Halon-Seven

by Xander Weaver

  Taking a moment, Cyrus looked at the pair of police officers. Starting to say something, he stopped before the words came. He began to pace slowly, back and forth before the massive picture window as he gathered his thoughts. The skyline was the last thing on his mind. The officers remained seated. Cyrus wasn’t a threat. They held all the cards and Cyrus knew it.

  “You got something to say?” Stretch questioned, puzzled at what was going through Cyrus’s mind. “Go ahead, spit it out.”

  Cyrus stopped pacing and looked back at both men. He gave an embarrassed half smile. “I know it’s crazy, but I’m standing here knowing I’m gonna die and all I keep thinking is, ‘I wish I’d made better coffee.’”

  Cue Ball cocked his head at the absurdity of the statement while Stretch just busted out laughing. The two men just stared at Cyrus. Cyrus just stood there, as if waiting for something to happen.

  The awkward moment stretched on, Cyrus waiting for something and the two detectives waiting for Cyrus. Finally Cyrus glanced at his watch. He looked back at the detectives. A look of concern had returned to Cyrus. Something had gone wrong. He looked back at his watch. Absentmindedly, he scratched at the center of his chest.

  Stretch laughed again, and rose to his feet. “So, right now you’re wondering what happened to your backup…”

  Cyrus’s head snapped around and his eyes met those of Stretch.

  Oh, shit.

  “That’s right. You used the GO word! You said ‘better coffee’ and when you did, the door was supposed to bust open and a SWAT team was supposed to come crashing in and arrest us.”

  Stretch scrunched up his face, leaned across the coffee table, and glared at Cyrus. “But, like I said, we are the cops! There’s no SWAT team. Hell, the two guys monitoring the wire taped to your chest? They’re sitting in an apartment one floor down laughing their asses off right now!”

  The color drained from Cyrus’s face. He looked like he was going to be sick. His shoulders rolled forward as his eyes droped to the floor.

  Shit…

  Shit! Shit! Shit!

  Finally he looked back at Stretch. He tried to look the man in the eye, but couldn’t. Cyrus’s eyes dropped back to the floor. He was beaten. He’d gotten the two detectives to admit to their murder for hire scheme, but it was all for nothing. Literally nothing! The guys on the other end of his wire probably weren’t even recording their conversation. Stretch was right. They were downstairs laughing right now.

  Cue Ball pulled his girth from the sofa, drawing a snub nose revolver from inside his cheap suit coat. With some disappointment, Cyrus realized his work on the story was drawing to a close. It had been fun playing the part of Tyler Alcot. Gallivanting around town, hitting the clubs, putting on a show, all the while knowing he was being tailed. But that was over now.

  “Ok,” Cyrus muttered. He knew the detectives had been through this before. They had killed a lot of people and made a lot of money in the process. They thought they’d done a good job hiding the money but they were mistaken. Unfortunately, while these two had been sloppy with their finances, clearly others were involved. Officers who’d been more circumspect with their ill-gotten goods. Obviously the two cops running surveillance downstairs were in on it. He’d actually suspected as much but there had been no anomalies in their financial histories. He knew because he’d run a thorough check. The burning questions in his reporter’s mind were simple. How many cops were a part of this, and who were they?

  “Ok,” Cyrus repeated, still running through his next move. “What happens next? You stick me in a steel drum and dump me in a landfill somewhere?”

  The idea made Cue Ball chuckle. “Hardly. This isn’t a mob outfit. We’ve got more class than that. You’ll be glad to know you’re going to a great little place not too far from the Wisconsin border. Out in the middle of nowhere, really. A place where no one will ever look for you. You’ll be fertilizing a cornfield before you know what hit you.”

  Cyrus resumed his slow pacing before the picturesque skyline. It had already become habit in this brief but intense time of stress. It was a habit that wouldn’t trouble him for long. “You make it sound almost pleasant,” he muttered mostly to himself. “Judging by the research I did on you two, I’m sure I won’t be lonely. How many guys like me have you got planted out there?”

  Cue Ball shook his head and waggled his gun at Cyrus, discouraging any thoughts of making a break for it. “Son, you’re a reporter to the bitter end, aren’t you?”

  “It’s my nature—can’t help it.”

  “No, you’re not going to be hurting for company. Must be fifty or sixty bodies buried out there by now,” Stretch said, pride in his grin.

  Cyrus first though Stretch might be boasting, but a glance at Cue Ball led him to believe otherwise. These guys had been busy.

  Shit…

  Shit! Shit! Shit!

  He had most of what he needed. But he still didn’t have a full idea of how deep the corruption went. How many cops were involved? In order to fully wrap this up, he needed to know who was in on it.

  “Ok,” Cyrus said dropping his hands back to his side and facing the detectives. They were both pointing guns now. “There’s still one thing I don’t understand. You two are bent, I knew that. But your cohorts downstairs, I didn’t see that coming. They’re obviously much better at hiding the money. You might want to get some tips on that, if you want my opinion…

  “Anyway, I thought there were only two of you in on this ‘murder for hire’ thing.” He held up his fingers to make air quotes as he said ‘murder for 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 shif
ted 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. “Your boys don’t half ass it when it comes to breaching charges.”

  She nodded. The compliment finally brought warmth to her demeanor. “You said ‘sick,’ meaning there was a weapon, or weapons, trained on you. We came in loaded for bear, per your protocol.”

  “You won’t hear me complaining,” Cyrus said with grin. “I take it you picked up the other two at the listening post downstairs?”

  “As soon as you got them to indicate they were down one floor, the building manager was able to tell us exactly where we would find em’. It was a slam dunk.”

  Cyrus saw that she was studying him. She looked as if she had something on her mind. “Ok, lets have it. Something’s bothering you. Out with it.”

  Agent Shaw continued her long look into his eyes for a few additional moments and slowly walked nearer. “I’ve done my share of surveillance on informants wearing a wire. Every one of them had one thing in common. They all want to get in and out as quickly as possible. Every one of them was in a hurry to get it over with.”

  Cyrus waited for her to continue. It seemed that police detectives weren’t the only fans of the uncomfortable silence bit. Once again, he wasn’t falling for it. The silence was hers to fill.

  “But not you,” she finally continued. “You’re the first civilian I’ve had who didn’t seem in a rush to pull the ripcord. And you’re absolutely the first civilian to suggest revisions to HRT commander’s plan.”

  She let another silence fill the air again before continuing. “Why do you suppose that is?”

  Cyrus chuckled, the question, a veiled compliment if he was correct, actually warmed his spirit. “No mystery there, Agent Shaw. I’m a reporter. I want the story. In order to get it, I have to get all the facts. Getting the facts takes time and a lot of patience. In this case it took more than a little bit of acting.”

  She laughed. A real laugh this time, he saw amusement reach her eyes. “No doubt there. You should get an Academy Award for this performance. You hoodwinked two experienced Chicago cops. Two cops who, apparently, are very good at lying themselves.”

  She thought for a moment before continuing in a much more serious tone. “What you did today was brave. Brave, but very dangerous. Those guys could’ve killed you. There was no guarantee we’d make it through the door in time. Is any story really worth your life?”

  Cyrus took a moment to consider the question. “It’s a fair point, but you forget I had leverage. Like you said, these guys weren’t amateurs.” His expression made it clear he wasn’t taking any of this too seriously. “I had something they needed. They couldn’t kill me until they had my notes or until they found out who knew I was working on the story. They wanted me gone but their first priority was containment. They needed me alive for that.”

  As Cyrus watched Shaw watching him, he knew she wasn’t entirely buying it. “To be fair,” he continued, “I was concerned about the short bald bastard. He wasn’t as sharp as his friend and I was starting to think he might start shooting. It’s why I pulled the plug when I did.” He left out the fact that if everything went completely wrong or if the FBI had let him down he still had a contingency plan. It was her job to cover his back—but if she wasn’t up to the task, he had that covered too.

  He wasn’t really concerned about Cue Ball but it was advantageous for her to think otherwise. She was sharp. She’d recognized he was cooler under pressure than he should have been. He didn’t need her getting curious and digging into his past. She might find out that, in another life, the reporter gig wasn’t his true calling.

  “We know a lot,” Shaw said, apparently moving on despite the suspicious look she was giving. “We know this is a five man crew. And, thanks to you, we have four of them in custody. Your work is done. Go write your story. It’s my turn. I’ll put them in separate rooms and make it clear the death penalty is on the table. Plus, they’re cops. They know the score. The threat of being put in general population should get them talking.”

  She was referring to the prisons general population ward. Police officers are not normally remanded to Gen Pop. They tend not to live very long in circulation with the rank and file. A cop in general population might as well have a big red bull’s-eye painted on his prison issue uniform.

  “And if those threats don’t work,” she continued. “I make an offer to all four of them. The first one to give up the fifth man gets a reduced sentence.” She stopped for a moment considering the thought. “I think I’ll leave that off the table—maybe hold on to it as a last resort. I want to see everyone of these assholes prosecuted to the full extent of the law.”

  She was speaking through gnashed teeth now. “There’s nothing worse than a bad cop.”

  Cyrus was pretty sure she was talking to herself with that last part. She looked pissed. It didn’t matter. He was starting to like the lady. As much as he could like an FBI agent. Still, she had done good work here today. She kept her word and he had gotten his story. And, to her credit, she hadn’t tried some bullshit excuse to talk him out of publishing. Her higher-ups would have expected her to. Hell, they’d likely ordered her to work him on the matter. But she hadn’t toed the line. She really did hate bad cops and she knew his story would cause other cops to think twice before crossing the line.

  “Well,” Agent Shaw said as she pulled the walkie-talkie from her belt. “I’ve got some crooked cops to put in the box and you’ve got a story to write. You be safe out there.”

  Cyrus stepped forward and shook her hand. “You too, Agent Shaw. Give ‘em hell.”

  Cyrus watched Shaw leave. He stood alone in the silent apartment for some time. Esmeralda would be gone by now. Her part had been played. It was her job to serve coffee before immediately leaving the penthouse via the service exit. It had been his job to stand there and look uncomfortable while she served coffee to his guests. In his experience, it was the nuances that made the act look real. The way the detectives saw it, they were just two more guests to walk through the front door so the maid was serving them coffee just as she had countless others before them. But it was a sham. They had known it was a sham and he at least suspected that they knew it was a sham. But that didn’t let him off the hook when it came to making things look good. He had to sell it, if he wanted to get the story and walk away without a bullet in his ass.

  Speaking of which…

  Cyrus walked to the massive picture window overlooking the Chicago skyline. His eyes were fixed on a rooftop several city blocks distant. The details of the roofline were indistinct at this distance but it didn’t matter. He already knew what was there.

  He knelt down and pulled a small wad of C4 plastic explosive away from
the base of the pane of glass. Then, rather casually, he pulled the silver “pencil” detonator from the wad of clay. Slipping the lump of C4 into one pocket of his Dockers and the detonator into another pocket, he looked out the window once more.

  “I owe you one, Hondo.” He was speaking very casually to the empty room while facing the window. “It’s always good to know that someone I trust has my back. Next round of drinks is on me.”

  —————

  A man in a floppy jungle hat stood sighting down the barrel of a sniper rifle several blocks away. The rifle was mounted on a bipod that rested atop a large aluminum air-conditioning vent. Beside the rifle was a small black box atop a miniature tripod. The black box beamed a laser into the distance. A set of headphones attached to the box were worn by the sniper.

  “I owe you one, Hondo,” said the voice from the headphones. “It’s always good to know that someone I trust has my back. Next round of drinks is on me.”

  The man chuckled and rose up from behind the rifle. He pulled off the headphones and snatched the cell phone from his hip pocket. He tapped out a quick message and hit send:

  > No problem, mate. Least I can do for an old friend!

  The man immediately pocketed the phone. Without a moment’s hesitation, he set about breaking down the rifle and laser listening device. There was no one to shoot today. His job was done. It would be eighteen-hour flight back to Australia but it really was the least he could do for the man who has saved the life of his wife. One thing was certain. Cyrus hadn’t lost his edge. That son-of-a-bitch would do anything for a story!

  Chapter 3

  Oak Park, Chicago Illinois

  Sunday, 3:12 pm

  Finishing the final revision of his new article, Cyrus sat back in his chair. He was alone in the office of his two-bedroom apartment. Over the last half hour he had put the finishing touches on the second in a three part series of stories that the Chicago Tribune was referring to as the Chicago PD’s Murder-for-Hire Program. It was a tasteless title but that much was beyond his control. The title grabbed attention and sold papers, something that was becoming increasingly difficult as readers continued to migrate toward online news sources.