Johnson stopped in his tracks, thinking, letting the current of red booster jackets flow around him. “Why are there so many cameras?” he asked over the radio, to no one in particular but expecting one of the DPD detectives to answer.
“It’s an underdog story, boss,” Lopez came back, breathless, like she’d been running… or was just excited at the prospect of tailing a bona fide terrorist. “Reavis High just got big enough to make AAAA status. This is their first year to compete with larger schools. It’s getting them some real national attention.”
The knot in Johnson’s gut tightened. Huge crowds, nonexistent security, and media attention were just too juicy a venue for a radicalized teenager who appeared ripe to go over the edge.
A shorter, squarish man with dark hair shoved his way through the crowd and fell in next to Johnson. His tailored gray sports coat and black open collar shirt made him look like a New Jersey wise guy. Johnson felt a flood of relief. Special Agent Dave Gillette would make seven on the surveillance. It was almost getting doable.
“I thought your kid had a baseball game?” Johnson said, still processing the realities brought on by all the media attention.
Gillette raised dark eyebrows and scoffed. “It’s T-ball, and he’s not very good. I got your message a few minutes ago and then headed this way when I heard the radio traffic.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re here.” Johnson resumed walking toward the concession stand. He didn’t relax, but felt better. With Angie James and Dave Gillette they might actually make it through the evening.
Both former street cops — Gillette in Miami and Johnson with NYPD, they’d been assigned to NYFO — the New York Field Office — as their first duty station, then gone their separate ways before drawing the Dallas office by chance. Each of them had been promoted to supervisory agent but over different squads.
“What do you think?” Johnson said as they walked through the crowd.
“I think I could use a hot dog.”
“I mean about the kid,” Johnson frowned.
“I don’t know.” Gillette shrugged. “He’s fresh, isn’t he? Not likely to do something right away. Maybe he’s just coming to meet some friends at a ballgame.”
“What if we’re the ones who are fresh?” Johnson said. “Maybe this kid’s been under our radar for months blending in.”
“Or maybe he’s just a kid at a football game.” Gillette rubbed his face. “I read your briefing notes. The teacher said he was a normal little socialist shithead until two months ago.”
A line of Reavis High School cheerleaders, all red faced from the chilly evening air bounced and tumbled on the track in front of the band at the end of the grandstands nearest the gates. Young and pretty, their short uniforms allowed them to show a great deal of leg while still maintaining their apple-pie wholesomeness — the way only a high school cheerleader could. The Reavis High School band’s section belted an explosive drum-and-horn challenge that carried across the field to the rival school.
“That gets the blood up,” Johnson said nodding toward the band.
“El Degüello,” Gillette said. “Santa Anna played it before he stormed the Alamo. Means ‘Slit Throat.’”
Johnson released a pent-up sigh. “Let’s hope that’s not Allen Lamar’s theme music.
A line of twelve young women dressed in crisp white skirts and matching sequined cowboy hats twirled large flags in Reavis High colors, moving in perfect precision with the band. The drill team, blaring band, the smell of frying food in the air — it was like a county fair, about as American as a place could be.
Gillette ran a hand over his hair. “You think two months is long enough to radicalize a kid?”
Johnson scoffed, picking up his pace. “I think a shitty two-minute Islamic State video is enough to radicalize someone who already believes all this is an abomination.” He shook his head. “Lopez, what’s our guy up to?”
“Still at the concession stand, boss,” the agent said. “He’s getting nervous though. Keeps looking over his shoulder. Maybe he’s looking for—”
She fell silent for a moment. Johnson froze mid-step, half expecting the jittery Lopez to come back and say she’d been made.
“They’re coming your way now,” Robinson, one of the DPD detectives said at length. “Rabbit bought a can of potato chips and a Coke.”
“See,” Gillette said. “Told you he was just here to watch the ga—”
“Hold on a minute.” Angie James came over the radio, tension putting a quiet hush on her voice. “The guy who sold Lamar the potato chips and Coke just came out of the concession trailer and joined them. Looks Middle Eastern, but I can’t be sure from this vantage point.”
“All three of them are walking east,” Lopez said. “They’re on the sidewalk between the bleachers and the fence that runs along the field.”
“We’re moving up too,” Robinson said. “If you’re coming toward concessions, we should all meet somewhere in the middle at the foot of the stands.”
“Keep your distance until Gillette and I get there,” Johnson said, the pit in his stomach growing deeper. He used his peripheral vision so as not to look at Lamar directly. Animals and humans alike were wired to notice if someone was looking directly at them. A tiny difference in the amount of white around the iris was enough to spook someone from a block away. “Maintain a loose tail. I’ve got them in sight. Lamar’s in the middle in a white sweatshirt… passing two little kids playing catch.”
“That’s them,” Angie James said. “Hang on… Are you seeing that?”
“I am,” Johnson said, breaking into a trot. Lamar was still a good fifty yards away.
The two other youths fanned out, one on either side of Allen Lamar, backs against the fence, facing the bleachers — as if preparing to protect him.
There came a time to bring people in — before they had a chance to shoot up a football game. Johnson intended to do just that until a crowd of Reavis High School alumni came stomping down the stadium stairs to stop directly in his path. The announcer had everyone stand for the National Anthem — completely blocking any view of Allen Lamar and his two friends. “Can you see him?” Johnson snapped, clenching his teeth to keep from shouting.
“Nope,” Gillette said, shouldering his way through the crowd.
“He’s just standing there, Joel,” Angie James said. “All three of them appear to be looking at the flags.”
“For the Anthem?” Gillette said. “That doesn’t sound like a terrorist.”
“I don’t mean the American flag,” Angie James said. “The drill team flags — like they’re checking wind direction and speed. I don’t like it, Joel. That’s something I would do before I took a shot.”
“Converge,” Johnson said, knocking a bleached-blond Reavis alumni into the fence. “Everyone move in.” He made it to within fifty feet of Allen Lamar before the boy opened the cardboard cylinder that looked like a potato chip tube and dropped in the soda can like a mortar shell. White foam began to bubble over the top of the cylinder, like an open soda can after it had been shaken.
Red and white drill-team flags fluttered behind the boy, snapping in a gentle Texas breeze that blew directly toward the grandstands.
Chapter 5
Legs crossed at his desk, Rostov held the phone to his ear with his left hand and listened. Interrupting the general during one of his tirades was a good way to get shot. With his right hand, the colonel used the stub of a black pencil to compile a list of people he wanted to strangle. Judging from General Zhestakova’s tone, he had his own list of such names — and Rostov was on it.