Rafael grinned and pulled a cell phone from his pocket. Flipping it open, he dialed the number that would normally activate the ringer of the Masked Matador—the cartoon-character phone that Fede had carried into the stadium and then left where it could do us some good. Except that we’d cross-wired the phone so that the call would activate its voice-demonstration chip, rather than its buzzer and vibration-alert system. Even now, the Masked Matador would be blaring out his warning in a low, menacing voice.