“It’s good,” Bob said. “Two targets, the car, then the mall sweep. He’s got his priorities right, it’s straight-ahead, no fancy timing or tricky feints and bluffs. Plus, these guys will feel better taking instructions from him rather than some out-of-state FBI guy. And these are supposed to be the best guys in the state, so I believe in ’em.”

Nick took his hand away from the mic.

“Real good,” he said to the colonel. “As soon as you hit the vehicle, my pilot will land and drop me off, and I’ll come to you.”

“My Command Center will be with SWAT at the car. I will move in with them if the car is empty. Y’all have raid jackets?”

“We’re in ’em. Ball caps too. Please don’t shoot us.”

“Haven’t shot an FBI agent in years,” said the colonel.

“Okay, give your guys a few more minutes to get settled, then we go. You call it, Hector, you’re on the ground.”

“Roger that, Fed One.”

They could see the squad cars converging on what had to be the target car.

“Take us in,” said Nick to the pilot. With the zooming rotors’ angles shifting, the helicopter banked left like a fighter jet and began the long swoop in, leaving stomachs far behind.

Swagger thought of his last helicopter adventure, which ended with second-degree burns on arm, shoulder, neck, and face.

“Reminds me I hate helicopters,” he said to nobody but himself.

24

Greenville (II)

Juba wanted to destroy America but for one thing: the French fries.

“I like these,” he said.

“You’ve been all over the world, you’ve never had French fries?”

“I was not on tour. I was on jihad.”

“Yeah, busy, busy—I get it.”

They sat in a booth at a McDonald’s halfway down the mall’s hallway. To the right, the broad opening to the shiny paradise of Walmart beckoned. The hall itself was darker, a corridor of dying retail, with a cheesy plastic garden in the middle. A lot of mom-’n’-pop new-media stuff, DVDs and games and phones from obscure networks, a couple of other fast-food troughs, a shoe chain, an Old Navy, the whole place dying. The brick-and-mortar was losing to the ’Net, as Jared knew, but he thought this was not a topic that would fascinate Juba.

“No,” said Juba. “I’ve seen these places, you know? They’re everywhere.”

“I remember when they were just another snake cult,” said Jared.

“What?”

“Nothing. Bad joke.”

“Jihadis do not joke.”

“But they eat French fries?”

“I make the rules.”

“That is true,” said Jared.