eighth floor and it will let you out right at the nurse’s station. They will help you find your friend up there.”

“Thanks,” Austin said, his head spinning. “I hope I make it.”

* * *

It took a while, but Austin eventually found Ridley’s room.

He tapped on the door and peeked in. Ridley's eyes were closed, his head wrapped in gauze. Tubes ran from his arm to a bag behind him and various devices beeped nearby.

Austin watched him for a long moment, then turned to leave.

“Wait.” It was Ridley’s voice.

He turned back.

“Where’s Rachel? They told me they thought she was here and…” his voice was weak and he drifted off.

“She’s here,” Austin said. “Nurse said the babies are fine, and so is she.”

Ridley smiled and sat up a little straighter, pushing himself up by the elbows. The news had buoyed him. “You sure?”

“She said Rachel was probably the first woman to give birth to twins, one at a stadium, one at the hospital. That’s one tough bride you got there.” Austin smiled at him. “How are you?”

Ridley smiled sadly and pulled back the blanket, revealing one leg heavily bandaged and the other… oh, God. Ridley had lost half of his left leg. It was wrapped in white bandages just below the knee.

“Thank God for morphine,” Ridley said. “I can’t feel a thing.”

“I’m sorry,” Austin said. “I’m—”

“Nah, I hear that prosthetics have gotten pretty good.” Ridley waved him off. “After the ones we saw—the man they executed and Denny—zero deaths, other than the terrorists.” He put the blanket back over his legs. “Me, plus a couple JTTF and FBI injuries. But zero deaths in the explosion. All but one of the bombs was disarmed. When I think about what I could have lost… This is but a flesh wound.”

Austin heard footsteps behind him.

“Your wife is brave as hell,” Anna said, entering the room. “And a total fanatic. She tried to refuse care from the doctor who was trying to help her because he was a Seahawks fan.”

Austin looked at her, but her eyes were on Ridley.

“She was a champ,” Anna continued. “After you called, Darlene and I went back in. That Seahawks fan doctor had been helping her. Maybe when she has time to reflect, that’ll finally turn her into a Seahawks fan.”

“Not likely,” Ridley said.

Anna stood next to Ridley’s bed. His face had fallen into a wide grin, but his eyes were closed.

Austin touched her arm. “You okay?”

She hugged him tightly. “Okay. JB and Darlene are okay, too. Not a scratch. They’re at another hospital. JB, well, they say he ushered out most of our section. Took out that puffy-haired bastard who killed Denny and got over a hundred people out of there alive.”

Austin was relieved. “Rid says he’s heard there were no more deaths.”

“I’m talking to all my reporter friends. Seattle people with better sources than me. Other than the ones we saw…” she grimaced. “Other than them, I’m hearing zero dead, too. Three or four SPD officers are being treated for wounds from when they stormed the stadium. A few others were injured in the explosion that got Rid. But, I mean, it’s damn near a miracle.”

More footsteps came down the hallway and Austin turned to see Rachel, being pushed in a wheelchair by Jimmy, who was trailed by Lucy. Young detectives in the Kitsap Sheriff’s Department, Jimmy and Lucy were engaged to be married and, Austin knew, both idolized Ridley.

Rachel held both babies in her arms and, when Jimmy stopped her wheelchair next to Ridley’s bed, she broke into tears. Ridley reached for her hand and then he, too, began crying.

Anna took Austin’s hand and led him into the hallway, where Jimmy and Lucy had also retreated, leaving Ridley and Rachel alone in the room with their babies.

“Holy hell!” Jimmy said. “Boss disarmed at least a handful of bombs, then got blown up by the last one. That is straight up action-movie content.”

Austin just shook his head. It was all too much to take in.

“How are you both?” Lucy asked, twirling a lock of her curly red hair nervously.

Anna looked at Austin. “Don’t know about him, but I’m okay. It’s weird, ya know.”

“What is?” Lucy asked.

“What happened today… yesterday, I guess it is now… it’s gonna be the biggest story since… I don’t know, 9/11.”

“Already is,” Lucy said. “Every news station in the world, wall to wall. Coast guard, working with, God I don’t know, everyone… they pulled two dozen canisters of Bioxenorphidium from the lake. Zero leaks. Zero contamination.”

“What the hell is Bioxenorphidium?” Anna asked.

“BXN, aka The Crimson Serpent,” Lucy said, “a lethal biological weapon engineered in Southeast Asia. BXN is a hybrid of multiple viral strains, genetically modified to enhance its transmissibility and lethality. Airborne. Would have killed…” she shook her head. “A lot of people.”

“They were going to drop it on Mercer Island,” Austin said. “They would have gone for the hotels where the G7 staffers are meeting, along with business leaders, cabinet members, and various ambassadors. Hotel staff, cleaners, everyone who lived and worked in the area.” He shook his head.

Anna grimaced. “The weird thing is, I don’t want to cover it. Any of it. I don’t want to talk about it, write about it. I just want to…” She sat cross-legged on the floor. “I think I’m tired.”

“By the way,” Lucy said, “your mom texted me, Austin.”

“What? How’d she get your number?”

“Ridley gave it to her a while back because she was looking for backup support in finding you a date, a wife, and, eventually, the mother of her future grandchildren. Heard I was getting married and thought, maybe I have some friends.”

“Okay, okay, so why’d she text you?” Austin asked.

“Wanted me to tell you your dad is fine. She said he didn’t even know there was an attack. Oblivious to the whole thing.”

“I guess there are some benefits to Alzheimers.” Austin’s stomach rumbled. He looked at Lucy, then Anna. “I’m really hungry, and I can’t let the first thing I eat be hospital food. What’s the best diner in Seattle?”

Anna considered this and stood slowly. “Easy. The Five Point on Cedar. Famous hashbrowns.”

“We’re buying breakfast,” Lucy said. “I’d say you two deserve it.”

“Lucy O’Latkes on us,” Jimmy said.

Lucy punched his arm playfully. “They’re not Latkes, you meathead, they’re hash browns.”

“Same difference,” Jimmy said, heading down the hallway.

Anna looked back into the room, where Ridley and Rachel were staring at their babies in silence. “Should we say goodbye?”

Austin took her by the hand. “Whether he wants it or not, Ridley is about to become one of the most famous people in the world, at least for a while. I say we let him have this moment.”

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

Thursday, 2 PM

“Hey, don’t touch that,” Austin scolded.

Anna had cracked the oven to check on the French bread. Letting it close with a gentle thud, she said, “I’m impatient when it comes to bread.”

“It’s supposed to be five or ten more minutes,” Austin said. “How did it look?”

“Light golden brown,” she sat down next to him at the little table in his kitchen.

“Hmm, that’s how it looked last time. It seems like I can get the crust right, but it’s all about the crumb.” He cracked two ice cold beers and handed one to her, took a sip of his, and continued. “That’s what the book says anyway.”

Run popped through the dog door, probably having heard the oven door opening and closing. She looked expectantly at Austin, then Anna, who shrugged. “You already got all the treats, baby.”

Anna knelt down and scratched Run behind her ears. Run made a warm grumbling sound, almost like a cat purring, then yawned dramatically, breaking contact with Anna on her own terms. It was a good sign, Austin thought, that Run adored Anna and only occasionally exhibited jealous behaviors, setting herself between them to assert her dominance. Austin was Run’s person after all.

After a moment, the corgi wandered into the corner and found a toy to chew on.

“You look nervous,” Anna said.

“My parents should be here any minute.”

She put her bare feet up on his lap under the table. “Nervous about them meeting me?”

He smiled. “Nah, more worried about the bread.”

She pressed her toe into his stomach and twisted.

“Just kidding,” he said. “Yeah I’m nervous about that, nervous about everything. You know, with the press and all. About Ridley.”

It had been three days since the attack. Ridley and Rachel had been discharged from the hospital and were now back in Kitsap. Ridley had texted him that he felt fine, other than the fact that he was missing half a leg. He didn’t remember most of what happened after he’d found Darius, but paramedics had told him that parts of Darius’s body had been found on top of Ridley’s. Apparently, Darius had been blown to pieces, his chest and ribcage acting as a protective shield when part of the ceiling collapsed onto Ridley, knocking him out and crushing his leg.

Over the last forty-eight hours, Austin had declined invitations to every television show in the country, and quite a few international ones as well. In fact, there were TV vans parked at the beach in front of his cafe, general store, and bait shop right now.

Thankfully, Ridley had stepped up and deflected most of the attention. He’d done interviews on all the major news networks and newspapers in the U.S., plus quite a few international ones as well. It wasn’t vanity. Ridley viewed it as part of his job.

It turned out that the government, as well as most of the agencies, were happy to have the press focusing on the stadium attack and diverting the public’s attention from the failed chemical attack on Mercer Island. There had been a few stories about it, but Austin and his mother hadn’t cooperated, and had no plans to do so.

The previous day, Austin spoke to his mother, who felt that his father was well enough to come visit him, meet Anna and Run, and try his bread.

“Are you gonna go to the ceremony?” Anna asked.

Austin sipped his beer. “I want to. But I don’t want the questions, the pictures. I thought things were bad in New York City, with the tabloids and all. Never seen anything like this.”

There would be a ceremony in the stadium district tomorrow, honoring the victims of the attacks and the first responders who’d helped thwart it. Darlene and JB would be recognized, Austin had heard. Ridley would be receiving a medal of some sort for his valor in defusing the bombs and directing the other agents who’d done so. Austin had declined to be honored, but said he might attend along with the crowd.

“You never had a case like this,” Anna said. “A story like this. Good news is, the attention span of the press and the public is getting shorter every day. They’ll move on soon enough.”

Austin hopped up and took the bread out of the oven. The crust was a rich, deep brown and he slid it off the pan onto a cooling rack. “Ten minutes, then we cut into it.”

He waved Anna into the living room and turned on the stereo. “I’ve been listening to this for the last few days. El-Sayed's Dark Symphony. He’s an Egyptian composer.”

“Why does it sound familiar?”

“Maybe because it played over the sound system,” Austin said, “the night it went down.” The solo flute filled his little living room and Run curled up in the corner, one eye open just in case something involving food might be happening soon. “I read about it online. That’s a ney flute, which I guess is an oblique flute made of bamboo, whatever that means.”

A cello joined in, then another, and another.

“It’s beautiful,” Anna said. “But why—”

“Ridley told me that Darius was the one who played it, just before the explosion. He was thinking of killing himself at the end. Ridley talked him out of it, then al-Raymi made the call, blew the trigger. That’s the timeline as I’ve been able to piece it together, anyway.”

“That’s… I don’t know what to say.”

“I’m not especially cultured, but DMJ was. I think he would have liked this music. It’s so dark, and yet also light. I’m not much for musical interpretation, but the mix of ancient and modern instruments, I don’t know. Makes me think of Egypt’s long history and also how everything ends, everything changes, progresses, no matter what.”

Run had closed her eyes and was now sleeping soundly.

“That sounds right to me,” Anna said. “Speaking of everything changing, did you hear about Rid? It was on the news this morning.”

Austin shrugged. “I’ve been trying to avoid the news.” With the free time he’d had over the last couple days, he’d hid out in the kitchen of his cafe, avoiding the questions from his regular customers, and taking long walks on the beach with Run.

“Ridley took early retirement,” Anna said. “He’s no longer the lead detective for Kitsap County.”

Austin was surprised, but not stunned. An injury like the one he’d taken would cause many people to leave the job. It was what she said next that stunned him.

“Get this: Ridley’s running for governor.”

“He’s… wait, what?”

“I know you said you’ve been avoiding the news, but Ridley is one of the most famous people in America right now. Like Giuliani after 9/11, except if Giuliani had a hand in stopping the attacks. He’s a national hero now. One of the JTTF agents who stormed the stadium had a helmet cam and got footage of Ridley sprinting through the stadium looking like Denzel Washington, defusing bombs in his Seahawks 12th Man jersey and a tactical vest.” She shook her head. “It went… viral isn’t even a strong enough word.” She chuckled. “I think there may be new cable stations popping up just to show that footage.”

Austin laughed. “That’s amazing. Now I kinda wished I hadn’t been avoiding the news. But I’m not surprised. I knew within five minutes that Ridley was one of the good ones. Maybe the best.”

Anna touched his arm. “You are too, you know.”

Austin squeezed her hand. “Thanks.” After a long pause, he said, “Governor, really?”

“Think about it. Long record in law enforcement, no ugly political baggage. He’s gonna run as a get-things-done centrist, an Independent, no party affiliation. If it were anyone else, I’d say he has no shot, it’s a two-party system, but… I don’t know… would you bet against Ridley? He’s good looking, happily married with a beautiful wife, beautiful children, and those twin babies.”

Austin considered this, fighting a feeling of disappointment. Ridley was the one who’d brought him in on his first case for Kitsap County. Working with him was one of the best things about his life here in western Washington. “No, I wouldn’t. And he’s got my vote. That’s for damn sure.” Then something occurred to him. “Who’s taking his spot?”

“Lucy O’Law and Order.” Anna smiled. “Youngest lead detective in the state’s history.”

Austin smiled back. “Good for her. She’ll be good.”

They sat in silence until Austin heard a car rolling over the gravel outside. “That’s my folks.” Austin looked over at Anna. “You ready?”

“Ready.”

They walked out the front door and Austin’s mother waved up at them through the windshield. As she rolled down the window, The Rolling Stones’ Start Me Up poured out of the passenger side window. She tapped his dad on the shoulder. Leaning over him, she pointed up at Austin and Anna, then waved. Austin’s father looked up at them and smiled.

Austin and Anna waved.

Austin’s mother sat back in her seat, then patted her hand on his thigh to the beat of the music, encouraging him. When the chorus hit he started singing at the top of his lungs. “...grown man cry-eye ...grown man cry-eye.”

“I thought your father was non-verbal,” Anna said.

“Usually is these days.” Austin shrugged. “I guess music still hits him, though.”

He thought of all of the lost dreams his father’s dementia had brought with it, and he hugged Anna close. Run nudged her way between their legs to remind them that she belonged there and she would be herding them through their relationship. She barked quietly to let them know she would require a treat forthwith for being a good dog and not running out the door into the parking lot.

When they were all settled in the living room, Austin came in with a plate of food: cheese, meat, and the still warm loaf of bread he had just removed from the oven. As he broke into the loaf, a little whiff of steam escaped, revealing a perfectly cooked, tender crumb.

“I think I’ve finally perfected it,” Austin said. “Dad, you’re going to love this bread.”

Austin’s father continued to stare out the window.

“He hasn’t been talking a lot lately, have you sweetie?” Austin’s mother said, smiling despite the grief Austin knew she was feeling.

“It’s wonderful he can still sing,” Anna said.

“Why do you think that is?” Austin wondered aloud. “He can’t really talk with us anymore, but he knows the lyrics to his favorite rock and roll songs.”

“He used to say that music is the only truth,” Austin’s mother declared, reaching for a plate. “Maybe that’s so, now more than ever.”

“I guess so,” Austin agreed. “Well, music, and maybe also bread.”

—The End—

In the next Thomas Austin novel—The Drowning at Dyes Inlet—Austin is working on a more traditional mystery.

In 1979, a florist's lifeless body surfaced in the serene waters of Dyes Inlet, an enchanting estuary connected to the vast Puget Sound. Although the murder was never solved, a sinister heart carved into the victim’s back made the case unforgettable.

Forty-four years later, history repeats itself as not one, but two more victims are discovered within 48 hours, each bearing the exact same chilling carving. The county's darkest mystery is about to be ripped wide open. Check it out here.

ALSO BY D.D. BLACK

The Thomas Austin Crime Thrillers

Book 1: The Bones at Point No Point

Book 2: The Shadows of Pike Place

Book 3: The Fallen of Foulweather Bluff

Book 4: The Horror at Murden Cove

Book 5: The Terror in The Emerald City

Book 6: The Drowning at Dyes Inlet

A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

Thomas Austin and I have three things in common. First, we both live in a small beach town not far from Seattle. Second, we both like to cook. And third, we both spend more time than we should talking to our corgis.

If you enjoyed The Terror in the Emerald City, I encourage you to check out the whole series of Thomas Austin novels online. Each book can be read as a standalone, although relationships and situations develop from book to book, so they will be more enjoyable if read in order.

In the digital world, authors rely more than ever on mysterious algorithms to spread the word about our books. One thing I know for sure is that ratings and reviews help. So, if you’d take the time to offer a quick rating of this book, I’d be very grateful.

If you enjoy pictures of corgis, the beautiful Pacific Northwest beaches, or the famous Point No Point lighthouse, consider joining my VIP Readers Club. When you join, you’ll receive no spam and you’ll be the first to hear about free and discounted eBooks, author events, and new releases.

Thanks for reading!