Chapter 76
Matt stared up intently, straining to find the tiny black machine—then he spotted it. It was barely visible, its stealthy matte finish blending into the night sky, but it was there. He kept his eyes glued to it and sized up its position relative to the banks of suites. He decided to go for the east bank first.
“Okay, bring it down so it’s by the lower end of the sign and take it around the stadium counterclockwise,” he told Rydell. “And let me know the second you get any interference.”
“Got it,” Rydell acknowledged.
OUT IN THE RED LOT, Rydell and Dalton watched the laptop’s screen breathlessly as the Draganflyer dived into the stadium and circled the sign. All around them, clusters of people were huddled around those who’d brought portable TVs with them, watching the sign in breathless awe.
“Here we go,” Dalton mumbled, nervousness catching in his throat.
MATT STRUGGLED to keep the tiny contraption in view as it began its wide circular sweep around the inside of the stadium. The cell phone was glued to his ear and he could feel his pulse thumping against his cheek. Gracie was on alert too, scanning the entrance behind them, still wary of Ogilvy, uncomfortable with his presence there.
Across the stadium, the crowd was still enthralled by the sight before them. The sign was just hovering there, a gargantuan ball of shimmering energy. Matt’s gaze kept getting drawn to it. It was incredibly hard to resist staring at it, and as soon as his eyes strayed over to it, he’d pull them away, back to the Draganflyer’s last position, trying to stay focused on the tiny black dot.
The skycam had almost reached the southern tip of the east bank of suites when Rydell’s voice shot into his ear.
“We’ve got something. Shit, we’re losing it,” he shouted.
Matt’s neck flinched forward, as if the extra couple of inches would make a difference. He saw the skycam go into a wobble, then it just arced down violently, as if it had suddenly lost all power or been smacked down by a big invisible swatter, and dropped like a rock.
Matt’s heart skipped a beat as he saw it plummet, but his eyes raced back up and lasered in on the suites that faced its last stable position. They were the very last ones, at the southeast corner of the stadium.
“Come on,” he yelled to Gracie, grabbing her hand and bolting back onto the concourse, racing for the escalators.
“SHIT,” Dalton yelled as he lost control of the Draganflyer, his heart pounding, his face clenched in panic, his fingers desperately playing the joysticks in search of a reaction.
The image on the laptop’s screen fizzled out and was replaced by gray static, its accompanying hiss just making things worse.
“It’s gonna fucking kill someone,” he blurted—then the image on the screen suddenly flickered back to life. It was unnerving—a plunging point-of-view from the camera as it dived at a rapidly growing crowd.
“Pull it up,” Rydell yelled.
“I’m trying,” Dalton fired back. The people in the camera’s sights grew bigger, their eyes shot wide as they spotted the alien device hurtling toward them and their faces went taut with alarm—and then it came back to life and swooped away just over their heads, avoiding them and pulling up until it just hovered in place by the stadium’s roof.
Dalton let out a huge breath of relief and darted a look of sheer delight at Rydell. “Whose brilliant idea was that?” he asked, his voice shaky.
Rydell gave him a big pat on the shoulder. “Great job, man. Great job. Now get it out of there and let’s check out that building.”
A crescendo of excitement erupted around them. Rydell and Dalton moved back from the SUV’s trunk and stared up at the top of the stadium as a wave of gasps rolled across the parking lot.
The sign was now rising slowly into the night sky, a curved sliver of light peeking out above the stadium’s roof.
MATT LEAPT OFF the escalator onto level two and raced across the landing area that led to the entrance of the suites. Gracie was trailing close behind. The crowds were gone, there was no one around. Everyone was watching the miracle taking place in the arena. The bouncers were also gone, probably watching alongside the guests in one of the suites.
They were coming in from the north side, and the target suite was all the way down the concourse that ran behind the suites, at the south end of the bank. As Matt charged down the curving concourse, two things happened: He thought something must have changed in the arena as a chorus of
The guy had graying hair, rimless glasses, a light-colored suit, and looked slick. The recognition was mutual as Ogilvy flinched with surprise, but he didn’t have time to do much else before Matt just slammed right into him without slowing down, grabbing him by the arms and spinning him and shoving him up hard against the concourse wall. Ogilvy let out a pained gasp as Matt’s weight crashed into his back and winded him. Matt felt his wound light up with a spike of pain, but ignored it and belted Ogilvy with a punch to the kidneys. The man buckled forward under the pain. Matt was in overdrive. He didn’t let up for a second. He just grabbed Ogilvy’s right arm, yanked it way up high behind him until it almost snapped, then shoved him forward and led him down the concourse at a half jog.
“Which one are they in?” he rasped.
Ogilvy’s head was lolling left and right, like a boxer with cut eyes, teetering on his last legs.
“Which one?” Matt asked again, still rushing ahead. He knew the suite he wanted was one of the last ones in the row and didn’t really need Ogilvy to answer. He figured the target suite wouldn’t be like all the others. They all had their doors wide open, the clusters of people inside them all crowding the front barlike counter. Maddox’s boys wouldn’t be as welcoming, and their suite would have its door shut. Maybe even someone outside, on guard. Within seconds, they’d rounded the concourse. Sure enough, the last suite had its door closed. Matt pushed Ogilvy up against the door and rapped on it firmly while twisting Ogilvy’s arm right up so his shoulder blade was about to pop out.
“Get them to open up, nice and friendly,” Matt hissed into his ear.
“Yeah?” came a low grunt from inside.
Ogilvy swallowed hard, then blurted, “It’s me, Ogilvy,” trying to sound unruffled but not quite pulling it off.
The guy behind the door must have hesitated, as he didn’t open immediately, then the door cracked open. Matt lifted Ogilvy off his feet the second he heard the lock jangle, ripping his shoulder tendons in the process, and shoved him against the door like a vertical battering ram. The door slammed backward, hitting the guy standing behind it in the face. The doors to the suites were rock-solid and soundproof. The impact sounded like the guy had been pounded with a baseball bat. It knocked him off his feet and sent his gun flying out of his hand and tumbling
