“What’s the deal here?” Sergeant Michaels took off his tie and tossed it in the pile with the rest of his suit. “I had Cheryl out at a nice dinner. I thought I might even get laid tonight.”

“Well, Sarg, as I’m sure you were briefed, there’s a bomb in the basement,” Officer Beauford said.

Michaels put on his Kevlar vest. “Do you have any idea how long it’s been since I got laid, Beauford?”

“Uh, no, sir. I don’t believe I do.”

“Three months and two days. That’s how long. Now tell me that isn’t a long Goddamned time.”

“I have to say, that is a stretch. I apologize for interrupting your evening, sir. We just didn’t know what else to do. The bomb’s down in the basement near the furnace.”

Michaels followed Beauford to the basement. A handful of other officers stared incredulously at a small box chained to the furnace.

“Who in the hell puts a bomb in a delicatessen?” Michaels said.

Officer Craig appeared at the sergeant’s side waving a piece of paper. “They left a note, sir.”

“A note? Really?”

“Yessir.”

Michaels unfolded the tattered piece of paper. His immediate reaction was to admire the penmanship. “What is this guy? A calligrapher?”

“We don’t know yet,” Craig said.

“Well, I don’t see how that could do us any good right now anyway. Do you?”

Craig and Beauford pondered the concept for a moment before shaking their heads. Michaels returned his attention to the note.

“Shit, I guess you screw a guy’s order up enough, he sees that as an excuse to blow your building to hell. I woulda just not tipped. I guess I’m old fashioned.”

“Sir,” Beauford said. “We’ve really only got a limited amount of time. I think maybe we ought to try to take care of this.”

Michaels made his way through the men to the bomb. “Any idea how long we’ve got?”

“Yes, sir, we have …” Beauford craned his neck to look at the bomb. “Ten minutes and thirty-six seconds. Thirty-five. Thirty-four. Thirt-”

“Beauford, I can count.”

The officer’s face exploded in crimson. He stepped aside, allowing the sergeant to get to the device. Michaels grunted as he knelt beside the furnace. He watched the digital clock tick down.

“Why do they even bother putting a clock on them? Ever wonder that?”

The nervous crowd all nodded their heads, obviously eager to get out of there.
Michaels pulled a small screw driver from his belt and took off the front panel of the device. He stared blankly at the wires for a moment before letting out a sigh. “Isn’t there a robot that does this shit nowadays?”

“It’s broke, sir,” Beauford said.

“Broke?”

“Yessir.”

The sergeant wiped his forehead. “How the hell did we break something we never use?”

“There was that Christmas party a few years back.”

A knowing grin stretched across Michaels’ face. “Oh, yeah.” He turned back to the task at hand. In training thirty years ago, he had learned how to examine a bunch of wires and decide which to cut. In training, all the wires were different colors. Encased in the metal box on the ground was a multitude of grey wires. “Shit.”

He shook his arthritic hands to loosen them. Following each wire to where it began and ended, he picked his best candidate. Holding the wire snips to it he turned to the onlookers with their mouths agape. “Pretty intense stuff, huh?”

Nobody reacted.

Everyone sucked air through their teeth as he cut the wire. Michaels closed his eyes tight, bracing for death. When it didn’t come, he let out a sigh and stood up. He looked at the clock. 5:27.

“Shit. That was sorta anticlimactic, wasn’t it? I guess I coulda had a cup of coffee and come back. Cut it a little closer for effect.”

“I think you did just fine, sir,” Craig said.

“Beauford.”

“Yessir.”

“Call Luigi’s. Tell them to tell my wife to sit tight. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

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