And the clock was ticking.
II
Lauren paced nervously from one section to the next, not certain exactly what she expected to see, but she knew that with each passing second they came closer to the penultimate moment of reckoning. Thus far, there was no score. The teams on the field were performing the annual Super Bowl ritual of cautiously feeling each other out, testing for weaknesses to exploit while doing their best to hide their own. The first quarter had ended in a tie at zero apiece, and at the rate they were going, they might be looking at goose eggs at halftime. Yet, despite the score, the crowd was frenzied. These were people who’d journeyed from around the country to be a part of history and appeared as though they intended to make the most of the opportunity. Mob mentality was in full effect; commonly accepted behavior gave way to a kind of low, thrumming potential that felt as though it could ignite at any minute. Everyone stood; jostling for a better sightline, shouting, shoving, pounding beers as though this were the only place on earth that served them, absorbing the individual into the mass that threatened to explode with the first points scored.
She studied them all, her eyes flashing from one face to the next in hopes of identifying the one face that didn’t jibe with the rest, the one set of eyes focused on something other than the game, on some twisted thought squirming through a diseased mind.
Nothing.
No one.
Their most gloomy estimates showed that if the wasps were released in significant numbers, fewer than a third of those in attendance would be able to receive the shots of epinephrine in time. The best case scenario still left thousands leaving the dome in body bags.
A whistle from the field marked the two-minute warning.
She glanced back over her shoulder. The Lions had the ball near midfield on the Super Bowl logo. Fifteen more yards and they would be in field goal range. The bedlam that followed the first points scored would provide the perfect cover for the attack.
Her hands trembled as she scanned the crowd. Which one was it? Which one?!
She walked along the rail to the next section and looked up from the second tier to the third.
Behind her, the game commenced once more.
Men and women lined the balcony. Below them, the clock ticked downward.
1:57.
1:56.
A cheer rose in response to something that happened behind her, but she didn’t dare look.
The game clock continued to run.
1:43.
1:42.
Somewhere beneath her feet, Eminem and Kid Rock prepared to take the stage in an unofficial nod to Detroit that had been the source of much controversy during the last two weeks. Especially among Jaguar fans, who felt something as asinine as a halftime act could swing momentum.
1:18.
1:17.
If someone in the crowd wanted to guarantee that he’d be on television, where would he sit? The fifty yard line might offer the best seats in the house, but was unlikely to be featured during the broadcast. First row in the end zone? A player might leap up into the stands after a touchdown, but what were the odds that he would do so, and that he would do so in the exact right place? The only time she could think of that the crowd was going to be shown every single time was…
0:51.
0:50.
That had to be it.
Damn it! She was one section too high and two to the left.
“He has to be in section one-twenty-five!” she shouted into her transceiver. “Right between the goal posts!”
0:44.
0:43.
Lauren glanced at the game as she sprinted toward the exit to the main corridor. The Lions had crossed the thirty and were definitely within field goal range.
Second down and six.
Time out on the field.
She shoved through the herd working its way in the direction of the concession stands to beat the halftime rush and dashed toward the stairs to the lower level. Her footsteps echoed as she leapt them three at a time, narrowly avoiding the groups leisurely working their way down. She exploded through the door and raced toward the gap under a sign painted with the numbers one-two-five, where several agents were already converging.
A deafening cheer erupted from all around her, making the entire structure shake.
She hurried through the opening in time to see a replay of the touchdown pass to the corner of the end zone replayed on the big screen. The offense was already running to the sideline as the special teams jogged inside the five to line up for the extra point.
She caught up with the agents at the bottom of the stairs and took up position with the goal posts at her back as the net was raised behind her. Frantically, she scoured the sea of faces, but didn’t latch on to one that looked suspicious. The man could be in the other end zone, waiting for his opportunity a hundred and fifty yards away.
“He’s not here!” she screamed.
God, did they really think they’d be able to isolate one lone—?
“There!” one of the agents shouted. He pointed up into the stands.
She followed his extended arm to where a man stood, maybe fifteen rows up, dead center, his bare torso and bulging gut smeared with Honolulu blue and silver, his face painted to look like a lion with savage jaws and fiery eyes. He was the only person not pumping his fists or bouncing or whooping like a savage. It was as though he were totally immobile, frozen in place. He just stared past them at the field, focused solely on the place kicker as he lined up with the holder, took two long steps backward, three to the side, and prepared to make the kick.
Lauren knew that the cameras would now be on her back, and millions of people around the world would be staring straight through the gap between the goal posts.
The man raised a metallic object, pinched between his index finger and his thumb. It was slender and short, and flashed when the lights reflected from it.
The world around her slowed to a crawl.
She heard the referee whistle, which started the play clock.
The crowd returned its focus to the game.
The man swelled as he took a deep breath and brought the object to his mouth.
Agents converged from both sides, shoving past the people in the seats beside him, knocking them into the adjacent rows. One agent leapt for the man and seized his wrist before the object touched his lips. Another tackled them both to the ground and they disappeared from sight.
A thumping sound behind her.
The entire stadium roared again.
The ball hit the net and tumbled down toward the turf.
She felt relief like she’d never experienced before as the agents led the man into the aisle, his arms cuffed behind him, and shoved him up the stairs to where a dozen armed men waited.
III
The man sat across from her, his ankles and wrists shackled and connected to another chain around his waist, which was, in turn, fastened to an eyebolt in the floor of the modified transport carrier. He stared across the bed of the enclosed cab at her from that horrible painted lion’s face, itself significantly less menacing than what she saw behind his sadistic black eyes. Had she not known they were there, she never would have been able to detect the latex cheek, nose, chin and brow prosthetics that dramatically altered the configuration of his face. But that was him, all right, the mass murderer responsible for the deaths of more than three hundred men, women and children at the Lithium Springs Fairgrounds. Sitting not more than four feet away from her, studying her in the expectant silence as the road shuddered beneath them and the four soldiers, one to either side of each of them, fondled their assault rifles, praying for any excuse to use them.