“What’s up, guys?” Chris shouted to them, though he knew.

“Coach Brennan!” “Yo!” “Hi, Coach!”

“Coach, you like my ride?” Evan grinned, sitting next to Jordan in the passenger seat. Raz was trying to shove himself into the backseat, which was nonexistent.

“Love it! Is it really yours?”

Raz interjected, “He got it from Daddy!”

“Wow!” Chris acted surprised, though he had seen Evan’s posts about the car on Instagram. “Hey listen, I was about to email the team. I’m having a get-together at my house tomorrow night, to introduce myself to the team. Why don’t you guys come over? Have some pizza?”

Evan answered, “Okay!”

“Sure, okay, yes!” the others called back.

“For your birthday?” Jordan asked from the passenger seat.

“Coach, it’s your birthday?” “Whaaaa!” “Happy Birthday!”

Meanwhile, Chris palmed his smartphone, thumbed to Settings, then to WIRELESS. His screen filled with the wireless networks, including Evan4EvaEva, which had to be Evan’s car. Chris pressed the screen to connect. Most people didn’t think about cyber-security in their cars, but the software that operated most cars, especially new ones, had plenty of vulnerabilities, and any wireless signal could be hacked—even a car’s braking system.

“Coach, what time you want us over?” Jordan called out.

“How about eight?” Chris kept his grin on.

“Woohoo, party!” Evan shouted, and Jordan and the other boys laughed, turning up the music again.

“Drive safe, gentlemen! See you tomorrow!” Chris waved good-bye, fed the car gas, and drove through the lot. Evan4EvaEva evaporated, and he took a right turn onto Central Valley Road, passing development after development. In no time he reached the entrance of Valley Oaks, where balloons lay deflated on the fresh sod, tethered to the MODEL HOME AVAILABLE sign.

He turned into the driveway, and the development was dark, with only the newly built sections lit up. There was a segment of new homes still under construction, their wood frames wrapped in Tyvek HomeWrap, and he drove to Building 12, parked in the pocket lot behind, then entered the building and let himself into his apartment on the second floor. He walked through the living room to the kitchen, a small rectangle with white cabinets, no-name appliances, and beige counters. He opened the refrigerator, which was packed with groceries for his party, grabbed a bottle of beer, and uncapped it, returning to the living room.

Chris surveyed the apartment, a two-bedroom with a rectangular living room furnished with a rented sectional couch, a teak coffee table, and end tables with glazed pottery lamps—but otherwise, the place was designed to make a teenage boy feel like it was a cool place to hang. An entertainment center with a large-screen TV and an Xbox system occupied one side of the room. The bottom shelf held Halo, Call of Duty, and Grand Theft Auto, and Chris had bought the games used, so it looked like he played, which he didn’t. He knew what real violence was like, and gaming had none of the thrill.

On the opposite wall was his locked gun case with a thick glass front, which held several hunting rifles, two long guns, an AR-15 assault weapon, and two handguns, a Beretta and a Colt .45 revolver. Chris had the appropriate licensing for each one, and they were unloaded and under lock and key. The case was intended to invite the admiring eyes of teenage boys, and he bet that most of his team had gone hunting, with brothers or dads. Chris was an excellent shot, though nobody but him would know that.

He wanted to make sure everything was set for tomorrow night, so he set down the beer bottle and crossed to the digital clock, turned it upside down, and checked the connection, which was fine. Though the clock looked normal, it was a hidden camera with audio. He double-checked the camera in the artificial plant in the corner and in the electrical outlet on the wall.

Chris scanned the ceiling fixture, which was a hidden camera, like the smoke detector. In the kitchen, there was a hidden camera on top of the refrigerator and behind the coffeepot. He couldn’t be everywhere tomorrow night, but the cameras could pick up all sorts of stray information. He needed to know as much about these boys as soon as possible, for step one and beyond.

Chris picked up his backpack and went to his office, which was small with two windows, bare white walls, and a massive computer workstation with two large monitors aglow, stacked with files. He had a lot of information to absorb, so it was going to be a long night.

A teacher’s work was never done.

Chapter Eleven

Heather Larkin wished she had time to make a decent dinner, but tonight it was scrambled eggs. She loved Ina Garten and wanted to be a home cook, but there was a difference between imagination and reality, beginning with her kitchen—too small to be a galley kitchen, she called it an “alley” kitchen—with refaced brown-wood cabinetry, Formica-knockoff countertops, and ancient appliances from a scratch-and-dent store. Their apartment was two bedrooms in a low-rise complex between a do-it-yourself car wash and a Friendly’s. Their view was the lighted Friendly’s sign, and at night, if she drew the curtains, the apartment took on a radioactive red glow.

Heather turned off the eggs, scooped them onto the plate, and brought them to Jordan, who was studying at the table. “Sorry, honey. I wanted to make chicken, but the witch kept me late again.”

“No problem, Mom,” Jordan said without looking up, and Heather knew he meant no disrespect. He was supposed to have read The Great Gatsby, but he hadn’t gotten it done. His schedule was as busy as hers, with school, homework, baseball practice, and games. He grabbed the upside-down bottle of ketchup from the table, popped the top, and squeezed it onto his eggs.

“How about I make chicken tomorrow night?”

“Sure, fine.” Jordan picked up a fork and plowed into the eggs, then turned the page of his book, tucking it underneath the rim to keep it open.

“Let me get your toast.” Heather went back to the kitchen, plucked the pieces from the toaster, put them on a plate, and brought them back to the table with her new Kerrygold butter. She had overheard the members at the club talking about Kerrygold like it was magical, but Whole Foods was the only store that carried it. Heather didn’t shop there because it was expensive, but she’d made an exception to get the Kerrygold. She didn’t realize until the checkout line that she was the only customer in a uniform—with a name tag, for God’s sake. Self-conscious, she’d zippered her coat up.