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