Halon-Seven Read Online Free PDF Page B

firm. These guys were supposed to be thugs, here to do the job, collect a fat wad of cash and move on. He had clearly underestimated the sophistication of their operation.
    “Sure,” Stretch continued, still sitting on the edge of the sofa. His eyes burrowed into Tyler as he spoke. “The golf club membership is real. But you only joined two months back. Same for this fancy ass apartment! There’s no lease—you have a month-to-month rental agreement. The last owner was some douche bag defense attorney that went missing.” He laughed to himself, apparently amused with the thought.
    “Can’t say we’re too sorry about that,” Detective Cue Ball said with a matching chuckle. He was sitting back on the couch letting his partner handle the confrontation. The stout man seemed content to watch Tyler squirm.
    “Even your position with Rollins, Cussler, and Robinson is a total sham. Sure, we can call the switchboard. They’ll even put us through to your voicemail. But when I show up and ask for you in person, it’s the damnedest thing—no one’s even heard of Tyler Alcot!”
    As Stretch hammered away a Tyler’s cover, Tyler was becoming more and more uncomfortable. His entire backstory had unraveled. They knew he wasn’t who he claimed. These were hardcore bad cops. There was no way they were letting him walk away from this. But there was some hope. They hadn’t killed him yet. It could be because Esmeralda was somewhere in the house and they didn’t want a witness but he was pretty sure there was more to it than that.
    Stretch continued and Tyler got his answer. “So when we know that Tyler Alcot ain’t who he claims to be, the question becomes who is he and why’d he really hire us?” He let the comment hang in the air for intimidation sake. It was effective.
    “So we did more digging. You know what? We found some disturbing stuff. Sure, you did a pretty fair job of hiding your identity—even hiding your real name. So we put a tail on you. Sure, you slept here in the penthouse. I guess I’d stay here too, if I had the chance.” He looked around the apartment, taking it in as if seeing it for the first time. “You came and went–the gym, the market, the bar down the street. You actually have a talent. You were very convincing. You went on as if you really were Tyler Alcot and never broke character. Not in the entire week we were watching you.
    “But there’s one thing you can’t hide. One thing you can’t change—no matter how hard you try. While we were tailing you, we lifted your fingerprints. Running prints is pretty easy for a cop, you know.”
    At this revelation Tyler virtually deflated, physically and mentally. He slouched back into the sofa, exhaling in defeat. They had him. They hadn’t just broken his cover ID, they had his real name. Along with it, they knew everything there was to know. If there was a worst-case scenario, this was it.
    “Mister Cooper, isn’t it?” Stretch continued. “Cyrus Cooper?” His eyes searched Tyler’s, or Cyrus’s, as was the case.
    Cue Ball leaned forward, apparently ready to participate. The look on his face made it obvious he was enjoying the exchange. They had Tyler—Cyrus, dead to rights. He was screwed. Cue Ball pulled a small leather bound notebook from the inner pocket of his suit coat, flipped through a series of pages, and consulted his notes.
    “Cyrus Cooper,” he said in that way seasoned police detectives do as they run through the facts of a case. “Twenty-eight years old, white male, 6 foot no inches tall, one hundred eighty pounds. Half a dozen unpaid parking tickets, two moving violations on his record, no known felonies, no known aliases. No wife, no children.”
    Cue Ball lowered his notebook and looked Cyrus right in the eye before he continued without the benefit of his notes. “Freelance reporter for a number of news publications including the Chicago Tribune and the New York Times.”
    “And therein lies our real problem.”