With my .45 firmly in hand, and all my senses focused intently on my surroundings, I jog along the cement concourse leading under the stands. I see no one in the broad beams of the security lights arranged along the curving concourse to either side of me. It's Friday night, so work's stopped for the weekend; whatever guards are ranging around, they're nowhere nearby. That saves me some inconvenience.
I cast quick glimpses all around as I follow the concourse, aiming for the field. Three months from now, this place will be finished and thrumming with life--people moving in all directions, vendors hawking beers, lights flashing, food cooking. The blast of a rock band performing a concert, the crack of a baseball bat on the field. I can practically hear them now.
And then I do hear a
