The Sign

It was his first kill on this mission, though he’d killed many times before. The war in his homeland had been brutal. It had turned a lot of young Serbian men like him into heartless killers. Once the war was over, some had been able to smother that aspect of their past and morph back into average, amiable folk. Others liked what they’d discovered in themselves. And some of those, like Dario Arapovic, also discovered that the talents that they’d forged in places like Vukovar and during operations like the Otkos 10 offensive were in strong demand. That region of the world was still unstable. It was an ongoing struggle, and any lull was but a temporary pause in the Great Game. A game that people like Maddox were actively participating in, a game where talents like Dario’s were coveted—and richly rewarded. And his decision had paid off handsomely, for although Dario had taken great pride in playing a covert role in helping shape his homeland’s future, his being picked by Maddox to play this key position in a far more important match was a source of even greater satisfaction.

He would have much preferred not to kill the producer. The risk of detection was high. Equally dangerous was the risk of disrupting a plan that had been working smoothly up until then. The news team had done everything that had been expected of them. They couldn’t have done a better job had they been a covert unit themselves. Finch’s death had disrupted that. They worked well as a team. They saw things and reacted the way they had been expected to. They were professionals, and professionals who knew what they were doing could be counted on to follow a well-thought-out methodology—and to listen to reason and act accordingly. Finch had been an integral part of that. With him gone, a new door had been opened. One that led down an untried path. Someone else would have to replace him. A new producer. A hardhead who might not be as easy to steer as Finch had been.

Still, he’d had no choice. There was no way out of it. He knew Finch wouldn’t have bought into anything he could have come up with to explain his having a satphone, much less one that was encryption-module equipped.

He turned and glanced at Gracie. She was now sitting alone, her shoulders slightly hunched, looking out her window. He knew she wouldn’t bow out because of Finch’s death. She was a pro too. And like all pros, she had drive. Ambition. And the cold, rational ability to compartmentalize tragedies like her producer’s death and carry on.

Which was good.

She still had a role to play. An important one.

HALF AN HOUR after the Gulfstream had taken off from the airport at Alexandria, another aircraft had followed it into the sky and was now shadowing it, a couple of hundred miles back, headed in the same general westerly direction.

The plane, a chartered Boeing 737, was a much larger, and older, aircraft. It had enjoyed stints with various airlines over its twenty-six years of service, though none were as unusual as the one it was undertaking today.

The jet’s hold carried a highly covetable selection of state-of-the-art technology. It included a long range acoustic device, canisters of nanoengineered smart dust, and ultra-silent compressed air launchers. Also stowed there was some decidedly less sophisticated, but equally effective, gear: sniper rifles, silencer-equipped handguns, tactical knives, camouflage gear. The jet’s cabin held a load that was no less exceptional: seven men whose actions had entranced the world. Six of them were highly trained professionals: a three-man team that had spent over a year in the desert, another that had endured extreme weather all over the globe. The seventh was an outlier. He wasn’t highly trained, nor did he share their sense of purpose.

Danny Sherwood was only there out of fear.

He’d been their prisoner for close to two years. Two years of tinkering, of testing and double-testing, of waiting. Two years of worrying, of coming up with devious, complicated plans of escape, of fantasizing about them, of ditching them. And then, finally, it had begun. It was why they’d kept him alive. It was why they needed him. And now it was in play.

He didn’t know what their plans were or how it would all end. He’d heard snippets of talk. He thought he knew what they were up to, but he wasn’t sure. He’d thought of sabotaging it, of screwing up their plans, of re-jigging the software so that a giant Coca-Cola or Red Sox sign appeared instead of the mystical sign they had designed. But he knew they were keeping a close eye on his work, knew they’d probably figure out what he was up to before he got a chance to use it. He also knew that if he tried it, it would mean a death sentence for him, and, probably, for Matt and for their parents. And so he thought about it, he mulled it over and dreamed of it and enjoyed the brief satisfaction it gave him to imagine it, but he knew he’d never go through with it. He wasn’t a fighter. He wasn’t a tough guy.

If they’d taken Matt, he knew things would have been different. But Matt wasn’t there. He was.

He sometimes wished his survival instincts hadn’t kicked in just as the Jeep was launching itself off the canyon’s edge. Wished his hand hadn’t lunged out and pushed that door open. Wished he hadn’t leapt out of the Jeep just as its front wheels ran out of ground. Wished he hadn’t ended up clinging to life at the very edge of the abyss, staring up at the circling bird of prey that was about to land and take him away.

But he had. And he was here, now, shackled to his seat, headed for another corner of the planet, wondering when his nightmare would ever end.

Chapter 60

Framingham, Massachusetts

The hamburgers were big and juicy and grilled just right, the buns soft but not crumbly, the coleslaw freshly cut and crunchy, the fries thick, crisp on the outside and the right side of mushy on the inside, the Cokes—in glass bottles, not cans—nicely chilled and served in tall, curvy glasses filled with ice cubes that weren’t in a rush to melt. It was the perfect meal for Matt and Jabba, given their day—a solid, comfortable meal, a reassuring meal, the kind of meal that dragged one’s mind away from troubled times and pulled it back to better days, a meal that drew one into its own comfy world with its hearty offerings and put all thoughts of heavy conversation on indefinite hold.

They sat facing each other in a booth in a small diner in Framingham, about fifteen miles west of Brookline. It was far enough, and busy enough, for them to feel relatively safe. They’d polished off a burger each and hadn’t spoken more than ten words throughout. A lot had happened. It had been a charged day, a bad day right on the heels of another bad day. They’d seen a guy get crushed in half, another get his legs mangled up by a Japanese import. Bullets had whizzed by inches from their faces. Matt had shot several guys, possibly—probably—killing one or more of them, which was not something he’d done before. Not even close.

Thinking about it, revisiting those images in his mind’s eye, he found it hard to accept it had all really happened. That he’d done all that. He didn’t recognize himself. It all felt surreal, like he’d been on the outside, watching it. But it all became real again once he focused on the overwhelmingly good thing that had trumped everything else that had happened: the discovery that his kid brother was still very much alive.

They sat in silence. A small, wall-mounted TV over the cash register was set low. It was on a local channel and had been screening a rerun of an old Simpsons episode, one Jabba knew by heart and one Matt couldn’t have been less interested in. The end credits eventually gave way to some staggeringly unimaginative ads before segueing into the evening news, starting with the latest update from Egypt. It brought reality roaring back into Matt’s face in a flash.

The volume was too low for him to hear what was being said, but even before the waitress turned it up, the visuals themselves were deafening enough. A loud banner on the bottom of the screen informed them that Father Jerome hadn’t been seen since the sign had appeared over him earlier that day. Another added that unconfirmed reports had said that he had actually left the monastery for destinations unknown. Reporters and pundits around the world were scrambling to figure out where he was and where he could have gone to. They wondered about whether he might be headed to Jerusalem, or the Vatican, or back home to Spain.

Elsewhere, gargantuan crowds were still massed in St. Peter’s Square, in São Paulo, and in many more cities now, holding vigils and praying. The world was holding its breath, waiting for Father Jerome’s next appearance. Pockets of violence had cropped up in Pakistan, in Israel, and in Egypt, where men and women of all religions who had taken to the streets to proclaim their faith in Father Jerome had clashed with mobs of unswayed and unwavering believers who were sticking to the rigid tenets of their holy books. Riot police had been deployed, cars and shops had been set alight, and in each case, there had been deaths.

Matt stared at the screen for a moment, then finally said, “Wherever that priest’s going, that’s where we’ll find Danny.”

“You want to go to Egypt?”

Matt shrugged. “If he’s still there, hell yeah.”

Jabba’s shoulders sagged. He took one last bite and pushed his plate off to the side of the table. Wiped his mouth and cast a glance across the diner, then turned his attention back to Matt. Their fates were now intertwined, there was no escaping that. And though he hardly knew the man, he’d seen enough of him to recognize that look—a distant, frowning look that indicated something was bothering him, some kind of itch he needed to scratch. Jabba studied him for a beat, then prompted him by asking, “What is it, dude?”

Matt nodded his head a fraction, to himself, wheels visibly spinning in his mind. After a moment, he said, “We need Rydell. They screwed him over. They’ve got his daughter. Right now, he’s real angry. Which makes me think he could help us get Danny back.”

“Not as long as they’ve got his daughter,” Jabba reminded him.

“Maybe we can change that.”

“Dude, come on,” Jabba protested.

“She’s got herself caught up in this thing just like we have,” Matt argued. “Through no fault of her own. You think this is going to end well for her? You think her dad’s gonna kiss and make up with these guys? They’re hanging onto her to get him to play nice. Once they’re done, they’re not going to let them live.”

Jabba gave him a look.

Matt just batted it back. “You like the idea of Maddox and his storm-troopers keeping her locked up somewhere?”

Jabba smiled despite himself and said, “Look, just because you throw in a Star Wars reference doesn’t mean—”

“Seriously,” Matt interrupted. “We need to do this. Besides, maybe that’s where they’ve been keeping Danny too.”

Jabba tilted his head at him, dubiously. “You don’t really believe that, do you?”

“Not really,” Matt conceded. Then he gave Jabba a slight grin. “What, you got something better to do?”

Jabba shook his head in defeat. “Even if I did, this is bound to be so much more fun.”

JUST OVER THREE HOURS LATER, Maddox took the second call that night from his contact at the NSA.

“I just got another hit,” the man from Fort Meade told the Bullet. “Very brief. Under twenty seconds.”

“They know we’re trying to track them.”

“For sure. They’re being very careful. But not careful enough.”

“Location?”

“Same place,” the caller told him. The GPS lock had placed Jabba’s iPhone on a busy little commercial strip leading out of Framingham.

“Okay. Keep me posted. In real time. We’re in progress.”

Maddox hung up and hit a speed-dial key. The man on the other end picked up the line before it had completed its first ring.

“How far are you?” he asked.

“Should be there in less than ten,” the operative replied.

“Okay,” Maddox said. “We just got another lock. Same location. They’re probably in a hotel or a motel on that block. Let me know what you find.”

Chapter 61

Boston, Massachusetts

The presidential suite on the sixth floor of the Four Seasons was as comfortable as it got in the city, or pretty much anywhere else in the world, but as far as Rydell was concerned, he could just as easily have been sitting in a cramped motel room with a coin-operated vibrating bed that didn’t work. His mind wasn’t registering his surroundings right now. It was elsewhere, stranded on a totally different plane. Grappling with a new reality.

He’d returned to his house after getting away from Matt. It had been swarming with cops and armed response guys—and Maddox. He’d managed Rydell into giving the cops a bullshit story about an attempted kidnapping. Rydell had told them he didn’t know who was behind it, saying the men had worn balaclavas. He told them he’d managed to escape from his captors when they’d tried to transfer him from the garbage truck to another car and hadn’t operated the compactor properly. He’d left it at that and, wanting to avoid the inevitable paparazzi onslaught, had checked into the Four Seasons. His lawyers could deal with the rest.

Maddox had arranged to have two of his men stationed outside the suite. That angered Rydell, but there was nothing he could do about it. Not as long as they had his daughter. And ever since, he’d been busy reliving his meeting with Drucker, Matt’s intrusion, and grinding over what the two men had said.

If they haven’t killed you yet, it means they also need you for something, Matt had told him. Which rang true. Worryingly true. But what did they need him for? When Rydell had threatened Drucker and told him they couldn’t do it without him, Drucker had agreed. But that wasn’t true. Not really. Rydell had left there believing his own bluff. With a rising dread, he now realized that actually, they could. And were. They had the technology. They knew where the smart dust was being manufactured and stockpiled. They could easily secure the facility. They had Danny.

They didn’t need him to make it happen. Not anymore.

And yet they hadn’t gotten Maddox to pump a couple of bullets into him.

The realization pulled his doubts regarding what Drucker had in mind back into focus. They’d gone into this together, brothers-in-arms, united for a worthy cause. Was that still the case? It suddenly dawned on him that maybe they weren’t after the same thing anymore. Maybe the others were after something else. And in the process, they’d created a messenger that transcended the message. That dwarfed it and buried it in its shadow. The media’s shifting focus confirmed his fears.

The story wasn’t about God’s warning anymore. It was about His messenger.

Drucker wouldn’t make such a mistake. Unless he had a different message in mind.

Think of what we can make people do, Drucker had said. The phrase reverberated inside Rydell’s head again.

A final thought confirmed his worst fears. Again, it was born out of something Matt had said.

Me, I’d take it as a definite sign that you guys are now enemies. That’s what he’d said. And it suddenly dawned on Rydell that Matt was right. There was no way this was ending well. Not for him. Nor for his ill-fated alliance with those bastards. They had Rebecca. There was no point in glossing over it. In pretending that it was a temporary difference of opinion. There was no going back from that. No way to salvage it. It was over.

They were the enemy.

His cell phone rang. It was Drucker. It didn’t take long for him to voice the main question.

“What did you tell him?”

“All he wanted to know was what happened to his brother,” Rydell said vaguely.

“And?”

“I told him I thought he was still alive. I told him I didn’t know where he is. Then I ran.”

Drucker went silent. After a moment, he said, “Nothing else?”

“Don’t worry, he doesn’t care what you’re up to,” he lied. “He doesn’t know about you, for that matter, although maybe I should have mentioned it.”

“Wouldn’t have been ideal for Rebecca,” Drucker reminded him coldly. He paused, clearly putting the news through its paces, then said, “All right. Stay at the hotel and avoid the press as much as you can. We might have to find you somewhere more discreet to stay until you can move back into the house.”

Rydell hung up and thought about Rebecca again. Matt’s words rang through his mind.

He was right. They were enemies now.

And maybe Matt was the only one he could turn to in order to do something about it.

Chapter 62

Skies over the eastern Mediterranean

The sea stretched out as far as Gracie could see, a cobalt-blue quilt snugly tucked in around the very edge of the planet. Up ahead and to the left, the sun was teasing the horizon. She leaned forward, right against the glass, and drank in the tranquil view. Although she hopped on planes as often as people took the subway, looking out from an aircraft at high altitude never failed to instill a sense of wonder in her. It was an almost mystical experience—looking out at the planet, the clouds, the sun, the infinite expanse of space beyond what she could see. She never tired of it. She’d normally just sit there and stare out and let her mind wander in all kinds of directions, enjoying that fleeting moment of blissful isolation before getting pulled back into the land of the living by some intrusion.

This time, the intruder was a question, voiced in the dulcet tone of Father Jerome. “How are you feeling?”

She looked up at him. It felt surreal. To be there, talking to him. After what she’d witnessed. When she wasn’t sure what he really was.

She managed a partial smile and a soft shrug. “Frankly . . . a bit lost. Which is not a feeling I’m used to.”

“You’ve been lucky,” he commented. He looked uncomfortable, slightly stooped in the cabin despite the fact that its ceiling was an inch or two over six feet high and he wasn’t a tall man.

Gracie noticed. She gestured at Dalton’s empty seat. “Please. Won’t you join me?”

He nodded, and as he sat down, Dalton came back from the galley.

“I’m sorry, I’m in your seat,” the priest apologized.

“No, that’s fine,” Dalton replied breezily as he handed Gracie another coffee. “I need to talk to the pilot anyway. Find out what the plan is.” He glanced back at Gracie to make sure she was okay with that, then moved forward toward the cockpit.

Gracie watched him go, then turned her attention back to the priest, recovering her train of thought. “You were saying I’m lucky?”

“I know what it feels like. To feel lost. Ever since I left the Sudan, I’ve often felt adrift myself. Unsure of where I was, what I was doing. It’s been . . . hard,” he said vaguely. “And now this . . .” He managed a half smile. “Just to confuse me even more.” He waved his ramblings away and focused on her.

She studied him, then leaned closer. “Up on that roof,” she asked. “What did it feel like?” She remembered his mystified look, when the sign was just there, over him, suspended in midair. “Did you have any control over what was happening?”

He shook his head softly. “It feels as strange to me as it does to you and to everyone else,” he said. “There’s only one thing that’s clear to me.”

“What’s that?”

“If I’ve been fortunate enough to be chosen, then I must overcome my doubts and accept God’s grace and his trust. I mustn’t shy away from it or deny it. It’s happening for a reason. It has to be.” He eyed her reaction, then asked, “What do you think is happening?”

“I don’t know. But it’s just weird,” she explained, “to be living it. To be there, watching it happen, to see it going out live, on TV, around the world. To actually have documented proof of this unexplained phenomenon, this miracle I guess, not just some,” she hesitated at which words to use, then went with “questionable writings from a couple of thousand years ago.”

Father Jerome’s brow furrowed with curiosity as he tilted his head slightly to one side. “ ‘ Questionable’ ? ”

Gracie glanced away before her eyes came back to Father Jerome. “I have to be honest with you, Father. I don’t believe in God. And I’m not just talking about the Bible or about the church,” she added, somewhat defensively, as if that made it potentially less offensive to him, “although I never bought into that either.”

He didn’t seem offended or perturbed at all. “Why not?”

“I guess I got that from my parents. They didn’t buy into it, so I never had it drummed into me when I was a kid. Which is where it usually comes from, isn’t it?”

He nodded.

“The thing is—again, no offense, Father—on the few occasions I did go to church, I never met a preacher I felt I could trust. I never felt they were in it for the right reasons, and none of the ones I met could ever give me an honest, intelligent, or convincing answer to the simplest questions I put to them.”

“Like what?”

“How much time have you got?” she joked. He smiled back, inviting her to continue. “Anyway, once I was old enough to think for myself, I agreed with my parents and their take on the whole thing. I mean, again, no offense, Father, but historically? It doesn’t stand up, does it? Let’s be honest here. All those stories, from the Garden of Eden to the Resurrection . . . they’re myths. Archetypal, clever, resonant—but still myths. I mean, I tried. I wanted to believe. I wanted that comfort, that crutch. But the more I read, the more I researched it, the more I saw what a primitive masquerade it all was, the more I realized that the faith I saw all around me was really nothing more than a bunch of old tales cobbled together a couple of thousand years ago by some very savvy guys to try and turn a superstitious world into a better place—and one they could control better. We’re talking about a seriously primitive bunch of people here. One and a half thousand years later, people were still burning witches. So, to believe in it back then . . . that’s one thing. But today? With everything we know? When we’ve mapped the human genome and sent space probes out to the very edge of our solar system?” She sighed, then added, “And then this happens and suddenly I’m not so sure anymore.” She looked at him with a sheepish, defeated expression.

Father Jerome nodded studiously, allowing her words to sink in more thoroughly. “Not to believe in one religion or another, that’s entirely understandable,” he told her. “Especially for a well-educated woman like you. Besides, they can’t all be right, can they?” He spread his palms out questioningly and smiled, then his expression turned more serious. “But you’re saying something very different. Something much more fundamental. You’re saying you don’t believe in God.”

Gracie held his gaze, and nodded. “I don’t. I didn’t. At least, not until these last few days. Now I don’t know what to believe. Or not to believe.”

“But before all this. Why not believe in God, outside religion? The idea of something wondrous and unknowable—and putting aside all the associations the word God has in the minds of religious people.”

“Logic. You can boil it all down to the basic ‘chicken and egg’ question. The only reason—the only need—to believe in God is to try and explain where this all came from, right? Where we came from. Where we’re headed. But it doesn’t work. If there was a creator, a designer who created all this, well then there had to be a creator to create that creator, right? And one to create him. And so on. It doesn’t hold water.” She paused, thinking further, about something closer to heart. A deep-seated sadness seemed to emerge from within her. “And then my mom died. I was thirteen at the time. Breast cancer. She’d been clear for five years, then it just came back and took her away in ten days. It was . . . brutal. And I couldn’t see why anyone would create something that nasty or take away someone so wonderful.” Even all these years later, her eyes glistened at the memory.

“I’m sorry.”

“It was a long time ago.” She studied him and hesitated, as if unsure about whether to mention something, then decided she would. “You know, back at the monastery. When you leaned down beside Finch. For a moment there, I . . .”

“You thought I was going to bring him back?”

She was taken aback by his insight. “Yes.”

He nodded to himself, as if he had wondered about the same thing. “I have to say . . . I wasn’t sure myself. Of what would happen. Of what I could do.” He looked up at her, his expression foggy.

“But that’s what I’m talking about,” she said. “That’s what I can’t understand. One minute, something we can’t understand—something that could well be what we call God—is sending us some kind of message, showing itself, and it’s hopeful and inspiring and wonderful . . . and then, the next minute, a perfectly good man’s life is taken away, just like that.” Her whole face was questioning him. “It’s like when my mom died. There wasn’t a better, kinder soul on this planet. And I couldn’t understand why something like that could be allowed to happen if there was any kind of super-being watching over us. There was no way that could be justified. I talked to a couple of pastors at the time. They just gave me the standard sound bites about her ‘being with God’ and his ‘testing us’ and all kinds of other platitudes that, frankly, sounded like complete nonsense. Their words meant nothing to me.”

Father Jerome nodded thoughtfully. “The reason your preacher couldn’t help you is he’s lost. He’s still using the same words preachers used to try and comfort people five hundred years ago. But we’re a bit more sophisticated than that now.” He paused, as if pained by his own words. “That’s the problem with religion right now. It hasn’t evolved. And instead of being open and looking for ways to be relevant in today’s world, it’s gone all defensive and protective and it’s regressed into lowest-common-denominator sound bites—and fundamentalism.”

“But you can’t reconcile religion with modern life, with all the knowledge we have, with science,” Gracie said. “I mean, let me ask you this. Do you believe in evolution? Or do you think men and dinosaurs wandered around the planet together six thousand years ago . . . after it was created in six days?”

Father Jerome smiled. “I’ve lived in Africa for many years, Miss Logan—”

“Please, call me Gracie,” she interjected.

He nodded. “I’ve been to the digs, I’ve seen the fossils, I’ve studied the science. Of course I believe in evolution. You’d have to be a blinkered halfwit not to.” He studied her reaction as she flinched. “Does that surprise you?”

“You could say that,” she laughed, still stunned.

He shrugged. “It shouldn’t. But then, religion in your country is so focused on fighting science and all these compelling atheist voices that your preachers have lost track of what religion is really about. In our church—the Eastern Church—and in Eastern religions like Buddhism and Hinduism, religion isn’t there to offer theories or explanations. We accept that the divine is unknowable. But for you and for a lot of rational people like you, it’s become a choice. Fact or faith. Science or religion.” He paused, then added, “You shouldn’t have to choose.”

“But they’re not compatible,” Gracie insisted.

“Of course they are. They shouldn’t be in competition. The problem is with your preachers—and your scientists. They’re stepping on each other’s toes. With big, heavy boots. They don’t understand that religion and science are there to serve different purposes. We need science to understand how everything on this planet and beyond works—us, nature, everything we see around us. That’s fact, no one with a working brain can question that. But we also need religion. Not for ridiculous counter-theories about things that science can prove. We need it for something else, to fill a different kind of need. The need for meaning. It’s a basic need we have, as humans. And it’s a need that’s beyond the realm of science. Your scientists don’t understand that it’s a need they can’t fulfill no matter how many Hadron colliders and Hubble telescopes they build—and your preachers don’t understand that their job is to help you discover a personal, inner sense of meaning and not behave like a bunch of zealots intent on converting the rest of the planet to their rigid, literalist view of how everyone should live their lives. In your country and in the Muslim countries, religion has become a political movement, not a spiritual one. ‘God is on our side’—that’s all I hear coming out of your churches. But that’s not what they should be preaching.”

“It didn’t exactly work for the Confederacy, did it?” Gracie joked.

“It’s very effective at rallying the masses. And at winning elections, of course,” Father Jerome sighed. “Everyone claims Him at one point or another.”

“The way they’re now claiming you,” she pointed out.

“Are they?” he asked, curiously.

“We’re in this plane, aren’t we?”

Her comment seemed to strike a nerve, and he pondered it for a beat.

“Although,” she mused, “they might be in for a bit of a surprise. I’m surprised. You’re much less dogmatic than I imagined. Much more open-minded. Shockingly open-minded, in fact.”

The priest smiled. “I’ve seen a lot. I’ve seen good, kind, generous people do the most charitable things. And I’ve seen others do the most horrific things you could imagine. And that’s what makes us human. We have minds. We make our own choices and live by them. We shape our own lives with how we behave toward others. And God—whatever the word means—is just that. We feel his presence every time we make a choice. It’s something that’s inside us. Everything else is just . . . artifice.”

“But you’re a priest of the Church. You wear that,” she said, pointing at a cross that hung from a leather strap around his neck. “How can you say that?”

She thought she detected some nervousness inside him, some uncertainty, as if it was something that had been troubling him too. He looked at her thoughtfully, then asked, “When the sign appeared . . . did you see a cross up there?”

Gracie wasn’t sure what he meant. “No.”

He smiled, somewhat uncomfortably, and his eyebrows rose as he opened out his palms in a silent gesture that said, “Exactly.”

Chapter 63

Framingham, Massachusetts

At around midnight, the Chrysler 300C swung into the front lot of the Comfort Inn. Two men got out. Dark suits, white shirts, no ties. Lean, hard men, with flat glares and purposeful steps. A third man stayed in the car, behind the wheel. He kept the engine running. They weren’t planning on staying long.

The two men entered the austere lobby. It was deserted, which was expected. Framingham wasn’t exactly a hotbed of late-night merriment. They strode up to the reception desk. Behind it, a lone man of Latin origin and advancing years was huddled in a corner chair, watching a soccer match on a fuzzy screen. The lead man beckoned him over. His dark suit, surly expression, and sharp tone of voice got the receptionist on his feet in no time. The man reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and pulled out three items, which he spread out on the desk under the receptionist’s nose: two photographs—headshots of Matt and Jabba—and a fifty-dollar bill.

The receptionist scanned the items, looked up at the man, looked back down, and nodded. He then reached out and, with a trembling hand, swept back the fifty and pocketed it. Then the man got his answer, but it wasn’t the answer he wanted. They had checked in earlier that evening. Taken a room. Occupied it for a couple of hours. Then they’d paid and left. The guy behind the counter had figured something of a carnal nature was going down, and the mental picture it had inspired clearly wasn’t one he was comfortable with.

They’d just missed them.

The man from the 300C frowned. He studied the receptionist for a beat, decided there was nothing more to be gained, and walked out. They’d paid, which meant they weren’t coming back. Something about it didn’t sit well with him. Why take a room for just a couple of hours? He figured something unexpected must have come up. Something that didn’t come through on the fat guy’s cell phone. Which wasn’t good news. It meant they had some other way of communicating with the outside world, one that his own side wasn’t aware of.

He led the other man back out, paused by the car, and gave the parking lot an instinctive once-over. Nothing suspicious caught his eye. He pulled out his phone and made the call. Informed his boss what he’d been told. Heard the irritation and anger in his boss’s voice. And was ordered to head back to the safe house and wait for further instructions.

The two men climbed back into the 300C. Their driver waited for a passing car, then slid the beefy Chrysler onto the road and drove off, oblivious to the dark polo-green Pontiac Bonneville that pulled out a safe distance back and was now tailing them.

MATT AND JABBA kept their eyes peeled on the taillights of the 300C and didn’t say much. It was late, the traffic was sparse, the cars few and far between. It all made the risk of them being spotted that much greater. They had to be extra vigilant. No mouthing off or second-guessing their plan. No superfluous chitchat. Just total focus.

They’d baited them by lighting up Jabba’s iPhone. The Chrysler’s appearance had confirmed Matt’s suspicion that Maddox and his goons had been able to track them, despite Jabba’s precautions, what with the phone being switched on for such short bursts. Somehow, they had been doing it. Which gave Matt an opening to draw them in. And wait.

The 300C hung a right on Cochituate and curled around to meet the turnpike, which they rode east. There were more cars there, which ramped down the tension of getting spotted, but ramped it up as far as losing the 300C was concerned. Still, Matt had significantly better-than-average driving skills and a keen eye when it came to spotting subtle changes in the attitude of cars, which helped keep them in the game.

They weren’t in the least bit sure of what they’d find when the 300C got to wherever it was headed. As Matt had conceded to Jabba, he didn’t really think he’d find Danny there, but there was a small chance they’d find Rebecca Rydell. Maddox didn’t seem to have an entire brigade of thugs dedicated to this. They were running a lean, mean operation. It wasn’t beyond reason to think they weren’t running more than one safe house, and that they might be keeping her stashed away at the one. It would be the safest place to keep her, and saved resources. Matt started to reel back to what would have happened had he not moved the tracker over to Maddox’s car in the first place, but gave up after finding it was taking away from his concentration. He didn’t want to risk losing them. Beyond the possibility of finding Rebecca Rydell, this was also a chance to throw a wrench into Maddox’s plans, which, to Matt, sounded pretty satisfying right now

They dumped the turnpike for the 95, which they rode north for a couple of miles before getting off at Weston. Matt pulled back as the traffic got lighter. He stalked the big car and its distinctive, boxy taillights east, all the way to Bacon, where it turned left and headed into Waltham. The going got dicier. There were far fewer cars here, and Matt had to drop way back to avoid being noticed. He also switched from main beams to daytime running lamps at each change of direction to vary the front appearance of the Bonneville in the 300C’s mirrors.

The 300C threaded through some residential streets before finally turning into an unlit driveway. Matt already had his lights off and pulled over a couple of houses back. He killed the motor and watched. The three men emerged from the car and headed into the house. The last of them, the driver, beeped the car shut. He hung back and gave the street a cursory sweep before following the two other goons in.

Moments later, the 300C’s interior lights automatically faded to black and the car and the house were shrouded in darkness.

The house was a small, two-story structure. Matt knew those houses well—it wasn’t far from where he’d grown up, in Worcester, and the internal layouts in that stratum of the housing market were pretty standard. Front or side entrance to a front living room, kitchen at the back, stairs in the middle going up to two or three bedrooms and a bathroom or two upstairs. There was also a basement, and Matt was pretty sure that was where they’d be keeping any prisoners.

There were no lights on in the upper floor, and the front living room was also dark. Traces of light from the back of the ground floor filtered through the bay window of the living room and cast a faint glow on its ceiling.

Matt glanced at Jabba and nodded. There was another car in the driveway. The black Durango they’d seen at the airfield. The one Maddox’s goons had stuffed Rebecca Rydell into.

The easy part was over. It was time to crash that party.

Luckily, they hadn’t come empty-handed.

THE GUYS FROM THE CHRYSLER were in the kitchen at the back of the house, talking, having a smoke, sipping cold cans of Coke. Going over the events of the day. Winding down. Not really expecting to be called out again that night.

The loud crash changed things.

It blasted through the house and whipped them to attention. It came from the front, at ground level. From the living room. The distinctive sound of glass, exploding inward: something dense thumping heavily against the wall and landing in a dull thud while a shower of glass cascaded down onto the floor, where it exploded into tiny shards.

The guys moved as one, the lead guy from the hotel barking orders as he rushed to the front of the house, his gun already drawn and out in front. He got one guy to stay behind in the kitchen. Another followed him halfway through the house and stopped at the central staircase, positioning himself at a door that led to the basement. The third was hot on his heels as he burst into the front living room.

It had a wide bay window, and louvered half shutters ran a little over halfway up the glass, to a height of about five feet off the ground. In a defensive reflex, he didn’t turn on the lights, relying instead on the dim light that spilled in from the hallway. The room should have been empty, as the rental was unfurnished, and it still was, except for the glass shards that littered the wood floor. They crunched noisily under the man’s heels as he advanced into the room, sweeping his gun around. He stopped and looked up at the bay window and saw that its central portion had a huge hole punched out of it, the size of a large pumpkin. He glanced around, trying to make sense of what had happened, and spotted a rock, about the size of a football, at the foot of the back wall. His mind was still processing the idea of someone throwing a big rock through the window when something else came crashing in, something bigger and bulkier that clipped the edge of the broken glass, busted an ever wider gap through what was left of it, and narrowly missed him. It showered him with glass and splashed him with a sour-smelling liquid before it tumbled to the ground and clattered to a rest. He stared at it, dumbfounded for a nanosecond. It was a gas can. Lightweight polyethylene, red, threaded vent. Only its lid wasn’t screwed on. In fact, it didn’t have a lid. And it had spewed fuel like a Catherine wheel as it spun through the air on its inward flight, hosing him along the way and now spilling its load all over the floor.

“Fuck,” he rasped as he lunged down and grabbed its handle, turning it upright to stem the flow of gas—only that didn’t help, as small geysers of fuel were pouring out of it from all sides, drenching his arms and legs as well as the floor around him. He saw that crude perforations had been cut into it. There was no way to stop the fuel from pouring out. Which wouldn’t have been that bad, except that a third projectile came flying into the room. This one was coming right at him, and it was lit.

MATT WATCHED THE MOVEMENT of shadows inside the front room and flicked the lighter on. In his other hand, he held a water bottle that he’d emptied then refilled, half with gasoline, half with motor oil. A wick, in the form of a strip of dust cloth that was soaked with gasoline, was stuffed tightly into its neck, waiting for the flame. Two other identical projectiles were ready and willing by his feet.

The rock had drawn the guys from the Chrysler into the room, in time to receive the gas can he’d cut holes into. He knew he had to move fast and hit them before they understood what was going on. He lit the rag and lobbed the bottle in. The petrol bomb arced through the cool night air and flew into the room through the broken window. A flash of light lit up behind the shutters, followed almost instantly by a bigger fireball as the flames caught the fuel from the gas can. He heard a panicked scream, lit a second bottle, hurled it in through the same opening, grabbed the third bottle, and sprinted around to the back of the house.

THE LEAD GUY SHRIEKED as his arms and legs caught fire. He twisted around furiously, trying to bat the flames down with his bare hands, the second guy side-stepping around him in a panic, unsure about what to do to help. The flames were stubborn, more stubborn and stickier than expected—and hotter. The gasoline was easier to smother and kill off. The motor oil was a different story. It stuck like tar and burned stronger and harder. There was no way to get it off his clothes or off the skin on his hands, and it was growing, hungrily consuming everything it touched. Flames had also grabbed hold of the floor and were spreading across the wood.

“Get it off me,” he yelled demonically as he dropped to the ground and rolled on himself, trying to suffocate the flames, unaware of the futility of his moves. Shards of glass were now cutting into his exposed, burning skin, which made the pain intolerable. The second guy took off his jacket and crab-stepped around him, looking for an opening to dive in and wrap it around him. Gray smoke was choking the room, thick with the stink of charred skin and hair and burned motor oil. The third guy, the one who’d been stationed by the stairs, was also in the room, watching his burning partner in horror. He looked around frantically, trying to find something to use to smother the flames, but the room was bare. No carpets, no curtains, no throws over sofas.

“What the fuck’s going on?” the fourth guy shouted from the back of the house.

“The kitchen,” the second guy ordered the third guy, “cover the back.”

But it was too late.

THE FOURTH GUY WAS ALONE in the kitchen. He had edged right up to the door, by the hall, trying to see what was happening while not wanting to move away from covering the house’s back entrance. He could hear the screams and see the flames and the smoke and smell the stink billowing out through the living room’s door and getting pushed through the house by the air coming in from the broken window, and it panicked him. It panicked him enough to snag his attention away from the back door and move him away from it enough to make Matt’s move feasible.

Matt was hugging the back wall of the house and peering in through the kitchen window. He recognized the man as one of the two guys who’d escorted Rebecca Rydell off the plane, and it gave him a boost of confidence that she might be there. He registered the man’s position and decided it would do. He lit the last bottle, took three steps back to give his Molotov cocktail enough momentum to break through the glass, and hurled it with all his strength. The bottle punched its way into the kitchen and exploded against the wall inches away from the guy. He bolted sideways as flames fanned out angrily, looking for food. That split second of diversion was all Matt needed. He kicked the door in right after the throw and caught the guy flat-footed. The guy was still swinging his gun hand around when Matt put him down with two rounds to the chest.

He pushed through the house without hesitating, scanning around for a locked door, sweeping the area with his P14. It felt weird being in there. He wondered if Danny had ever been held captive there. The feeling made him angrier. He stowed it for now and focused on finding Rebecca Rydell. His guess was they’d be keeping her in the basement, and sure enough, the door that led down, by the stairs, was shut. Not only shut, but locked, as someone was desperately hammering against it from the inside and tugging against its handle and yelling. A girl’s voice, confirming Matt’s thinking.

He didn’t veer off to help her. There were at least four of them, and two potentially out of action still left at least two goons to deal with. Matt was easing past the stairs when another guy slipped out of the living room, on his way to help his now-dead colleague in the kitchen. Matt had a flash of recognition from the airfield. He didn’t stop to ponder it. He just lunged sideways and down as the guy from the plane loosed off a couple of rounds that crunched into the walls just as Matt let the big handgun rip. A round caught the guy in the thigh and he jerked backward momentarily, then his leg buckled and he collapsed on top of it. The shooter raised his gun, hoping for another shot. The strength had drained out of him and he looked like he was trying to lift a lead brick. Matt was on bent knees, down low against the wall, in a two-handed stance, and squeezed off two more rounds that took the guy out.

Matt stayed there for a beat. He glanced up the stairs, dismissed the idea that anyone would still be up there, and just stayed where he was and waited, arms outstretched, covering the door, watching the smoke and the flames wafting out from the living room, the screaming and the stomping echoing in his ears. He knew the fourth guy had to come back out if he didn’t want to get barbecued alive. And there was only one way out of that room.

And then he heard them. The sirens, low and grating squawks, distant but closing in. Just when he needed them. He’d told Jabba to call 911 the instant the first petrol bomb exploded, figuring he’d have enough time to storm through the house before the fire engines got there, and thinking they could come in handy if things hadn’t gone according to plan. The sirens grew louder, and he crouched lower, arms tensing up, expecting that the guy inside had heard them and would be needing to make a desperate, Butch-and-Sundance-like breakout. And then he heard something else: glass, shattering furiously, a loud crashing noise, and he understood. The guy had decided to bail through what was left of the bay window.

A stab of panic cut into Matt as he thought about Jabba, out there on his own without a weapon, but they’d parked a couple of houses back and he imagined neighbors were probably stepping out of their houses by now and converging outside the house, alerted by the flames and the gunshots, which would give Jabba some cover.

He waited a beat longer, straining to listen to any telltale noise that contradicted what he thought had happened, then scrambled back to the closed door. Rebecca Rydell—it had to be her—was still banging her fists against the door and shouting.

“Hey! What’s going on? Get me out of here!”

Matt tried the handle, but it was locked. “Step back from the door,” he yelled back. “I need to shoot the lock off.”

He waited a couple of seconds, then shouted, “You back?”

She said, “Yes,” and he fired—once, twice. It more than did the trick. The locks were old and basic, the door frame soft with age. He kicked the door in. Wooden treads led down to a basement where an attractive, tanned girl was cowering against the wall, her face riven with terror.

He extended his arm down toward her, waving her up. “Come on, we’ve got to go,” he hollered over the increasing crackle of the flames. She hesitated for a second, then nodded nervously and rose to her feet.

They stormed out of the house, past the startled faces of a few neighbors, past a fire truck that was swinging into the driveway. Matt peered through the darkness, scanning for the Bonneville, and a stab of dread cut into him as he saw that it was no longer there. A scream of horror confirmed his worst fears and he ran faster, his heart fighting its way out of his rib cage, imagining the worst. As he drew nearer, he spotted Jabba’s silhouette, flat on his back on the curb outside a nearby house.

He wasn’t moving.

A couple of onlookers were huddled beside him, the man checking him out hesitantly, the woman staring down, riveted with fear, her hands cupping her mouth.

“Jabba,” Matt yelled as he slid to the ground beside him.

In the darkness, it was hard to see where the wound was, but a pool of blood was spreading out from under him. He was having a hard time keeping his eyes open, but he caught sight of Matt and tried to say something, but coughed and was having trouble forming the words.

“Did we get her?” he sputtered.

Matt nodded and said, “She’s right here,” turning around to give Jabba a glimpse of Rebecca Rydell, who inched forward, her face flooded with sadness. “Don’t talk,” Matt told him, gripping his hand, tight. “Just hang on, okay? Hang on. You’re going to be fine.” He turned to the couple looming over him. “Call 911,” he shouted. “Call them now.”

The woman raced into the house. Matt just stayed there, hanging onto Jabba—hoping to avoid the worst, cursing himself for having dragged him along—for what felt like hours but was actually less than ten minutes until an ambulance finally showed up.

Matt stayed with him as the paramedics fussed over him before bundling him onto their stretcher with breathtaking efficiency.

Matt kept asking, “Is he going to be okay?” but he couldn’t get a straight answer out of them. With a devastating sense of loss choking him, he watched as they wheeled Jabba into the back of the ambulance, shut the doors, and stormed off.

He heard another siren—a police cruiser this time—and glanced at Rebecca Rydell. She was huddled on the lawn, still shivering.

“Come on,” he said as, mouthing a silent prayer for the life of his new friend, he took her hand and led her away from the horror-struck crowd that had gathered around the blazing house.

Chapter 64

Houston, Texas

“Where are they now?” Buscema asked the preacher. Reverend Darby was in his study. It was late, but he didn’t mind Buscema’s call. He owed him for giving him the heads-up on Father Jerome’s predicament. He also didn’t mind the ego boost he got from talking about it with virtually the only other person in the country outside his organization who knew what he was doing.

“They should be landing in Shannon, Ireland, about an hour and a half from now,” he told Buscema. “It shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours to refuel the jet.” Darby sounded even more pumped than during his sermons.

“So what time will they get here?”

“I make it around six A.M., Houston time.”

Buscema went silent. Then he said, “You might want to delay their arrival a bit.”

“Why?”

“Well, I suppose it depends,” Buscema thought out loud. “You could sneak him in under the radar. Might be safer to play it that way.”

“Or we could turn his arrival into a major event,” Darby said, completing Buscema’s train of thought. He pondered it for a moment, then said, “I was wondering about that. You’re right. He deserves to make a big entrance. We shouldn’t be sneaking him in like some petty criminal. The man’s God’s emissary, for crying out loud. We’re not like those savages. We’re going to welcome him with open arms. Let’s show the country and the world where America’s moral center really is.”

“I can help leak it,” Buscema told him. “Just give me as much of a heads-up as you can.”

Darby played it out in his mind’s eye. He saw it as something big. Momentous. He flashed to news footage he’d watched a year earlier, of the pope arriving at Andrews Air Force Base. The red carpet, the military dress uniforms. The president and the first lady, greeting him as he stepped off the plane. His mind went back to older footage he’d seen several times. Grainy, black-and-white footage of the Beatles, arriving at Kennedy airport, back in 1964. That was more like it. The frenzied mob, heaving against barricades. The continuous, earsplitting screams. Flashbulbs popping, women wailing. Sheer adulation. That’s what this would be like. That’s what it should be like. With him at the center of it.

The thought put a smile on his face. It would be a defining moment. For the country and, more significantly, for him.

I’ll be upstaging the president, he thought triumphantly. And that’s only the beginning.

“I’ll give you enough time,” Darby said.

“You’re going to need some serious crowd control,” Buscema opined.

“Not a problem. The governor is part of my flock.”

“What about beyond that? Any progress on your Christmas offering?”

“The stadium’s booked,” the preacher confided. “It’ll be a rush, but we’ll make it happen. We’re bringing in some performers. Big names. You mark my words, Roy. I’m going to give the people of this country a Christmas they’ll never forget.”

Buscema went quiet. The kind of quiet he knew Darby would pick up on.

Sure enough, the pastor said, “What is it?”

“I’m just a bit concerned about sending out the right message.”

“Meaning?” Darby didn’t sound thrilled.

Buscema let out a ragged sigh, as if this were a tough call. “I’m hearing grumblings. From other pastors and church leaders.”

“I know,” Darby fumed. “We’ve been swamped with calls since the news got out. Every preacher from here to California’s been on the line. Even the governor wants in.”

“Wouldn’t be a bad idea to share that platform, Reverend. Get the word out more widely. Turn this into a much bigger and broader event. The country could use it right now.”

“I’m the guy flying him in, Roy,” Darby noted calmly. “I got him out of there.”

“And you’ll be the one greeting him when he steps off that plane,” Buscema reassured him. “You. No one else.”

“The governor’s also pushing to be there. I’m finding it hard to keep ducking him.”

“Doesn’t matter, Reverend. There won’t be any other pastors at the airport. Just you. It’ll be your moment. That’s the image people will remember when they first see him. But after that, I’d say it’s in your interest to show as much generosity as you can handle and invite as many other church leaders to join you on the big day. You’ve got to think big. You can take the lead on this. America doesn’t have a pope. It doesn’t have a spiritual leader. But the country needs one. Especially given how tough things are right now. Americans need to be inspired. To feel like they’re part of something.” He paused, just enough to let the words settle but not enough to give the preacher an opening to argue back. “You don’t want it to look like just another service at your church. This one’s for the whole country. For the whole world. You can’t be alone on that stage. But you can do it on your terms. And by extending a welcoming hand, you’ll only be elevating your own position as a gracious host . . . and leader.”

TOUGH PART’S OVER, Buscema thought after hanging up with Darby. Now he’d have to wait and see if the self-obsessed blowhard would play nice and share. He needed Darby to play nice. He needed him to share his new toy with the other kids. And that, he knew, was never easy. Not when you were dealing with a spoiled brat, let alone one with a righteousness complex.

He picked up his phone and hit another speed-dial key. The man on the other end had been waiting for the call.

Buscema just said, “We’re on. Leak it,” then hung up.

Chapter 65

Shannon, Ireland

The Gulfstream was parked by a service hangar, away from the small airport’s terminal. Gracie was pacing around by the plane as she spoke on her cell phone. She was out in the open and wasn’t really worried about being spotted. It was night, and there was no one around apart from a few dozy and disinterested maintenance guys who were refueling the jet.

It was much colder there, another shock to her system after the chill of the South Pole and the warm embrace of the Egyptian desert. The cold, though, felt good. Bracing. Numbing. Which was helpful, given that she was on the phone with the abbot and reliving Finch’s death in all its grisly detail.

He was on his way back from Cairo. He told her they’d delivered Finch’s body to the American embassy there. It hadn’t been easy getting there. He told her that fierce clashes had erupted among the hordes outside the monastery once news of Father Jerome’s departure had been made public. Jeep-loads of internal security men had stormed across the plain and contained the outburst, and were now clearing away the last troublemakers, but the situation had repeated itself in Cairo and in Alexandria and in other cities across the region.

Gracie saw Dalton coming toward her, waving his BlackBerry, indicating there was a call for her. She was thanking the abbot when he remembered something and said, “I’m also very sorry about your friend’s glasses. One of my brothers broke them by accident. We put the frame in the pocket of his jacket.”

Dalton was right up with her and mouthed “Ogilvy” to her. Seemed like it was pretty urgent. Gracie raised a pausing index finger at him, her foggy mind trying to make sense of what the abbot was talking about.

“I’m sorry, Finch’s glasses?”

“Yes,” the abbot said. “One of my brothers stepped on them by accident. He didn’t see them.”

“That’s all right,” she said, nodding to Dalton like she was done. “I didn’t notice them either,” she added.

“No, you wouldn’t have,” he corrected. “They weren’t outside. They were in the keep, and as you know, it’s quite dark in there. Anyway, I’m really sorry. I know it’s the kind of personal belonging that matters to loved ones at times like these. Would you please apologize to his wife on my behalf?”

“Of course,” Gracie said, still distracted by Dalton. “Thanks for everything, Father. I’ll call you from America.” She clicked off and took the other phone from Dalton.

It was Ogilvy. His news pushed any thought of Finch to the sidelines.

“It’s out,” he told her, his tone urgent. “The word’s out that Father Jerome’s on his way here.”

“What do you mean? It’s been leaked?” Gracie asked. “How?”

“I don’t know. It came up on Drudge half an hour ago and it’s everywhere now.”

She scanned around with her eyes, suddenly paranoid. A vision of converging mobs flashed before her, then evaporated. “Do they know we’re here?”

“No, they didn’t mention that. All they know is that Father Jerome is out of Egypt and on his way here, to Houston. It doesn’t even mention Darby.”

Gracie frowned. This wasn’t good. She pictured the media circus and the chaos that would be greeting them.

“We’ve got to change destinations. Fly in somewhere else. Somewhere quiet.”

“Why?” Ogilvy asked.

“’Cause people are going to go nuts when they see him. We’ll get mobbed.”

“I called Darby. He told me he’s got the cops lined up to help. They’re gonna cordon off the tarmac, provide a rolling escort. It’ll be fine.”

“You’re not serious?”

“Are you kidding me?” Ogilvy asked. “This is still our story. Your story. Every reporter in America would give both arms to be in your shoes. Think about it. Every single TV set in the country is going to be watching you as you walk off that plane right alongside Father Jerome, with Dalton’s camera giving us a live inside track. And Darby wants you and Dalton to stick around. He’s going to put you up with them. I’m flying out too. So just relax and get some rest and get ready for it. We’ve got a show to do, and you’re about to get the biggest scoop of your life.”

Chapter 66

Boston, Massachusetts

“Dad?” Rydell couldn’t believe his ears. His pulse raced ahead with equal doses of fear and hope. He could feel it pounding against his cell phone. “Where are you? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she said. “They got me out. I’m fine.”

Rydell’s heart cartwheeled. Her voice had a quaver in it, but she didn’t sound afraid.

“Hang on,” she said.

He heard some shuffling as the handset evidently changed hands, then he heard the last voice he was expecting.

“Are you alone?”

He recognized Matt’s voice. A sudden panic seized him. “Where are you? What have you done?”

Matt ignored his question. “She’s safe. Can you get out without the escorts?”

“I don’t know.” Rydell faltered. “I . . . I can try.”

“Do it,” Matt ordered. “Do it right know. And meet us outside the place you took Rebecca for her eighteenth birthday.”

The line went dead.

Rydell didn’t know what to think. Was she Matt’s hostage now? Was that his plan? He wasn’t sure what he preferred—knowing she was in his hands, or in Maddox’s.

He wasn’t sure either way. What he was sure of was that now that Rebecca was out, Drucker didn’t have any hold over him. Unless he tried to grab him and substitute him for Rebecca.

He had to get out.

Now.

He picked up the hotel phone and hit the reception button. Got an answer on the first ring.

“This is Rydell. I need security up here. Right now. As many guys as you can send. My bodyguards are up to something; I need protection right now. From them.” His tone left no room for doubt as to the urgency involved.

The flustered voice on the other end was still fumbling through a reply when Rydell hung up. He darted to the bedroom, found his wallet and his coat, and pulled his shoes on; darted back to the door of his suite and eased against it for a peek through the peephole. He could see the two bodyguards, Maddox’s men, standing outside his door. Looking bored, killing time. He waited. About ten seconds later, he heard the whine of the elevator’s motor and the clunk of the doors sliding open. Four men rushed out and stormed over to the suite’s door. Rydell saw the bodyguards step toward the security guys, arms raised in a halting what’s-going-on gesture.

Rydell grabbed his chance. He swung the door open and stormed out, sprinting past the surprised bodyguards and through the wall of security guys, waving a panicked finger back toward his bodyguards and shouting, “Stop them. They’re trying to kidnap me. Help me get out of here.”

The security guys flinched with confusion, as did the bodyguards, who were caught flat-footed by Rydell’s rushed exit. Maddox’s men stepped forward forcefully, one of them reaching for his holstered handgun, but the security guys weren’t cowed. Two of them were beefy bouncer types, and they just stood their ground and closed in on each other, creating a barrier across the corridor. One of them, the biggest one of the lot, held up a stern warning finger and had his handgun out too, a mocking you-really-don’t-want-to-do-this grimace across his face. Rydell didn’t wait to watch the outcome. He slipped into the elevator, jabbed the down button repeatedly until the doors rumbled shut, and rode down to the lobby, his nerves on fire. The short ride felt like forever. He raced out the second the door opened, flew out of the lobby, and hurtled into a lone, waiting cab. He ordered the guy to just go, and craned his head back as the cab drove off, to make sure they weren’t being followed. He made the driver take a few rudderless lefts and rights. When he was satisfied that they were on their own, he told him where to go.

IT WAS A SHORT HOP around the Common and past Faneuil Hall to get to the Garden. That late at night, the traffic was light, despite the holiday rush. As the cab turned to pull into the arena’s parking lot, Rydell spotted Matt across the street, leaning against a dark sedan. Rydell got the cabbie to drop him off at the gate, waited for him to drive well clear, and crossed the road to join them. He was halfway across when the rear door swung open and his daughter clambered out of the car and ran over to him.

He hugged her tight. He still couldn’t quite believe it. He looked over her shoulder. Matt was just standing there, leaning back against the car, his arms crossed, an angry look on his face. Rydell kept a firm grip on Rebecca’s hand as he went up to him.

“You did this?” Rydell said. More like a statement than a question.

“My friend’s in the hospital,” Matt told him crisply. “He’s been shot. Bad. I need you to make a call and make sure they give him everything he needs.”

Rydell nodded and reached for his phone. “Of course.”

“He’s also going to need protection,” Matt added. “Is there anyone you can call?”

“I’ve got the number of the detective who came out to the house,” he said. “I can call him.”

“Do it,” Matt said.

Rydell kept hold of Rebecca as he made the calls. It didn’t take long. His name usually helped speed things up.

They told him Jabba was in surgery, and that the prognosis was uncertain. He hung up and informed Matt.

“He’s in good hands,” Rydell told him. “He’ll get the best of care.”

“I damn well hope so.”

Rydell studied him, unsure about where they stood. “I’m sorry about your friend. I just . . . I can’t thank you enough for doing this,” he said, hesitantly.

“I just don’t like your friends,” Matt replied tersely. “They have this habit of locking people up.”

Rebecca turned to meet Rydell’s guilty look.

“And . . . ?” Rydell braced himself for more. Were they now both his prisoners?

“And nothing. My friend’s been shot and your buddies still have my brother.” Matt stared at him, hard. “I thought you might want to help me make things right.”

Rydell brought his hand up and massaged his temple. He looked at Matt, then slid his eyes over to Rebecca. She was eyeing him with a mixture of confusion, fear, and accusation.

He didn’t know what to do. But he had no one left to protect.

“They’re bringing him back,” he finally said.

“Who?” Matt asked.

“The priest. Father Jerome. He’s left Egypt. He’s on his way here.”

“Where here?”

“They’re saying Houston,” Rydell said. “It’s only just hitting the wires. Wherever it is, they’re bound to put a sign up over him, and the odds are, that’s where you’ll find Danny.” He paused, collecting his thoughts. “You were right,” he finally conceded. “They’re planning something. Something they needed me around for. I don’t know what it is, but what I thought the plan was, what they insisted was still their plan . . . it’s not it. It’s something else. It’s all about the priest now.”

“Who would know?” Matt asked him, fixing him squarely.

“The others.”

“I need names.”

Rydell held his gaze, then said, “You only need one name. Keenan Drucker. It’s pretty much his show. He’ll know.”

“Where do I find him?”

“D.C. The Center for American Freedom. It’s a think tank.” Just then, Rydell’s BlackBerry trilled. He fished it out of his pocket, checked its screen. And frowned at Matt.

Matt looked a question at him.

Rydell nodded. It was Drucker.

He hit the answer key.

“What are you doing? Where the hell are you?” Drucker asked sharply.

“Working late, Keenan?” He looked pointedly at Matt, holding up his free hand in a stay-put gesture.

“What are you doing, Larry?”

“Getting my daughter back.” Rydell let that one sink in for a beat. Drucker went mute. Then Rydell added, “Then I thought I might head down to the New York Times and have a little chat with them.”

“Why would you want to do that?”

“’Cause I don’t know what you’re up to, but I’m pretty sure it has nothing to do with what we set out to achieve,” Rydell shot back fiercely.

Drucker let out a rueful hiss. “Look, I made a mistake, all right? Taking Rebecca was way out of line. I know that. And I’m sorry. But you didn’t leave me any choice. And we’re in this together. We want the same thing.”

“You’re not doing this to save the planet, Keenan. We both know that.”

Drucker’s voice remained even. “We want the same thing, Larry. Believe me.”

“And what is that?”

Drucker went silent for a moment, then said, “Let’s meet somewhere. Anywhere you want. Hear me out. I’ll tell you what I’m thinking. After that, you decide if you still want to bring this whole thing down on top of us.”

Rydell swung his gaze around to Matt and Rebecca. Let Drucker sweat it out for a beat. He knew he needed to hear him out. Too much—his whole life, everything he’d achieved, everything he could still achieve—was at stake. “I’ll think about it,” he replied flatly, then hung up.

“What did he want?” Matt asked.

“To talk. To convince me to play ball.”

Matt nodded, then pointed at Rydell’s BlackBerry. “They might have a lock on you.”

Rydell held up the device, a curious expression on his face. “What, this?”

“They were tracking us. Through my friend’s phone. Even though we’ve been careful. We only had it on for short bursts.”

Rydell didn’t seem the least bit concerned. “We can do it in the time it takes your phone to send out a text message.”

Matt didn’t get it.

“It’s one of ours,” Rydell assured him. “A piece of spyware we developed for the NSA. But there’s nothing to worry about here. We’re fine. My phone’s vaccinated against it.”

Matt shrugged, looked away, then swung his gaze back at Rydell. “What are you gonna do?”

Rydell pondered his question. “I don’t know.” He hadn’t had any time to think and strategize. Not that he felt overwhelmed with options. Everything felt like it was crashing down around him. But Rebecca’s call had changed all that.

He gazed at his daughter. Her safety was paramount. “We can’t stay here,” he told Matt. “Not in Boston. Not after your little visit. There’s nowhere to lay low, not in this town. Anywhere we go will get flagged to the press—and to Maddox.”

Matt nodded, mulled it over for a moment, then said, “Don’t you want to see it?”

“What?”

“Your handiwork. In all its glory.”

Rydell thought about it for a beat, then said, “Why the hell not. Let’s get out of here.”

Chapter 67

Houston, Texas

The crowds were visible from the sky. Gracie didn’t spot them at first. The jet was banking around the small airport, coming in on a low-altitude, looped approach. From a height of around a thousand feet, all she noticed was a solid mass, a dark blot staining the pale wintry scrub that surrounded the acres of gray concrete. The traffic jams gave it away. All the small roads leading to the field were clogged with cars. Vehicles were just strewn all over the place haphazardly, like Lego bricks tossed out of a box. They were all jammed up one against another on the fields on either side of the roads, and weren’t going anywhere anytime soon. The traffic was backed up all the way to the Beltway, which was choked for a couple of miles in each direction. People were just abandoning their cars and making their way to the field, following those ahead of them like groupies converging on a big open-field rock concert. They were swarming in from all corners, heading for the northwestern corner of the airport, not far from the northern tip of the runway.

Gracie wasn’t familiar with the airfield. Darby had explained to her that the chief of police had requested they avoid Hobby and Bush Intercontinental and use Ellington Field instead. For one thing, it wouldn’t disrupt the commercial flights in and out of the city. Ellington was a small, mostly military airfield. A handful of private jet operators had FBOs there, but it wasn’t used by any airlines. It didn’t even have a terminal. It was no more than a couple of runways and a row of uneven hangars that were home to the Coast Guard, NASA, as well as the Texas Air National Guard, where, famously, George W. Bush had been based during the Vietnam War, ready to thwart any Vietcong attack on Houston. Crowd control would also be easier there. The airfield was used to handling public events, especially since it was home to the annual Wings Over Houston air show.

Still, Gracie was willing to bet they hadn’t experienced anything like this.

The jet touched down faultlessly and veered off to the left at the end of the runway. It rolled on for a hundred yards or so before coming to a stop by a large single hangar that had its frontage wide open. A twin-jet helicopter was parked nearby, a couple of men standing beside it. The captain throttled back and killed the Gulfstream’s engines, and as they whined down, the noise from outside seeped in, an eerie wave of clapping and cheering that was loud enough to defy the air seals of the cabin and its triple-glazed windows.

Gracie looked at Father Jerome. His face was tight with anxiety and glistened with a sheen of sweat. She reached out and put her hand on his, smiling supportively.

“It’s going to be fine,” she said. “They’re here to welcome you.”

He nodded stoically, as if resigned to his new role.

His look brought back the same unease she’d felt on the roof of the keep, and she wondered why she wasn’t feeling any relief at being back on safe and solid ground. She glanced over at Dalton. He was already getting his camera ready and turning on the Began to set up a live feed.

“You ready for this?” he asked her.

“No,” she said with an uncertain smile.

NELSON DARBY WAITED by the empty tarmac and drank in the clamor rising up from the mass of onlookers. He was used to big crowds. His megachurch welcomed over ten thousand people every Sunday, and over fifteen thousand on special occasions. This was different. Normally, he was the one providing the fire. He was the catalyst. The crowd would soak up his energy and respond when prompted. He wasn’t used to being a passive observer, but the crowd behind the barriers at the edge of the airfield were providing the fireworks themselves. They were clapping and whooping as if they were waiting for Bono to come out for an encore. A large group to the left were singing “I’ve Been Redeemed” and swaying back and forth with each line. And Father Jerome hadn’t even stepped off the plane yet.

The pastor glanced over to his left, where the governor was standing stiffly by his side. He gave the silver-haired politician as genuine a smile as he could muster and swiveled his gaze over to his right. Roy Buscema met his gaze and nodded solemnly.

Darby leaned closer to him and said, “Good call, Amigo,” in a low voice.

Buscema just nodded again and kept his eyes fixed on the plane’s cabin door as it cracked open.

The crowd roared as the door swung outward. Its retractable stairs slid down and touched the ground, and three of Darby’s people rolled a red carpet out to meet it in preparation for Father Jerome’s descent.

Without inviting any of his guests to join him, Reverend Darby strode up to the plane, turning briefly to acknowledge the crowd with a regal wave and his signature megawatt smile. The hordes, pressed against the fences that the police had barely managed to put up, roared back their appreciation as the preacher positioned himself at the base of the steps. The governor followed, mimicking Darby’s nod to the crowd, but he’d missed the moment and failed to generate the same response.

INSIDE THE PLANE, Father Jerome straightened his cassock and padded to the front of the cabin. He seemed lost and confused, a stranger in a strange land. He turned to Gracie, the same anxious look darkening his face. Brother Ameen stepped closer to him and took his hand, cupping it with both of his.

“It’s going to be fine,” he told the older priest.

Gracie watched, anxious, waiting for him to settle down. Father Jerome sucked in a deep breath, then straightened up, nodding with renewed resolve.

“Is it okay if we start rolling?” she asked, pointing at Dalton and his camera. Brother Ameen studied Father Jerome, then turned to Gracie and gave her a nod. Gracie pressed the earpiece into place, lifted her BlackBerry up to her mouth, and gave Roxberry a low-voiced go signal. They were going out live, as planned—an exclusive for the network.

Father Jerome stooped slightly to pass through the cabin door’s low opening and stepped onto the landing at the top of the retractable stairs. Gracie and Dalton were inside the cabin, filming him from behind. The crowd’s reaction was thunderous. A tsunami of adulation came barreling over them from all sides. Father Jerome froze and stood there and let it roll over him, his eyes swimming across the sea of faces spread out before him. Gracie craned her neck to get a better look. There were people stretching back as far as she could see. Some carried banners, others had their arms raised. There were cries and wails and tears of joy, a torrent of religious fervor barely held back by the barricades. Television cameras and mobile broadcasting vans were everywhere, their oversized satellite dishes dotted around and giving the airfield the look of a SETI installation. A couple of news choppers circled overhead, their cameras rolling.

Father Jerome raised one hand, then another, an open embrace that spoke of humility, not of showmanship. The crowd went ballistic, clapping and screaming expectantly, their eyes scanning the sky anxiously, wondering if they’d be seeing the miracle for themselves. Father Jerome himself tilted his head up slightly, sliding a glance upward, also wondering if anything was going to appear, but he didn’t wait for it. He glanced back at Brother Ameen and at Gracie and climbed down the stairs, straight into Reverend Darby’s welcoming embrace.

Gracie and Dalton followed him down and hovered discreetly to one side.

“Are you getting this?” she asked Roxberry. He was back at the studio, anchoring the coverage.

“You bet.” His voice crackled in her earpiece. “Keep it coming.”

She watched as the reverend kept the priest’s hand firmly cocooned inside his own cupped hands and whispered some words into his ear. The priest seemed surprised by what he was saying, then he nodded hesitantly, as if out of courtesy.

Darby turned to the audience, raised his arms, and flapped them down gently in a quieting gesture. The crowd took a moment to settle down, and when they finally quieted, the stillness was eerie. A combination of anticipation and foreboding was palpable. Then one of Darby’s assistants handed him a microphone and he raised a hand to the crowd.

“Brothers and sisters in Christ,” he announced in his barrel-organ voice, “greetings in the name of Jesus Christ, our Lord, to you all, and thanks for coming out here with me to greet our very special visitor, Father Jerome.” He stretched the o in Jerome, like a game announcer, and got a wildly raucous reply from the crowd.

“Now as you know, tomorrow is a very special day. Tomorrow is Christmas Day, a special time of celebration for us all, and yet . . . and yet, this year, a time of pause, a time when we must bow our heads humbly and think about these troubled, testing times we’re in, think about what we could have done to make things better and what the future holds for us. And up until a few days ago, I was troubled. I was bothered and I was distressed. I was finding it hard to remain hopeful. And like many of you, I’ve been praying. I’ve been praying for God to spare our great nation. To spare it from the judgment we certainly deserve for our many trespasses, like the killing of millions upon millions of pre-born children. I’ve been praying for God to be merciful with the millstone we deserve to have hung around our necks for our sins. For allowing our scientists to experiment with stem cells and colliders. For allowing our living children to be exploited by the deviant anarchists who now control public education and Hollywood. For tolerating those who would like to do away with Christmas altogether. And when a great nation like ours is going through troubled times such as these, when a great nation like ours is on its knees, the only normal and natural and spiritual thing to do is what we, as good Christians, should be doing all the time: calling upon God. Calling upon him for guidance and for revival.” He paused and let his somber words sink into the crowd, who went silent except for the scattered “Amen” and “Bless the Lord,” then he sucked in a deep breath and beamed a kindly smile at the mob.

“Well guess what? I think God heard our prayers,” he bellowed out, to a chorus of “Hallelujahs” and “Amens.” “I know he heard our prayers. And I believe he’s sending us a lifeline. A lifeline to help lead a nation and a world that are nearing moral collapse and perhaps even World War III. A lifeline in the form of a pious, deeply spiritual man, a man who has devoted his entire life to the selfless pursuit of helping his fellow man. So I ask you all to please join me in welcoming the good Father Jerome to our great state of Texas,” he boomed, triggering an even more tumultuous uproar.

Father Jerome cast his eye across the crowd, taking it all in silently. He glanced over at Gracie. She was standing next to Dalton, her mike poised in front of her, but she wasn’t saying anything. She recognized the same confused, worried look on the priest’s face, the one she’d seen on the roof of the qasr before the sign had appeared. He seemed clearly uneasy with everything that was happening.

Darby put his arm around the priest and oriented his attention back at the crowd. “Now I have a special request for Father Jerome, and I hope you’ll all join me in this, as it’s an invitation from the heart, from the heart of Texas and from the heart of the entire nation.” He turned to Father Jerome, and said, “I know you’re tired, and I know you’ve been through some heady days, but I’m here to ask you, on behalf of all these people and on behalf of the whole country—will you honor us with a special service tomorrow?”

The crowd whooped its approval in a crescendo of claps and cheers. Darby raised his hand to quiet them, then turned to Father Jerome, moving the mike right up to the priest’s mouth and awaiting his answer. Father Jerome looked into his eyes for a beat, then gave him a nod and mouthed, “Of course.”

“He said yes,” Darby bellowed, and the crowd went nuts again. He raised his hands again to calm them, and said, “And you’re all invited. Every one of you,” pointing at the crowd. “Spend the day with your loved ones. Enjoy those turkeys and ring out those carols. And at six in the evening, come on down to the stadium at Reliant Park. We’ve got room for all of you.” He beamed, and the crowd erupted into even louder cheers.

Darby waved to acknowledge his audience and put a guiding arm behind the priest for the best photo op he could have asked for, then herded him away from the crowd toward the hangar to their right.

“We’re moving away from the crowd now,” Gracie told Roxberry as she and Dalton followed, continuing their live transmission. “We seem to be headed for”—she heard the chopper’s engines whining up and saw its blades start to spin—“We’re headed for a chopper, Jack. Father Jerome is about to be choppered out of here, which is probably the only way out right now. I guess we’re going to lose our connection, but we’ll keep rolling the camera and get the pictures over to you as soon as we land.”

They all piled into the helicopter—Darby, two of his assistants, the priest and the monk, Gracie, and Dalton. Less than a minute later, the chopper lifted off the ground, swooped around for a rousing pass over the crowd, and straightened out on a direct trajectory to the city, the two news choppers trailing in its wake.

Chapter 68

Houston, Texas

Matt was leaning forward, his eyes fixed on the wall-mounted plasma screen in the FBO’s executive lounge at Hobby Airport. Rydell was also there, watching it with him. He had arranged the night flight from Boston, borrowing a jet from one of his dotcom buddies. It had dropped them off in Houston before continuing onward to Los Angeles, whisking Rebecca off to the relative safety of an old friend and a big city. At Hobby, Rydell had arranged for them to have exclusive use of the fixed base operator’s facilities, figuring it made sense to hang back at the airport and figure out what their next move would be before going into the city proper and risking exposure. Then they’d sat back and watched.

The live coverage cut away from Grace Logan’s feed and segued to the network’s fixed camera at the edge of the airport, and the sight of the chopper taking off deflated Matt. He’d been hoping to see the sign show up over the false prophet, and to take its appearance as a sign that Danny was close by. It hadn’t happened, but that didn’t stop him from scrutinizing every corner of the screen, looking for anything suspicious right until the feed switched over to the aerial view from one of the trailing choppers and cut him dry.

Matt slumped back into the sofa, dropped his head back against it, and shut his eyes. “Reliant Stadium,” he said. “That’s where the Texans play, isn’t it?”

Rydell was already on his BlackBerry. “Let’s see what the weather’s like tomorrow.”

“Why?” Matt asked.

“The stadium’s got a retractable roof. If it looks like it’s not going to rain, they’ll have it open—which they’ll need to do if they’re planning to put a sign up over him.”

Matt kept his head back, staring at the ceiling. He sucked in a deep breath. “Tomorrow, then,” he said.

They sat in silence for a moment, thinking ahead, trying to let some clarity back into their minds. Matt stared up at the ceiling. He felt a burgeoning optimism. He was getting closer to Danny, and he’d made it alive so far. The continuation of neither of which was a given, not by any measure.

“It’s not going to be easy finding Danny,” Rydell added. “The stadium’s huge.”

Matt frowned. He’d been thinking of something else. “Maybe we won’t have to.” He glanced across at Rydell. “Drucker told you he wanted to talk, right?”

“Last I heard, he was in D.C.,” Rydell told him. Then something occurred to him. “Unless he’s here. For all this.”

“Call him. Tell him you’re here if he wants to talk. And tell him to get his ass down here if he isn’t here already.”

Rydell weighed it. Seemed to like it, but with a slight reticence. “He’ll suspect something’s up.”

Matt shrugged. “He’ll still want to meet with you, and that’s something we can control. We’ll pick the place. We can be ready for him. Besides, it’s not like I’m juggling ten different options here.” He played it out one more time, then nodded, going for it. “Make the call.”

“You sure?” Rydell asked.

“Get him down here,” Matt confirmed. “I think we’d both like to hear what the bastard has to say.”

Chapter 69

River Oaks, Houston, Texas

The area around Darby’s house was entirely sealed off by the police. Running a perimeter four blocks out on three sides, their barricades were blocking all access except for residents. The back of the house looked out over the golf course, and access to the club was also now under strict police control. Officers and dogs patrolled the greens, on the lookout for overzealous believers and angry fanatics. The governor also had the National Guard on standby, should the need for more manpower arise.

The chopper set down in the parking lot of the country club, and its occupants were shuttled across the golf course to their host’s mansion under police escort. News vans crowded the edges of the cordon, a long row of white vans and satellite dishes. Throngs of hysterical worshippers were massed against the barricades, clamoring for Father Jerome to come out and talk to them, desperate for a glimpse of the Lord’s envoy. A couple of whackos had infiltrated their ranks and were blathering away with incoherent speeches about the imminent end of the world, but more common were the scattered choruses of hymns and carols that could be heard across the neighborhood.

Gracie and Dalton were shown to a room on the ground floor of a guest house that abutted the main building. Brother Ameen was in an adjacent room. Father Jerome was given a cosseted guest suite on the second floor. The plan was for them all to remain at the mansion until the big sermon at the stadium the following evening.

Ogilvy, who was in town, had asked for continual updates live from inside the Darby estate. Gracie and Dalton had given the network’s viewers a tour of the compound, but hadn’t managed to get a word from Father Jerome, who was resting in his suite and had asked not to be disturbed.

After Gracie signed off, Dalton checked his watch and said, “I’m off to the airport to get the skycam and the rest of our stuff. I might pick up some fresh clothes if the mall isn’t mobbed. You need anything?”

Gracie chortled. “An alternate reality?”

“I’m not sure Gap sells those, but I’ll see what I can do.” He smiled.

He wandered off and left her. She went back to the room, where she collapsed on the bed. It had been a brutal few days, and there was no end in sight. She managed to tune out for all of three minutes before the phone rang.

She fished out her BlackBerry, but it wasn’t the one that was ringing. She burrowed deeper into her bag, saw the soft blue glow of another screen, and pulled it out. It was Finch’s phone.

She eyed it curiously. The caller’s ID was flashing up. It said Gareth Willoughby. It wasn’t a name she recognized at first—then it clicked. He was the producer of the BBC documentary.

She took the call.

Willoughby didn’t know Finch had died. The news took him by complete surprise. He told Gracie he didn’t know Finch and said he was just returning his call.

There was an uncomfortable silence for a moment, then Gracie said, “I guess you must be glad they finally agreed to let you go up there and talk to Father Jerome, huh?”

Willoughby sounded confused. “What do you mean?”

“I mean if they hadn’t said yes, or if you hadn’t kept on insisting . . . who knows what would have happened. I know we probably wouldn’t have flown out to Egypt.”

Willoughby wasn’t getting it. “What are you talking about? They came to us.”

His statement pricked Gracie like a dart. She straightened up. “What?”

“They came to us. I mean, yes, we were there. Making the documentary and all that. But we didn’t go looking for him. We had no idea Father Jerome was even there.”

Gracie was having trouble reconciling this with everything she’d assumed. “So how’d you end up meeting him?”

“Well, it was just one of those serendipitous breaks, I suppose,” Willoughby said. “We were filming there before heading out to Saint Catherine’s in the Sinai. That was our original intention. Not the Syrians’ monastery. We were at Bishoi at the time, you know, the other monastery near there?”

“I know the one,” she told him.

“Well, Bishoi’s story, the whole thing about him chaining his hair to the ceiling so he wouldn’t fall asleep. It’s the kind of rather wonderfully creepy detail that adds a bit of spice to this kind of show. And while we were there, we were buying supplies from this small shop and we bumped into this monk from the monastery of the Syrians. We got chatting, and he told us Father Jerome was up there in one of their caves. Acting rather bizarrely. As if he were possessed, only in a good way. Which was really timely for us.”

“Hang on a second,” Gracie blurted, trying to make sense of his words. “I thought everyone knew Father Jerome was there.”

“No one knew.”

“We looked it up,” Gracie objected. “It was there.”

“Of course it was—after we filmed our program,” Willoughby corrected her. “That’s when it hit the wires. Nobody knew he was in Egypt before we got there and wrapped our piece. He was on his ‘sabbatical,’ remember. They wouldn’t say where he was. We thought he’d died at one point. And if you think about it, it was all rather fortuitous, in more ways than one.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, we wouldn’t have met that monk in the first place if it hadn’t been for our commissioning editor at the BBC. That’s what I’m really grateful for.”

“What, that they gave you the green light?”

“No, that they handed us the assignment in the first place,” Willoughby said cheerfully. “It was their idea. They came up with it.”

Gracie felt a buildup of pressure in her temples. “Whoa. Back up. You’re saying you were sent there? This wasn’t your idea?”

“No.”

“So exactly how did this show come about? Give me the whole back story.”

“You know how it is,” the Englishman related. “We pitch ideas. Programs we’d like to do. We keep pitching until something sticks. We agree on a budget and a timetable, and off we go. This one wasn’t like that though. We were bouncing around different ideas. I was more interested in doing a piece on the odd and rather sadistic appeal of End of Times preachings in your country. You know, the lunatics who are rooting for the whole world to blow up. But then the commissioning editor came back and proposed a three-parter that they had American partners lined up for and we ended up doing that instead. Comparing Eastern and Western approaches to spirituality. It was different, but it was still very apropos and they were laying out a decent budget for it.” He paused, taking stock of the conversation, and asked, “If I may ask, Miss Logan, why all the questions?”

Gracie instinctively put up a defensive wall. Despite the discomfort she felt at what she was hearing, a small voice inside her was telling her to protect what she was uncovering. “Nothing, really,” she lied. “I’m just . . . I guess I’m just trying to better understand what got us all out there. Why Finch died.” The second it came out of her mouth, she felt horrible at using his death in that way, and hoped Finch would have forgiven her for it. “Tell me something,” she asked Willoughby. “The monk who told you about Father Jerome. Do you remember his name?”

“Yes, of course,” Willoughby said. “He was a rather interesting chap. Lived through a lot of bad times, you know? He was from Croatia. His name was Ameen. Brother Ameen.”

GRACIE FELT like she was sinking. She felt like she’d fallen into a great whirlpool of doubt that was sucking her into its dark vortex. A vortex lined with Willoughby’s words and with previous sound bites her memory was now dredging up.

She tried to order them up in a nonthreatening way, in a way that defused the most sinister thoughts that were pulling her down, but she couldn’t. There was no way to gloss over it.

They’d been lied to.

She focused back on that conversation they’d had in the car after they’d been picked up at Cairo Airport. She closed her eyes and visualized the monk, Brother Ameen, telling them how the filmmakers had badgered them for access to Father Jerome and how the abbot had finally relented.

A clear lie.

The question was, why?

Her darkest instincts were going off in all kinds of directions, and none of them were good. And from that cobweb of conflicting thoughts and suspicions, another worrying sound bite rose up. It freed itself, shot up, and latched onto her consciousness.

She found her phone, pulled up her call log, and rang the number the abbot had called her from. It took a few seconds for the call to bounce its way halfway across the world. Yusuf, the driver, answered on the third ring. It was his cell phone. It was evening there, but not too late. He didn’t sound like she’d woken him up.

“Yusuf,” she said, her tone ringing with urgency. “When the abbot called, when you were driving back from Cairo, he said something. Something about where the glasses of my friend were found. You remember?”

“Yes,” Yusuf said, sounding unsure about what she was getting at.

“He said it was dark inside. That’s why whoever it was stepped on them. They didn’t see them. They were inside? Inside the keep?”

Yusuf paused for a moment, as if thinking, then said, “Yes. They were in a passageway on the top floor. Near the roof hatch. They must have fallen from your friend’s pocket on his way up to the roof.”

“You’re sure of that?”

“Yes, absolutely,” Yusuf confirmed. “The abbot told me about it.”

Gracie felt a cold stab in the pit of her stomach.

Finch couldn’t see without them. And hard as she tried, she couldn’t see how he could have climbed up there, much less how he could have found his BlackBerry on that roof, if he hadn’t been wearing them.

She hung up and caught herself eyeing the door to her room as if it were a gateway to hell. Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong. She had to do something. Her first instinct was to speed-dial Ogilvy.

“I need to see you,” she said, her body stiff, her eyes still locked on the door. “Something’s not right.”

Chapter 70

Houston, Texas

Matt swept his gaze across the hotel’s lobby with caution and walked through its elegant halls slowly. He glanced around casually, checking for security guards, cameras, escape routes, and vantage points. He traversed as far as he could, then doubled back on himself and made his way over to the café that fronted the hotel, the one that overlooked the street. He noted its layout, made a mental list of the ways in and out, took stock of the kind of clientele and their number. Then he went back out to check the service entrance at the back of the hotel.

He was there early. The meeting between Rydell and Drucker wasn’t planned for another two hours. Drucker wouldn’t even have landed in Houston yet, and besides, the plan was for Rydell to keep from telling him where they’d be meeting until Drucker was actually in the city. Still, Matt felt he needed to check the place out long before any of Drucker’s men had a chance to get there. He knew Drucker wouldn’t be coming alone. With a bit of luck, Maddox might even be with him. And even though he knew the odds were that he’d be outnumbered, Matt had something going for him that they didn’t. He didn’t need to be discreet. He wasn’t worried about appearances or about causing a panic. He didn’t care who saw him whip out a big gun and put it to Drucker’s head, right there, in the café. He didn’t have anything to lose. The one thing he needed to achieve was to get the muzzle of his gun pressed right against Drucker and walk out of there with him. It didn’t matter who saw him do that. It didn’t matter how freaked out the hotel’s guests got. Only the end result mattered. He would just sit there, bide his time, wait until Rydell got the information he needed out of Drucker, and then he’d move in.

It was easier said than done, and yet, oddly, Matt was actually looking forward to it.

SIX BLOCKS WEST OF THERE, Gracie stood with Ogilvy in Sam Houston Park. Her mind was being pulled in all kinds of directions, none of which were heartening.

They were by the Neuhaus Fountain, an installation that featured three bronze sculptures of coyotes stalking the wild frontier. A few people were ambling by, stopping to experience the peaceful setting before moving on. Gracie wasn’t feeling any of that. In fact, she couldn’t stand still. She was rippling with nervous energy as she took the network’s head of news through what Willoughby and Yusuf had told her.

Ogilvy didn’t seem to share her concern. A slick-looking man with an aquiline nose and swept-back hair, he was studying Gracie patiently through rimless spectacles.

“These guys are humble, Gracie,” he remarked with an insouciant shrug. “So this Brother Ameen character didn’t admit he actually pimped Father Jerome out. He was probably hoping to get some screen time himself. Someone in his position would be the last person to admit he found the idea of a little publicity too hard to resist.”

“Come on, Hal. He wasn’t the least bit nervous when he was lying about it. He didn’t look embarrassed or rattled at all. It wasn’t like we caught him out. And what about Finch’s glasses?”

“It might explain why he fell. If he couldn’t see properly.”

“They should have been down on the ground, somewhere next to him,” she objected. “Or on the roof, and even that’s a stretch. But inside the keep? One floor down from the roof? How’d he even make it up there without them?”

“What if he dropped them and broke them himself. Before he got there?”

“So he just leaves them there? I don’t buy that. You step on glasses, you maybe break one lens. Not both. You can still wear them for some kind of clear vision. You don’t just leave them there.”

Ogilvy glanced away and heaved out a ragged sigh. He looked like he was losing patience. “So what are you saying?”

“I’m saying we’ve got two lies that need checking out. Something’s up, Hal. This is starting to stink.”

“Because of a monk who couldn’t admit he got a hard-on when he saw a TV camera and another who’s looking for some excuse to explain his clumsiness?”

Gracie was stunned by his dismissal. “We need to look into this. We need to find a way to talk to the abbot directly, confirm where the glasses were. And get some background on this Brother Ameen. He’s from Croatia, right? Where did he come from? How long has he been at that monastery? The guy’s been pivotal to getting us to buy into this story and we don’t know anything about him.”

Ogilvy paused and looked at her like she was saying she’d been abducted by aliens. “What are you doing?”

“What?” she protested.

“You’ve got the inside track on the scoop of the century. This is a huge, huge story. For us and for you. We have unparalleled access. You start poking your nose around and getting Jerome and Ameen all riled up and they could shut us out. Which wouldn’t go down well. Not well at all. You can’t afford to mess this up right now, Gracie. It’s too important. So how about you focus on that instead and put the conspiracy paranoia on hold for a while.”

Gracie looked at him as if he were the one who’d been spouting abductee tales.

“Hal, I’m telling you, something’s not right. The whole thing, it’s been one ‘lucky’ break after another,” she said, making quotes with her fingers. “Right from the beginning.” Her mind was running ahead of her now, and she was thinking aloud. “I mean, think about it. We happen to be there when the shelf breaks off. We happen to be filming nearby. Hell, we wouldn’t even have been down there if you hadn’t suggested it when we were planning the whole show.”

And then it happened. Her mind plucked out the disparate thoughts that were tumbling around inside her and lined them up so they all fit. Like the sides of a Rubik’s Cube falling into place. She saw a connection that was there all along and made a realization that suddenly seemed so obvious to her she couldn’t imagine it not to be true.

Almost without thinking, she said, “Oh my God. You’re in on it too.”

And in that briefest of moments between her saying it and his responding, in the nanosecond of his looking at her before he opened his mouth, she saw it. The tell. The tiniest, hardly noticeable hesitation. The one her most basal instincts enabled her to see. The one they wouldn’t let her ignore. A visceral pull-focus moment that made her feel like her very soul had been yanked right out of her.

“Gracie, you’re being ridiculous,” he said dismissively, his tone even.

She wasn’t listening to his words. She was reading through them, reading the creases around his eyes, the dilation of his pupils. And she was now even more irretrievably, horribly sure of it. “You’re in on it too, aren’t you?” she insisted. “Say it, goddammit,” she flared. “Say it before I shout it out loud to everyone here.”

“Gracie—”

“It’s fake, isn’t it?” she blurted. “The whole damn thing. It’s a setup.”

Ogilvy took a step forward and raised a calming hand out to her. “People are starting to stare. Don’t make a fool of yourself.”

She shoved his hand away from her and stepped back. Her mind was racing away. “You played me. You played me all along. This whole assignment. The trip to Antarctica. All that support, all that enthusiasm. It was all bullshit.” She glared at him, questions burning out of her. “What are you doing? What the hell’s going on?” Her mind was racing ahead, drawing on all its processing reserves. “You’re faking this? You’re faking a second coming? For what? You’re setting up a new messiah? Is that what this is? You want to convert the world?”

Ogilvy’s eyes were flicking left and right now. The tell was confirmed beyond a doubt. “You think I’d want that?” he hissed, trying to remain calm. “You know me better than that. It’s the last thing I’d want.”

“Well then why?” she insisted. “Don’t tell me this is about saving the planet?”

Something in Ogilvy shifted too. He seemed to give up the pretense and framed her with a fervent glare. “Maybe. But first and foremost, it’s about saving our country,” he stated firmly.

And right then, another realization burst out of the mire, like a diver on his last breath breaking surface and gasping for air. “Was Finch’s death an accident?”

Ogilvy didn’t answer fast enough. Something tore inside her.

“Goddammit, Hal,” she shouted, the horror of it making her inch back another step now. “Tell me Finch’s death was an accident. Say it.”

“Of course it was,” he assured her, opening his hands out defensively.

But her gut was telling her otherwise, and his eyes and the lines around them were confirming it. “I don’t believe you.” Her heart thumping wildly, she took another step back, suddenly hyperaware of her immediate surroundings. She didn’t see any innocent-looking strollers or joggers. All she could register were two stone-faced guys in short haircuts, dark suits, and no ties, one at each entrance to the fountain area. Their body language wasn’t casual.

Her eyes shot back to Ogilvy. He acknowledged the men with a barely perceptible nod. They started toward her with a threatening gait. Closing in. Blocking any escape route.

She looked at Ogilvy in disbelief, still backing away from him. “Jesus, Hal. What are you doing?”

“Only what’s necessary,” he replied, somewhat apologetically.

Gracie couldn’t just stand there. She spun on her heels and sprinted off, heading straight for one of the heavies coming at her, screaming her lungs out, calling for help. She tried to fake him out and veered left before swinging right, hoping to slip past him, but his arm whipped out and caught her and pulled her in. The other suit was on them a couple of seconds later. The first guy spun her around and pinned her arms behind her back, immobilizing her. She twisted around, trying to free herself, but couldn’t resist his vise-like grip. Instead, she lashed out with her right foot, kicking the suit facing her in the shin, catching it head-on. It must have hurt, as he jerked back and winced hard, but he came back with a backslap across the face that snapped her head sideways and rattled her teeth. She felt groggy and raised her eyes in time to see the suit facing her bring his hand up to her mouth. He pressed something against her nose, a kind of gauze patch. The smell from it was strong and sour. Almost instantly, she felt all the strength in her body seep away. Her eyes jerked sideways and she caught a glimpse of one of the coyotes that suddenly seemed far more threatening than she’d realized, then her head lolled down, her chin thudding against her chest. She saw a few of the flagstones under her feet fall away before everything drifted off into a silent and hollow darkness.

Chapter 71

They met in the five-star downtown hotel, as per Rydell’s instructions. Located just off the lobby, the Grove Café seemed like a good spot. It was an open, public area with other people around. Rydell felt he’d be safe there.

Drucker was already there when he arrived. He was seated at a low table by a wall of glass that looked out onto the street. It was late afternoon under clear skies, and a few pedestrians were promenading by on the wide pavement outside. Drucker motioned for Rydell to join him.

As Rydell sat, Drucker reached down and pulled out a small box from his briefcase. He placed it squarely on the table, to one side. It was black and heavy and the size of a paperback novel, and had a couple of small LED lights on its side.

“You don’t mind, do you?” he asked Rydell, “just in case you were planning on taping any of this.” He didn’t really wait for an answer and discreetly nudged a small button on the box. The LEDs lit up. Rydell shrugged and glanced around to see its effect. A couple of people in the room who’d been talking on their cell phones were now examining them curiously and pressing random buttons to try and get a signal back. Rydell knew they wouldn’t be able to. Not until Drucker was done and had switched off his jammer.

Drucker gave Rydell a knowing smile and covered the jammer with his napkin. A waitress came over to ask what they wanted, but Rydell sent her away with a stern shake of his head. They weren’t here for an afternoon tea.

“I’m surprised you’re down here,” Drucker said. “Couldn’t resist seeing its effect with your own eyes?” He cracked a slight smile, but it didn’t hide the fact that he seemed to be fishing for something.

Rydell ignored the question. “What are you up to, Keenan?” he asked evenly.

Drucker sat back and exhaled slowly. He studied Rydell like a principal wondering what to do about a wayward student. After a moment, he said, “Do you love this country?”

Rydell didn’t get the question’s relevance. “Excuse me?”

“Do you love this country?” Drucker repeated firmly.

“What kind of a question is that?”

Drucker opened his palms. “Indulge me.”

Rydell frowned. “Of course, I love my country. What does that have to do with anything?”

Drucker nodded, as if that was the right answer. “I love it too, Larry. I’ve devoted my whole life to serving it. And this used to be a great country. A world leader. The Japanese, the Chinese . . . they weren’t even a speck in our rearview mirror. We put a man on the moon fifty years ago. Fifty years ago. We used to be the standard bearers of modernity. We were the ones showing the rest of the world how it’s done, how science and technology and new ideas can help us live better lives. We were the ones exploring new visions of what a twenty-first-century society should look like. And where are we now? What have we become?”

“A lot poorer,” Rydell lamented.

“Poorer, meaner, fatter . . . and dumber. We’re moving backward. Everyone else is charging ahead and we’re backpedaling to the point where we’ve become a joke. We’ve lost our standing in the world. And you know why? Leadership,” he said, jabbing an angry finger at Rydell. “It’s all about leadership. We used to elect presidents who blew us away with their intelligence. With their knowledge of the world and their sharp wit and their dignity. Guys who used to inspire us, guys the rest of the world respected, guys who made us proud. Guys who had vision.”

“We have one of those now,” Rydell interjected.

“And you think we’re out of the woods?” Drucker shot back. “You think, hey presto, the country’s safe now? Think again. We just had eight years of an oil wildcatter I wouldn’t even hire to run a car wash, eight years of a guy who thought his instincts were manifestations of God’s will, eight years of criminal incompetence and unbridled arrogance that brought our country to its knees, and did we learn anything? Clearly not. Hell, it took the economic meltdown of the century to just barely manage to scrape through this victory. This was no landslide, Larry. Damn near half the country voted for more of the same—or worse. We actually came this close to putting someone who thinks The Flintstones is based on fact, someone who only got a passport a year before the election and who wouldn’t take an interview for a month while she was whisked away to be quietly educated about what’s happening in the real world, someone who actually thinks she’s going to see Jesus Christ again on this earth during her lifetime and who thinks our boys in Iraq are out there doing God’s work,” he raged, slamming his palm against the table. “We actually came this close to putting someone as risibly, absurdly unqualified as that within a seventy-two-year-old cancer-weakened heartbeat of the presidency. As ridiculous and insane as that sounds, it actually almost happened, Larry, and it could still happen. That’s how blinded we’ve become when it comes to choosing our leaders. And do you know why it almost happened? You know why they almost got away with it?”

Rydell thought about Father Jerome and started to see what Drucker was getting at. “Because God is on their side,” he said.

“Because God is on their side,” Drucker repeated solemnly.

“Or so they claim,” Rydell added with a slight, mocking shrug.

“That’s all it takes. We’ll elect any bumbling fool, any champion of mediocrity to the highest office in the land as long as they have God as their running mate. We’ll hand them responsibility for everything—the food we eat, the homes we live in, the air we breathe—we’ll give them the power to nuke other countries and destroy the planet, even when they can’t pronounce the world ‘nuclear’ properly. And we’ll do that proudly and with no hesitation at all just as long as they say the magic words: that they believe. That they have Jesus in their heart. That they seek the guidance of a higher father. That they can look into the heart of a Russian president instead of talking to the experts. We’ve got presidents making policy decisions based on faith, not reason. And I’m not talking about Iran here. I’m not talking about Saudi Arabia or the Taliban. I’m talking about us. I’m talking about America and this evangelical revival that’s sweeping the country. We’ve got presidents making political decisions based on the Book of Revelations, Larry. The Book of Revelations.”

He settled back to catch his breath and watched Rydell for a reaction before pressing on. “We were a great country once. A rich country the rest of the world envied. Then they put a guy in there who thought Russia was an evil empire and thought we were living through the prophecies of Armageddon. They got us a guy who found Jesus but can’t read a balance sheet, and they’re out there running the country down to the ground and waging wars in the name of God and getting our boys blown to bits, and half the country’s still marching into church every Sunday and coming out with a big smile and waving the flag of their redeemer nation—”

“I know you’re angry about Jackson,” Rydell interrupted, the face of Drucker’s deceased son suddenly flashing up in his mind and making him aware of what was really fueling this, “but—”

“Angry?” Drucker growled. “Oh, I’m not just angry, Larry. I’m fucking furious. And don’t get me wrong. I’m not one to mollycoddle our troops. A soldier’s job is to put his life on the line for his country. Jackson knew that when he signed up. But our country was not at risk here. This is a war that never should have happened. Never,” he bellowed. “And the only reason it did was that we had an incompetent fool with daddy issues and a messiah complex running the show. And that can’t be allowed to happen again.”

Rydell leaned in closer. He knew how much Drucker had loved his son, knew of all the grand plans he’d had for him. He had to tread carefully. “I’m with you on this, Keenan. We’re on the same page here. But what you’re doing is—”

Drucker headed him off with a quieting hand and nodded like he knew what Rydell was about to say. “We can’t allow this to go on, Larry. They’ve got it so politicians can’t get elected these days if they say they believe in Darwin. They’ve turned a college degree into a stigma and ‘elitist’ into a dirty word.” His eyes narrowed. “In the America of the twenty-first century, faith trumps competence. Faith trumps reason. Faith trumps knowledge and research and open debate and careful consideration. Faith trumps everything. And we need to turn that whole mind-set on its head. We need to bring back a respect for fact. For knowledge. For science and education and intelligence and reason. But you can’t reason with these people. We both know that. You can’t have a political debate with someone who thinks you’re an agent of Satan. They won’t compromise, because to them, compromising means compromising with the devil, and no God-fearing Christian would want to do that. No, the only way to put an end to this is to make it embarrassing for people and for politicians to flout their faith. We’ve got to take that tool away from the guys who’re using it to win elections and advance whatever agendas they have. We need to make it as embarrassing to say you’re a creationist as it would be if you said you still support slavery in this day and age. We need to sweep religion into the dustbin of political discourse, just like we did for slavery. And we have to do it now. The country’s caught in a voodoo trance, Larry. You’ve seen the numbers. Sixty percent of the country believes the story of Noah’s Ark is literally true. Sixty percent. There are seventy million Evangelicals out there—a quarter of the population, attending a couple of hundred thousand evangelical churches, most of which are run by pastors who belong to conservative political organizations, and these guys are telling them which way to vote. And the people are listening, and they’re not voting for the guy whose policies make sense. They’re not voting for the guy with the brains or the vision. They’re voting for whoever will help them improve their standing when they get to the pearly gates. And it’s getting worse. This delusion is spreading. There’s a new megachurch opening every other day. Literally every other day.”

Drucker fixed Rydell with blazing intent. “You think global warming is around the corner? This threat’s already here. We may have dodged the bullet with this election, but they’re still out there, they’ll be back, and they’ll fight twice as dirty. They look at it as a war. A war against secularism. A crusade to reclaim the kingdom of God from the nonbelievers and save us all from gay marriage and abortion and stem cell research. And the way things are going, they’re going to make it. At some point, these prayer warriors are going to put a televangelist in the oval office. And then we’ll have a bunch of whack jobs running Capitol Hill and another bunch of nutcases facing off against them in the Middle East, each of them thinking God wants them to show the other the error of their ways, and guess what? It’s going to get ugly. They’ll be lobbing nukes at each other before it’s over. And I’m not going to let that happen.”

Rydell wasn’t following. “And you’re going to do that by giving them a prophet to fire them up even more?”

Drucker just stared at him enigmatically. “Yes.”

“I don’t get it.” Rydell pressed on. “You’re giving them something real, a real miracle man to worship and rally around. A Second Coming to unite them all.”

“Yes,” Drucker repeated, leading him.

Rydell tried to follow his train of thought. “You’re getting all the church leaders to embrace him and hitch their wagons to his train.”

“Yes.” This time, a hint of satisfaction cracked across Drucker’s face.

Rydell’s brow furrowed. “And then you’ll get him to change his message?”

Drucker shook his head. “No,” he stated. “I’ll just pull the rug out from under him.”

Rydell stared at him questioningly—then his eyes shot wide. “You’re going to expose him as a fake?”

“Exactly.” Drucker’s hard stare burned into him. “We’ll let it run for a while. Weeks. Months. Just let it build. Let every pastor in the country accept him and endorse him as God’s messenger. Let them spread the word to their flocks,” he added, spitting out the word mockingly. “And when it’s all sunk in and settled, when it’s deeply embedded and they’re all on the hook—we’ll show him for what he really is. We’ll show them what the sign really is.”

“And you’ll show them how gullible they are.” Rydell had a faraway look on his face as he imagined the outcome in his mind’s eye.

“The preachers will have so much egg on their faces they’ll have a hard time stepping behind those pulpits and facing their people. The churchgoers will feel like they’ve been had—and maybe they’ll start questioning the rest of the crap they hear in those halls. It’ll open up a whole new discussion, a whole new questioning frame of mind. ‘If it was so easy to fool us today, with everything we know . . . how easy was it to fool people two thousand years ago? What do we really know about that?’ It’ll put everything about religion on the table. And it’ll make people think twice about who they’re willing to follow blindly.”

Rydell felt heady. He himself had been ready to try and convert the world to his cause, but this . . . this went much further. He let out a weary hiss and shook his head. “You’ll make a lot of them even more fanatical than they already are,” he warned.

“Probably,” Drucker agreed casually.

“And you could also start a civil war,” Rydell added, “if not a world war.”

Drucker scoffed. “Oh, I very much doubt that.”

“Are you kidding me?” Rydell flared. “You’re going to have a whole bunch of really angry people out there. And they’ll be looking to take it out on someone. Who’s going to shoulder the blame? You can’t exactly stand up and tell them, ‘Hey, we did it for your own good.’ The country’s already split right down the middle on this. You’ll polarize them even more. The blowback will be horrendous. There’ll be blood in the streets. And that’s before you get the blowback from the rest of the world. You’ve seen what’s starting to happen in Pakistan, in Egypt, in Israel and Indonesia. It’s not just Christians who are buying into your little scam. Muslims, Jews, Hindus . . . they’re fighting among each other over whether or not he’s the real deal. And they’re going to be seriously pissed off when they discover it’s got Uncle Sam’s fingerprints all over it. People don’t take kindly to having others mess around with their beliefs, Keenan. They get real angry about that. And it’s Americans who are going to pay for it with their blood. You’re gonna end up triggering a war you’re trying to stop.”

“Well if they’re so closed-minded, if they don’t see the danger of their ways and insist on marching down that path to destruction, then they’re beyond saving.” Drucker seethed. “We had a war over slavery. Maybe we do need a war over this.” He gave a haughty shrug. “If it’s going to happen sooner or later, might as well just get it over with. And then maybe we can build something more sane from its ashes.”

Rydell felt as if someone had reached in and yanked his lungs out with pliers. “You’re insane,” he told Drucker. “You’ve lost all sense of perspective.”

“Not at all.”

“You can’t do this, Keenan,” Rydell insisted.

“No. Not without a fall guy,” Drucker conceded.

Rydell stared at him, the words colliding with his tangled thoughts, and instantly got it. “Me. That’s what you need me for.”

Drucker nodded stoically. “I needed a fall guy. Someone with a completely different motive, one that wasn’t in any way related to the politics of this country. Because this can’t be seen as a political act, you’re absolutely right about that. The only way to do this is to paint it as the desperate act of a visionary genius with no political motive other than trying to save the planet. And who knows? It may well end up giving people more awareness of the global warming problem.”

“But you couldn’t care less either way,” Rydell said sardonically.

“Not true, Larry. I care. But I’m not even sure what, if anything, we can realistically do about it. And bringing reason back into politics—that’s going to help the polar bears more than pushing Hummer into bankruptcy, don’t you think?”

“This isn’t about saving the polar bears or the rain forests, Keenan,” Rydell said angrily. “It’s about social justice. For everyone on the planet.”

“Social justice is about freeing people from the clutches of witch doctors and superstition,” Drucker fired back.

Rydell rubbed his brow, letting Drucker’s words sink in. The room was suddenly feeling much hotter and tighter. “How was it all meant to end for me? ‘Suicide’ ? ”

Drucker nodded. “Once the hoax is exposed. A tragic end to a heroic attempt.” He sighed and leaned forward. “I’m sorry, Larry. But I hope you can see the sense in what I’m trying to do here. The urgency. And that, at some level, you agree that it had to be done.”

Rydell sat back and shrugged. “I hope you won’t be disappointed if I tell you I won’t play along.”

Drucker gave him a negative, dismissing wave of his hand. “Please, Larry. Give me some credit.”

Larry looked at him, waiting for more—and suddenly froze at Drucker’s composure.

“You’re going to have a stroke,” Drucker told him, casually. “A bad one. In fact it’s going to happen sooner than you think. Maybe right here in this restaurant. In front of all these people. You’ll end up in a coma. One we can manage. And during that time, we’ll,” he paused, choosing his words, “massage your personality. You know, like we did with the priest. We’ll put the right answers in your mind. Make you more amenable to our plans. And when the time comes, we’ll help you take your own life, after leaving behind a detailed, contrite, and moving explanation of why you did what you did.” Drucker studied his face, as if intrigued by Rydell’s reaction to his words. “It’s the stuff of legends, Larry. No one will ever forget your name, if that’s any consolation.”

Rydell felt a surge of sheer terror—and just then, he noticed something behind Drucker. A man in a dark suit, one of his drones. He swung his head around toward the entrance of the café. Two more men appeared there. His mind tripped over his only option—to make a loud, visible run for it and hope the commotion screwed up their plans—and he was about to push himself out of his chair when he spotted something else. To his side. Out, on the street. A white van that had been parked there all along. Its side door, sliding open. Two silhouettes, standing inside, on either side of something big and round and mounted on a stand, something that looked like a projector lamp. His hands slipped off the chair’s arms as he tried to push himself to his feet, but he never made it past a couple of inches off the seat cushion. The blast of noise was horrific. It assaulted his senses like a hammer blow that came from inside his skull, overwhelming every nerve ending in his head with an unbearably loud and shrill noise that wouldn’t stop. His eyes burst into tears and he yelled out, the force of the caustic sound blasting him out of his chair in front of a stunned roomful of hotel guests. His hands shot up to protect his ears, but it was too late as his legs crumpled under him and he fell to the ground, wretching and coughing and sputtering with convulsions.

Drucker’s men rushed to his side. They helped him up and instantly bundled him out of the room, avoiding any brusque moves, and displaying the well-trained, expert moves of caring, efficient bodyguards. One of them even called out for a doctor. Within seconds, they’d hustled him out of the café and into a waiting elevator.

Its doors slid shut with a silent hiss, and it glided down to the hotel’s underground parking lot.

Chapter 72

Matt’s pulse thundered ahead as he saw Rydell get blasted out of his seat by an unseen force. There was no noise, no physical disturbance. It was as if he’d been punched backward by a huge invisible fist. Then he was there, bent down on the ground, writhing in agony, the contents of his belly spewing out onto the café’s richly textured carpet.

He’d been ready to make his move. Waiting in a corner booth, behind the grand piano by the bar, away from the main seating area, biding his time at a staging point he’d chosen carefully. His fingers were wrapped around the Para-Ordnance’s wide grip, ready to yank it out and shove it up against Drucker’s ribs. But they’d moved first. Whatever they did to Rydell had sent Matt’s plans to the shredder.

He rose and charged toward the café’s entrance. He caught sight of Drucker heading out of the room, flanked by two of his men. He was turning right, headed for the hotel’s front doors, whereas Rydell had been taken left, to the elevators. Matt hurtled across the café. He skidded to a stop at its entrance. Drucker was leaving the hotel with his escorts. There were a lot of people around him. Hotel guests, bellboys, valets. No way he could get to him. He’d missed his chance. He spun his gaze in the opposite direction. The lights over the elevator Rydell was in scrolled down to indicate he was being taken to the hotel’s parking lot.

Matt chose to go after him instead. If Drucker had him again, Matt would be left with no leverage. Leverage he needed if he was going to see his brother again.

He bolted across the lobby, past some shocked guests and through the door to the hotel’s internal stairwell. Flew down the stairs, three at a time, gripping the banister at the turns and flinging himself around them like an out-of-control bobsled. Six flights later, he was at the parking level. He burst onto its smoothly painted concrete floor in time to see a dark gray van squealing away and turning onto the exit ramp. His eyes traveled across the garage. He heard a door click open to his left, spun his gaze that way, and rushed toward the noise. A valet was getting out of a car. A big Chrysler Navigator SUV, silver. Matt didn’t flinch. He sprinted right up to him, yanked the car keys from his grasp, and shoved him away before climbing in and spurring the big Northstar V8 to life. He slammed the selector into drive and cannoned out of the parking slot and onto the exit ramp.

He emerged into the golden-orange glow of dusk and threw a quick glance in each direction. The city center was an orthogonal grid of alternating one-way avenues, some of them five lanes wide. This one went east-west, and the van was pulling away to the right, heading west. He nudged the gas pedal. The Navigator slid out from under the garage entrance’s canopy and accelerated onto the avenue. The van was cruising away, three hundred yards down the road.

Matt threaded the big SUV through a rolling chicane of slower vehicles and caught up with the van in no time. He held back, keeping a car between them. The road was straight and wide, the traffic sparse. The intersections were vast and generous, concrete plains outlined by patterned stone infills that gave them the feel of a Beverly Hills piazza. Two blocks on, a big green sign appeared overhead, announcing the on-ramp to the interstate and, beyond, to the 90. Matt knew he had to do something before they hit the highway. Once they were on it, all kinds of unknowns would come into play. He risked being spotted. He risked losing them. He risked them getting to wherever it was they were going, and having them end up with the home advantage.

He had to make his move.

The road was as wide as a runway and didn’t have any cars parked on either side. The block they were coming up to was lined with a row of thin trees to the left, and some kind of granite colonnade on the right. It wouldn’t do. Too brutal. Matt edged the Navigator right and peered ahead. The next block looked more promising. The left side was edged by a bunkerlike parking garage and wouldn’t do. The sidewalk on the right, on the other hand, led to a rise of a dozen or so wide, low steps that climbed up to a raised open area outside an imposing stone-clad office building.

Matt settled on it and mashed the pedal.

The V8 growled as the Navigator surged out from behind the buffering sedan and overtook it from the left. Matt went out wide to the left then veered right and aimed the Navigator’s nose at the van’s left front corner. He didn’t lift off. The Navigator homed in on the van like a guided missile. A split second before it slammed into it, Matt jerked the wheel to the left and righted the SUV. It hit the van at a tangent, catching its driver unawares, its momentum flinging the van off its trajectory and sending it shooting off to the right. Matt flung the wheel back to the right, bringing the Navigator right up against the van’s left side, hugging it tight and nursing it along its diagonal trajectory, then he swerved right even more to close the deal. The van had nowhere to go, and its driver knew it. He must have stood on the brakes, as the van lurched forward on its front wheels, lighting them up in a cloud of rubber, but he was still going too fast. The van bounced heavily up the stairs before slamming against one of the building’s massive square pillars.

Matt ramped the Navigator over the curb and flew out of it just as the van hit the column. He stormed up the steps, the stainless steel handgun out and ready to draw blood, eyes peeled for any movement.

The van had hit hard. Its radiator was smoking and its front end curled around the column. Matt didn’t know what state he’d find Rydell in. One thing he knew, though, was that the guys in the front wouldn’t be at their healthiest. The van had a steep front rake and little if no hood to protect the engine in case of a frontal collision. Plus, he knew, the guys weren’t expecting the hit.

Passersby and people who worked in the building were edging forward to check out the crash, only to reel away at the sight of Matt and his handgun. He ignored them and rounded the side of the van, knees bent in a wide, low stance, eyeing the van’s doors and windows cautiously, looking for any sign of life. The front was badly mashed up, and Matt was pretty sure he wouldn’t be getting any grief from there. He side-stepped away to the back of the van, extended an arm across one of its back doors, and rapped on it with his gun. He pulled his hand back quickly, anticipating a few rounds through the bodywork. None came. He reached over and pulled the door open then swung across, looking down the gunsight of the P14.

Rydell was in there, writhing on the floor, shaken up but alive. His hands were held by nylon cuffs. He saw one of the guys he recognized from the hotel, his head bloodied, trying to straighten himself up. The guy glanced up, saw Matt, blinked twice, and fumbled for a gun. Matt squeezed off a round and saw a red splatter burst out from the guy’s chest.

“Come on,” he yelled at Rydell, who nodded vaguely like someone who’d been in a solitary confinement sweatbox for a month. As Matt reached in to him, he saw something else. Another body, lying facedown behind Rydell. A woman. Her hands were tied behind her back, same nylon cuffs. Matt climbed in and, carefully, turned her over. She had a fat piece of duct tape covering her mouth. He peeled it off and recognized her instantly. Gracie Logan, the news anchor who’d been covering the sign’s appearances. He reached in farther and put his fingers to her neck, looking for a pulse. She was alive.

She stirred at his touch, then flinched, her eyes wide with shock.

“Where are . . . ? Who . . . ?” she mouthed incoherently.

“Give me your hand,” Matt told her as he tucked the P14 under his belt. He helped her up and slung her arm over his shoulders.

“Come on,” he told Rydell. He half-carried Gracie as he cut past a gaggle of dumbstruck onlookers, down the steps to the waiting Navigator. He set her down in the backseat, got in behind the wheel with Rydell beside him, and powered away.

In the rearview mirror, Matt saw Gracie straighten up. She was slowly coming out of it. Her eyes swept across her surroundings before settling on Matt’s face.

“You okay?” he asked her.

She stared at him blankly. She looked like she had the mother of all hangovers. Then things must have come flooding back, as her face tightened up with a worried frown.

“Dalton,” Gracie blurted. “I’ve got to get Dalton out of there.”

“Who?”

Her hands were rummaging around, looking for something. “My phone. Where’s my phone? I have to call Dalton. It isn’t safe.” She turned to Matt. “I have to warn him.”

Matt looked down the street, saw a bank of phone booths, and pulled over. He helped Gracie out. “Where are we going? Where shall I tell him to go?” she asked.

“Who are you talking about?”

“Dalton. My cameraman. They’ll be going after him too.”

Matt tried to fill in the blanks. “Where is he?”

“At Darby’s mansion,” she said, her expression vague, as if she wasn’t exactly sure.

“The preacher?”

“Yes.” She concentrated hard. “No. Wait. I’m not sure.” She shook her head. “He went to the airport,” she added after a beat. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure of that. Either way, he’s on his cell.” She picked up the handset. “What’ll I tell him?”

Matt gave it a quick thought. “Just tell him to get somewhere safe. If he’s still out, tell him to stay away from the preacher’s place. We’ll call him back and tell him where to meet us.”

She started to dial, then paused and studied him curiously, her eyes still foggy, and asked, “Who the hell are you?”

“Just make the call,” he told her. “We’ll get to that later.”

Chapter 73

They were all scattered around the motel room, a motley crew of haggard escapees: Matt, Gracie, Dalton, and Rydell. A week earlier, apart from Gracie and Dalton, none of them had met. They hadn’t even come close. They had roamed completely separate spheres, lived disparate lives, had different ambitions and concerns. And then everything had changed, their lives had been upended, and here they were, crammed into the small room, wondering how to stay alive.

Dalton had joined them at the motel, arriving not long after they had. They’d spent the next couple of hours filling each other in on how they’d ended up in that room, each contributing his or her part of the story. The conversation had been urgent and intense as the different pieces had fallen into place, the string of troubling news only brightening up when Rydell had gotten through to the doctor treating Jabba back in Boston. The surgery had been successful. Jabba had lost a lot of blood, but he was stable, and his prognosis was cautiously optimistic.

“What do we do now?” Dalton asked. He still looked spooked, having only just found out that Finch had been murdered, and that the likely suspect was a monk they’d been palling around with.

“I keep thinking of Father Jerome,” Gracie remarked, shaking her head. “He knew something was wrong. I could see it in his face.” She turned to Rydell. “You don’t know what they’ve done to him?”

“I don’t know the grim details,” Rydell admitted. “I didn’t want to hear about it when they brought it up. They mentioned stuff. About using drugs. Electroshock therapy. Implanting memories and adjusting character. To make him more accepting of his new status, I guess.”

“Nice,” Dalton said with an uneasy wince.

“He said he heard voices. Up on the mountain. He thought God was talking to him,” Gracie mentioned.

Rydell nodded thoughtfully. “They would have used an LRAD on him. A long range acoustical device,” he speculated. He slid a glance at Matt. “Same thing they used on me at the hotel. It can also send sound accurately over long distances. Like a sniper rifle, only for noise—or voices,” he explained. “They were talking to him through it.”

A pensive silence smothered the room.

After a brief moment, Gracie glanced over to Rydell. “You really thought you could get away with this?” she asked him. Her voice was flat. She was still in shock at Ogilvy’s betrayal. At the thought of how she’d been played. At the idea of Finch having been killed because of this.

“I had to do something,” he said with a tired shrug. “People aren’t listening. They’re too passive. Too lazy. They don’t listen to reason until it’s too late. They don’t want to listen to politicians. They certainly don’t want some tree-hugger in Birkenstocks telling them how to live. They won’t take the time to read or to listen to the experts. Look at the financial meltdown. Experts have been warning about it for years. Buffett called derivatives ‘financial weapons of mass destruction.’ No one listened. Then it all fell apart overnight.” He looked around the room, as if looking for a hint of understanding, if not empathy. “I couldn’t just sit back. This isn’t about your 401(k) losing half its value. It isn’t about losing your home. It’s about the planet losing its ability to sustain life.”

“It’s like Finch said. It’s all in the branding,” Dalton remarked, throwing a glance at Gracie. “‘Global warming’ sounds way too nice and cozy. They should have called it global boiling.”

“It’s geocide,” Rydell said before leaning back into the darkness.

A couple of nods sent the tired room back into silence. Gracie finally broke through the weary haze again and asked Rydell, “If you weren’t going to be the fall guy . . . do you agree with what Drucker said? With what they’re trying to do?”

Rydell thought about it for a moment and gave a pained shake of his head. “I agree with what he thinks is wrong with our country. History’s shown us, time and again, that mixing religion and politics only brings destruction. And I have no doubt that it’s a real danger, maybe more dangerous than anything Homeland Security is worried about. But I don’t agree with his solution. And I certainly don’t agree with his methods.” He looked around the room. “No one was supposed to get hurt. Drucker’s just out of control. And he’s not done. Who knows what message he’ll choose to put into Father Jerome’s mouth before he’s through. He could make him say or do anything he likes. And the whole world’s listening.”

“We’ve got to stop him,” Gracie put in. “We’ve got to go live with what we know.”

“No,” Matt said flatly from the corner of the room.

Gracie turned to him. “What are you talking about? We’ve got to go public.”

Matt shook his head. “We can’t break the story. Not yet. If we do that now, they’ll kill Danny. I need to get him out first, make sure he’s safe. After that, you can slap it on the front page of The New York Times or wherever you want. It’s all yours.”

“You heard what they’re planning, Matt,” Gracie argued. “The show’s tomorrow. It’s going to be huge—and it’ll be watched across the planet. And you’ve seen what’s going on out there. People are buying into it, fighting over it. Every hour we wait, this thing’s sinking in deeper. If we wait until after the show to blow the lid off this thing, it might be too late to undo the damage it’ll have caused.”

“Once that happens, we’ll be kind of doing their work for them if we expose it, won’t we?” Dalton asked. “I mean, that’s their plan, right?”

“We don’t have a choice,” Gracie pointed out. “It’s not ideal, but we have to do it and we have to do it now.”

“They can’t expose it,” Matt countered. “Not yet. Not as long as they don’t have you,” he said as he chucked a nod at Rydell. “They don’t have their fall guy, right? So who are they going to blame it on? They’ve got to blame it on someone—someone without a political axe to grind. Plus as long as they don’t have you locked up,” he aimed his words at Rydell again, “they’d be running the risk of you coming out with your side of the story. They’d be screwed. They’ve got some figuring out to do before they tell the world it’s a setup.”

“Which they will, sooner or later, there’s no doubt about that,” Gracie interjected. “No way they’d let this run indefinitely. They’d be handing the Christian Right the keys to the kingdom. And we can’t let that happen either.”

Matt paused at the thought. There didn’t seem to be a way out, and although all he could think about was getting his brother back safely, he suddenly realized there were bigger considerations he couldn’t shy away from.

He chewed over it for a moment, then said, “We’ve got a small window before they figure out their fallback position, right?” He glanced over to Rydell. “They might even be wondering if you’ll keep quiet. As a trade-off for getting your green message out there.”

“They’d be wrong,” Rydell confirmed without hesitation.

“Either way, they won’t do anything yet. Not until they come up with another endgame that doesn’t leave them holding the bag. Which gives me a bit of time to try and get Danny back. Even if it means letting them put Father Jerome up on that stage. You can’t ask me to give up on him. Not when I’m so close.”

He looked around the room. The others glanced at each other, weighing his words.

He looked at Gracie. She held his gaze, then nodded warmly.

“The country’s already well on its way to buying it,” she finally said. “Tomorrow night will make it harder to come back from, sure, but . . . we can hold off till then. Besides, it seems to me that none of us would still be around if it wasn’t for Matt. We owe him that much.”

She glanced around, judging the others’ reactions. Rydell and Dalton each nodded their agreement. Her eyes ended up settling on Matt.

He smiled and gave her a small nod of appreciation.

“Okay, so how do we do it?” Gracie asked him.

“How do we do what?”

“Find your brother.” She caught his confused look and flashed him a slight grin. “What, did you think we were going to bail on you now?”

Matt glanced around the room again. Saw beaming support from everyone around him. Nodded to himself, accepting it. “We’ve got to assume they’re going to put a sign up over Father Jerome tomorrow, right?”

Gracie nodded. “No doubt about that.”

“Then that’s how we’ll do it.”

THEY STAYED UP most of the night, studying maps, plans, and photographs of the stadium pulled from the Internet, examining its layout and the spread of the surrounding area, trying to anticipate where Danny and the launch team were likely to be positioned.

By dawn, they felt they’d reached a consensus on how Drucker’s guys might try to stage it. They’d pretty much followed Rydell’s lead. Having the guy who’d been in charge of the sign’s technology gave them a nice head start, but there were still a lot of unknowns. Then as the first glints of sunlight broke through the darkness, the TV started showing cars and people already setting out on their pilgrimage, and they knew they had to get going too.

They loaded up the little gear they had into the back of the Lincoln. After they were done, Matt saw Gracie standing alone, down the walkway from their room, at the edge of the porch, staring out at the brightening sky. He ambled over and joined her.

“You okay?”

She studied him, then nodded. “Yeah.” She studied him for another beat, then looked away again. “It’s so weird. To think of how divided the country’s become. To think that people need to resort to . . .” She shook her head. “When did we become so hateful? So intolerant?”

“Probably around the same time some power-crazed douche bags decided it would help them win elections,” he quipped.

She smiled and let out a slight chuckle. “Now why doesn’t Brian Williams ever put it in those terms?”

Her expression darkened as an eclipse crossed over her face.

“What are you thinking about?” Matt asked.

“Father Jerome. He’s . . . you couldn’t ask for a more decent human being. To think of the hell they must have put him through . . .”

Matt nodded thoughtfully. “It’s not going to be easy for him. When this thing breaks.”

Gracie stared at him, and her face flooded with concern. “His whole belief system’s going to get wiped out.”

“I think it’s more than his belief system you need to worry about,” Matt said. “You’re going to need to get him into some kind of protective custody. They’ll rip him to shreds.”

Gracie shrank back, winded by the thought. “We’re damned if we do and damned if we don’t, aren’t we?”

Matt shrugged. “We don’t really have a choice. We have to do this.”

“You’re right.” Gracie relented, although it was clear from her haunted look that it wouldn’t be that simple.

Matt let a moment pass, then said, “I want to thank you. For backing me up in there. And for not bailing on me.”

She waved it away. “After everything you’ve been through? I owe you my life.”

“Still, I know it wasn’t easy,” he insisted. “Putting the scoop of a lifetime on hold. I mean, there’s no doubt you’d be the biggest face on television right now if you walked into any newsroom and just told them what you know.”

“Just how shallow do you think I am?” She smirked.

“Not shallow, just . . . realistically ambitious.”

Gracie smiled and looked wistfully into the distance. “My Woodward and Bernstein moment,” she chortled, self-mockingly. She laughed inwardly. “It’s like, all your life, you wait for a big moment like this, you hope for it and you work hard to make it happen, you imagine it and picture yourself basking in its glory . . . then when it actually happens . . .”

“When it comes out, it’ll change everything for you, you know,” he told her. “And not necessarily for the better.”

She glanced over at him. “I know.” Her eyes had lost their disarming sparkle. For something every reporter dreamed about, it was starting to feel more like a nightmare.

He nodded, not really wanting to explore the darker side of what lay ahead. He pushed out a slight, comforting smile. “Come on. Let’s see how the rest of the day turns out first. And take it from there.”

Chapter 74

The roads were already jammed by early morning. Miles of cars, streaming in from every direction, choking the Loop and the South Freeway and all the approach roads leading to the stadium at Reliant Park. It was unlike anything the city had seen before. Unlike anything any city had seen before: an antlike procession of packed cars squatting over every square inch of available asphalt for miles around and converging on the biggest sports, entertainment, and convention complex in the country.

It was a clear, perfect day, and by noon, the temperature was in the high seventies and all the parking lots were filled. More than half a dozen of them, scattered around the stadium, the Astrodome, the arena, and the exhibition center. Over twenty-six thousand parking spots, every single one of them taken. The four-wheeled invasion didn’t stop there. It spilled over into the vast, empty lot that used to house the Six Flags Astroworld before it was torn down in 2006. Seventy-five acres of flat, bare earth that nestled against the south side of the Loop, soil that was once the proud home of Greezed Lightnin’ and the Ultra Twister, now shuddering under the rumble of an unstoppable flood of cars, trucks, and vans.

They came by car, by foot, by any means possible. MetroRail was running extra trains to try and cope with the crush, their cabins struggling to retain the heaving mass of flesh pressed against their walls. Helicopters were ferrying in news crews and reporters, all of whom were busy setting up their satellite dishes and hustling to get the best vantage points to cover the event. Police choppers circled overhead, keeping an eye on the teeming chaos below. The gates of the stadium itself were closed shortly after twelve. Seventy-three thousand people had already filed in by then, after spending hours in long lines, waiting to be frisked for weapons and cleared, the last of them pushing and shoving and fighting their way through in a desperate attempt to make it inside. A few angry, hysterical worshippers wouldn’t take no for an answer and were creating scattered spots of trouble. Isolated brawls also broke out in the parking lots as cars jostled for position. Surprisingly, though, most of those who had made the journey were calm and well behaved. The police were doing a commendable job in marshaling the pilgrims around and keeping things civil. Darby’s people had also brought in a small army of volunteers to manage the flows on the outside and to help those inside get settled. They were distributing free bottles of water and pamphlets promoting Darby’s evangelical empire. The crowds in the parking lots, the ones who didn’t make it into the stadium, weren’t brooding over missing out. They’d come prepared and were already settling into a festive mood. The lots were brimming with tailgate parties. Turkey, eggnog, and carols were on offer everywhere. Whole families, young and old, people of all shapes and sizes and colors, were joined in one seamless celebration as a rolling wave of Christmas music wafted across the fields of multicolored sheet metal.

THEY LEFT EARLY, only pulling in briefly at a gas station to pick up some baseball caps and cheap sunglasses to shield their faces, and they still hit the jams. They passed a weathered billboard that said “Let’s meet on Sunday at my house before the game.—God,” and shortly after, the stadium appeared in the distance.

That first glimpse of it, all the way from the freeway, cut through Matt’s weariness and gave his spirits a boost. Even at that distance, it was clear that the roof was open. It was the NFL’s first retractable-roof stadium, a staggering 500-foot-long and 385-foot-wide sunroof. The big trusses that held it up were far apart, with one side resting over each end zone. Seeing them spread open like that sent a quickening rush through his veins. If they were open, it meant there was a strong chance the sign would be making an appearance. He felt he was getting closer to Danny. He was daring to hope that he might actually see his brother alive again. It felt good to think about that, especially after everything he’d been through over the last few days.

The cars weren’t moving. Matt and Gracie left Rydell and Dalton in the big silver SUV and walked the rest of the way. As they approached the center, Matt cast his eyes across the huge complex and tried to fit Rydell’s read of the situation onto it: having the launchers outside the stadium and the transmitter inside. The reasons Rydell had drawn that conclusion were simple. It was hardly likely that the compressed air launchers would be placed anywhere near the crowds inside the stadium, or within its walls. In such close proximity, someone was bound to notice the large canisters shooting up into the sky, no matter how silent they were. On the other hand, the laser transmitter that gave life to the motes and controlled the sign’s appearance had to be inside the stadium. In imagining how Drucker and his people would stage the event, they were certain that, at some point, the sign would appear within the stadium’s envelope. And if that were the case, a beam from anywhere outside the stadium wouldn’t be able to reach inside. This wasn’t great news. It meant they had to have a look inside—without any weapons, given the security searches at the gates. Of some solace was the fact that it was likely the plotters would want the sign to appear over the stadium as well. That helped narrow down the possibilities. There weren’t too many positions inside the stadium from which a transmitter would have a sight line that would allow it to track something as huge as the sign upward through the roof and out into the sky overhead.

The question was, would Danny and his master board be with the transmitter, or the launchers? Or, equally possible, somewhere else altogether?

That third possibility wasn’t worth thinking about. As for the first two, they knew it was going to be difficult to cover both angles. They didn’t have the manpower, and their limited efforts would be slowed down significantly by the crush of people. As far as the launchers were concerned, the good news was that there weren’t that many places they could be. The stadium was surrounded by acres of parking lots on all sides, which were surely too visible to launch from. The bad news was, the few possible spots where they might be were so far apart that covering all of them in the short window of time they had to do it in would be impossible.

That was why they planned to split up. Matt and Gracie would comb the stadium for the transmitter, while Rydell and Dalton would scour the area outside for the launchers.

They braved the onslaught and stood patiently in line and finally made it into the stadium shortly before the gates came down. Nearby, Rydell and Dalton were worming their way to the parking lots and maneuvering the SUV to the east end of the red zone, by Reliant Center. They ended up tucking it into a slot at the far end of the lot, by the fence, somewhere they hoped they’d be less noticed.

Once inside, Matt and Gracie advanced with caution. The noise and the energy inside the stadium overwhelmed them the minute they stepped in. The building itself was staggeringly large, a monumental glass-and-steel coliseum for the twenty-first century. With its roof wide open and the clear sky overhead, it was simply breathtaking. What greeted them within its cavernous embrace was unlike anything Matt or Gracie had experienced. Every single seat was occupied. Tens of thousands of people, talking and laughing and singing and waiting. A hodgepodge cross-section of Americana, all of them united by a common yearning. Ducktailed older men standing side by side with teenage mallrats. Middle-aged couples, holding hands or carrying young clones on their shoulders. Yuppies in chinos and polo shirts alongside plumbers in stained overalls. Well-coiffed Texas matrons with elegant European scarves next to big-haired strippers in sequined cowboy hats. Whites, blacks, and Latinos of all shapes and sizes, all of them punch-drunk with anticipation, giddy at the idea of being in the presence of a new messiah, cheerful and fired up, hugging and kissing and waving and chatting and singing along to the sounds of Casting Crowns and Bethany Dillon that blared overhead.

Looking down at the stadium floor spread out below them, it was clear to Matt that their initial read of the layout was correct. A large stage had been erected in its center. The area around it was off-limits to the public. A knot of TV news crews, reporters, and photographers were busy setting up around the stage. TV programming across the country, if not the world, was likely to be preempted when Father Jerome got on stage. Matt glanced up at an overhead clock. It was one o’clock. According to Darby’s impromptu invitation, the festivities were due to start at five. That gave him and Gracie four hours to do their sweep. It sounded like a lot of time, but it wasn’t. The place was enormous. And although the sheer size of the crowd was working in their favor as far as giving them some kind of cover, it wasn’t making their task any easier. Getting across the main concourse had taken forever due to the human obstacle course they had to get through. It was like swimming in molasses. The density of the crowd was also masking what lay beyond the bobbing heads and jousting bellies, even for someone of Matt’s six-foot-four stature.

Matt’s eyes circled around, taking in the tiers of seating that soared about him, looking for a transmitter so small you could hide it in an overhead baggage compartment.

“Where do we start?” Gracie asked.

Matt shrugged. It was a daunting task. He needed to narrow down the search area if they were going to stand a chance. He thought back to the assumptions they’d made. The stadium was a pretty standard shape, a fat rectangle with the long sides arcing outward. It had several levels of seating: five tiers of raked arena seating, intercut by three banks of suites that ran along the sidelines on the second, fourth, and top levels. Matt looked around, trying to picture the invisible cone of the laser signal that would be animating the smart dust. He tried to visualize the sign appearing inside and overhead, and worked back from there to suss out where the best vantage point would be for the transmitter. The banks of suites caught his eye. They provided both the right coverage and privacy. Matt discounted the ones on the highest level. They were tucked away under the sides of the roof. It didn’t seem to him that they’d allow enough of an angle to control the sign if the plan was to have it over the stadium. That left the two lower levels of suites to check out, on levels four and two, and the club suites on level three. One bank along each sideline. Six banks of suites in total.

“Up there,” he said, pointing at the upper suites. They’d start up there and work their way down.

Gracie nodded, and followed him out of the seating blocks and back onto the main concourse and the stairwells.

IN A FAR CORNER of the parking lot, Dalton clicked the Draganflyer’s black carbon fiber rotor blades into place and tightened the harness around the airborne camera. He’d recharged its lithium battery overnight, and it was all set to go. He had it laid out on the back deck of the Navigator, away from curious eyes. As he got it ready, he kept looking out, glancing around suspiciously, wary of any danger. He couldn’t help it. The idea that Finch had been murdered so ruthlessly and effortlessly was still gnawing at him. Militias and angry mobs in Middle Eastern or African countries he could deal with. Silent, anonymous killers in black robes who snuck up behind you and threw you off roofs—the thought made him shudder.

He checked the remote control unit again. Felt satisfied that he hadn’t missed any connections, then set it aside and checked his watch. Less than three hours to go. Even though it would have been really useful to scan the surrounding areas, they’d decided not to use the skycam before the sign came up. It was too risky. They didn’t want some overexcited pilgrim or the cops—or Drucker’s men for that matter—to blast it out of the sky. Instead, he and Rydell were going to recon the area around the stadium on foot, doing opposite sweeps from the edge of the parking lots, until it got dark.

He looked around. It wouldn’t be easy. The lot was heaving with cars and people, huddled against the soaring wall of the stadium. Dalton shrugged, tried to get the image of Finch being shoved off the roof out of his mind, and set out to begin his search.

KEENAN DRUCKER GLANCED at his watch. Two hours to go. He frowned. Things weren’t going well. Not well at all.

Losing Rydell was a huge blow. Drucker hated being in that position. Right now, he couldn’t read the man’s state of mind. There had been too many upheavals. Rydell had to be unhinged, and unhinged meant unpredictable or, worse, irrational. Would he act impulsively and bring the whole thing down on them all, even if it destroyed him in the process? Or would he retreat and regroup and try to come up with a way out that kept him in the clear?

Drucker wasn’t sure. He hoped it would be the latter. That would also give him time to regroup. Time to come up with an alternative. Because right now, he needed one.

He frowned, his eyes burning into the framed portrait of his son that stared back at him from the edge of his desk. He felt like he was failing him. Failing his memory, failing to make up for his pointless death.

I won’t fail you this time, he insisted inwardly, his fists clenching tightly, choking the blood out of them and turning them a deathly shade of white.

“We might need to bring our plans forward,” Maddox’s voice prompted him from his speakerphone. The soldier sounded bleak, defeated. Not a tone of voice he was used to hearing from him.

“We can’t do that,” Drucker grumbled. “Not with Rydell running around out there. Any sign of his daughter?”

“No,” Maddox said. “The plane dropped her off in L.A. She’s not using her cell or her credit cards. She’s out of play for the time being.”

Drucker sighed. “They’ll go for the brother. That’s all Sherwood cares about. Are you all set for that?”

Maddox just said, “We’re ready.”

“Then finish it,” Drucker ordered him, and hung up.

Chapter 75

Afternoon turned to evening as the sky overhead went from bright blue to a soft pink and the clocks skipped past five o’clock. Matt and Gracie still hadn’t found anything. They’d worked their way down from the top of the stadium without success. The show was about to start, and they still had a lot of ground to cover.

Checking out the suites wasn’t easy. For this unscheduled event, all the seating in the stadium was free—except for the suites. Matt and Gracie quickly found out that most of those had been allocated to Darby’s personal guests, some to the media, and the remainder to the guests of the other preachers that Darby had invited to share the stage with him. Access to the suites sections was restricted and tightly controlled by beefy security guys in black sweatshirts who knew all the scams. Still, Gracie managed to get into both banks of suites on the fourth and club levels by charming some bona fide invitees and tagging along with them, dragging Matt with her. They swept through them, all forty-five suites in each bank, on the lookout for any high-tech gear or for men who didn’t look like they were there for a spiritual experience. They didn’t find either.

They had just cleared the first bank of suites on the club level when the music faded down and the lights dimmed. Everyone pushed forward for a closer view. Matt and Gracie edged closer. A chorus of voices rose on the overhead speakers and the reverend’s hundred-member choir filed onto the stage, taking up their positions solemnly as they sang “Let There Be Light.” The crowd erupted wildly, clapping and cheering before joining in. The effect was remarkable. Seventy thousand voices, all singing together, soon accompanied by the countless thousands of others outside the stadium’s walls, a chorus of worship echoing across the Houston twilight.

Matt frowned. Father Jerome’s appearance was drawing near, and they still hadn’t found any trace of Danny or of the guys who were holding him. Matt had to make some decisions. He had to go for the likeliest spots and forget about the rest. There wasn’t enough time. He scanned the dark stadium, and settled on two target areas beyond the bank of suites they were still checking out: the two banks of suites on level two. Each bank had thirty-nine suites in it, which would take time to vet. They’d have to forgo the main seating tiers and hope for the best.

The singing ended and Darby strolled out onto the stage, basking in the wild applause. Massive overhead video screens beamed a close-up of his face across the stadium.

“Greetings in Christ,” he boomed, drawing the same words back from the excited masses.

Matt and Gracie weren’t going to stick around for his speech. They slipped back through the suite and pressed on with their sweep.

They advanced slowly, checking out the rest of the floor. Half an hour later, they’d come up empty-handed. Two other megapastors had come on stage in the meantime, delivering rousing sermons to tumultuous cheers. In between their speeches, the choir sang backup to some of the biggest names in Christian rock. Matt and Gracie descended to the level three concourse and were on their way to level two when Gracie suddenly gasped and spun around and ducked into the cover of Matt’s bulk.

“What?” he asked.

She peered out, then slipped out of view behind him again. “Ogilvy,” she said. “He’s right there.”

Matt’s fists clenched. “Which one?”

“Slick guy, by the concession stand. Graying hair, rimless glasses. He’s in a light-colored suit.”

Matt scanned the crowd. The concourse was filled with wall-to-wall people. A couple of heads parted and he caught a glimpse of someone fitting Gracie’s description. “Come on,” he said in a low voice as he took Gracie’s hand and cut through the crowd behind Ogilvy. He lost him, then saw him appear again, about fifteen yards ahead, heading for the suites. The fact that Ogilvy was about five-six wasn’t helping. Matt tried to press ahead, but the crush of people was like quicksand. He saw a small opening in the crowd and nosed into it, only to slam into a couple of tall rancher types who were cutting across him on their way back from the concession stands. One of them spilled his beer all over his shirt and shoved Matt back angrily.

“Watch your step, doofus,” the man snapped. “What’s your rush?”

Matt’s arm tightened and his eyes narrowed and he was about to pounce, but Gracie held him back and subdued him with a forced smile.

“Easy, big guy.” She turned to the angry rancher and cranked her flirt look up to eleven. “No damage done, boys. What do you say we just forgive and forget and go back to enjoying the sermons. It is Christmas, right?”

Matt held back and waited for the other guy to nod. The rancher scowled, thinking about it, then grudgingly gave him a tiny bob of the head. Matt nodded back, took Gracie’s hand, and pulled her into the throng of people, but he couldn’t see Ogilvy anywhere. He craned his neck and hoisted himself on the tips of his toes and scanned around intently.

There was no sign of him.

OUT AT THE EDGE of the red lot, Rydell and Dalton watched with awe as the crowd rose into song and settled down again. Some of them had brought small 12-volt-powered TV sets with them, and clusters of people were massed around each set, listening to the sermons and responding with the occasional “Amen.”

Rydell cast his gaze across the plain of cars, then looked up at the sky. The last glints of daylight had dipped down behind the horizon. “Let’s send it up,” he said. “We can’t wait much longer.”

Dalton brought the Draganflyer out of the Lincoln and set it down on the ground. He checked the light and flicked the HD video camera under its belly to night-vision mode. He then switched the Draganflyer’s engines on, glanced around, and guided it up. It rose quickly with the silent whirr of a high-powered household cooling fan and disappeared in the night sky.

Rydell studied the area around them, trying to divine where he would put the launchers. To their right were some low-lying structures, on the other side of Kirby Drive. “Let’s send it out over those buildings over there,” he said, pointing in that direction. Then he seemed to have second thoughts. He shifted his gaze over to the stadium. Something about its north-south axis was tugging at his mind. His eyes narrowed a touch, and he said, “Actually, send it up there,” pointing behind them, north of the stadium. He checked the image the skycam was sending back onto Dalton’s laptop. It had that ghostly, pale-green night-vision look, but the high-definition processor was doing its job and the detail was surprisingly clear. “And keep your eyes on that screen.”

“DAMMIT,” Matt hissed. “We’ve lost him.”

His eyes scoured the concourse around him. Ogilvy had vanished into the crowd.

“The network,” Gracie blurted. “Maybe they wrangled a suite here. Maybe that’s how they brought the transmitter in.”

“Makes sense. But how do we find out where it is? I didn’t see any guest lists. It’s all a big mess in here.”

They also had another problem. There were two banks of suites on level two, but they were at opposite ends of the stadium. One was to the east, facing the Astrodome. The other faced west. Getting across from one to the other meant they’d have to get through another human swamp.

“We won’t have time to check both banks,” Gracie said.

Just then, the music changed into a deep, heraldic burst of brass and the lights across the stadium dimmed again. The crowd hushed to a bone-chilling silence. The air was thick with nervous expectation. And Darby reappeared on stage, welcomed by a thunderous uproar. He milked it for almost a minute before raising a calming hand and asking the crowd, “Are you ready?”

The answer was a thunderous “Yes.”

“My fellow children of Christ, please give a warm Houston welcome and open your hearts to our special guest, Father Jerome.” Every single person in the stadium was standing up, clapping and cheering rapturously as the slight figure of Father Jerome appeared. He looked unimaginably small on the huge stage, shuffling forward slowly, looking around at the crowd in awe, dwarfed by his own image on the overhead video displays. A blinding fusillade of flashbulbs accompanied him as he padded across to the center of the stage and gave Darby a small, courteous bow. Darby ushered him over to a microphone stand and waved him on before retreating a few steps into the shadows.

Matt and Gracie stood there, rooted to the floor, transfixed by the crowd’s reaction. The entire stadium reverberated with an air of majesty. Gracie watched the close-up of Father Jerome’s face on the screens. He was looking up, taking in the scene, clearly overwhelmed by the sheer scale of it all. Droplets of sweat were sliding down his forehead. He didn’t seem to know what to say. The whole crowd was on its feet and just stood there, silent, hanging on what God’s messenger would proclaim. He cleared his throat with a small cough, looking around slightly fearfully—and then his expression changed, as if he’d been mildly startled by something. He cocked his head a little and his eyes blinked, then he swallowed and said, “Thank you all for being here and for welcoming me here tonight.”

The crowd responded exuberantly with “Amens” and applause.

As Father Jerome embarked on his sermon down below, an idea burst through the chaos in Matt’s mind. “I need to call Rydell,” he told Gracie. “Quick.”

Gracie had Dalton’s cell phone with her. Rydell still had his. She speed-dialed him and passed the phone to Matt.

RYDELL PICKED UP on the first ring.

“Do you have the skycam up?” Matt asked, his tone urgent.

Rydell was eyeing the screen on Dalton’s laptop closely. “It’s over the medical center, just north of here,” he informed him. “Nothing so far.”

“What happens to its video downlink if it crosses into the transmitter’s signal?” Matt asked breathlessly.

“It would interrupt it, for sure,” Rydell speculated.

“It wouldn’t mess it up so it couldn’t fly, would it?”

Rydell thought about it for a beat, then said, “It might. The laser signal could override the signal from the skycam’s remote controller. We could lose control of it while it’s in the beam’s path. Might fry it altogether.”

Dalton flashed him a concerned look.

Matt’s voice shot back. “We’ve got to risk it. Send it over to us, inside the stadium. It’s the only way we’re going to find out where their signal’s coming from.”

“Okay,” Rydell said, spinning a finger horizontally in the air to Dalton and gesturing at the stadium. “Let’s just hope it gets there in one piece.” He turned to Dalton, and told him, “We’re going in.”

Dalton used the screen to guide him and fingered the joysticks to turn the black skycam around. Rydell was huddled behind him, his attention riveted to the screen. As Dalton banked the Draganflyer around, he flinched and exclaimed, “Did you see that?” He jabbed a finger at the screen, but the Draganflyer was zooming back and whatever he was pointing at was gone.

“What?” Dalton asked.

“There was something, back there.” He pointed at the top left-hand corner of the screen. “On the roof. Can you flip the camera around so it’s pointing backward?”

Dalton’s face was tight with concentration as his fingers made micro-adjustments to the joysticks. “Can’t do a full one-eighty, it’s just a forward sweep. I can spin it around and fly it backward, but it’s gonna reach the stadium any second now and I don’t want to risk it and fly blind.”

Rydell frowned and nodded. “Okay, keep going. We’ll come back to it.”

“If it’s still flying by then,” Dalton worried.

MATT AND GRACIE scanned the rectangular opening of black sky and waited as Father Jerome finished his sermon.

“Matt, he’s doing it,” she told him, pointing at the stage.

Matt looked down, the cell phone still on his ear. “Come on, guys.”

“It’s almost there,” Rydell said, clearly tense.

Down on the stage, Father Jerome tilted his head back and slowly raised his arms outward from his sides until they were slightly above the horizontal, as if he were about to catch a massive beach ball. The crowd shuddered and all eyes turned to the empty air under the stadium’s open roof.

“Pray with me,” Father Jerome beseeched his followers. “Pray with me that God gives us a sign and guides our thoughts and helps us do his will.”

Murmurs rose and lips quivered across the stadium as the crowd started to pray. And then a gasp reverberated throughout the giant hall as a ball of light appeared over Father Jerome. It was small, perhaps eight or ten feet in diameter, a swirling, cloudy sphere of light. An upwelling of flashbulbs lit up the tiers as the apparition just floated there for a few seconds, then started to rise. It reached the halfway point between Father Jerome’s head and the stadium’s full height and held there for a moment, blazing to a twinkling backdrop of thousands of flashbulbs, then it flared out and expanded into the now-familiar, massive sphere of brilliance.

The crowd was cowed into a nervous silence as the sign rotated before them. Then, like a breaking wave, euphoria rolled across the arena and the crowd erupted into a mighty roar, bigger than anything any touchdown at the stadium had ever generated. Amid wailing “Amens” and “Hallelujahs,” the massed faithful waved their arms and hugged their cheeks in adulation and awe. People were crossing themselves. Some people fainted, others wailed hysterically. Most just stared in disbelief while tears of joy ran down their faces.

Matt’s skin tingled. It was the first time he’d seen it live, and its power blew him away. He had to keep reminding himself that it wasn’t supernatural. That it was Danny’s work. That his brother had played a crucial role in making it possible.

He could sense his presence. More than ever, he had to find him.

He looked up and hissed into the cell phone, “Where is it?”

“It’s in,” Rydell announced. “It just dropped in from the north face of the opening.”

Chapter 76

Matt stared up intently, straining to find the tiny black machine—then he spotted it. It was barely visible, its stealthy matte finish blending into the night sky, but it was there. He kept his eyes glued to it and sized up its position relative to the banks of suites. He decided to go for the east bank first.

“Okay, bring it down so it’s by the lower end of the sign and take it around the stadium counterclockwise,” he told Rydell. “And let me know the second you get any interference.”

“Got it,” Rydell acknowledged.

OUT IN THE RED LOT, Rydell and Dalton watched the laptop’s screen breathlessly as the Draganflyer dived into the stadium and circled the sign. All around them, clusters of people were huddled around those who’d brought portable TVs with them, watching the sign in breathless awe.

“Here we go,” Dalton mumbled, nervousness catching in his throat.

MATT STRUGGLED to keep the tiny contraption in view as it began its wide circular sweep around the inside of the stadium. The cell phone was glued to his ear and he could feel his pulse thumping against his cheek. Gracie was on alert too, scanning the entrance behind them, still wary of Ogilvy, uncomfortable with his presence there.

Across the stadium, the crowd was still enthralled by the sight before them. The sign was just hovering there, a gargantuan ball of shimmering energy. Matt’s gaze kept getting drawn to it. It was incredibly hard to resist staring at it, and as soon as his eyes strayed over to it, he’d pull them away, back to the Draganflyer’s last position, trying to stay focused on the tiny black dot.

The skycam had almost reached the southern tip of the east bank of suites when Rydell’s voice shot into his ear.

“We’ve got something. Shit, we’re losing it,” he shouted.

Matt’s neck flinched forward, as if the extra couple of inches would make a difference. He saw the skycam go into a wobble, then it just arced down violently, as if it had suddenly lost all power or been smacked down by a big invisible swatter, and dropped like a rock.

Matt’s heart skipped a beat as he saw it plummet, but his eyes raced back up and lasered in on the suites that faced its last stable position. They were the very last ones, at the southeast corner of the stadium.

“Come on,” he yelled to Gracie, grabbing her hand and bolting back onto the concourse, racing for the escalators.

“SHIT,” Dalton yelled as he lost control of the Draganflyer, his heart pounding, his face clenched in panic, his fingers desperately playing the joysticks in search of a reaction.

The image on the laptop’s screen fizzled out and was replaced by gray static, its accompanying hiss just making things worse.

“It’s gonna fucking kill someone,” he blurted—then the image on the screen suddenly flickered back to life. It was unnerving—a plunging point-of-view from the camera as it dived at a rapidly growing crowd.

“Pull it up,” Rydell yelled.

“I’m trying,” Dalton fired back. The people in the camera’s sights grew bigger, their eyes shot wide as they spotted the alien device hurtling toward them and their faces went taut with alarm—and then it came back to life and swooped away just over their heads, avoiding them and pulling up until it just hovered in place by the stadium’s roof.

Dalton let out a huge breath of relief and darted a look of sheer delight at Rydell. “Whose brilliant idea was that?” he asked, his voice shaky.

Rydell gave him a big pat on the shoulder. “Great job, man. Great job. Now get it out of there and let’s check out that building.”

A crescendo of excitement erupted around them. Rydell and Dalton moved back from the SUV’s trunk and stared up at the top of the stadium as a wave of gasps rolled across the parking lot.

The sign was now rising slowly into the night sky, a curved sliver of light peeking out above the stadium’s roof.

MATT LEAPT OFF the escalator onto level two and raced across the landing area that led to the entrance of the suites. Gracie was trailing close behind. The crowds were gone, there was no one around. Everyone was watching the miracle taking place in the arena. The bouncers were also gone, probably watching alongside the guests in one of the suites.

They were coming in from the north side, and the target suite was all the way down the concourse that ran behind the suites, at the south end of the bank. As Matt charged down the curving concourse, two things happened: He thought something must have changed in the arena as a chorus of oohs and aahs rippled through the suites’ doors. And he saw a man walking his way, heading out of the suites area just as Gracie yelled out, “Matt,” from behind him.

The guy had graying hair, rimless glasses, a light-colored suit, and looked slick. The recognition was mutual as Ogilvy flinched with surprise, but he didn’t have time to do much else before Matt just slammed right into him without slowing down, grabbing him by the arms and spinning him and shoving him up hard against the concourse wall. Ogilvy let out a pained gasp as Matt’s weight crashed into his back and winded him. Matt felt his wound light up with a spike of pain, but ignored it and belted Ogilvy with a punch to the kidneys. The man buckled forward under the pain. Matt was in overdrive. He didn’t let up for a second. He just grabbed Ogilvy’s right arm, yanked it way up high behind him until it almost snapped, then shoved him forward and led him down the concourse at a half jog.

“Which one are they in?” he rasped.

Ogilvy’s head was lolling left and right, like a boxer with cut eyes, teetering on his last legs.

“Which one?” Matt asked again, still rushing ahead. He knew the suite he wanted was one of the last ones in the row and didn’t really need Ogilvy to answer. He figured the target suite wouldn’t be like all the others. They all had their doors wide open, the clusters of people inside them all crowding the front barlike counter. Maddox’s boys wouldn’t be as welcoming, and their suite would have its door shut. Maybe even someone outside, on guard. Within seconds, they’d rounded the concourse. Sure enough, the last suite had its door closed. Matt pushed Ogilvy up against the door and rapped on it firmly while twisting Ogilvy’s arm right up so his shoulder blade was about to pop out.

“Get them to open up, nice and friendly,” Matt hissed into his ear.

“Yeah?” came a low grunt from inside.

Ogilvy swallowed hard, then blurted, “It’s me, Ogilvy,” trying to sound unruffled but not quite pulling it off.

The guy behind the door must have hesitated, as he didn’t open immediately, then the door cracked open. Matt lifted Ogilvy off his feet the second he heard the lock jangle, ripping his shoulder tendons in the process, and shoved him against the door like a vertical battering ram. The door slammed backward, hitting the guy standing behind it in the face. The doors to the suites were rock-solid and soundproof. The impact sounded like the guy had been pounded with a baseball bat. It knocked him off his feet and sent his gun flying out of his hand and tumbling heavily to the ground. Matt stormed in, keeping Ogilvy in front of him like a shield. His eyes registered two other guys in there, in addition to the guy on the ground. They were waiting for him and had silenced handguns trained on the door. Matt didn’t slow down. He kept charging forward, holding Ogilvy in front of him, flying across the room in five long strides. Ogilvy jerked and flailed as several rounds cut into him, but the shooters didn’t have that much time to fire before Matt was right on top of them. He launched Ogilvy at the one dead ahead of him and leapt across at the other shooter, catching his firing arm with his hands and pushing his gun away while landing a heavy elbow across his jaw. He heard it snap as he spun around, still gripping the guy’s gun wrist with both hands and tracking it around through ninety degrees until it was facing the other shooter, who was busy pushing Ogilvy’s bloodied body off of him. The two silenced handguns pirouetted around in unison to face each other, only the one under Matt’s control got there a split second earlier and he squeezed hard against the guy’s trigger finger. The handgun belched a round that caught the opposing shooter squarely in the neck. The guy recoiled as a burst of blood geysered between his shoulder blades, just as he let off a round of his own that whizzed by Matt and buried itself somewhere in the wall behind him.

Matt felt the shooter behind him squirm. He slammed his elbow back into him, mashing his throat. He felt the shooter’s body go rigid as the man convulsed in a pained gurgle—then Gracie yelled, “Matt,” again. He spun his gaze back toward the entrance to the suite and to the guy who’d taken the door in the face. Half his face was glowing an angry purply-red. It had to hurt. He was on his knees, straightening up, looking across at Matt. He’d just recovered his gun when Gracie screamed and just hurled herself at him, tackling him from the side. The shooter reacted fast—he just whipped up his arm and deflected her, sending her crashing against the wall behind him, but it bought Matt the precious seconds he needed to play puppet master again and raise the arm of the shooter behind him and fire off a couple of rounds into purple-face.