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“We make our approach,” said Chase, spreading his hands. “Voilà. Then we work together to identify your vulnerabilities to any and all physical or cyber threats, or any convergence of the two. For example, I sent out a particularly mean tweet—a cyber threat. Actually jumping onto the field to beat up the umpire would be a manifestation of that cyber threat in the physical world—aka convergence.
“Continuing with that very simple example, I tweeted and Marty dutifully arrived. But it took two at-bats. Four minutes and thirty-seven seconds, to be precise. That’s almost five full minutes before your social media team picked up on the tweet and contacted your operations center, who then dispatched Marty, who did a hell of a job by the way. But Marty’s heroics aside, if I was a lunatic—”
“Youarea lunatic,” said Daniels.
“If I really was a lunatic or a truly bad actor,” continued Chase undeterred, “that would have beenall the time in the world. You need a faster, more nimble response. That starts with better social media monitoring software. I can recommend some systems.”
“I’ll jot that down.” Daniels remained seated with his hands folded in front of him. “So, let me get this straight, this was what, an audition?” He chuckled, and Marty, for the first time, cracked a smile. “Did you really think I was going to fucking hire you after this little stunt?”
Chase let them have a laugh at his expense, then said, “I’m already hired.”
“Not by me,” said Daniels, and the two men laughed even harder.
“By Miles Gillen.”
The laughter stopped.
“Miles Gillen? The owner of the Washington Nationals and Avalon Park, Miles Gillen?” asked Daniels.
“And CEO of Avalon Communications,” added Chase. He leaned forward and stared intently at Daniels. “Miles Gillen is deadly serious about the safety of Avalon’s venues, as well as the resilience of Avalon’s products and services, which now touch nearly every American household. And believe it or not, I am even more serious. My goal is to make Avalon Park the most secure ballpark in the country. I don’t mean gates, guards, and guns.
“Do you know thatsecurecomes from two small Latin words—se,meaning ‘without,’ andcura,meaning ‘care’? I want every patron who passes through your gates to be without care, knowing that they are safe. I want you and your staff to go to sleep at night without care, knowing you have the best procedures, training, and equipment possible. And I want Miles Gillen to be without care, knowing he got his money’s worth and the Avalon Communications brand remains above reproach.”
Daniels stared at him for a few moments, looking like he had indigestion. “All right, Mr. Weldon, I’ll play along. Let’s say you’re actually working for Mr. Gillen—and I’ll be vetting you while you cool your heels in here with Marty—what’s next? Inspections?”
Chase shook his head. “FIRST does notinspect—weassessandeducate. This is not punitive. We’re not looking to embarrass you.”
Daniels sighed. “Doesn’t sound like I have much of a choice. What Miles Gillen wants—”
The chief security officer was cut short by a dull roar from overhead. The three men each cocked their heads toward the ceiling. Chase heard fast footsteps echoing through the corridor outside, heading in their direction.
The door burst open, revealing the lanky guard from earlier. “Sir, come quick! It’s chaos topside!”
“What the hell’s going on?” asked Daniels.
“Shooter!”
CHAPTER 3
DANIELS KNOCKED OVER his chair and shoved past Marty, ordering his security team into a full run. The men did a double take—Marty, a triple—when Chase appeared beside them, breathing easily.
Chase had been an 18E in the Green Berets—a communications sergeant—in a highly secretive special-operations intelligence unit. Though no longer an active participant in the Global War on Terror, once a Green Beret, always a Green Beret. He kept in top physical shape, partially out of habit, partially out of vanity. Plus Shay, his wife, would kick his ass if he developed a spare tire.
“What the hell are you doing?” growled Daniels, already winded.
“I was hired by Gillen to conduct a comprehensive risk assessment,” said Chase. “Seems to me like you’re at risk.”
The knot of men bounded up sets of stairs until they arrived on the 200 level. Up here, the cries of the crowd were sharper, louder, filled with fear. The guard who had alerted them sprinted ahead on long legs to a sealed door, waved a badge in front of a reader, and held the door open.
“Just stay out of the damn way,” said Daniels as they all filed inside.
The first thing Chase noticed when he entered the operations center was the space. He’d been in all manner of OPCENs, from high-tech communications suites in the back of roving vans to command centers that were obviously afterthoughts—basements and conference rooms and large closets never intended for their makeshift use—but the Avalon OPCEN was state-of-the-art, as befit a tech company. Miles Gillen had built out a luxury suite for the command post. Safety and security were typically red items in a company’s ledger, and it wasn’t every CEO who would cede such prime, profitable real estate to such an operation. But Gillen had.
Chase fought his way through the rows of workstations to east-facing windows overlooking the stadium.
He took in the ominous view. Chaos.
The massive HD LED video displays were wiped clean of advertisements and crowd-friendly messages to cheer for the home team and stretch during the seventh inning. They’d been reset to a single, dire warning:
