Hayes and his men hurried toward the noise, passing within feet of Jack’s broom, men moving faster than their boss. Jack fell in behind them, weapon in hand, counting down yards, feet, inches until Hayes reached the opening between building and bushes, and Jack shoved him off the path, beyond the glare of ten thousand Christmas lights and into the shadows behind. He shifted the muzzle up under Hayes’s chin, yanked the earpiece from his ear, motioned him out of his shoes and jacket, emptied his pockets onto the ground, shoved a hat on his head, and pushed him into the crowd.

He was an easy snatch.

Men who ran the operations were decades removed from activity, assuming they’d ever had an operative skill set to begin with.

Clare 202.

In Jack’s ear, Holden said, “Friends in chaos.”

Jack prodded Hayes deeper into the mix and up and through the doors of the Grand Theatre, which was a cloyingly hot contrast to the cold outdoors.

Hayes said, “What happened to not having plans to grab or kill me?”

Jack didn’t answer.

Someone stupid enough to bring twenty-eight idiots into a park filled with families and children might actually be dumb enough to think he’d have to go to all this effort for a grab or kill, but probably not.

Audience members moved down the aisles toward the stage, removing hats and scarves. Jack reached behind a curtain, retrieved a lightweight, ankle-length, packable down-filled coat, and shoved it at Hayes. “Put this on,” he said.

Hayes protested. “It’s hot enough in here as it is.”

“Put it on.”

In Jack’s ear, Holden said, “Attention coalescing on the theater.”

Jack guided Hayes to the far right aisle, kept him moving until they reached the midpoint, gripped his shoulder, shoved him into a seat, sat beside him, and pulled from beneath his shirt an envelope that held copies of the pages he’d been handed in Toledo.

He thrust the first of them into Hayes’s hand.

The theater lighting was dim, made it hard to read.

Hayes angled the page to be able to see, but seeing was hardly his point.

Jack jabbed the muzzle hard into Hayes’s side, snatched the page back.

Hayes brushed sweat out of his eyes and fought against a nose run brought on by the extreme temperature shift. Jack handed him a new page, said, “Keep it in your lap,” and waited long enough for Hayes, sniffling and sweating, to scan the details, then took it back and handed Hayes the next. He continued that way until the man had handled them all, and he had Hayes return the lot of them to the envelope and shoved the envelope back up under his shirt.

In Jack’s ear, Holden said, “Friends at the doorstep.”

Jack tapped center chest above the envelope. “I have your target and can confirm a time window of twenty-four hours.”