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hire.’ “But now I see that officers Neal and Bob downstairs,” he waited a beat to see if they caught the slight. Nothing, so he moved on, “are in on it too. It cost me fifteen thousand dollars to kill my wife—”
    “Kill your fictitious wife,” Cue Ball corrected.
    “Fine, fifteen thousand dollars to kill my fictitious wife. That’s not bad money if you’re splitting it two ways. But cutting that four ways? That’s not even four grand apiece. And that’s assuming you’re not cutting anyone else in. That’s not a lot of—”
    “Hey—Hey! Don’t trouble yourself with the math, buddy!” Stretch had lost his temper. Apparently questioning their moral code wasn’t a hot button issue but looking at the risk versus reward merits of their after hours work? That was something over which to get bent out of shape. “Fifteen grand split five ways works out just fine. The only downside here is that we only got your down payment. I got kids to put through school! And here you are wasting my time. I’m gonna put an extra bullet in you just for that.”
    And there it was. Their crew consisted of five . Cyrus knew he could draw this out a little longer and try for the name of their fifth but Stretch was already starting to get suspicious. Or maybe he was just getting defensive—it was hard to be sure. Cyrus was pretty sure Cue Ball hadn’t picked up on anything. The man didn’t appear to be a deep thinker.
    Better to put an end to this before things got out of control, Cyrus thought. After all, guns were drawn and presently pointed at his abdomen. That changed things a bit and would require contingency plan number three. It   meant the Go Code was ‘sick.’
    “Ok!” Cyrus held up both hands in capitulation. “Ok. Look I’m sorry. I know you’re pissed. Just let me use the bathroom. I think I’m going to be sick .”
    Stretch cocked his head and looked at Cyrus as if he was insane. “Bathroom? Sick? Do you think I care? I’m about to shoot you, you dumb son-of-a-bitch! Do you think I care if you’re gonna—”
    A loud knock at the door silenced Stretch, mid rant. Both officers’ shot looks over their shoulders in the direction of the front door. In doing so, as is human nature, both of their guns veered slightly to the right. Expecting the knock, and at the sight of the guns being drawn off target, Cyrus leveraged the momentary gap in the detective’s attention. He grabbed the coffee carafe and smashed it against the gun of the nearest cop. In his clumsy attempt to maintain control of the weapon, Stretch shifted his weight and was knocked into Cue Ball. The clumsy move threw them both off balance.
    Cyrus stepped on the coffee table and took a flying dive over the couch the detectives had been sitting on just as the double front doors exploded in a shower of splinters. A dozen men dressed head to toe in black battle armor rushed in leveling short assault rifles.
    The FBI Hostage Rescue Team (HRT) had both detectives face down on the floor before they knew what hit them. Their hands were cuffed and they were searched for additional weapons. Moments later, the two Chicago detectives were escorted from the apartment and hustled down the hall.
    Through it all, Cyrus stood silently behind the sofa. He watched the FBI HRT team sweep through the apartment before departing with practiced efficiency.
    Once the tactical team had pulled out, only a single FBI agent remained. It was Special Agent Mindy Shaw, a dour white woman about five foot eight wearing a dark FBI branded windbreaker. She was holding a walkie-talkie in one hand and her service weapon in the other. Looking slowly around the apartment, she finally holstered the sidearm. “Quite a setup you’ve got here,” she said warmly. The complement was accompanied by a smile that was somehow less warm.
    “It had to look real,” Cyrus replied. He was dusting off his clothes. Wreckage from the heavy oak doors had been strewn across half the sitting room.