Nicknamed the Juice Box, Houston’s new baseball stadium was a blend of modern technology and classic architecture. Fans entered through a turn-of-the-century train station, but everything else about the park was modern, including the 292-foot-high retractable roof. Like most Houston ball fans, Derek loved the new park. He loved the open-air design, the Bermuda grass playing field, the view of the city skyline right behind left field. Having been to the stadium a bunch of times, he knew the layout well, although much of his knowledge centered around where to find the shortest beer line. He’d never really thought about the place from a tactical perspective.
Until now.
He sliced through the crowd, collecting details and making eye contact. Over the years, he’d honed his instincts for terrorists. He’d learned to spot their deadly intentions purely through body language, before they ever dropped an IED or tugged a trip wire or activated a remote-control detonator. He’d learned to read how they moved and how they stood and how they observed their surroundings just before they carried out an attack.
His phone buzzed, and he continued his visual reconnaissance as he answered.
“I’ve got problems,” Elizabeth said quickly. “They’re blowing me off until they verify my ID through headquarters.”
“We’re losing time. Raise a stink if you have to. You’ve got to talk to someone in charge.”
“I’m trying, but I have to keep my cool here until my ID checks. If they think I’m some nutcase off the street, I’ll be hauled off for questioning before I’ve had a chance to talk to anyone important. Now, the good news is I’ve got an agent on my side, and he tells me their bomb dogs just completed a thorough sweep of the executive level where Gray Wolf is sitting. Everything’s clear.”
“Gray Wolf?”
“That’s the handle for the former POTUS. It’s how the agents refer to him.”
Derek eyed a woman carrying a bulky diaper bag with no kids in sight. Other than her auburn hair, she didn’t look like Fatima.
“Executive level is low-probability,” Derek said, “especially given the security. More likely they’d plant something on the concourse level, where they can maximize casualties. Fact, they’ll probably put it on a ramp or near an exit, so when mayhem breaks out, people will be funneled right past it.”
“Wait, there’s more,” she said. “I talked to a food-services manager, and he recognized the picture of Fatima. Said she works a snack bar on the concourse level. So that might give us something to look for. She could have smuggled in a gun or an explosive through the employee entrance. If she’s planting a bomb, it could be in a beer cart or a food kiosk or maybe a cooler.”
“Or a backpack or a trash can,” Derek added. “She could put it anywhere. Liz, listen to me. The fact that we’re having this conversation tells me they still aren’t taking you seriously. If they were, they’d be evacuating by now, and they’d be jamming all cell-phone and radio communication in this place. That’s SOP—standard operating procedure—for an ordnance-disposal team.”
“Here comes my agent,” she said. “I need to go.”
She clicked off as another call came in. Cole.
“Where are you?” Derek asked, still scanning the crowd for suspects.
“About half a click northwest of the ballpark. I’m on the sixteenth floor of an office building staring right at home plate.”
“You on the gun?”
“Yeah.”
“Secret Service has shooters posted on some of the rooftops,” Derek said. “Make sure they don’t see you.”
“I got it covered. What’s your twenty?”
“Concourse level, right behind third base. Hey, we need to do this fast, in case they start jamming the comms. I want you to look at the layout and tell me how you’d play it if you were inside.”
Cole was the team’s best marksman and had a well-known talent for finding the perfect sniper hide. “If it was me, I’d go high,” he said. “I’m talking up in the rafters, behind a bunch of metal, where I’d be hard to see and harder to hit. See that area behind the Budweiser sign? That’d be my first pick.”
“Roger that. Call you back.”
Derek looked up at the tangle of ductwork and lighting and support structures. He glanced around for an access route. The doors of a nearby service elevator slid open. A cart loaded with pizzas rolled out, pushed by a stadium staffer wearing a hair net.
Derek walked casually past the elevator, then turned and ducked inside as the doors slid shut.
* * *
“I need to see him now,” Elizabeth insisted. “I don’t care who he’s on the phone with.”
Her own phone vibrated. The screen said BUSH IAH, and she prayed Gordon had found a landline.
“What the hell’s going on?” Gordon demanded.
“I’ve got intel about an imminent attack here at the baseball game.” She rushed through a description of the evidence, hoping he could hear her over the sirens blaring in the background wherever he was.
“Secret Service is stonewalling me,” she said. “I need you to—” Sirens screeched in her ear, and she jerked the phone away.
“What seems to be the problem?”
She turned to see a tall man in a dark suit striding up to her. The clear radio receiver affixed to his ear told her he was Secret Service.
“Elizabeth LeBlanc, FBI. Are you the lead here?”
“Rick Walker, special agent in charge.”
“My task force just received credible information about an imminent bomb attack on these premises.”
He frowned. “What information? I wasn’t informed of any—”
“I’m informing you. That’s what this is. Call up security so we can evacuate this stadium. And you need to get your guy out of here now.”
* * *
“I can’t reach the upper level,” Derek told Cole over the phone. “Elevator doesn’t go that high. What do you see?”
Although Derek was closer, Cole’s high-powered scope would give him a superior view. Provided he could get the right angle. “Some movement to your north, but I think it’s the lighting guys. Wait.” He paused. “There’s a shadow just east of you. Looks like—damn, I can’t tell.”
Derek squinted up at the suspended walkways.
“Shit, there’s definitely someone back there,” Cole said.
“Lighting techs?”
“I don’t think so.” His voice was tight. “I think I see . . .”
“What? What is it?”
“It’s definitely a rifle barrel.”
“Are you sure?”
“Affirmative.”
“You have a shot?” Derek glanced at the field below, where performers were unfurling a huge American flag. “Cole, report.”
“I don’t have the shot, man. He shifted. I don’t even have the gun barrel in my crosshairs now.”
Derek sprinted past the maintenance elevator, which didn’t access the upper level. He pushed through the next available door and felt a slap of relief. Stairwell. He raced upstairs and jerked open the door.
“Okay, I’m up,” he told Cole. “What’s the sitrep?”
“Behind first base, over toward the beer sign. I can’t see the barrel anymore, but that’s where it was.”
Derek glanced around to get the layout. Steel catwalks criss-crossed the area, giving access to lights, speakers, and other equipment.
“Behind the spotlight?” Derek moved toward it.
“Affirmative.”
“Okay, I’m going silent.” He switched off his ringer and tucked away his phone.
He glanced down, pulse pounding. Stars and stripes blanketed the field. Derek took out his Sig, wishing like hell he had a suppressor. Any hint of gunfire up here would attract a swarm of Secret Service, and he was as good as dead.
There was only one way to do this. He had to take this guy down without a bullet.
The announcer’s voice boomed from a nearby speaker. “Ladies and gentlemen, please rise for the National Anthem.”
A hush fell over the crowd.
Derek spotted the catwalk leading to the sniper’s hide. He ducked into a crouch and moved silently, scanning every shadow behind every light, speaker, and bulky piece of equipment.