“Is that what your dad thinks of it?”
Mark stopped when they came to Waveland Avenue. He crossed his arms and scanned the street. “My dad…he thinks I’m crazy.”
“He doesn’t believe you?” Jim stood at his shoulder.
Unable to speak, Mark simply shook his head.
“Here’s your chance to prove it to him.” Jim held out his cell-phone.
“What’s that for?”
“Call him. Tell him what’s going to happen. Even if we stop this right now, the media will get a hold of something and you’ll have proof.”
“You think I should just call him?” Mark wiped his hands on his thighs. “Just blurt it out?”
“Well, do it quietly. You don’t want to create a panic here.” Jim’s mouth quirked in a wry smile, then he grew serious. “I mean it, Mark. Take it. Call your folks. We don’t know how this is going to turn out.”
He had only spoken to his dad once since he’d left, and it was a brief happy birthday wish. A handful of other times, he’d talked to his mother, but she always managed to make him feel guilty. Not intentionally, but he knew she hated the rift between them.
The images in the photos pushed to the front of his mind. Jim was right. If something happened to him, he didn’t want his parents thinking the worst of him. He wanted a chance at good-bye. He remembered the regret at not having that chance when he’d been arrested. “Yeah. Okay.”
Jim wandered a short distance away, his back turned, and Mark appreciated the privacy. He dialed the number and smiled when his mom answered. “Hey, Mom.” It was a minute before he could get a word in edgewise, then he laughed. “Hold on, a sec. I’m fine. Sorry I haven’t called more often. I mean that. I don’t have a lot of time, but I just wanted to tell you that I love you, and I promise to call more often.”
His mother’s voice took on an edge of panic. “Something’s wrong. What is it?”
“No, nothing’s wrong. In fact, for once, everything is going well. Is Dad around?”
She didn’t sound convinced, but said, “I love you too, hon. Here’s your father.”
“Yes?” His dad spoke in a gruff tone, as though expecting the worst.
“Hi, Dad.” Mark pressed the phone to his ear as a noisy group passed.
“Where the hell are you?”
“I’m right outside Wrigley Field. As a matter of fact, I’m here with the FBI.”
“Why? What did you do now?”
His jaw clenched. “Nothing. I didn’t do anything, Dad. I’m helping them, as a matter of fact.”
“Helping them?”
“Yes. I used my camera, the one I told you about. It’s a long story, but I got the camera back, and the FBI believes me about some pictures and the corresponding dream I had.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.” He sounded less skeptical.
“It’s true. Watch the news tonight or the next few days. Hopefully, it won’t be anything big. Not if we’re successful.” The reality of what was going to happen if they failed tempered Mark’s pleasure that he had proof and that his dad sounded like he might believe him.
“What are you doing to help?”
“I’m going to try to identify some people. They couldn’t get an ID on one guy from the photos, the picture wasn’t clear. I hope I’ll see him.”
“Is it safe?”
That he asked touched Mark, and he had to clear his throat before speaking, “As safe as they can make it.”
Jim approached.
“I gotta go, but Dad…I love you.”
Silence greeted the declaration, then his dad coughed. After a beat, he spoke, his voice hoarse, “Be careful, Mark.”
“I will. Bye.” Mark clicked the phone shut and handed it back to Jim. “Thanks.”
Jim nodded, then dialed a number and put the phone to his ear and walked off a little way.
Mark took a deep, ragged breath. His dad hadn’t said it, but it was there, in his voice. His father cared about him. No matter what happened now, there’d be nothing left unfinished. Despite the circumstances, he felt light, energized. He scanned the crowd, wondering if the terrorists were already about. Jim motioned for Mark to walk with him. Mark jogged to catch up, tugging at the vest beneath his polo shirt. It was only an hour since he’d put it on, and already, he hated the thing.
“Here’s the plan. We’ve put spotters on top of surrounding buildings, have undercover agents in the stadium, some posing as security, others as fans, and we’ve set up a command center in that van over there.”
Mark looked towards where Jim pointed. A white box truck, no different than hundreds on the streets of Chicago, was in a fenced off parking lot beside a small fire-station just behind the left field wall.
“Okay.”
Jim spent a few minutes introducing Mark to the agents in the van. The back of the van looked like a small communication center. Computers, wires, and video monitors filled every spare inch, watched over by four agents.
One of the men watching a video, pointed to the monitors. “We’ve already placed some cameras at optimal points around the park, so we’ll have some extra eyes out there. With the video, a screen capture can then be compared to images already in our database.” He went on to explain the capabilities of some of the other equipment.
Mark whistled softly. “Pretty impressive.”
The agent grinned. “Yeah, and this baby is armored.” He picked up a small ear-piece. “We got a present for you.”
In a few minutes, they had Mark wired so he could send and receive audio.
“You can speak directly to Officer Sheridan, but we’ll hear everything as well. You can turn it off with that little button there so we aren’t subjected to every word of your conversation, but when the time comes near, you need to remember to turn it back on. I’ll be listening in and relaying information to other teams, in addition to giving you updates.”
Feeling in over his head, Mark licked his lips. “Got it.”
Jim thanked the men for the quick rundown, and poked a finger in Mark’s chest. “If we can’t stop this, and things get hot, I expect you to high-tail it to that van. This vest you’re wearing,” He prodded it again. “it’s only good against certain kinds of weapons.”
“What about you?” After his initial reaction to seeing himself a victim in the photo, Jim hadn’t mentioned anything about it. If the man was nervous or scared, he kept it hidden well. Mark had to admire him for that.
“Never mind about me. This is my job, not yours. You just give me your word that you’ll get your ass out of harm’s way.”
“I don’t have a death wish-I’ll get back.” Mark shuffled his feet and rubbed the back of his neck. He might not have a death wish, but he also had no intention of scuttling off to safety while the bad guys were killing people.
Eyes narrowed, Jim studied him, but his cell-phone rang, and with a last hard look, Jim answered the phone.
A surge of fans headed into the stadium in the next hour leading up to the first pitch. Once the game began, the crowd thinned out. By the second inning, the lights came on, casting a warm glow above the stands. He and Jim made several circuits around the stadium and Mark noted the abundance of Chicago police officers. A contingent of mounted police and several officers with dogs patrolled the sidewalks. As they passed a group of young people, Mark heard one comment on the police presence. He had to bite his tongue not to tell the kid to get away from the park. Jim had explained that if there was a public announcement concerning this, it would do little more than create panic. If the terrorists were deterred, either by the warning or if the game were canceled, they’d likely just go to ground and strike somewhere else. Not only that, but creating panic and disrupting the normal activities of Americans was half the goal.
Jim left Mark outside the left field gate while he went to double-check something. This was where he’d seen the father and son exiting just prior to the shooting. If he could spot them exiting, it was the best chance he had of preventing the annihilation at this gate.
While Mark understood, and even agreed with the rationale, he couldn’t help feeling guilty and wondering if every fan he passed was someone who would be a victim later. The game progressed and when some celebrity led the crowd in singing “Take me Out to the Ballgame”, Mark’s jaw clenched and he took a deep breath. The clock was ticking.