Page 50 of Guarding the Star

I pick up the phone and text Trent.

“Need you to run the credential check for the game. Please.”

Trent is competent. Very. But Trent hasn't studied Derek Linden's face every night for two months. Trent doesn't know the angle of his jaw, or the different thick-framed glasses he wears, or the brown hair cut straight above the ears. Trent has a file with data. I have that psycho's face burned into my brain.

***

West section, upper deck, row fourteen.

I spot him at the twenty-third minute of the first half.

My brain reads the signals before my conscious mind catches up. A man who isn't watching the game. Hands in his pockets with his thumbs out. A wool beanie. Too close to the side corridor that connects the stands to the players' tunnel. Everyone around him screams, jumps, lives the game. He doesn't.

“Trent. West section, row fourteen, seventh seat from the left. Male, brown hair, dark glasses. Wool beanie. Confirm visual,” I say over the radio.

“Confirmed. I've got him.”

“Don't approach. Just confirm.”

I calculate distances and times. By his build, I don't expect Derek Linden to be any kind of athlete. From his position, he could reach the field in about two minutes. From mine, running, I'd make it in half. Plenty of margin, but only if I move when he does. The stadium has security, but I can't rely on them. Not when Iris's safety is on the line.

Twenty-fifth minute of play. He shifts posture. Leans forward. Checks the scoreboard clock. Looks at the tunnel.

Twenty-seventh. Stands. Sits back down.

Thirty-fourth minute. Takes his hands out of his pockets. He's holding something in his right.

Forty-second minute. Whistle. Foul. Play stopped.

I move.

I take the side stairs at a fast walk. I don't run. Running draws attention. I reach the base of the corridor as they take the free kick.

First half ends in three minutes. Three added for stoppage. Iris will walk toward the tunnel in six minutes.

I position myself twelve feet from the tunnel mouth. Back to the wall. Eyes locked. I see Iris on the sideline, getting instructions from Hades. Derek Linden is no longer in the stands.

The halftime whistle blows. The players walk toward the tunnel. Iris pulls off her cold-weather gloves. Laughs with Tina. Punches her shoulder. Turns toward the tunnel.

Derek Linden reaches the base of the corridor, and Trent cuts him off.

“Sir, this area is restricted,” he tells him.

“I have a press credential. Just going to take a couple photos,” he says, holding up the badge.

“David Santos. Freelance photographer,” Trent repeats into the mic while checking it.

Iris is twenty feet from the tunnel, her back turned. Derek Linden slips past. Fast. More agile than I expected. He's carrying something in his right hand. Something that catches the floodlights. Metal. Small. His fingers tighten around it.

I run.

I'm not walking anymore. I don't care about drawing attention. The players start filing into the tunnel. In the stands, twenty-five thousand people who have no idea what's happening twenty feet from the field.

I reach him from behind. My left arm wraps around his neck, bicep closing on his carotid, forearm against his trachea. I lock the choke and pull back. His body folds with almost no resistance.

His fingers open, and something hits the ground.

A silver pen clipped to an envelope. Small, cramped handwriting. Next to it, a small bouquet of lilacs that he must have been carrying in the other hand, but my brain was too busy processing the threat.