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From Chapter One: Exit Wound: I walked around the desk and gave him a little hug, said, "Thanks again. See you Thursday night!"

"What's the name of Sweet's band? I haven't seen the entire list yet."

"Exit Wound. The band is called Exit Wound."

Silence. Ranger's blank face graphically conveyed eeewww . Then we both cracked up laughing. I gave a him little finger wave and sashayed out to the elevators. The guys in the comm room watched me, awestruck.

Stephanie Plum makes the boss—laugh.

The Concert

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Chapter Two: A Change in Dynamics

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[Ranger]

I watch Steph leave with a smile lingering on my face. When I hear the elevator chime I wipe the smile off as if it never happened and buzz the door of the inner conference room. The concealed door opens with silent precision but I can see that the man who barged into my office was wishing he could slam it open then slam it closed.

sigh...these feds are so uptight, thought my covert half-brother Anthony Stewart from his seat at the conference table.

I calmly herd both Homeland Security agents—I'm gonna call them Smith and Jones for this op, they like that shit—back into the conference room and shut the door. This conference room is, well, discreet. Covert even. It has shielded walls, back entry, a smart table with built-in computers, and it records all sounds both in my office and in the conference room. No issues later...The audio system also allows the people inside to hear a conversation in my office. If I so allow. And stupidly, I had done so while the group waited during my conversation with Stephanie.

The meeting today involved myself, the two federal agents, Tank, Antonio and Vince.

Agent XXX, I mean Smith, steps up to me and growls, "You're going to let your girlfriend get involved with this job, Colonel?"

She's not my girlfriend.

I say, "Ms Plum is a colleague, a bond enforcement agent."

"Nevertheless, is her presence really necessary?"

As if I could stop her. I stare at the HLS agent.

"Look, Colonel, this concert could draw out Abdullah bin Hasheed. You need to focus on the job."

Tank snorts, covers with a cough.

I say, "I've been running these ops for years, Agent Smith. Have some faith."

Snort, this time from Smith. "Years! You're younger than my sons."

"...And?"

gulp.

In the sudden silence I can hear him swallow, my game face must be in fine working order today.

Smith chokes out, "I'm just saying..."

?

"...that the girl's presence could change the dynamics of the job. Your mind should be focused on the terrorists, on protecting the President, maybe peripherally on the security of the concert. And now you'll be helping this woman pick up a fugitive? You are only one man, Manoso. Not Superman."

Tell that to Steph.

I frown a little.

"Look, gentleman, it will be fine," says Anthony. He takes his flipflops off my table and tries to look encouraging. He adds, "Let's sit down and discuss your job and your details. Let us worry about everything else."

I wave a hand at the smart table, pull out a chair and sit, and huffily, Smith decides to follow suit. Jones silently sits beside his partner. Both glare at me.

I say, "Vince, go ahead."

Vince shows slides, a Power Point thing. I'm annoyed because this is their op, these feds, but they caved and asked Rangeman to take over the job. Now here they are, needing to be brought into the loop. Rangeman is giving them the intell that they should have gathered and analyzed before they hired me. Us.

Anthony keeps telling them we're not spies. But they don't listen and so here we are. Anthony catches his name in my thoughts and glances at me. He sends me a vibe of a perfect pipeline wave on the North Shore of Oahu. Then he puts his feet back up and I force myself not to follow suit. Like Tank, I cross my arms over my chest and listen yet again to Vince's presentation of the known dossier for the asshole cretin I am supposed to, ah—neutralize next week.

What? I told you I am not a spy...

Action hero? Anthony rags me.

Oblivious, Vince shows a photo of a nice looking young man who, though dark complexioned, appears to be an American regular guy. In the picture he wears khakis and a golf shirt, cheap sunglasses. Short hair, clean-shaven. "This is a recent shot of Abdullah bin Hasheed who has come into our sights as a jihadist sympathizer. Or worse. He is 29 years old, half American, half Pakistani. He is an American citizen, born here in Englewood New Jersey. His parent were tolerant Muslims, sent him to college at Rutgers. He has a degree in Chemical engineering, worked for a chem products corporation in Bound Brook for the past five years. Married with three small kids. They go to public schools and the local mosque for religious schooling."

Vince runs through a series of other long lens shots, plus the man's passport photo and DMV picture.

"He seems to be an unlikely terrorist," muses Agent Jones.

"His parents died in a motor vehicle accident about 18 months ago, drunk driver, ran a red light. As soon as the estate was settled, bin Hasheed asked for compassionate time off, left his job, and went back to Pakistan supposedly for family reasons relating to the parents' death. But he never got to Pakistan as such, he ended up in the mountains northeast of Kabul, training with the Taliban and al Qaeda."

"How do we know this?"

"We have CIA and US military surveillance tapes, Agent Jones," answers Vince patiently. He clicks the video of the feeds.

Smith interjects, "Kabul? That's Afghanistan not Pakistan."

Anthony looks at him or a beat or two, says, "These are tribal areas, Agent Smith. The boundaries are not really marked. And the area is so isolated and primitive it makes our border with Mexico look like Grand Central Station."

"You sound as if you've seen it in person, Mr...ah?"

"Been there, done that, got the fuckin' t-shirt and got outta town without getting my ass shot, Agent Smith."

"Really." Smith eyes Anthony who is in surfer mode today—beads in his hair, flowered board shorts, long-sleeve surf shop freebie t-shirt, weapons not visible. (But there.)

"Yeah, reeeally."

"I didn't get your name?"

"No shit, dude."

I intervene, mostly because Smith and Jones don't need to know our details. "Vince, continue."

"Hasheed returned after six months, sold the family house, sent the wife and kids back to her parents' home in Islamabad. And now because his behavior hit a wrong note, the checks and balances instituted after 9/11 have shown hits on his credit cards—Home Depot, Mac's Garden World, items that, to us, say, Suicide bomber."

"But why the concert? Why are you thinking he's going to target that night, that venue?"

"The President campaigns for his party's candidates. He needs Democrats in the Senate and he likes Juniak. It is an open secret that he may attend. And we got a hit through Ticketmaster - bin Hasheed bought a five-hundred dollar arena floor seat for the show. And we are pretty certain a militant Muslim will not be a Bon Jovi fan."

"So, like, maybe he likes Springsteen?" deadpans Anthony.

"No."

tbc