“What would you do for fifteen million dollars?” Detective Sanders asked his partner, the terrorists’ demands still stalking his thoughts.

“Not a lot of things I wouldn’t do for fifteen million clams,” Detective Prieb said. “Why are you dirty, Sanders? You wanna offer me a lucrative deal?”

Detective Sanders continued running numbers in his head, oblivious to his idiot partner. “Forty-two-thousand-eight-hundred-fifty-seven dollars and fourteen cents.”

“What happened to fifteen million?”

“That’s how much they’re asking per person, assuming there are 350 people inside that church. How much value do you place on the sanctity of a single life?”

“I’ll, uh, leave you alone to contemplate that,” Detective Prieb said, uncomfortably, before exiting the mobile tactical command unit.

Lost in thought, Detective Sanders scratched his read raw, almost to the point of bleeding. A realization crossed his mind, but it couldn’t be true. “Maybe they don’t want the money,” he whispered. “But then what do they want?”