The 13th Hour

CHAPTER 4

1 P.M.

NICK RAN ACROSS THE side yard straight to Marcus’s house. He barged through the unlocked front door without bothering to knock, raced through the foyer, and tore open the pocket doors to the library where he knew Marcus was working.

“Well, good afternoon to you,” Marcus said, unfazed by Nick’s abrupt entrance. He sat behind his large desk, his three computers humming.

Nick pulled the envelope from his pocket and laid it before Marcus.

“What’s this?” Marcus stared down at the water streaked letter, curious, finally recognizing his own handwriting.

“Before you open it, I need to ask for your help.”

“Why do you always say that? Just sit down and ask.”

Nick reluctantly sat in the wingback chair across from Marcus.

“I’ve got three minutes to convince you of the impossible. What’s in that letter is absolutely true; you wrote it at my insistence.”

“What are you-”

Nick held up his hand. “Before you say anything, know that I would never deceive or manipulate you. Know that I’m totally sane.”

Marcus stared at him in all seriousness before finally picking up the letter and tearing it open. “You’re an idiot,” he said, half in jest.

“Dear Me,” Marcus read. The words were water blotched but legible, and most important, recognizable as his own. “I know this sounds crazy. Oh, that is rich. When did I write this?” he looked up at Nick, his eyes slowly squinting with confusion.

“Just read it,” Nick said quickly.

Marcus’s reading fell off into silence.

Dear Me,

I know this sounds crazy but I’m writing to myself. You

(meaning me) know this is my handwriting as no one could

possibly duplicate our chicken scratch except Uncle Emmett, but

seeing he’s dead…

As hard as this is to believe, Nick is standing before you

asking for your help, asking you to help save Julia.

MARCUS BRIEFLY LOOKED up at Nick, before casting his eyes back at the letter.

Somehow Nick knows the future without question. Now

before you start thinking he’s crazy or you’re crazy for writing

this, I will prove to you the validity of my-our words.

You don’t know this yet, but Jason Cereta is dead. You won’t

know this until after three o’clock when his wife calls the office

in tears. Jason hopped on the flight out of Westchester this

morning and was killed in the crash. He was going to Boston to

speak with Reiner Hertz about opening discussions for the

purchase of his Halix Ski Company. Remember that you never

mentioned your desire to purchase Reiner’s company to anyone

but Jason, never told anyone including Nick about how you

loved their skis and particularly the Swiss spokesmodels they

hired each year. I loved their black and orange design since I

was little when Dad bought me a pair for Christmas against

Mom’s wishes and taught me at Hunter Mountain on that

blizzard of a day, it was December 27, and Mom was especially

pissed because we didn’t get home until after midnight. Anyway,

Jason was a good kid, thought he was doing something that

would make you-us-me happy while advancing his career. May

he rest in peace.

Nick is standing before you now asking for your help to save

Julia. Suffice it to say, I have seen the future and what Nick had

to do to convince me of the truth was the most shocking,

horrible thing I have ever seen. They are coming to kill Julia

and if you don’t help him, she will die.

You already feel guilty about losing Dad without ever

reconciling with him. Know this, the future is coming and if

you don’t help Nick, Julia will be dead before the sun sets and

the fault and guilt will lie squarely on your shoulders if you

don’t do what he asks.

With sincerest imploring,

Me-which is you, Marcus Bennett

MARCUS STARED AT his signature, at the raised corporate seal that he hadn’t removed from his desk in weeks. He reached back into the envelope and pulled out the online Wall Street Journal headline page and quickly scanned it.

A whole minute went by before he looked up at Nick.

Without a word he picked up his phone and dialed.

“Helen? It’s me. I need to speak to Jason right away.”

Marcus listened.

“What do you mean he’s not in,” Marcus yelled into the phone. “Don’t tell me that. Give me his assistant.”

There was a five-second pause.

“Christine, it’s Marcus, where’s Jason?”

RACING DOWN SUNRISE Drive in Marcus’s Bentley Continental GTC convertible, Nick was glad not to be driving for once today. Glad to have an ally he could trust implicitly. Nick had called and found Julia at the gas station just north of town in the village of Bedford. With all of the stations and pumps in town closed, she had driven the five miles to fill her nearly empty tank before heading to pick up a doctor who was needed to help with the recovery effort.

With a quiver in her voice, Julia had told him of getting off Flight 502 before it left. He told her not to move, to get into her car and wait for him there.

“I can’t believe Jason is dead.” Marcus shook his head. “I had no idea he was going up to Boston.”

“I’m sorry,” Nick said.

They fell silent.

“I’m pretty convincing.” Marcus finally broke the moment, alluding to his letter as he cut through the ghost town of Byram Hills.

“Thank God.” Nick nodded, looking at Washington House as they drove past.

“This whole thing is too incredible. But you’ve got tell me what’s going on.”

It took Nick five minutes to bring Marcus up to speed, about his near scrapes with death, about Dance and Dreyfus and Julia and the mahogany box.

Nick pulled out the gold pocket watch and opened it, holding it out for Marcus to see.

“Put it away,” Marcus said.

“You don’t want to see it?”

“Sometimes in life there are some things we shouldn’t see, some things we shouldn’t know.”

As they headed up Route 22 past Sullivan Field, they both fell into silence. Flames licked the sky as heavy black smoke filled the air, blotting out the sun. It was 1:15, fire departments from Banksville, Bedford, Mount Kisco, Pleasantville, and five other jurisdictions supplemented the Byram Hills volunteers who had been fighting the raging conflagration for over an hour now, in a battle that would have no winners.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, because what you are doing is the right thing to do and I would do the same, but have you thought about how your actions are changing the future? Have you thought about the impact every step or interaction will have?”

A red Toyota four-runner flew past Marcus, cutting him off as it raced off to who knows where.

“Our actions have far-reaching implications that we never see.” Marcus pointed to the Toyota as it disappeared down the road. “The simple act of a reckless driver can initiate a domino sequence of events affecting hundreds of lives, each of which in turn affects every life it touches.

“A man races down a highway, causing an accident, which delays countless people from making it home on time. And among those delayed is a doctor whose small child ingests a rubber ball, clogging his airways, his panicked babysitter has no idea what to do, and the three-year-old dies. Now, if the child’s father was to make it home when he was scheduled to, he would have Heimliched the kid, clearing the ball, and they all would have sat down to a normal dinner. And then that child would grow up to cure cancer, as he was so inspired by his father.”

“Makes you want to kill the asshole on the highway doesn’t it?” Nick said.

“But who knows what fate holds? What if that child grew up and cured cancer?”

“He cures cancer, you said that,” Nick said.

“But…”

“There’s always another but-”

“But in so doing he created something far worse that killed millions. If we were to know all that, then that maniac driver just saved millions of lives. Who’s to say what the consequences of our actions, whether noble or selfish, will be for the future?”

“For the want of a nail,” Nick said, referring to the old poem.

“For the want of a nail.” Marcus nodded in agreement.

As Marcus continued up the highway, the bright midday sun painted a glare on the world. He slipped on his mirrored sunglasses and reached into the side pocket of his door, pulled out some sun-screen, and rubbed it on his bald head.

“My God, though.” Marcus laughed. “Think of what could happen with the power you hold in your hand.”

“I’d be a hit at the horse races.” Nick laughed in return.

“Horse races? How about the stock market? Business deals? Knowing your opponents’ moves before they make them?” Marcus pulled the envelope addressed to himself from his pocket, pulled it out, and looked at the Wall Street Journal page. “Do you realize just with this almost-four-hour advance information, I could make millions?”

“Okay, glad to see the capitalist in you is still alive.”

“Seriously, think about international relations, peace negotiations. You could change the course of history, prevent disasters and…” Marcus paused. “Plane crashes.”

Nick listened to Marcus. His thoughts having been so singularly focused on Julia, he hadn’t pondered the value of what he held in his hand.

“It could change the outcome of murder trials, the capture of criminals…” Marcus’s tone returned to bitter truth. “The outcome of wars. In the wrong hands-and that’s just about everyone’s-that thing is as dangerous as can be. The power of knowing the future could corrupt even the most noble heart.”

Nick had not given much thought to the dark purposes of what he held and the consequences it could produce.

“Promise me you’ll destroy it once you’re sure Julia is safe.”

“You have my word,” Nick said.

Marcus looked again at the Wall Street Journal page, stuffed it back into the envelope and handed it to Nick. “I can’t tell you how tempting that is. With one phone call…”

Nick tucked the envelope into his pocket. “Glad to see not all men are so easily corruptible.”

“Nick.” Marcus turned to him. “Does Julia know about her death?”

Nick shook his head. “She experienced it, it happens, but that’s hours from now. As far as she knows, right now, she feels lucky to be alive, having gotten off that plane.”

“I’ll never get used to this concept.” Marcus shook his head. “You talk about the future as if it’s the past.”

“It’s how life has been running for me for eight hours now.”

“With no continuity, with no one else remembering what happened, how do you keep it straight? I couldn’t keep my mind focused.”

“I just think of Julia. I don’t care about time, I don’t care about anything right now but finding and stopping her killer. She gives me all the focus I need.”

FLAMES CLIMBED SIXTY feet into the sky, the intense heat like a force field preventing the fire crews from getting within fifty yards. The roar of the fire sounded like an inhuman beast as it singed the air, searing the metal of the fuselage.

White cloudlike foam had been shot across the debris field to aid in dousing the gas fire. Eight water cannons and countless hoses arced streams across the sky, fighting the spreading flames as they nipped at the surrounding woods.

The tanks in the wings were mercifully half full for the short flight to Boston; no need to endure the cost of the additional weight with the price of gasoline these days. But that small piece of good luck was lost on the firemen who fought desperately to contain the three thousand gallons of impossibly flammable liquid.

Men in fire suits searched the grounds in hopes of a miracle but found nothing but shattered bodies, and mere splinters of metal. National Guardsmen arrived by the truckload to supplement the effort. Crowds of the curious, morbid, and shocked looked on before being escorted away or led to assist.

Dance walked about the perimeter of the flaming wreckage, ignoring the wayward water spouts dousing the flames as they sprinkled on his blue blazer. With all of the death before him, all of the senseless loss and suffering, Dance didn’t feel a moment of pity; he couldn’t muster a tear of sympathy for the dead. Somewhere in there was the body of Sam Dreyfus, somewhere in there was the box he wouldn’t part with, a box whose value was inconceivable. If a millionaire like Sam Dreyfus wanted it instead of all of that gold, all of those diamonds, its worth had to be in the hundreds of millions.

He couldn’t help smiling, knowing that Dreyfus had gotten what he deserved. He hoped he had been fully aware of his imminent death as the plane fell out of the sky.

There was no fear in Dance of someone’s getting near the box-if it had survived the crash-before he did. The crash site was a crime scene, and anyone caught stealing from here would be facing multiple felonies in addition to public scorn. If the heavy wooden box had managed to survive, nobody would know what it was, and Dance, as a detective in the crash’s jurisdiction, would procure access to the debris holding area and steal it before anyone was the wiser.

With Sam Dreyfus’s betrayal and death, it was up to Dance and his men to clean up the evidence, to find and erase the security tapes, to track down anyone who might have seen them.

When Sam Dreyfus had contacted him a month ago, Dance had thought it was an internal affairs setup. He thought the police-police had finally caught up to him and were luring him with promises of gold and diamonds.

But with the research tools of a detective at his disposal, he found Dreyfus to be the impotent younger brother of DSG’s chairman and founder, the designer and installer of the security system for Shamus Hennicot’s Washington House. And while DSG’s chairman, Paul Dreyfus, was hailed as a brilliant, hardworking innovator, Sam Dreyfus was his absolute antithesis, a consummate failure, always looking for more, never appreciating his ridiculous income and the lifestyle he led.

Sam Dreyfus was the perfect partner in crime: a man of weak character, an individual he knew he could control. He was also a miracle, sent by the devil himself, one that would help ensure Dance’s survival and keep Ghestov Rukaj at bay for good.

Dance had looked at drug dealers to rob, evidence rooms to rip off, criminals to blackmail, but none of the prospects would net him anywhere near the million-dollar bounty he was to pay for his own life.

As much as Rukaj’s ultimatum enraged him, he knew there was nowhere to turn, nowhere to run. The Albanian had connections everywhere, listening, watching, following whomever he chose. There would be no sympathy for a crooked detective, someone who would be hated by cop and criminal alike. And Rukaj’s reputation was based on history, not rumor. The executions he had personally participated in were legendary for their slow, unending torture, his victims pleading for death hours before it mercifully embraced them. There was no question Rukaj had Dance by the balls, and the only way out was one million dollars.

Dance had met Sam Dreyfus four times at Shun Lee Palace in Manhattan, going through the job, the plans, the security, and how they would fence their ill-gotten gains. Sam explained that there had to be a secondary backup for the security’s video feeds and that if it wasn’t in the police station then it had to be in Hennicot’s locally based attorney’s office.

Sam confirmed that Hennicot’s lawyer was Julia Quinn at Aitkens, Lerner, & Isles and that the feed ran directly to her computer with a redundant backup on her company’s server. Dreyfus was to visit her right after they completed the robbery to review what had happened under the auspices of his company’s concern for the break-in. He was then to deposit a virus in her computer system, thereby wiping that piece of the evidence from existence before it was backed up at 2:00 A.M. to a confidential off-site firm.

But now, as Sam had gone off and died, it fell to Dance to deal with Julia Quinn.

He and his men didn’t know from viruses or internal security protocols. They didn’t know the law firm’s procedures entailed in reviewing security evidence, but Dance had other means of making evidence disappear.

Now, after breaking into Shamus Hennicot’s amazing collection of gold and jewels, with Dreyfus dead, with time quickly elapsing, he couldn’t risk anything tying the crime to him.

What was supposed to be a by-the-book heist had fallen into disaster. But as quickly as best-laid plans fell to pieces, planes fell from the skies, offices and homes went dark, and death pulled everyone into distraction.

The plane crash was a fortuitous event in a morning filled with complications and betrayals. The disaster was already serving as the perfect diversion: power was out across the town, families had run to their homes in shock, leaving Byram Hills deserted. Confusion and chaos were the order of the day, providing the perfect smokescreen for cleaning up the mess made by Sam Dreyfus.

Dance’s men would shortly enter the law firm of Aitken, Lerner, & Isles to remove any video files pointing in their direction, even if it meant burning the place to the ground. And with regard to the matter of Shamus’s personal attorney…

Dance pulled the cell phone from his pocket. It was Sam’s, foolishly left behind in his panic as he escaped to the plane with his precious mahogany box. Dance flipped it open and thumbed through the phone book, finding Julia Quinn’s office and cell conveniently programmed. But Sam wouldn’t be calling her as planned, wouldn’t be meeting her at her office to discuss the robbery.

Dance chose the cell phone number and hit send. It was so convenient that the caller ID would read Sam Dreyfus, the first seed planted in his deception.

“Ms. Quinn?”

“Yes?”

“This is Sam Dreyfus at DSG,” Dance lied.

“Oh, Paul’s brother. We haven’t had the pleasure.”

“You obviously know why I’m calling.”

“Yeah,” she said. “I can’t figure how they got in.”

“Have you seen the video yet?” Dance asked, trying not to sound anxious.

“No, they destroyed the primary server at Hennicot’s place, and with the plane crash and blackout, I never got back to my office.”

“The blackout makes it hard to see those files,” Dance said, glad that they could get to the computers before she had a chance to see anything.

“Not to worry. I have a backup on my PDA. It’s pretty large. But once I have access to a computer…”

“Well, that’s fortunate,” Dance lied again, working hard to mask his anger.

“I have a call in to Shamus. I feel terrible having to break the news to him.”

“As we all do.” Dance had completely fallen into the role. “Have you contacted the police?”

“We don’t involve the police until he gives the go ahead. He said he doesn’t trust them.”

“That’s wise,” Dance said with a smile. “Are you in town?”

There was a long pause. “I was supposed to be on that flight this morning.”

“Really?” Dance feigned sympathy, wishing she actually was dead in the field right now. It would have wrapped everything up so nicely. “The whole thing is just so tragic.

“Could we perhaps meet?” Dance continued. “Maybe we can try to reach Shamus together?”

“I’m running all over the place right now. I’ll be home later, though.”

“Perhaps we can speak this afternoon?”

“Try my cell or my home number, which is-”

“Let me get a pencil,” Dance said, faking the need, still playing the role. “Shoot.”

“It’s 914-273- 9296.”

“That’s 9296. Got it. And listen, if you become available sooner, call me at this number.”

Dance hung up Sam’s cell phone, glad that he had it. But that being said, he hated technology, preferring spoken words to email, address books and calendars to computers. And PDA’s… he particularly hated PDAs right now. How the hell had technology gotten so advanced as to be able to carry surveillance video in a hand-held device?

Dance pulled out his radio and punched in a code. “Listen up,” Dance spoke on a secure channel. “Drop what you’re doing. You need to locate a Julia Quinn, attorney at Aitkens, Lerner, & Isles, lives in Byram Hills. Run a DMV check on her for her car, she’s out there somewhere. Do periodic drive-by of her house. I don’t care what you do, but we need to find her or our freedom may be coming to a swift end.”

“What’s up with the box?” a static-filled voice came over the radio.

“Don’t worry about that, that’s my problem. You just do what you’re told. Again, Julia Quinn, once you locate her don’t take your eyes off her and call me. If she runs, feel free to take her down.”

JULIA HUNG UP her cell phone, glad that someone else was involved now with the robbery. She had been on a roller coaster of emotions: elation at having escaped death, sheer agony at the tremendous loss of life, the pain she felt for the theft at Shamus’s offices and her inability to reach him. But her emotions were dominated by survivor’s guilt. All of it weighed heavy now, as she sat in the parking area of the gas station in Bedford.

She turned as Marcus’s Bentley drove up, Nick leaped from the car and ran to her, hugging her in his strong embrace.

Julia wrapped her arms around Nick as if she hadn’t seen him in a month, and the moment her head hit his shoulder the tears poured out, all of her confusion, all of her joy at being alive, all of her sorrow for the tragedy she had barely avoided, which had taken the lives of all the passengers she had sat amongst.

“Listen,” Nick said. “I don’t have a lot of time to explain but we have to go.”

Julia lifted her head and looked into his eyes. “I love you,” she said.

Nick’s smile grew wide as he placed his hand behind her head and pulled her into a gentle, heartfelt kiss that communicated his feelings far better than words ever could.

“Mmmm,” Marcus cleared his throat, standing by his car, calling their attention. He tapped his watch as he hung up his cell phone.

Nick took Julia by the hand and led her to the Bentley.

“Hi, Marcus,” Julia said. “I didn’t realize you guys were together.”

“It’s good to see you, Julia.”

Julia turned back to Nick. “I’m supposed to pick up a doctor in Pound Ridge and bring him back to the crash site.”

“Let someone else deal with that,” Nick said abruptly.

“What about my car?”

“Don’t worry about it. We’ve got to get you out of here.” Nick held the car door open as she climbed into the backseat.

“What’s with all the drama?”

Nick sat in the front passenger seat, closed the door, and turned around to face her. “It’s about the robbery at Washington House.”

“How’d you know about the robbery?” Julia asked in surprise.

“Let’s just say word is getting around.”

“That makes no sense.” Julia went into cross-examination mode. “How did you know?”

Nick’s mind was working overtime. He didn’t want Julia to know what was truly going on, he didn’t want her to know anything about the watch in his pocket or what he was trying to prevent from happening eight hours from now. He had already given her a glimpse of things, telling her someone was after her twice-once in their kitchen at 6:30 just before she died and again at 5:30 just before facing gunfire in her office. Neither revelation had proved to be of any help in achieving her salvation.

“I spoke to Paul Dreyfus.”

“How do you know Paul?” Julia asked in surprise, continuing in her lawyer mode.

“I don’t, he called the house.” Nick was afraid his lie would go too far. “We were making small chat, when I introduced myself. He told me about the robbery.” It was the longest and deepest lie Nick had ever told Julia.

“That’s odd. I just spoke to Sam Dreyfus, his brother, a couple minutes ago. He wanted to meet, see the videos from the robbery that are stored on my PDA.” Julia held up her Palm Pilot.

“What?” Nick said in shock, knowing that Sam was dead, killed in the crash.

Hearing her words, Marcus started the car and pulled out. Marcus drove through the winding section of Route 22, past the lakes and forests and the occasional house, his car hugging the road as he kept the speedometer at seventy.

“Julia,” Nick said, turning to face his wife, who rode in the backseat. “Listen to me very carefully-”

“I hate when you do that, Nick,” Julia scolded him. “You scare me. Just tell me what’s gong on.”

“Whoever pulled the robbery is after you and your PDA,” Nick said. “And I’m not taking any risks.”

“Hey, don’t you think your imagination is a little overdeveloped today? I’m fine. Look at the muscles.” Julia flexed her arm, like a prize fighter.

“This is no joke,” Nick snapped at her. “They are trying to kill you.”

“Lower your voice,” Julia shot back. “Who? If you know who, let’s call the police.”

“Absolutely not,” Nick cut her off. “You know Shamus was right when he said not to involve the police unless he signed off on it.”

“How did you know that?” Julia stared at Nick, the moment growing silent, a pause hanging in the air. “I never told you that.”

“Yeah, you did,” Nick’s lie was filled with self-righteousness.

“Nick,” Julia corrected him, “Shamus did say that, it was his policy, but I never told you, I never told anyone. The only people who knew that were the Dreyfuses. Sam and I just talked about that not fifteen minutes ago.”

“Julia,” Nick said solemnly, looking over the leather seat into Julia’s eyes. “Sam Dreyfus was killed in the plane crash. I don’t know who you spoke to but it wasn’t Sam.”

Julia fell to silence.

THE BYRAM HILLS train station was like something out of the early twentieth century: an English-style, fieldstone ticket booth and waiting room capped with a patinated copper roof, its green color blending with the leaves of enormous oak trees that shaded the small commuter parking lot. An old-fashioned platform of thick cedar planks ran for seventy-five yards, echoing with the steps of its passengers, who lined up by the hundreds at rush hour.

Now, though, the small station was empty except for the elderly ticket agent.

Marcus drove into the parking lot and pulled up right in front of the ticket booth.

“What the hell is this?” Nick asked from the passenger seat.

“You turned to me for help and I turned to my friends for help.”

Nick looked around, not seeing a soul in sight but the clerk in the ticket window.

“The express train to New York comes through in three minutes. First stop Grand Central. Ben and his men will be waiting on the platform for her. Of everyone we know, who better to trust her life with? Ben could protect her from an invading army, let alone a bad cop or two.”

Ben Taylor had been a close friend of Marcus’s for too many years to count. He had retired after twenty years in the service-five as a Navy SEAL, five as a Delta Force team leader, and ten that no one ever spoke about. He had left the military and set up his consulting business with seed capital provided by Marcus, the first and only friend he had stayed in touch with from basic training. His small business was successful, procuring contracts both stateside and abroad on situations Marcus preferred not to know too much about. Marcus had maintained a small interest in the operation, partly for the bragging rights and cool factor but mainly for the quarterly executive committee meeting when they knocked the ball around at Winged Foot and shared stories of their female conquests.

“I don’t know,” Nick said with hesitation.

“Who taught you to shoot?” Marcus challenged. “Who got you your gun and permit so easily? Who would you trust with your life without question? This was Ben’s suggestion; he couldn’t get anyone up here in less than an hour-your time frame, remember? He said once she’s on the train, it’s a clear shot to the city.”

Marcus jumped out of the car, stepped up to the ticket booth, and bought a one-way off-peak ticket to Grand Central.

He walked back and handed the ticket to Julia. “Listen, he’ll be waiting on the platform, you can’t miss him: six feet four, red hair, flirts like a son of a bitch. You’ve met him at my weddings.”

Julia smiled, nodding, as she got out of the car. She silently gave Marcus a hug, which he returned.

“You’ll be fine. There’s no one I would trust more,” Marcus said.

“I was just about to say that about you. You’ll take care of him? Make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid?” Julia said, alluding to Nick.

“You know that’s never easy.”

“What are you doing?” Nick asked.

“I’m going with you.” Marcus looked at him as if it were obvious. “You think I’m letting you do this on your own?”

“I’m not putting you in the middle of this.”

“What are you talking about? You already did.”

Nick couldn’t deny the truth. “But I need you to go with her-”

“I’ll be fine,” Julia said. “It’s a train ride-”

Nick held up his hand for her to stop talking.

“Why do you think I have Ben taking care of Julia?” Marcus said. “In the whole scheme of things she’s now safe, out of danger, so you can focus… so we can focus.”

The roar of the train could be heard approaching from the north.

Julia took both of Nick’s hands in hers, looked up into his eyes, and spoke to his heart. “I love you. I love you more than life.”

Nick stared at her with fear in his eyes, worried that she was traveling alone.

“I’ll be fine,” Julia said, squeezing his hands with reassurance the way her mother used to do to her when she was a child. “You be careful.”

“I will, I just want you away from here till I get thing sorted out.”

“You come and get me, because we’ve got things to talk about, lives to get on with.”

“I’ll see you this evening, no later than 10:00 P.M., I promise. But I don’t think we’ll be seeing the Mullers for dinner.”

“You planned it this way, didn’t you?” Julia smiled. “I have something to tell you when you pick me up, so don’t be late.”

The train came around the bend, heading into the station.

“I won’t be late,” Nick said as he walked her up onto the platform.

“You should probably have this,’ Julia said as she pulled her PDA from her purse and passed it to him.

“Thanks,” Nick said, tucking it into his pocket.

“Remember what you promised,” she shouted back at Marcus. “Nothing stupid.”

The train pulled in, its brakes squealing as it came to a stop. The door whisked open with a release of air right where they were standing.

“Ten o’clock,” Julia said.

Nick pulled her into a long, hard kiss, a lifetime of passion passing between them in seconds. He finally released her as the door buzzed in preparation for closing. “Ten o’clock. No later,” Nick said in agreement.

Julia stepped into the train, the doors coming together, closing between them.

“I love you,” Julia mouthed from the other side of the door.

And the train pulled from the station.

“Protect the goalie,” Marcus said as he walked up behind him. “That’s my job.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Ah, maybe,” Marcus said as he straightened his tie and tucked in his white shirt. “But right now, I’m your idiot.”

HORACE RANDALL WAS six months from retiring. Twenty-five years on the force. He had put in an extra five hoping to put away enough money to retire. But life being what it was, he had already spent his retirement fund and would be leaving the department in December without a dime in the bank.

He had come in at the age of twenty-eight filled with piss and vinegar and an altruistic view of justice. But the years of exposure to a system that had no true black-and-white demarcation of right and wrong but instead was filled with gray areas of political expediency had broken his spirit. He had spent the last ten years going through the motions, pushing paper, and drinking beer.

He had never fired his gun on duty, never chased a suspect down, never lived the life of a romanticized cop. And that suited him just fine.

He had mentored Ethan Dance when he joined the force ten years ago, taking him under his wing, showing him the ropes, watching as he quickly rose to detective. He knew full well of Dance’s extracurricular activities but as long as they didn’t affect Randall, they didn’t bother him and besides, though he wasn’t a model cop, he was true blue and would never turn on his fellow officers.

Randall weighed in at 240 pounds. He’d averaged ten pounds of additional weight a year for the last eight years, his thirty-two-inch waist a distant memory. His horn-rimmed glasses were considered retro cool by some of the young patrolmen but truth be told he’d worn the exact same frames since he was fifteen.

Dance knew Randall’s situation and had offered him a retirement solution, a healthy bank account that would provide for him for the rest of his life.

It had fallen to Horace Randall to find Julia Quinn. While they planned to get her at home this evening, the timetable had been moved up by Dance for God knew what reason. Things would have been so much simpler if they’d stuck with their original plan.

While Randall was known as lazy, most people didn’t realize that laziness bred ingenuity; if necessity was the mother of invention, then laziness was the father. Randall wasn’t about to drive all over looking for Julia Quinn when just a few strokes of the keyboard could accomplish so much more.

While life had come to a standstill in Byram Hills, people still needed to shop, to eat, to get gas. As sad as it was, life went on despite tragedy. Randall sent out Julia’s image as a missing person in connection with the North East Air crash, emailing and faxing it to the bordering police jurisdictions, the rail stations, and the neighboring towns’ restaurants, gas stations, and businesses.

She was a beautiful woman; her DMV photo couldn’t diminish that in the least. There was no doubt she would catch the eye of everyone he reached out to, he just didn’t expect to get a call so quickly. But it was good to know that in this day and age, the citizens of this county could really pull together when a life was on the line.

THE EXPRESS TRAIN was practically empty. As it was midday there wasn’t much travel to and from the city, unlike rush hour, when nary a seat could be found. There were only two others in the train car: an older woman, dressed in Chanel on her way to some Friday evening function, her face buried in a tawdry novel, and a young man, dressed in doctor’s scrubs, who struggled to stay upright and awake as he read his newspaper.

Julia rarely took the train, finding it inconvenient and confining, preferring to drive her car in and out of the city with the option of listening to the radio or talking on her cell phone at her leisure.

As she finally settled back in her seat, she couldn’t believe she had been on Flight 502, buckled in, prepped to go. And now she sat in this train, on the run. Her feeling of being saved, of being plucked from death had been short-lived.

She could never understand what ran through the minds of those who inflicted pain and suffering on others, how they could willingly bring people to harm. She had never feared for her life before, never contemplated her own death, but now in a space of less than two hours she had found herself looking at death from a variety of angles, all of which made her appreciate the value of life, the value of the moment and how precious it truly is.

Both Marcus and Nick had told her not to worry, which only made her worry more. She had no idea why Nick was so fearful, but in the sixteen years they had been together, other than lightning and flying, he wasn’t afraid of anything. She quelled her own fears, placing her trust in her husband. He wasn’t foolish-far from it. He had a combination of street smarts and intelligence that manifested not only in a successful career but in a successful life. If anyone could save her, if anyone could make matters right, it was Nick.

Julia ran her hand along her belly. Though it was still flat, she could sense the life within her womb, growing, developing, a completion of her union with Nick, truly a child of their love that would bind them together for all eternity, a combination of the best parts of both of them. She wondered how the genetic slot machine of life would play out. Would he or she look like Nick or Julia, or would the child be a combination? Blonde hair, brown hair, maybe red hair, as it did run on both sides of their families. Green eyes or blue? There was no question the child would be predisposed to athletics, following in its parents’ footsteps… or maybe not. What if the child hated sports? Whatever the newborn was, she would be happy, as the child would be theirs, a new focus in their lives that would change all priorities.

She had planned to tell Nick as soon as she saw him-her grand plans of sonogram pictures and paternal surprise having been dashed-but then Marcus had shown up with Nick. Her good news would have to wait for a more solitary moment.

As she pondered what was going on, the train slowed and came to a stop. Julia looked out the window, her heart suddenly thundering in her ears. They were in the middle of nowhere, in a no-man’s-land between stations. This was supposed to be an express train, next stop Grand Central Station, smack dab in the middle of Manhattan.

Julia poked her head into the aisle, looking up and down the narrow walkway, through the glass doors that separated the train cars, but saw nothing. Praying this was strictly train business and not her business, hoping it was just a coincidence, she sat back in her seat. There was no announcement from the conductor, no information offered on their status, the ticket taker didn’t show his face, and no one seemed to care, except for Julia.

And with a gasp, the doors slid open. The other two passengers looked up from their reading but quickly went back to their own thoughts, burying their heads in books and newspapers, unconcerned with what was going on.

This was not a coincidence. Julia crouched in her seat and pulled out her cell phone. Panic such as she had never known flowed through her. She wanted to run-she could outrun almost anyone-but had no idea in what direction to flee.

She speed-dialed Nick, her words, her plea for help ready to explode from her lips. His cell phone rang. And rang again and again before finally going to voicemail.

And then he was there, standing over her, an older man with a bad haircut, horn-rimmed glasses, heavyset, and breathing hard. He held a photo in his meaty hand, glanced at it, and then back to her.

“Hello, Julia Quinn.”

NICK TURNED ON and read from Julia’s PDA. While he couldn’t open the video files, the documents were properly formatted for viewing. He read the inventory of what Hennicot had stored away in numerous crates at Washington House: Monets, Picassos, Renoirs, and Gordon Greens. Some of the finest works of art the world had known from all periods, distant past to the present. The antiques and sculptures were many and varied.

Nick read through the inventory three times, each time astounded by the collection, which rivaled those of the finest museums. But as he read it through, there was no mention of any mahogany box. He sorted the file by year, by type, by location in the lower level, but time and again found no mention of it.

“What weighs twenty-five pounds, can be contained in a two-foot-by-two-foot mahogany box, and bears a value of untold millions?”

Marcus shook his head as he drove through the back roads of Byram Hills, heading toward town. “A few gold bars weigh that but don’t come close in value. Twenty-five pounds of diamonds, now that has to be in the hundreds of millions.”

“I suppose.”

“What are you looking for?”

“It’s what Sam Dreyfus took; it’s why everything in their little robbery went bad.”

“Nothing is worth dying over. Except maybe love. If you felt strongly enough about someone.”

“I don’t think anyone ever really intends to die for what they want, for their cause. Somewhere in their mind they think they’ll survive.”

“Well, if it was in that plane, it’s probably nothing but vapor now. Who cares?” Marcus pressed on. “How are we going to get this guy Dance?”

“With bait,” Nick said as he held up the PDA.

“And what do we do with him once he’s trapped, how do you know the whole police department isn’t bad?”

“I think I know someone I can trust.” Nick opened his cell phone and dialed.

THE TWO CARS faced each other, the green Taurus and the blue Bentley. They were parked in the middle of the Byram Hills High School parking lot, a wide-open expanse with a single half-mile driveway acting as the only entrance and exit. With no school in session and the plane crash a mile down the road, the school was deserted like the rest of the town.

“Who are you?” Dance said as he stepped from the green Ford.

Nick stared at him, holding back his anger and rage at the soul within this man, a man who would try to kill him in the future, who would kill Private McManus and Paul Dreyfus, who would be the catalyst for Julia’s death.

“Are you alone?” Nick asked.

“Yeah, even though you’re not,” Dance said as he looked at Marcus standing against his Bentley.

Nick held up the PDA. “You know what this is?”

Dance said nothing.

“It’s a copy, one of several that contains footage of you and your friends breaking into Washington House.” Nick had actually not seen any footage of Dance or anyone other than someone he had yet to identify, but Dance didn’t know that. “Sam really screwed up.”

“Who?” Dance feigned ignorance.

“You remember, Sam, the one who brought you in to help, who you pretty much turned on? The same Sam Dreyfus who is dead along with two hundred others in Sullivan Field.”

“If that’s a PDA,” Dance said, “then it probably belongs to Julia Quinn.”

Nick hated poker, as he tried to mask the hate from his face.

“Maybe I have something to trade for it.” Dance smiled. “Maybe I have her.”

Nick was relieved, knowing Julia was on the train to New York, knowing that he had the upper hand.

“Or maybe you committed the robbery?” Dance pressed on.

“What?”

“Do you know it’s a felony to bribe a police officer?”

“Nice try.”

With his back to the access road, Dance didn’t see the green jeep coming down the road behind him. The army vehicle drove past Dance and came to a stop. Private McManus stepped out of the driver’s seat followed by three young, green-fatigue-dressed Guardsman with pistols at their sides and rifles slung over their shoulders.

Nick was glad to see the young private alive and hoped that maybe now he would stay that way. “I’m Nick Quinn, the one who called.”

“I don’t know what we can do for you, Mr. Quinn. This isn’t part of our mandate, we are supposed to be working the crash site.”

“This won’t take long.”

“How do you know me?” McManus asked. “I don’t recall meeting.”

“Colonel Wells gave me your cell phone number,” Nick said, knowing soldiers rarely ask questions when their CO’s name is invoked. Nick wasn’t about to mention that the young private would give him his number in the future, a future that was currently dim for McManus, a future that would include his death before the afternoon was over. But with what Nick was doing now, he hoped to save lives, he hoped to give McManus back his future. “Top of your class in riflery, just got your MBA, you hate flipping burgers.”

McManus looked surprised that a stranger would know such things about him.

“Why don’t you just get back in your little jeep and go play army at the crash site?” Dance said through gritted teeth.

“Why don’t you watch what you say?” McManus shot back.

“You have no jurisdiction here,” Dance snarled.

“The governor would beg to differ with you on that, as would the Constitution. In times of emergency, at the discretion of the governor, we can be mobilized with primary authority granted by the governor’s decree.”

“I don’t need this weekend warrior bullshit,” Dance said, placing his hand on his gun.

McManus instantly raised and cocked his rifle, the three other Guardsmen following suit, their rifles pointed, held in the hands of men no older than twenty-two who had never been in a situation before.

“If you wish to challenge my authority,” McManus barked at the older policeman, “I suggest you do it by calling your commanding officer, because I can promise you, with the course you are choosing by drawing that gun, you’ll never get to hear the answer, which is, I overrule you.”

“You’re interfering with my investigation,” Dance said, as he stared at the four rifle barrels aimed at him.

“We’ll sort all that out when you remove your hand from your gun.”

“We’ll see,” Dance said as he looked over the shoulder of McManus. “Maybe we’ll sort it out by different means.”

Two police cars flew down the road, engines growling, lights flashing, sirens silent. They pulled up with a skid, disgorging four uniformed police, who drew their guns, taking up positions behind their open car doors.

The three Guardsman instantly crouched behind their jeep and turned their weapons on the police.

“Drop your weapons,” a young red-haired patrolman screamed. “Now.”

McManus kept his gun and eyes aimed at Dance. “My name is Private McManus of the National Guard, we are here under the authority of the governor of the state of New York, we have jurisdiction in this town at this time that supersedes yours. Pick up your radio and confirm it.”

“Lower your weapons,” the patrolman shouted again, his skinny frame trembling.

The situation continued to escalate, no one relenting, as the air filled with testosterone-driven aggression. The police and Guardsmen peered over and from behind their vehicles, guns sweeping back and forth; McManus’s gun sight remained trained on Dance’s forehead for the kill shot; Dance’s quavering hand floated just above his pistol, ready to draw.

And Nick and Marcus were caught in the middle.

“Make the call,” McManus shouted, “before someone makes a mistake.”

The moment hung in the air. Time ticking…

And the red-haired patrolman disappeared into his car. The three other cops maintained their positions, their guns held high, as did the National Guardsman, no one flinching.

Nick and Marcus exchanged glances, never having imagined that they would be on the edge like this.

The patrolman stepped from his vehicle and calmly walked around to the front of his car, his hands at his side, his weapon holstered. He turned to his fellow police and nodded for them to stow their guns.

“You have no idea what you have just done, Brinehart,” Dance said to the young patrolman.

“Detective,” Brinehart said to Dance, “this man is correct. I suggest you remove your hand from your piece.”

With hate-filled eyes, Dance complied.

“Now,” Officer Brinehart said, “will someone tell me what is going on?”

“There was a robbery of Washington House this morning,” Nick said. “Detective Dance was part of the team that pulled it off.”

Brinehart turned to Dance.

“Do you really think that?” Dance said in response. “These two men were the perpetrators of the crime. They were trying to bribe me.”

McManus and Brinehart turned their attention to Nick.

“That’s ridiculous.” Nick pointed at the green Taurus, knowing what was there. “Check his trunk,”

“Why don’t you check their car?” Dance yelled, sweat beading at his temples. “They offered me diamonds, a million dollars’ worth, to keep my mouth shut.”

Private McManus and Officer Brinehart looked to each other, the two young civil servants thinking, wondering what to do.

“Why don’t you both give us your keys?” McManus finally said.

Brinehart walked to Dance. “Sorry, sir, but I need them.”

Dance pulled out his keys, his eyes boring into Nick as he slammed them into Brinehart’s hand.

Marcus reached into his pocket, waited for Brinehart to turn his way, and tossed them to him.

Without a word, with the eyes of both police and Guardsman upon him, Brinehart walked to the Taurus and opened the trunk, the lid obscuring everyone’s view as he peered inside. He paused a moment, reaching in, before quickly closing it. Without a word, he walked to the Bentley convertible. He opened the trunk, again staring inside, but quickly closed it. He stood there a moment looking at Nick, Dance, and Marcus. He walked to the passenger side, opened the door, and sat in the plush leather seat. He stuck the key in and opened the glove compartment. Again, the vehicle obscured everyone’s view as he reached into its small confines.

Brinehart stepped from the opulent luxury car, closed the door, and pulled out his handcuffs.

He walked to Dance and with a troubled voice said, “I’m sorry about all this.”

He then quickly turned to Nick. “Hands behind your back, please.”

“What?” Nick looked at McManus.

“Officer, what did you find?” McManus asked.

“Please don’t make this situation any harder than it is,” Brinehart said to Nick, forcibly turning him around and slamming the cuffs over his wrists.

“Officer, what did you find?” McManus said.

Brinehart handed him the keys.

McManus walked to Dance’s car and opened the trunk of the vehicle. He peered inside to find a spare tire, some iron plates, a medical kit, an AED, some plastic zip-tie restraints, a box of bike chains, and three flares.

McManus turned to Marcus’s car, reached over the passenger door, opening the glove compartment, and pulled out a small bag. He loosened the draw string on the small black velvet pouch and peered in at a handful of glistening diamonds.

“You son of a bitch, you planted those,” Marcus yelled at Brinehart. He turned to Dance. “How many work for you? All of them?”

“How much did you sell your integrity for, officer?” Marcus turned back and yelled at Brinehart.

Marcus turned to Dance, walking into his space. “You won’t get away with this.”

“Turn around,” Dance ordered Marcus.

“In your dreams, you bastard.”

Dance grabbed Marcus by the arm, but that was a huge mistake. Despite his size, despite the fact that he was in his late thirties, Marcus was bottled lightning. He snap-grabbed Dance’s hand from his shoulder and in one motion, pulled him toward him while throwing a bone-crushing punch, the combined momentum exploding into Dance’s jaw, knocking him to the ground.

Marcus had cocked his fist again and reached down for Dance when the butt of McManus’s rifle crunched the back of his head, sending him unconscious to the ground next to the detective.

McManus turned to his men, nodding them to get back into the jeep. “Sorry about this,” McManus said to Dance.

Dance glared at the young weekend soldier. “Maybe you and your men should get back to the crash site and leave us to do our job.”

“My apologies, sir,” McManus said.

The soldier offered his hand to Dance, but the detective ignored both the offer of assistance and the apology as he slowly got to his feet, rubbing his bruised jaw.

Without another word the young private jumped into the driver’s seat and drove off.

“Brinehart, you help take them in.” Dance turned to the three other police officers. “We’ve got it from here. Get back to the crash site and help those poor people who lost their loved ones.”

The three cops got into the patrol car and left.

Dance turned and leaned into Nick’s face.

“Does he know?” Nick said.

Dance continued glaring at Nick but remained silent.

“Know what?” Brinehart said as he knelt over the unconscious body of Marcus, pulling his hands behind his back to cuff him.

Nick looked down on the young redheaded cop in his crisp, blue police uniform. It had taken Nick a few minutes, but he had finally recognized him. “That detective Ethan Dance here is going to tie one of those weights in the trunk of his car to your ankles and throw you to your death in the Kensico Reservoir and-”

Dance’s gun smashed into the side of Nick’s head, driving him to the ground.

“Maybe I’ll just toss you in the reservoir,” Dance said as he gave Nick’s dazed, writhing body a swift kick in the gut.

“WHERE THE HELL were you?” Dance yelled as he got out of his Taurus.

“It’s not easy getting away with everything going on,” Brinehart said as he closed the twenty-foot loading bay door behind him. He stepped to the rear of his car. “Did you see the crash site? It’s inhuman.”

Brinehart opened his trunk, lifted the two duffel bags out of his car, and put them in the open trunk of Dance’s Taurus.

“I could have been killed.” Dance continued berating the young officer.

“Relax, I saved your ass,” Brinehart waved his hand.

“Where are the diamonds?”

Brinehart pulled the black velvet pouch from his pocket and handed it to Dance.

“So help me God, if a single stone is missing-”

“You talk a tough game for someone who just had to be saved from walking into a trap.”

“Watch yourself.” Dance jabbed his finger into Brinehart’s face. “I was smart enough to pull the bags from my car. Smart enough to have you gather some backup to save me. So in fact, I saved myself.”

“Yeah, of course. And if the two guys in the warehouse behind me know you’re involved in the robbery, how many others know?” Brinehart stepped closer to Dance, moving into his space. “And what the hell does he mean, that you are going to drop me in the reservoir? Are you thinking of killing me, Dance? Are you thinking of killing all of us? Because I don’t think you know me very well.”

“Listen to me, very carefully.” Dance leaned even closer to Brinehart. “Watch your step or you will not get a dime.”

“Hey, Dance,” Brinehart said. “Remember, they came for you, not me.”

“You think I would take a bullet for you, Brinehart? You don’t know me very well. Careful-if things get too crazy, I just may drop you in a lake.”

Brinehart’s face crumbled. He was outmatched. He quietly pulled a pistol from his waistband, handing it to Dance. “I pulled it off the one with hair.”

“Good job, Brinehart. Now both our prints are on it.”

NICK AND MARCUS sat ten feet apart, facing each other in a dimly lit room, the sole light coming from the wash under the steel bay door. Their hands were cuffed behind their backs, their feet secured to the legs of the chair.

“You all right?” Nick said.

“No, dammit. I’m pissed and my back hurts. And I’m going to break the jaw of that bastard who hit me,” Marcus shouted as he turned his head back and forth, trying to work out the kinks. “Do you have any idea where we are?”

Nick looked around the room, at the large open space. There were crates along the wall, a single desk in the corner. The power was out, as it was everywhere else in Byram Hills.

“In a dark room,” Nick said, trying to calm his friend.

“Smartass.”

“It’s a warehouse.”

“No shit?” Marcus said facetiously. “Where the hell is everybody?”

“Everyone is over at the plane crash or home.”

“You know how much money I give to the police retirement fund each year?” Marcus looked down at his wrinkled shirt, his torn pants. “That’s over. They ruined a perfectly good shirt and pants.”

Nick looked at the clock on the wall. 1:50.

“Stop looking at that clock,” Marcus said. “Time’s not going to slow down.”

Nick had less than ten minutes to get himself and Marcus out of here before he slipped back in time again, leaving Marcus alone and at the mercy of Dance.

Nick fought to keep the guilt out, the feeling of what he was putting his best friend through. He had set out to save Julia, but had inadvertently put his friend in mortal danger. Nick refused to have Marcus’s blood on his hands, and as soon as he had the chance he would free them, but he had to think quickly, as there was little likelihood they would survive if left in their current state.

Dance walked through a side door, slamming it behind him with a loud, jarring crash. He quietly walked into the room, circling his two captives. Finally stopping in front of Nick, he leaned into his face and whispered in his ear, “Where’s your wife, Nicholas?”

Nick stared at him, rage boiling in his eyes.

“Why do I bother asking you?” Dance turned to Marcus. “Where is she? Who else knows about the robbery?”

Marcus smiled a taunting smile, a Cheshire Cat smile, one he used often in toying with his business adversaries during negotiations.

“Listen to me, did you hear me?” Dance yelled, suddenly riled up. “Where is she? Who else knows about the robbery?”

Dance drew back his fist and unloaded it into Marcus’s nose, breaking it for the fourth time in his life. The blood ran down his lip, dripping on his white shirt and blue Hermès tie.

“Now,” Marcus said in a whisper, unaffected by the sucker punch. “You listen to me, you coward. Free my hands and hit me, let’s see how tough you really are.”

Dance pile-drived the side of Marcus’s face in answer.

“Tell me where she is,” Dance yelled at Nick as he pulled a gun, aiming at him, the moment hanging in the air. “Recognize your gun?”

And Dance spun around, smashing the pistol against Marcus’s head before jamming the barrel up under his chin.

“Tell me where your wife is, or he dies,” Dance said to Nick. This wasn’t just a threat, Nick could see Dance’s eyes confirming the truth in his words.

Nick stared at Marcus, his heart breaking as he was forced to choose one life over another.

Marcus looked at Nick, subtly shaking his head, and smiled. It was a warm half-smile, the kind he gave him after Nick had let the puck slip by into the goal, after he had missed a match-winning putt. It was the everything-will-be-okay-because-we’re-friends smile, the one they shared every time one of Marcus’s wives left him.

“You do it, so help me God, I’ll kill you,” Nick said with hate.

“That will be a pretty neat trick,” Dance said. “Seeing I’m going to kill you next.”

“You mother f-” Nick struggled violently in his chair, the veins on his neck distended, his shoulders and arms uselessly shaking.

“Nick,” Marcus said softly.

“You listen to me, you piece of shit,” Nick yelled at Dance, ignoring his friend.

“Julia is safe,” Marcus said, continuing his words in a softly spoken plea.

“I’ll rip your heart out!” Nick screamed at Dance, violently shaking his chair in frustration.

“Nick,” Marcus whispered, finally getting his attention, calming his friend, his soft words contrary to his character. “Julia is safe. Know that, take comfort in that. Don’t worry about me.”

And the door slowly opened. A heavyset man, a man Nick recognized, stood in the doorway. It was the accomplice to Julia’s murder, the gray-haired man who had stood at his front door ringing the bell, distracting him from protecting Julia as she was killed.

“Perfect,” Dance said, relief in his voice.

And he pulled the trigger. The sound of the gun shattered the moment. Marcus’s head exploded backward in a rain of blood before falling forward against his chest.

Nick couldn’t pull his eyes from his dead friend, the sound of the bullet’s report echoing in his ear, only to be replaced by a blood-curdling scream coming from the doorway.

And as Nick turned his head, all hope was lost, everything he had tried to do was for naught. His best friend was dead, he was powerless, and Dance would get away with it all.

For standing in the doorway, screaming in fear, with terror-filled eyes, was the last person he thought he’d see.

And his heart broke as he saw Julia helplessly standing there.

And his world went black.