The 13th Hour

CHAPTER 2

11:00 A.M

JULIA QUINN PULLED INTO the short-term parking at Westchester Airport. She grabbed her purse off the seat and raced for the terminal. Held up by an unexpected conference call that had lasted over forty-five minutes, she was behind schedule and afraid she’d miss her flight.

She had made the appointment with Dr. Colverhome on Monday and cleared her Friday afternoon schedule to indulge in a little bit of future mommyhood excitement.

She left the three frames on the seat of her car. They were of different sizes and designs. She had grabbed them from The Right Thing in Byram Hills on her way to the airport this morning, as she was unsure exactly how big a sonogram picture actually was. She was excited about giving it to Nick tonight, surprising him with the news. She had teddy bear wrapping paper and a copy of Dr. Seuss’s Fox in Sox, her favorite from childhood, something she’d loved to hear her dad read, a tradition she was looking forward to Nick’s continuing with their child.

Though the scientific, in utero image of their child would betiny, it would be the first picture to define them as a true family, a picture they would place on a bookshelf in the library among all their crazy vacation pictures from around the country.

She checked her watch: 11:01. With the flight scheduled to hit the air at 11:16, she just might make it. As this was a small regional airport, ticket lines were short and security checks were rarely congested.

With her boarding pass validated, she flew through security and was relieved to see that boarding had just started. She felt an overwhelming excitement. She was bursting to call Nick, to tell him what she was doing, to tell him about the baby, but her patience won out. She wanted to see the surprise on his face, she wanted to feel his arms wrap her with the same joy she had felt when she learned of the life within her.

Nick was unaware of her schedule, unaware of her flying today, which made her feel a bit guilty. He had no love of air travel, always insisting on knowing her flight plans when she flew and that she call him upon landing. But she was afraid it would lead to too many questions, her answers being transparent lies to a man who could read her face like a clock.

They had parted on a sour note just a few hours ago. He was angry about having to dine out with friends he didn’t much care for, and while she returned his anger, she was laughing on the inside, knowing it was all a ploy, knowing that it would make the surprise all the sweeter.

Her heart still skipped a beat when she thought of Nick. That feeling still arose in her stomach, as it had the moment she first saw him standing poolside in his bathing suit sixteen years ago. And while Nick had no idea where she was, she knew his routine as if it was her own. He was working from home, he’d probably be sitting in his leather chair in the library toiling away for the next eight hours, forgetting to eat or even look up, losing all track of time.

NICK SAT IN his Audi, the Sig-Sauer in his hand, checking the safety and slamming in the clip before tucking it in his waistband at the small of his back. He had driven through the bustling town of Byram Hills, in the midst of its late-morning summer routine-mothers with strollers heading for an early lunch at the Country Kitchen; day laborers getting the first pie of the day from Broadway Pizza; landscapers filling their trucks with foliage at Mariani’s Garden Market; real estate brokers sipping coffee outside their offices while chatting about their latest listings as fathers ran into the local bank to grab cash for the long weekend at the shore.

Intersecting lives, hand waves and kisses, smiles and hugs, a town linked by its commonality of existence-lives that would be changed forever in less than one hour.

Nick turned into the Byram Hills Police Department. After all of his ideas, all of his brainstorming, he went back to the simplest of solutions. Nick wasn’t some superhero, he had never been in the military, and he had no illusions that he was some skilled crime fighter. He couldn’t arrive on the scene, guns blazing, killing everyone involved in the theft and think he could succeed, let alone live-and who knew the consequences? He was simply a man trying to save his wife.

And he realized there was one person he could not only trust but who had the skill and authority, he had seen his allegiance to the law when the man stood up to his corrupt cousin, his character in the face of disaster at the crash site, he had seen his sense of right and wrong. Nick felt it in his gut that he could trust this man to do the right thing.

SAM DREYFUS EXTENDED the small tripod legs and placed the six-inch microlaser firmly in the ground, aiming it straight at the lens of the east camera, which overlooked the parking lot, its beam filling the camera’s image with spectral noise. While it wouldn’t break the camera, it would interfere with its imaging capability, disabling it for fifteen minutes, at which point an alarm would sound, indicating a disturbance in the system that required investigation.

He repeated the process on both the west and north cameras, throwing a virtual blanket over any occurrence in the parking lot for the next quarter hour. He pulled the radio from his pocket and thumbed the talk button three times.

Sam Dreyfus was painfully thin but for a small beer gut that hung over his crocodile belt. He was dressed in a pair of tan chinos and a white oxford shirt, the sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms. His matching Crocs loafers completed an ensemble not worn by most thieves. His brown hair was parted to the side and had yet to see the onset of gray, while his eyes were bloodshot and tired, a fact currently hidden behind a pair of dark Ray-Ban sunglasses.

At forty-nine, Sam felt at once young and yet painfully old. Living life without a care, running off and doing as he pleased had been his habit, had been his reputation since he was a teenager, but it was a reputation in conflict with how he felt.

The shadow cast by his brother, Paul, was enormous. Most people forgot Sam’s name, referring to him only as Paul’s brother. He would grow particularly angry when people said, “Oh, I didn’t know the Dreyfuses had two sons.”

From a young age, Sam didn’t measure up-in their parents’ eyes or in those of the public-so he chose to run in the opposite direction of his brother.

Sam slipped in with a bad crowd and found drugs and alcohol, fighting and mischief to be more his speed. He enjoyed the high, the rebellious pleasure of the moment.

At the age of seventeen, Sam ran off to Canada, not so much because he was afraid of going to war but because he knew it would piss off his father. He became the proverbial black sheep, something that, at last, gave him his own identity.

Over the years, he dabbled in various business ventures-real estate, finance, marketing-always looking to be the man at the top but never lasting more than a year at the bottom. He knew he was smart, he was just never given a chance.

But despite his failings, Paul had always looked out for him. He gave him a job when he needed it. Kept him on the payroll in perpetuity. Even gave him a piece of the company so he had something to leave his kids. Paul never spoke a word about his mistakes. Despite the vitriol and disappointment from his father, Paul had never passed judgment on him.

And then, about a year ago, Sam had faced reality. Sam’s house, Sam’s life existed by the sheer grace of his brother. He finally admitted to himself what he had known all along: He was nothing more than a charity case. Paul had felt sorry for him and had looked out for him as a result of pity.

And it angered Sam, it enraged him, it focused him.

He called Paul, told him he wanted to work, truly work, and took a real job at his brother’s company. He showed up every day, worked a full eight hours, pulled in business, and for once actually accomplished something. He found himself tired, more tired than he had ever been, but it came with a sense of accomplishment.

And his drive continued for over six months, at which point Paul rewarded him. And this time, it was not out of pity but out of gratitude, out of pride for his accomplishments. Sam became more integrated in the company, his brother looking at him as a full partner, providing him with full access to the security company’s jobs, technologies, and strategies.

It was on a Wednesday evening in January, in the dark days of winter. Alone in his office after seven, he was educating himself, reading through the secure files, when he came upon the name of Shamus Hennicot, a name renowned for its wealth and generosity, a man whose worth was well into the billions of dollars.

Paul handled the account personally and not just on a relationship, transactional basis. He actually did the installation, designing the high-tech security system himself, something he usually left to underlings. And that piqued Sam’s curiosity. He dug deeper into Paul’s files, learning of the unique access systems, alarms, and surveillance designs that had created a vaultlike environment for Hennicot’s prized art collection.

With an even more focused eye, Sam uncovered the inventory of Hennicot’s minimuseum. Antique weapons, jewels, paintings, sculptures, with appraised values noted for each item, from the hundreds of thousands to the tens of millions. Paul had designed display cases for the antique weapons, humidity-controlled rooms for the artwork, pressure-sensitive stands for the sculptures, and a special octagonal key for the main vault door.

But what stopped Sam cold was the special box built personally by Paul in his home. Unlike every other security item in the secure sanctuary, this one had no plans, no specs. It simply said Mahogany Box. Size: two feet square, one foot high. Contents: personal & confidential. There was a special safe purchased for it, a special hidden room constructed for it, all without any indication of its contents.

Sam’s curiosity went through the roof. He searched every file, every cabinet, every drawer of his brother’s office until he finally came upon the handwritten note in Paul’s private shop. It was a crumpled-up five-by-seven piece of lined paper in his tool box. It wasn’t detailed. It seemed cryptic if one didn’t know what one was looking at.

And as Sam read the handwritten note, he found something that could change his life, that would give him the wealth, the power, but most of all, the respect he so desired to emerge from Paul’s shadow.

The case was designed to guard the family secrets, the knowledge that had been passed down from father to son to grandson.

Sam finally smiled, for he knew what was in the box.

Over the next four months, Sam secured copies of the floor plans and the camera positions. He found the special codes needed for obtaining keys and pass cards. He procured combinations and access codes, most of which were in Paul’s personal file, a file that Paul gave him access to, a file whose access he said was only worthy of a brother, of a partner.

After scoping out the property, Sam found the perfect inside man at the Byram Hills Police Department. Greedy and already corrupted, he would provide the manpower and knowledge to keep his law enforcement brethren at bay. The pieces had come together nicely. It was and would be his greatest accomplishment.

Sam actually thought of the undertaking as a victimless crime. The loss would be less than half a percent of the Hennicot family fortune, something earned back in just a few weeks of simple interest if not recouped from the insurance claim.

And the contents of the box… well, Sam thought, there was no way to put a price on it. Ideas weren’t insurable, secrets weren’t insurable. Without an heir, Shamus had no one to leave the box to, so why not let it reside with someone else for the future, why not let it reside with another family, with someone whose aspirations were greater than family trusts and security companies?

Sam would finally achieve success on his own terms. He would finally emerge from the shadow that had hung over him his entire life.

Within ten seconds of Sam’s thumbing the walkie-talkie, a green Taurus drove in and parked in the back lot of Washington House, followed by a white Chrysler Sebring. Dance stepped from the driver’s seat of the Taurus while Randall and Johnny Arilio emerged from the Chrysler.

Arilio was a ten-year veteran, outgoing, with a big smile. He thought himself to be the most popular person in the police department, never realizing he just came off as obnoxious. At thirty-two, his long dark hair made him look like someone who couldn’t let go of his childhood. He fancied himself a ladies’ man, though he had actually hoped to find someone to settle down with. Unfortunately, with his champagne tastes and beer wallet, he never had the income to support the women he was attracted to.

Arilio tucked his blue shirt into his tan khakis as he and Randall walked about the rear of the house, looking as if they were on official police business. Brinehart drove his unmarked cruiser in, pulling up right next to Dance and getting out with an excited smile on his face.

Dance pulled two half-full duffel bags from his trunk and placed them next to the rear door.

Sam jogged down from the small berm where he had placed the last laser, pulling out a key and security card on his approach. “We’ve got fourteen minutes.”

JULIA WALKED DOWN the aisle of the AS 300, happy to be carrying nothing but her purse. Used to traveling with a briefcase and a too-heavy carry-on, she kept on thinking she had forgotten something.

She found her seat in business class, the wide-body leather chair enveloping her as she sat. She’d made it with time to spare. An elegant older woman, her silver hair swept up in a bun, sat in the seat beside her, her eyes focused on the airline magazine from the seat pouch.

Passengers continued boarding, the Friday mix of travelers always different from that of the rest of the week. While the flight was usually populated with businessmen and women, a number of families took the morning flight to get up to their vacation homes for the weekend. Julia looked at the young noisy children in an entirely new light. Two sisters, no more than five, played a singsong hand-slapping game that reduced them to fits of giggles every time they uttered the words “Miss Mary Mack, Mack, Mack.”

What used to test her patience as she tried to concentrate on work now brought a smile as she saw the wonder and excitement in the young faces. She was viewing the world from a different perspective, through different eyes.

“Nothing better,” the young blond businessman across the aisle said.

“I had forgotten all about the honesty of a child’s laugh,” Julia said with a nod.

“My kids are bit younger but they giggle just like that.”

“Going home to see them?” Julia asked.

“Day trip to Boston. Hopefully, I’ll be on the early evening flight back and get home in time to kiss them good night.”

“Last-minute business?” Julia said, having taken too many of those quick trips.

“Looking at a new deal.” The guy patted the spreadsheet in his lap. “My name’s Jason Cereta.”

“Julia,” she said with a smile.

“How many kids do you have?”

“In nine months, at least one.” Julia patted her belly, her first public admission of being pregnant.

“That’s so exciting.” The elderly woman in the window seat looked up from her magazine at Julia.

“And are you traveling on business or pleasure?” the old woman asked.

“Actually, I’m going to get a sonogram.”

“Now, that’s pleasure,” the woman said as she took off her jacket, folding it in her lap. “But a long way to go for a picture.”

“I know, but I love my doctor, and I wanted to surprise my husband with the first photo of his child.”

“He doesn’t know?”

“No, and it’s killing me.”

“My name is Katherine,” the old woman said. Her green eyes sparkled with life, her attitude and smile making it hard to tell her true age.

“Julia,” she said in return. No need for last names, just enough to allow for cordial conversation to pass the flight time before they disappeared from each other’s lives forever.

“We never had children,” Katherine continued. “But my husband and I love kids, always have. I’ve got plenty of grandnieces and grandnephews. Kids give us perspective, they remind us of what’s important in life. Am I right?” Katherine said as she leaned forward, looking at Jason.

“They are the reason I do what I do.” Jason said with a smile. “Believe me, I would never work this hard for myself.”

“And where are you heading?” Julia asked Katherine.

“Back to Chilmark. I was visiting my sister in Larchmont. My husband has been taken ill.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“No worries, you know how men are with a sniffle or fever. He’ll be fine.” But her eyes didn’t reflect the confidence of her words. “We each go through a spell of bad health a few times a year. It’s his turn this time.”

A buzzing came from Julia’s purse. “Excuse me,” she said as she reached into her bag and drew out her cell phone.

Julia paged through to the text message and began reading the short and to-the-point note.

Have a safe flight and a great weekend,

Jo

Julia loved her secretary, an organized yin to her frenetic yang.

She thought of calling Nick to tell him of her plans, but figured he was in the midst of business and didn’t want to disturb him.

And so she settled back in her seat, pulled out a magazine, and indulged herself with a little me-time while waiting for takeoff.

DETECTIVE BOB SHANNON pulled into the driveway of Washington House in his black Mustang Cobra, his single indulgence in life. He didn’t play golf, didn’t fish, wasn’t much for cards, but he’d loved muscle cars since he was a kid, and with no wife to talk him out of it, he bought the ’99 used Shelby Cobra for $38,800, keeping its black finish factory new with a weekly buff and polish.

Dance, Brinehart, Randall, Arilio, and Sam turned in surprise as he got out of the car.

“Guys,” Shannon said with a nod as he walked toward them.

“Hey, Shannon,” Brinehart said, acting as if they were best friends.

Shannon ignored him, keeping his full attention on Dance.

“I thought you were at the station,” Dance said, “following up on the arrest of those kids from the Bronx who got caught jacking cars over on Wampus Lake Drive.”

“Yeah, well. I got a call.”

Everyone turned to watch as Nick stepped out of the passenger seat, staring back at everyone.

“You guys responded, too, huh?” Shannon continued.

Dance just stared at him.

“The robbery…?” Shannon said, pointing out the reason for his visit.

“Yeah,” Brinehart blurted out, to the consternation of Dance.

“This guy,” Shannon thumbed his finger back at Nick as he cast his eyes on the young Brinehart. “He called you, too?”

Brinehart knew better than to make the same mistake twice.

“… Because the robbery wasn’t mentioned over the radio.”

The air grew thick. All eyes focused on Dance, who just stood there without a hint of emotion on his face.

“I want to know what the hell is going on,” Shannon said, an edge growing in his voice, the tendons in his neck distending as he fought to hold back his anger.

“Who’s this guy?” Brinehart said, alluding to Nick.

“Never mind that,” Shannon snapped at Brinehart as his eyes bored into Dance. “Answer my question, Ethan, what are you doing here?”

Dance looked at Brinehart and Randall, who remained calm, while Sam adjusted his sunglasses, taking a step back against the building, trying to disappear.

“Who are you?” Shannon said, glaring at Sam.

“I’m-” Sam stuttered, his hands shaking.

Brinehart walked around Nick, standing directly behind him. “And who are you?”

Brinehart’s arm shot out, snatching the pistol from the back of Nick’s waistband. “What the hell is this? You a cop?”

Shannon looked at the gun and back to Nick. “You didn’t tell me you were armed.”

“Considering the day I’ve had,” Nick said, “I thought it was a good idea.”

“Dance,” Shannon turned back to his partner. “This guy said you’re here to steal, let me see if I remember this: four gold swords, two rapiers, three sabers, five daggers, three guns, a bag of diamonds, and,” he paused, “some kind of box.”

Everyone remained silent.

“Look,” Shannon softened his tone. “You haven’t done anything yet, why don’t you get in your cars, get out of here, and we’ll forget about this?”

“You the type that would rat on a fellow officer?” Brinehart interrupted.

“You’ve been a cop for what, a year? Please. Don’t give me this blue code of silence shit.” He turned back to Dance. “Ethan, what the hell are you doing?”

Dance stared for a moment, all ears waiting on him.

“You might forget, but he won’t,” Dance said, pointing a finger at Nick.

Dance suddenly pulled his pistol and shoved it into Shannon’s gut.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Shannon exploded, not bothering to look at the gun. “Put that thing away before I shove it down your throat, dammit. I’m your cousin.”

And without breaking eye contact, Dance pulled the trigger.

The bullet ripped into Shannon’s stomach, knocking him back.

But Shannon didn’t go down. He took three steps forward and grabbed Dance by the neck, slamming him against the building, choking the life out of him.

And Dance shot him again in the gut.

This time Shannon teetered on wobbly legs, stumbling backward, finally collapsing.

Dance’s cohorts swung their heads, looking for witnesses.

Nick stood there in shock, watching the life bleed out of Shannon.

“That’s great,” Brinehart’s voice cracked. “You just killed a cop. In front of a witness, no less.”

“Cuff him,” Dance said, pointing his gun at Nick.

“You going to kill him, too?” Sam finally said, his voice panicked.

Dance walked over to Nick and pulled out his wallet, reading his license. “So, Mr. Quinn, how’d you know what was going on here?”

“Quinn?” Sam said. “That’s the name of Hennicot’s lady attorney. Are you going to kill him?”

“Why would I kill a suspect? We’ve got someone connected to this place to pin this on now. Killing a cop’s a capital offense,” Dance said as he looked at Nick, patting his cheek in a taunting fashion. “Sucks for you.”

JULIA WATCHED AS the stewardess pulled the cabin door closed and turned the crank, sealing them in.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have now closed the cabin door and ask that all cell phones and pagers be turned off for the duration of our flight. You must also turn off all electronic devices until such time as we are airborne and give the direction that you may resume using them.”

Julia quickly dialed Nick’s phone. Finding it going directly to voicemail she quickly spoke. “Hi, honey. I love you. I’m sorry about our fight over having dinner with the Mullers. Not to worry, if you really feel strongly, I’ll cancel them. I’ve got something better planned. Just us. I’m running up to Boston for a quick meeting. Sorry I didn’t tell you that-”

“-I’m sorry, ma’am,” the stewardess interrupted as she leaned down. “The cabin doors are closed, all cell phones must be turned off.”

“Sorry,” Julia mouthed. “Honey, I have to go, I love you. I’ll call you when we land.”

Julia ended the call. “Sorry about that.”

“I never fly without squeezing one last call to my husband either,” the stewardess said. She smiled and headed to the galley.

Julia couldn’t wait to see the surprise on Nick’s face when she told him about the baby.

And she turned off her cell phone, tucking it back into her purse. She put her head back against the soft leather seat, her thoughts still on her husband as she closed her eyes for a quick nap.

“PUT THEM BOTH in the back of my car,” Dance said. Brinehart and Arilio opened the door of Dance’s Taurus and hoisted the body of Robert Shannon into the backseat. Brinehart turned to Nick, his hands cuffed behind his back, and took him by the arm.

“Better yet, Brinehart, you stay out here, keep an eye out.” Dance took Nick by the arm. “Why don’t you just come with us and smile for the cameras.”

Sam turned to the door and slipped his key in the lock. “We’re four minutes behind schedule.”

“And we’ll be five minutes behind if you don’t quit jabbering. I really don’t give a shit, everyone will have to work twice as fast.”

They all pulled on surgical gloves.

“Don’t forget our new partner,” Dance said, handing Nick off to Sam.

“Yeah, right.” Sam said, pushing Nick up next to the door. “For all the world to see.”

Sam hoisted the two duffel bags onto his shoulder, ran his security pass over the scanner, turned the key, and opened the door. He pulled a small box from his bag, a clear red half dome atop it. He flicked a switch on its side and affixed it to the wall. He moved quickly through the house to the whitewashed wood veneer door. He affixed another box to the kitchen counter, flipped the switch, and gave out a low whistle.

Everyone came in behind him.

Again, Sam passed his security card by the side of the door where the scanner was concealed, releasing the magna lock. He pulled back what he knew was a three-inch steel core barrier that led to a brightly lit set of carpeted stairs, the walls covered in a pale green fleur-de-lis wallpaper.

Sam took Nick by the arm, leading him along, ensuring his face was prominently displayed to the hidden camera in the stairwell wall, while shielding himself.

“Wait until I have the door opened and the cameras disabled,” Sam said to Dance, Randall, and Arilio, holding them up at the top of the stairs.

Sam and Nick arrived at the basement door, made of brushed steel and lacking doorknobs or hinges. Nick knew it well, having passed through it several hours ago his time but several hours in the future for everyone else.

Sam pulled the octagonal key from his pocket and triple-checked that the letter D was on top.

“Make sure the letter D is on top or we may not only get locked out but locked in,” Nick said with a smile.

“How the hell did you know that?” Sam shouted at Nick. You could hear the fear in his voice.

“Lucky guess,” Nick said. “But before your friend Dance catches up, you may want to know that he’s going to kill you. I know he’s going to dump Brinehart and Arilio in the reservoir.”

“You think I trust Dance? You think I haven’t already taken steps to protect myself?”

“And how will you protect yourself from your brother, Paul? He knows what’s going on.”

“That’s how you know everything. You work for him, don’t you?” Sam was getting angry. “Don’t you?”

“Actually, he hasn’t met me yet. Wouldn’t know my name or face if he was standing in front of me.”

“What the hell are the two of you talking about?” Dance shouted from the top of the stairs. “Time’s ticking. We’ve only got ten minutes.”

Sam slipped the key into the octagonal lock, the letter D on top, as Nick had said. He entered his brother’s Social Security number in the keypad on the wall, ran the security pass three times by the card reader, turned the key, and pushed open the two-ton door.

Sam knew there was a breach alarm on the steel vault door for unscheduled openings; he knew that it didn’t go to the police as most alarms did, but rather, signaled Dreyfus Security and Hennicot’s attorney. But by the time they were notified and reacted, he would already be gone.

Sam had actually read all of the schematics on the breach alarm and knew how to disable it. It was, in fact, quite simple to take out of service. But the breach alarm was not just for notification, it was also the trigger for the secondary protocols. Not only were the video feeds routed to Hennicot’s attorney’s office, but the secondary cameras not on any grid or plan were activated, their images sent to an encrypted file-cameras whose location he knew and would avoid but that would now capture Dance and his men as they came down the stairs.

It was his insurance policy, the leverage he would use when Dance turned on him. He knew there was no honor among thieves, and the warning, uttered by Quinn, that Dance would kill everyone, was no surprise to him. It merely confirmed a fear he had lived with for the last month and a betrayal that he had prepared for. But it was fear he could live with, a risk he was willing to take in order to get the box in Hennicot’s safe.

“Okay, Dance,” Sam said.

And the detective, Randall, and Arilio came down the stairs to stand in the small vestibule next to Nick.

AS THE STEEL vault door swung open, Nick saw the large glass table prominently displayed, its glass top pure, unmarred-not violated, as it had been when he saw it five hours from now. Within the case he saw the swords and daggers, the rapiers and sabers, and most specifically, the gold-inlaid Colt Peacemaker that would be used to kill Julia.

With his surgical-gloved hand, Sam pulled four more small boxes from his duffel bags, half-moon, red glass domes on each. He spun Nick around. “Hold this,” he said as he placed one of the boxes in Nick’s restrained hands. “Fingerprints can be so telling.”

“Nice touch,” Dance said with a smile.

“Wait here,” Sam continued, as if Nick were capable of doing otherwise in his handcuffed state, with three armed men standing around him.

Sam took the box back from Nick, flipped the switches on the sides of the boxes, and ran into the room, affixing a box on the wall opposite the door before running off through the basement area.

Thirty seconds later he was back. “Let’s go, all cameras jammed.”

Dance and his men grabbed Nick and pulled him into the room with them.

Sam dumped his two bags on the floor and extracted a large metal bar with an attached suction cup, which he affixed to the large center case where the weapons were displayed. He affixed a matchbox-sized square box to the right inner leg of the display. The small device generated electromagnetic interference, impeding the case’s alarm system.

Dance and his men surrounded the case, watching as Sam set to work, etching a circle in the glass, moving the diamond-tipped bar in a wide arc.

Nick couldn’t help laughing as he stared at the $80 million Monet on the wall behind Dance. The single picture of water lilies, even on the black market, could provide them with more wealth than they could imagine, far more than the items in this single case.

Sam continued cutting the glass. Holding the suction cup, he tapped along the etched area and lifted out the large clear circle.

“Dance, you and your men fill those two duffel bags. Use the towels to wrap the items so they don’t scratch each other.”

“What, no pressure switches under them?” Dance asked.

“Don’t be an idiot.” Sam looked at him as if he was a child. “What do you think the box I just stuck on the leg does? Its small pulse disables the magnetic pressure switches.” He grabbed Nick by the arm and headed down the hall.

“Where are you going?” Dance called out.

“Diamonds,” Sam replied.

SAM RACED INTO Shamus’s office as if he had been there a thousand times, even though this was his first. He pushed Nick into the corner as he affixed a red-domed box to the center of the desk and switched on the desk lamp. He picked up the Tiffany-style lamp in his gloved hand, spun Nick around, and placed it against his hands, cuffed behind his back. He put it back in place on the leather desk top and spun Nick back around to face him.

“Just in case they need some extra physical evidence at your trial.”

“Thanks,” Nick said. “Too bad you won’t live to see it.”

Ignoring Nick’s jab, Sam turned, faced the dark walnut wall, and ran the security card over the left corner of the desk. There was a barely perceptible click. He walked up to the wall, placed his hand against it, and gave a gentle push, and the hidden door swung inward on whisper hinges.

“Wait here,” Sam said with a laugh, picking up the last domed box. “Not that you’d get past Dance and his men.”

“Let me know if you need help with the safe,” Nick said, leaning against the desk.

Sam ignored him and stepped over the threshold, affixing the last box to the wall. The small, unfinished room was made of concrete. The three lights hanging from the ceiling lit the two Harris safes.

Sam looked at his watch. They had less than five minutes before the disabled cameras in the parking lot set off an alarm.

He removed his Ray-Bans, tucked them into his pocket, and crouched before the four-foot safe on the right. He grasped the brass flywheel and spun it right, three times around, to clear the pins. On the fourth spin he slowed and stopped at 64, spinning it back around to the left a full turn before halting at 88, then back around right to 0 and finally left to 90.

As if he had done it hundreds of times, Sam grasped the brass handle, turned it with confidence, and pulled open the large steel door.

And as the light poured into the confines of the safe, he saw it sitting there in all of its simple glory. Constructed of Shamus Hennicot’s favorite wood, the dark African mahogany was like arboreal gold in its shining luster. The box was two feet by two feet by one foot high, the lid, two inches thick at the almost-imperceptible seam. The interior hinges at the rear were to prevent compromise while each of the three other sides contained a single keyhole. They were not key locks in the traditional sense, but rather three octagonal steel holes, similar to the steel door lock he just breached two minutes earlier.

Sam pulled the octagonal key from his pocket, quickly trying it, but it was too large. He stuffed the key back into his pocket; he’d worry about breaching the wooden case later.

He opened the small drawer on the top left side of the safe and pulled out a large velvet pouch. He quickly untied the pull string, verifying the contents, seeing the explosion of rainbows as the light played off the faceted surfaces of hundreds of large diamonds. He pulled the string tight and stuffed the pouch into his pocket.

And that’s when he saw the note, affixed to the interior of the safe door. He couldn’t understand how he’d missed it. The five-by-seven sheet of plain white stationery might as well have been a time bomb.

Sam couldn’t figure out how it got there, how he had known. He thought he’d felt a presence when he’d come in but had shrugged it off to his raw nerves.

Sam took hold of the box, lifting it out of the safe, surprised at its weight, at least twenty-five pounds. He snatched the note from the safe door and read the single sentence one more time-Please consider what you’re doing, you know where I’ll be waiting-and crumpled it up in anger.

DANCE LIFTED OUT each sword, each dagger, each rapier and saber, inspecting each piece before passing it to Arilio, who wrapped them in separate towels before placing them in the duffel bag. Made of pure gold, the hilt of each sword was a jewel-encrusted masterpiece of sapphires, rubies, and emeralds.

The buyer for the haul was a man of Chinese and Japanese descent, an avid collector who was said to be worth billions. His agent would take delivery at nine o’clock this evening, paying $20 million for the collection, an amount four times more than Dance had told his partners, including Sam Dreyfus. Each thought he’d get one million in cash and all were happy about it-though only Randall and Sam Dreyfus would actually live to collect. And with the diamonds that Dreyfus was getting, Dance’s take would be over $20 million: one million for Rukaj and nineteen to enable him to slip out of Byram Hills forever.

He pulled out the three pistols: an 1840 Smith & Wesson, an 1872 Colt Peacemaker, and a 1789 Belatoro. All were custom-made, fully functional, with gold and silver stylings along the stock, engravings around the handle, and religious text and scripture imbued upon the barrel. Dance grabbed a handful of silver-etched bullets, bullets whose owners had ordered them etched with curses, blasphemous imprecations against the victims and their gods, each personalized with the name of the intended target, the enemy it would shoot through the heart.

As Dance handed the last pistol to Arilio, he realized that Shannon’s description of what he had just put into the bag was spot-on. The exact count of swords, daggers, guns. Shannon had even mentioned the diamonds. It was as if he had found a shopping list and recited it from memory.

Sam and Nick emerged from the hallway into the open area by the now empty case. With Nick’s hands behind his back, Sam pushed him along while carrying an awkward box under his other arm.

“Put the bags in the trunk of my car and hurry back,” Dance said to Arilio and Randall.

He stared at Sam and the mahogany box under his arm, thought a moment… “And you know what?” Dance turned and looked at Nick. “Take this guy, lock him in the back of my car with Shannon, tell Brinehart to keep an eye on him.”

Arilio threw the two bags over his shoulder while Randall took Nick by the arm and disappeared out the brushed-steel doorway.

Finally alone, Dance stepped closer to Sam. “What’s in the box?”

“Here you go,” Sam said, handing him the large pouch of diamonds.

Dance pulled open the black velvet satchel and looked at the pile of diamonds, more than he had ever seen in all of his years. He poured a small pile into the palm of his hand, flicking them about with his forefinger. They were even larger than he had expected, two, three, four, and five carat. Perfect clarity. He and Sam had underestimated the haul from the safe. With what looked to be over two hundred such stones, he was thinking they more than doubled their estimate of $22 million.

“I think we’ll be making a bit more than you had thought,” Dance marveled.

“I didn’t realize there would be that many,” Sam said.

“You never mentioned anything about a box either,” Dance said with a smile as he looked up at Sam, though his eyes said something different. “Now that I think about, Shannon did mention something about a box.”

“It’s mine,” Sam said.

“What is it?” Dance asked as he poured the diamonds back into the pouch that he held tightly in his left hand. “You’re not trying to take an uneven share, are you, Sam?”

Sam stared at him with nervous eyes.

“Sam…?”

“It’s Hennicot’s-”

“-this is all Hennicot’s.” Dance interrupted as he waved his hand around at the room.

“It was in the safe. It’s trade secrets, papers, and things.”

“Do you mind?” Dance pointed at the box.

Sam couldn’t help being intimidated by Dance. He had been from the start, but was even more so now after seeing him gun down his own partner in cold blood. He reluctantly handed Dance the box.

“Heavy,” Dance said in surprise, needing two hands to hold it. “Too heavy for a couple pieces of paper. What is it really? Gold, more diamonds?”

“No, nothing of the sort.”

“Well, I want half of whatever is in here.” Dance lifted the box. “We won’t split it with the others, but I want my half.”

“We’ve got to go,” Sam said, looking at his watch. “We’ve only got four minutes.”

“When you tell me what’s in the box,” Dance said, positioning himself between Sam and the exit.

Sam remained silent, figuratively boxed into a corner. His eyes darted about, his brow growing moist. “Look, I’ll give you my share of everything, the diamonds, the antiques.”

And it was the worst thing Sam could have said, his words confirming the value of what he held.

“You’re choosing box number one over everything we just took?” Dance said in shock.

Sam nodded.

“I don’t want your share,” Dance said. “You earned it. I just want to make sure no one is trying to screw me out of a few extra dollars.”

“I’m not trying to screw you.”

“Are you working with your brother?”

“What?” Sam said in shock.

“Is he picking you up, you going to try and run out on me?”

“Yeah right, I would steal all the info on everything down here from him and then call him for a ride.”

“Let me see your cell phone.” Dance held out his hand.

“You know, you’re getting paranoid,” Sam said as he took his phone out of his pocket and handed it to him.

“Not paranoid, just cautious. I don’t want you calling him to pick you up somewhere.”

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“Why don’t you open the box and show me what’s inside? Then we can see how ridiculous I am.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“I don’t have the keys here. Look,” Sam said, pleading, “It’s worthless.”

“To everyone but you and Hennicot.” Dance laid the box on a side table, turning it about, looking at the three keyholes. “An awful lot of odd locks for something of so little value.”

Sam stood there playing mental chess with Dance.

“Why don’t you just tell me the truth?” Dance said as he pulled out his gun, holding it at his side.

“If I’m dead, you’ll never get this box open. And understand something,” Sam said with growing confidence. “If I’m dead, you won’t know how to erase the backup security system that recorded your face.”

Dance raised his pistol. “What the hell did you do?”

“Let me show you something.” Sam led Dance to the steel vault door and motioned him to step into the small area at the base of the stairs.

“Look up,” Sam said as Dance stepped into the small foyer.

Dance looked at the wall, at the fleur-de-lis wallpaper on it. He tilted his head up at the crown molding in the corner of the ceiling and, with a jump in his heart, he saw it. It was small, looking like a seam in the wallpaper where it met the molding, but there was no mistaking the minuscule lens.

“The camera is pointed right at the top of the stairs. It’s not on any plan. It goes to a security file in Hennicot’s attorneys’ office, but this lone camera, its digital video file is encrypted. The code to view it or destroy it is only known by Hennicot, my brother, and myself. A pretty good idea, a safeguard against an inside job. All Hennicot’s attorney has to do is forward it to Hennicot, Paul, or me and we can open it for all the world’s viewing pleasure. They’ll see your face and Arilio’s and Randall’s.”

“And yours,” Dance said concealing his emotions as he pointed his gun at Sam.

“Actually, just Quinn’s. I knew the camera was there, so I just kept my face out of range when it kicked on.”

Dance glared through the doorway at Sam.

“Remember this,” Sam said. “I’m the only one who can get close to those files and ensure that no one sees them. But if we have a problem…”

Dance walked back into the fortified basement.

“Enjoy your proceeds from this job,” Sam said. “Enjoy my proceeds, but the box is mine.”

Randall and Arilio came back down the stairs and into the room.

“What’s up with the gun?” Randall asked.

Dance and Sam ignored the question.

“Grab the glass cutter and take the piece of glass with us,” Dance said to them, pointing at the tools on the ground. And don’t take off your gloves until we have disposed of it.”

“We’re running late, we’ve got less than two minutes before the system alarm for the nonfunctioning cameras goes off,” Sam said. He looked at Dance. “And I’ve still got to take care of the primary video server.”

“Fine, let’s go,” Dance said. “But you know what? You lead the way out.”

Arilio and Randall looked between the two, not comprehending what was going on.

“If your face was covered by Quinn on the way in, it won’t be on the way out,” Dance said, pointing his gun at Sam. “And don’t forget our box.”

Sam looked at the gun. With shaky hands, he picked up the box and walked out the door. Randall and Arilio fell in line behind him.

“You two, hold up,” Dance said. “Let him go first.”

Sam stepped through the brushed-steel doorway.

“Sam, I hope you realize that I don’t care about your threats, I don’t care if my face is on some security video, I’d just as soon shoot you in the back for the hell of it and leave you here to take the blame as the mastermind behind this crime. A crime I caught you in the middle of.” Dance waved his gun, motioning Sam to head up.

Sam walked up the fifteen steps and stopped at the top.

“Now, Sam,” Dance said, pointing his gun straight at him. “Please turn around and smile.”

And Sam did, looking right at the spot where the small hidden camera was. “What a team we make, huh?” Dance said.

Sam smiled back at Dance.

It took a moment for Dance to realize that Sam’s smile wasn’t forced, it was genuine. But before Dance could get two steps up the stairs Sam stepped through the door at the top of the stairs and slammed the three-inch metal door closed with a floor-shaking thud, the magna lock instantly catching, sealing them in.

SAM RAN TO the pantry of the kitchen, ripped open the door, slipped the octagonal key in the slot, and pushed open the hidden door panel to reveal the air-conditioned computer room.

The rack mount server contained four individual hard drives. Each pop-and-lock unit had five hundred gigabytes of memory, enough space to record five days’ worth of video.

He inserted a cable into the PC port. With his knife he stripped the other end and jammed the bare wires directly into a wall socket. Designed with a surge protector to guard against electrical spikes and breakers to guard against lightning, the fail-safes all guarded the primary power source and communication cables into the system. There was nothing to stop the destructive force of the 110 volts as they poured through the PC cable directly into the circuits.

Within seconds, the mainframe began sparking, smoke rolling out of the media bays. With the system fried, he unplugged the cable from the wall before a fire started. He might have stooped to stealing, but he could justify his actions in the end. On the other hand, murder and arson weren’t part of his vocabulary.

Using his knife, he popped out the four cooked hard drives, placed them atop the mahogany box, and picked it up. He closed the hidden panel in the pantry, closed the door, and raced out through the kitchen, bursting out the back door into the parking lot.

“We done?” Brinehart asked.

“Success,” Sam said, hiding his nerves as he looked at the young cop.

“Wow.” Brinehart broke out in a big smile. “That was easy.”

Sam walked straight for Shannon’s Mustang, finding the driver’s-side door still open and the keys still in the ignition as he’d hoped. He threw the box and hard drives in the passenger seat.

“Hey,” Brinehart called out. “Dance decide where you’re going to put Shannon’s Mustang?”

Sam turned to see Brinehart leaning against Dance’s beat-up Taurus, Nick’s face staring at him through the rear window.

“You’ve got to admit, Shannon had good taste in cars,” Brinehart said as he walked toward Sam.

“Yeah,” Sam replied as he climbed into the driver’s seat, glad that Brinehart hadn’t taken the keys. Sam checked under the seat, in the door pouches, and finally found what he was searching for in the glove compartment. He knew Dance carried two guns and was glad his partner, Shannon, had chosen to follow the same path by sticking a backup nine-millimeter in the glove compartment.

“So we’re done?” Brinehart asked, continuing his approach.

Sam turned the key. The three-fifty engine growled to life as if awakened from a long sleep. He gripped the pistol tightly and felt a warm feeling of safety course through him as he tucked the gun in his waistband. He hit the gas, threw the car into first, and popped the clutch. The wheels spun wildly as the Shelby engine roared, launching the car out of the parking lot.

“Oh, yeah, we’re done,” Sam said to himself.

DANCE CHARGED UP the stairs, ramming his shoulder into the three-inch steel fire door. Not only did it not budge, but it made no sound as his two-hundred-pound body bounced off its thick surface.

“Son of a bitch,” Dance said, aiming his gun at the door.

“Whoa, whoa,” Randall shouted, “the ricochet will kill you.”

Dance began shaking violently in frustration and charged down the stairs. He ran through the vault door and from room to room, frantically looking for a way out, through the storage room, the conference room, and to Hennicot’s elegant office looking for an alternative exit for emergencies, such as the one they were in right now.

As he was about to exit the office, he saw the white crumpled-up piece of paper on the floor, a piece of debris in one of the cleanest spaces he had ever seen. He picked it up, quickly read it, stuffed it into his pocket, and ran back out front.

“What if we set off the sprinkler system,” Arilio said as he pulled out his lighter. “I bet you it releases the door. I can guarantee, Hennicot wouldn’t want one of his employees to get accidentally cooked down here.”

“Put that away,” Dance said. He pointed to the flat metal disks interspersed throughout the ceiling. “It’s a Halon system to protect the valuables. They don’t want water getting on anything. You set it off in here, we’ll choke and pass out. Besides, it calls the Fire Department, you fool. Any other bright ideas?”

“Well,” Randall said, “the door’s magnetically sealed, on a battery backup. I’m sure cutting the power won’t work.”

“Thanks for pointing out the obvious, moron,” Dance said.

“Ahhh,” Randall said in an all-knowing tone.

“What?” Dance asked, seeing hope bloom in Randall’s eyes.

“We just need to turn off the magnet, interrupt the flow of electricity,” he said, walking over to the display case and snatching the small box off the leg. He ran straight for the stairs and headed up, Dance and Arilio two steps behind.

He affixed the box to the top of the door upon the magnetic plate and without fanfare, without a sound, the door slipped open.

THE AS 300 sat on the tarmac waiting for takeoff, already fifteen minutes behind schedule. There had been no update since the announcement that they would be briefly delayed. Rumors circulated that they wouldn’t be leaving due to a mechanical problem and would need to change planes. A murmur of disappointment grew among those heading off for vacation, those heading home, those who would be missing business meetings and doctor appointments. But that scenario seemed unlikely as there were three planes ahead of them awaiting clearance to depart and a growing number behind them entering the queue.

Julia thought about quietly checking her phone for messages but didn’t want to break FAA rules and end up having to explain herself.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, good morning. My name is Kip Ulrich, I’ll be your captain on our short flight to Boston. As you have probably realized, we are a little backed up this morning, but I assure you it’s not mechanical difficulties or weather holding us back. Today our delay is a rather cute, four-legged animal. If you are on the left side of the plane, you can see him. Maybe give him a little wave.”

Julia and Katherine looked outside to see a yellow Labrador running wildly about the tarmac, four ground-crew members frantically chasing him.

“I can pretty much assure you, ladies and gentlemen, that the chase is nearing its end, as I’ve just been told a mechanic is en route with a nice juicy steak. We’ll be under way shortly.”

Julia smiled at Katherine. They both took one more look at the running Lab before closing their eyes to await takeoff.

NICK SAT IN the backseat of Dance’s car next to Shannon’s body, his blood-soaked corpse propped against the window, strapped in by a seat belt as if it was some sick joke. Nick struggled against his cuffs, but with each subtle movement, Brinehart banged against the window in a threatening manner, thinking he was a tough guy on the cusp of wealth and success; he had no idea he’d be dead in three hours, tossed from a bridge by his mentor.

Nick couldn’t believe the cold detachment in Dance’s eyes as he shot his own cousin without a moment’s hesitation. He knew without ever having seen it that it was the same cold stare he’d fixed on Julia as he killed her.

Just then, Dance burst from the building, howling like a madman. He raced across the parking lot as Randall and Arilio came out behind him. Dance grabbed Brinehart by the collar, slammed him against the car, and threw him aside. There was an animal-like rage in him as he tore open the door and jumped into the driver’s seat.

He started the car, gunned the engine, and raced out of the driveway of Washington House, turning onto Maple Avenue. Nick found himself pressed up against Shannon’s body as the car fishtailed out of the turn, only to be thrown to the other side as Dance made the left onto Route 22.

Nick watched a bead of sweat rise on Dance’s temple as he snatched up his police radio.

“Hey, Lena?” Dance said, with a false mirth in his voice, a false smile on his face to match his deception.

“Hey, Dance,” the static-filled voice answered back.

“Shannon’s radio is on the fritz and I can’t raise him on his cell. We were supposed to meet this morning but I don’t have the address.”

“Hold on.” Lena laughed. “He’s on 684.”

“Love that GPS stuff.”

“It’s for finding you guys when you’re in trouble so we can send backup, not for when you forget to write things down.”

“What direction is he going?”

“South-no, wait, he just got off at the airport. You two flying away for a romantic weekend?”

“Ooo, you caught us.” The lies flowed so easily from Dance. “Want to come along?”

“Yeah,” she said facetiously. “He’s heading over to the private air terminal. Now some of us have real work to do. And Dance, next time write it down.”

“Thanks, Lena.”

Nick was tossed about on the backseat as Dance pushed the Taurus to the limit, hopping onto U.S. 684, bobbing and weaving through traffic, over 110 miles per hour, lights flashing, sirens blaring as he raced two miles down the interstate and exited at the airport. He turned left and swerved in and out of oncoming traffic, as if the world would part for his approach.

Dance’s phone rang. He flipped it open and answered. “Yeah.”

“Detective,” the thick Albanian accent filled the car through Dance’s speakerphone. The voice made Nick’s skin crawl.

“How many times a day are you going to call?” Dance yelled, but Nick could sense the detective’s anger-filled voice was mixed with fear, an emotion he had not yet seen in Dance. And it wasn’t just subtle fear, it was panic, a dread bordering on terror.

“I’m a generous man,” the foreign voice said. “You should consider it a favor that you’re still alive. Two extensions you’ve received, there will not be any more. Perhaps you’d like to start paying me in more body parts.”

“I said you would have it by Friday.”

The entrance to the airport loomed ahead.

“Yes, I know,” the Albanian said. “It is Friday.”

Dance slammed the phone closed and stuffed it back into his pocket. Blinded by anger, he punched the accelerator and tore off toward the private air terminal.

SAM DREYFUS DROVE into the open tarmac field where thirty different planes were parked, Pipers, Lear Jets, Cessnas, Hondas-A parking lot for the literal jet set.

He drove directly to the white Cessna 400 where his brother Paul was standing, skidded to a stop, and leaped from the car.

“What the hell is going on?” Sam yelled.

“Took the words right out of my mouth,” Paul said, shaking his head. “After everything I’ve done for you, after everything you said this past year. I really thought you had become human, gained a heart.”

“From the lips of God,” Sam said. And though his words were sarcastic, there was pain in his voice.

“You’re always looking for a fight.”

“Do you realize the wealth contained in here?” Sam pulled the mahogany box from the front seat of the car. “Do you realize what we could do with this?”

“Why do you say we? That word has never existed in your vocabulary. You always wanted the easy way, the lazy way, getting angry at the world when it didn’t provide for you.”

“You left me a fucking note, Please consider what you’re doing, you know where I’ll be waiting. Was it to fuck with me or do you want a piece of this now?” Sam held out the box.

“I wanted you to think how easy it is to catch you.”

“You knew exactly what I was doing. You could have called the cops-”

“Seems you already did that.”

“Why would you leave the box if you knew I’d take it? You thought a little note could change my mind?”

“Sam.” Paul stared at his brother with disappointment. “You’ve never done anything like this. Give me the box. Let me try to make things right.”

“What, are you crazy?” Sam exploded. “You’re not taking this from me.”

“No one ever needs to know you were involved, there’s still time.”

“Time for what?” Sam railed against his brother. “You think you can make this all go away? You think you can just erase the robbery? Make the others give all those golden knives, swords, and guns back? I don’t think they’d be too keen on returning the diamonds.” Sam laughed. “You truly are a golden boy, aren’t you? All your life thinking only in absolutes, black and white. Well, Paul, the world’s a messy place. And you know, you’re right, I spent my life thinking the world owed me something, that I should be provided, for but you taught me the truth. We have to take what we want, snatch it before someone else does.”

Out of nowhere, bullets erupted around them, tearing up the ground, ricocheting off the planes and cars. They turned to see Dance running at them, his police-issue nine-millimeter Glock pointing straight at Sam.

Sam and Paul dove out of the line of fire, taking refuge behind a large Cessna Caravan, the low underbelly and thick fuselage of the converted freight carrier providing perfect cover.

“Give me the keys to your plane,” Sam yelled as he knelt on the ground.

“What? You haven’t flown in twenty years. It’s not mechanical gauges and meters anymore, it’s a glass cockpit. This thing is more complicated than any puddle jumper or computer you ever touched.”

“Up, down, left, right.” Sam pulled Shannon’s extra gun from his waistband and aimed it at his brother. “Keys, please.”

“You’re going to kill yourself,” Paul said, ignoring the pistol.

“Maybe.” Sam peered around the nose of the plane. Dance was sixty yards away and fast approaching. “But I’m not going allow anyone else to have that pleasure.”

Sam jammed the gun against his brother’s heart. There was no fear in Paul’s eyes, no tremble of panic or alarm, there was just a profound sadness, a disappointment that the brother he had thought he could reason with, the brother whom he had never stopped loving, could even consider taking his life.

“You really want to leave Susan a widow?” Sam barked. “What about your daughters, would you trade a pair of keys so they could have you in their life for twenty more years?”

Against his better judgment, Paul reached into his pocket, pulled out his keys, and handed them to his brother.

Sam tucked the box under his arm, checked the clip in his gun, and ran. The Cessna was only thirty yards away, pointed out at the access road, ready to fly. He sprinted as fast as a forty-nine-year-old could, his lungs huffing from a lifetime of cigarettes.

Dance had cut the distance by half and the bullets began to ring out in one-second intervals like clockwork.

Sam pushed with everything he had; he would make it. He would escape this town and this murderous cop, and once airborne, he was home free. The three locks on the mahogany box would take time, maybe months, but he had the basic plans from Paul’s files. There was no doubt in his mind that he would breach the case, and once he did…

He was just five yards from the plane when the bullet hit him in the side, a tearing, searing pain that knocked him from his feet, sending him headfirst toward the ground. And as his forehead hit the black tarmac, the box tumbled from his hands, bouncing end over end under the Cessna 400.

SEEING SAM DREYFUS across the field with his brother Paul, standing next to a bevy of planes, the mahogany box tucked under his arm, Dance lost himself in his rage and stormed from his car, pulling his gun from his holster and raising it to take down the man who had betrayed him.

But in his rage he had left Nick alone in the back of the Taurus.

With his hands cuffed behind his back, Nick quickly tucked his knees to his chest and pulled his cuffed wrists down and under his rear, pulling his legs through his arms, thankful that swimming and workouts had kept him limber. He reached over with his bound hands to Shannon’s body. The blood was thick and caked within his shirt, no longer flowing out, as his heart had stopped almost a half hour earlier. Nick fumbled in Shannon’s pockets and found the cuff key. Pulling it out and inserting it in his restraints, he freed himself.

He grabbed Shannon’s pistol, the Austrian-made nine-millimeter Glock, checked the butt of the gun, and found the magazine clip missing. He pulled back the chamber and found it empty. He tipped Shannon’s body over, looking for more clips on his belt, but they were gone. Brinehart wasn’t that stupid. He hadn’t put Nick in the car with a dead man and a loaded weapon.

Nick took the gun anyway and smashed the butt against the window, shattering it. Sweeping the pieces of safety glass away, he climbed through the window, opened the front door of the car, and popped the trunk.

He ran around to the back of the car and tore open the duffel bags. He pulled the towels out, dumping the exotic weapons on the trunk floor-swords and daggers, rapiers and… guns.

He picked up the elaborately engraved, gold-inlaid Colt Peacemaker, the one that would be stashed in his garage. He didn’t need to test it, he knew it worked, it was the one that Dance would use in the future to kill Julia if he weren’t stopped now. He spun the cylinder and popped it open. He dug through the bag and saw the silver-etched bullets scattering the bottom. He grabbed a handful, filled the six chambers, tucking the rest in his pocket, slammed the cylinder closed, and took off in an all-out sprint.

Running as fast he could, Nick finally caught sight of Dance standing over the prone, bleeding body of Sam Dreyfus. He pushed himself even harder as he watched Dance lay his gun to the back of the thief’s head execution-style. Without hesitation, Nick raised the gun and fired three shots in quick succession, sending Dance running for cover among the planes and cars.

Nick worked his way closer to Dance, peering around corners and under the planes’ bellies. He was careful to check his back, to check the sides so as not to be caught in an ambush.

He came upon Shannon’s Mustang. Nick slowly looked under the vehicle and saw the feet of the man crouched there in wait, unaware of his position. Nick slowly crept around the car, silently working his way around the back. Then he felt the barrel of a gun at the back of his head.

“Drop the gun,” a voice said. “Hands on top of your head.”

And as Nick complied, dropping the gun, he realized his foolish error. He had never been under fire before and had rushed his conclusion. It wasn’t Dance’s feet he had seen; it hadn’t been Dance he was so cleverly sneaking up on. It was Paul Dreyfus, who had now disappeared to a new location.

Nick slowly turned and looked into Dance’s eyes.

“I can’t tell you how much I wish I had killed you already, but that regret won’t happen again.” Dance’s finger contracted against the trigger, slowly pulling it back when…

Nick’s left hand shot out in a blur, snatching and twisting the gun from Dance’s hand. In a fluid motion, he threw the gun to the side as his right fist came up and exploded into Dance’s jaw. He leaped at him, pummeling him with blow after blow to the face, to the ribs, knocking him to the dusty ground, unloading upon him all of his anger, all of his desire for revenge for everything that Dance had done, for everything that he would do in the coming hours: Julia’s death, Marcus’s death, Paul Dreyfus, Private McManus, his own cousin, Shannon, Dance’s flesh and blood, who had come to Nick’s aid.

Nick would stop it all from happening, he would stop Dance in this moment, it all would end here. He would remove Dance from the future no matter the consequences to himself.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, a cloud of dirt hit his eyes, blinding him, disorienting him. And his head snapped to the side as Dance’s punch caught him in the ear. Again and again, Dance hit with adrenaline-stoked rage. Like a cornered animal he fought back, finally beating Nick onto the ground.

Nick lay there, his head spinning, struggling to move. And before he knew it the gun was once again where it had started: against his head.

“No time for soliloquies,” Dance said, wiping the blood from his face as he wrapped his finger about the trigger.

And the gunfire exploded, the.45-caliber parabellum round hurtling out of the barrel, through the air, and through the side of his skull. Dance stood there momentarily, stunned, nothing but confusion in his head-and the silver bullet.

And Dance fell to the ground dead.

Nick rolled over to see Paul Dreyfus in a crouch, a two-fisted grip on the exotic Colt Peacemaker.

“I was in Nam. A medic,” Dreyfus said with a deep breath. “But I was a hell of a shot.”

WITH A GIANT roar, an AS 300 passenger jet hurtled down the south runway behind Nick and Paul, startling them from the moment, its screaming engines hurling it at over 150 miles per hour, finally lifting it gently into the blue, late-morning sky.

Nick and Dreyfus turned to see Sam hoisting the mahogany box up onto the seat of the Cessna 400. He reached in, hit the primer, then the ignition switch, and the Teledyne Continental engine coughed to life.

Bleeding from his side, Sam turned to face his brother and held up the gun, waving it back and forth between Nick and Paul as he climbed into the small, two-seat Cessna.

“Sam, please,” Dreyfus shouted over the noise of the propeller. Though he still held the large Colt, it dangled unthreatening at his side. “You haven’t flown in years.”

“Don’t you dare tell me what I can and can’t do,” Sam shouted back. “My whole life, that’s all you’ve done, control everything. My job, my paycheck. Life comes so easy for you, Paul-”

“We can work this out,” Dreyfus pleaded at the top of his lungs.

“What the hell are you talking about? I don’t need you anymore,” Sam said as he patted the box.

“You’ll never get it open! It’s a three-inch titanium-core box, that’s what makes it so heavy, the mahogany is just for show. The three locks only work with three specific keys, which must be turned simultaneously.”

“Again, you assume I’m stupid.” Sam took a painful breath, the crimson stain on his shirt growing wider as his face grew ashen. “I’ll figure it out.”

Nick finally stood, realizing what was about to happen.

“You have to stop him,” Nick shouted at Paul as he came to his side.

“Stay out of this,” Paul yelled at Nick without taking his eyes off Sam. “I know what I’m doing.”

“You don’t understand,” Nick pleaded. “If he takes off-”

“He’s my brother, dammit, I don’t know who you are, but I just saved your life, so stay out of this before you get yourself shot.”

Without warning, Sam shot at the tarmac. “I suggest you listen to my brother; he’s never wrong.”

Paul looked at Sam, at the growing wound in his side. He squeezed the exotic gun in his hand out of sheer frustration.

“If you’re going to shoot me, if you want to kill me, now’s the time,” Sam challenged.

Paul Dreyfus dropped the Peacemaker where he stood and took several steps forward.

The two brothers stared at each other, the moment hanging…

“Sam,” Paul said. “Please…?”

Without another word, Sam slammed the door closed, revved the engine of the Cessna, and pulled away from the small field, the plane picking up speed along the small access road.

NICK GRABBED THE Colt off the ground. He spun out the cylinder, grabbed four bullets from his pocket, and refilled the chambers. He took off down the tarmac after the plane and without hesitation, began firing. With his shots going wide, he stopped and took a knee, steadied his aim with two hands, and continued his barrage at the fleeing Cessna.

But after only two more shots, the pistol was twisted from his grasp. Dreyfus stood over him as he threw the pistol into the distant bushes.

“You don’t understand,” Nick shouted at Dreyfus as he raged up into his face. “So many will die.”

“What?” Dreyfus said, dismissing Nick’s statement. “I don’t care what you may think. But he’s still my brother; I’m not going to let someone kill him in cold blood.”

Nick watched the escaping Cessna 400 bounce down the taxiway, swerving onto the runway without clearance, its speed increasing as the tarmac began to run out. Nick had never been a pilot, never professed an understanding of the physical dynamics of lift and how it applied to the wing of a plane, but he knew if Sam’s velocity didn’t increase he would never make it over the fence at the end of the runway.

The Cessna’s nose began to lift as the engine strained, the wheels bouncing up and down. And as horrible a thought as it was, Nick hoped he wouldn’t make it, that he would crash into the fence, that somehow, maybe, one of his bullets had caught the engine. He was not hoping for Sam’s death but rather an interruption of his destiny, an interruption that would save 212 lives.

But then, with a final surge, the Cessna leaped into the sky, clearing the fence by inches. Nick watched it climb at an odd angle, the inexperienced pilot wounded and panicked, desperately trying to control the aircraft, hoping to escape.

And then Nick saw it: The AS 300 was circling back after takeoff, adjusting its heading toward Boston.

JULIA TOOK ONE last look out the window as they flew over the Kensico Reservoir and closed her eyes, hoping to get a quick nap in so she would be rested for what was sure to be one of the most memorable evenings of her and Nick’s sixteen-year relationship.

Without warning the jet tipped hard to the left. Drinks spilled, luggage came crashing out and down from the overhead storage bins, people shrieked in terror, as a collective fear consumed the passengers.

The jet engines screamed, their pitch climbing as they strained, pushing the jet into an unnatural angle of over sixty degrees.

Julia pushed herself back in the seat, her arms pressed tight against the armrests, her fingers clutching the edge in a death grip, holding herself in place as the jet continued to bank hard left.

And she thought of the life within her, unsure whether it was a boy or a girl. All that mattered was it was hers and Nick’s. She wanted to protect it at all costs, knowing that if she was facing imminent death she would offer up her life so the child might live.

Out the window, Julia could see the ground, only a few thousand feet below. She couldn’t breathe; her heart had surely stopped in panic. She turned and saw Jason across the aisle. His face was calm as he pulled out his phone, turning it on, no doubt calling his wife to say good-bye, to tell her that he loved her one more time.

All around her were cries for help, passengers pleading for some divine intervention, begging for somebody to do something, as if the pilot wasn’t doing everything he could to not only save them but save himself.

And then she felt the hand upon hers, it was Katherine’s, a reassuring gesture like the one her mother used to give her when she was frightened. Julia turned and looked into her elderly, wise eyes and saw a peace that contrasted with the terror surrounding them.

“Don’t worry, child,” Katherine said.

And everything slowed-the whine of the jet engines, the screams of the people all fell away as the warmth of Katherine’s loving hand held her.

And Julia glanced out the window once more. She saw the reason for the jet’s evasive actions, the reason everyone was on the brink of a nervous breakdown: A small Cessna was heading right at them. She could clearly see the man flying it, slumped forward. She could see the panic in him as he desperately steered right.

ALL EYES WERE fixed on the skies, the AS 300 banking so hard to the left it appeared to be on the verge of tipping over. The wings of the Cessna wobbled as Sam tried to swerve, but the looming disaster seemed inevitable. Nick could see Paul’s face, his breath held, hoping, praying for a miracle, but Nick knew there would be no miracle.

And though Dance lay dead on the tarmac before him, this was all his fault. He was the one who had sent Sam into a panic, trying to kill him, causing him to run for his life. There was no telling how gravely Sam had been injured, how much blood he was losing, but whether or not the one-inch projectile had lodged in a vital organ or severed a crucial artery, the wound would prove fatal.

Nick had altered fate. Dance had been eliminated from the world, and with the head of the serpent removed, the collective body of his group of corrupt cops would fall. But Nick now realized as he watched the two planes heading for each other that he hadn’t changed fate enough.

Nick watched the tiny Cessna on its intersecting pattern with the enormous AS 300 and knew all hope for the passengers was lost.

And they crashed, the Cessna driving nose-first into the jet. From this distance-the planes a mile up and a mile away-it was like a dragonfly attacking a bird, becoming entangled, but the damage the small craft inflicted on its giant victim was lethal. The jet’s banking left turn uselessly continued, Flight 502 was now inverted from the impact. A small ball of fire erupted as the two aircraft began to tumble down out of the sky like an omen from God. All eyes were fixed on the falling planes.

“Oh, my God,” Dreyfus whispered, crossing himself. He glanced at Nick, realizing what his brother had just done.

Nick could not imagine the panic within the jet. The crash surely did not end the lives of most of the passengers. They were no doubt all alive, trapped in the falling wreckage, knowing they were about to die a death everyone who ever flew feared.

And the twisted metal continued its fall, now tumbling end over end, specks of debris falling out of the back of the plane, specks that Nick knew were live passengers, all of it accelerating toward the ground like a stone at thirty-two feet per second.

A sense of helplessness permeated Nick and Dreyfus. They wished there was something they could do, wished they could reach up and stop it.

And the falling jet, what Nick thought of as a tomb, filled with chaos, filled with the damned, disappeared behind the trees. A fireball erupted, rolling up into the sky hundreds of feet, the volatile jet fuel igniting instantly upon impact. Seconds later, the explosion reverberated, the ground shaking as in an earthquake, like a mortar shell striking the town. Black smoke billowed upward, a beacon for rescuers who would find no one alive.

Nick couldn’t imagine what he would have done if Julia were on that plane. He was oddly thankful, in the face of the loss of so many lives, that she had narrowly escaped death, being called off the jet at the last second as a result of the robbery. Fate was something he couldn’t understand, and though he had briefly touched it, manipulated it, it was something that no one could foresee or control.

The moment hung silently in the air, silent prayers said for the dead.

“How did you…?” Dreyfus looked at Nick but abandoned his question. He finally exhaled, pulling out his cell phone.

Nick followed suit. He needed to hear Julia’s voice. Despite the death of Dance, he needed to tell her that he loved her, that everything was right in the world.

He dialed and found the call going directly to voicemail. He thought about where she could be and remembered she was at Washington House, just now seeing evidence of the robbery.

“Hi, honey, it’s me.” Nick said into the phone. “I just needed to tell you that I love you. I love you with all my heart and soul, with every ounce of my being. I’m sorry we fought this morning, I’m sorry if I upset you, but I was wondering, I know you’re busy with work and all but I’d just love to stop by and see you. I hate that I left you on a sour note, thinking I was mad. Call me when you get this.”

Nick hung up his phone and saw it light up with a message and one missed call. Nicked dialed his voicemail, knowing it was from Julia. She had probably called him as he called her.

Nick listened to her message, their words of love so similar. The warmth of her voice comforted his sorrow-filled mind. He stood there, the phone pressed to his ear as if it was a talisman, a magical link to her. He was so glad she left him the message. But then he heard the stewardess interrupt, telling her that she had to turn off her phone, that the doors were already closed.

And with a gut-wrenching realization, Nick knew what he had done.

Somehow, his actions had interfered with Julia getting off the plane, his delaying the robbery by five minutes had delayed the text message to her. She never heard about the break-in, she never knew to get off the plane.

Nick fell backward against Shannon’s Mustang, his breath gone, his heart burning. Everything he had done, everything that he had gone through to save her was for naught. He had played about in time, he had toyed with fate as if it would bend to his will. But it was a force for which there was no match. No magical watch, no violation of the laws of physics could alter it. For fate was the most powerful force in nature.

And in that moment, Nick knew 213 passengers had perished. Julia was dead, lying in the midst of the charred wreckage of Flight 502.

NICK PULLED THE watch from his pocket: 11:55.

Julia was dead. She was dead over and over again. He thought he was trapped in a time-warped hell, having to endure Julia’s death in every hour in a new way.

And this time it wasn’t at the hand of Dance. It was his fault and his fault alone, pulling her out of harm’s way only to push her onto that flight. He had taken the scythe out of Dance’s hands and killed her himself in his misguided arrogance.

All he strived for, everything he had done, everything he thought he was tasked to do, was wrong. The singular action that was to alter fate now was not killing her assassin, it was not killing Dance. It was the plane, everything tied back there now.

Nick grabbed the Colt Peacemaker from the bushes. He ran to the body of Ethan Dance and tore through his pockets; he found the dead cop’s cell phone, flipped it open, and memorized the phone number of his last call. He stood, threw down the phone, and broke into an all-out sprint, racing for Dance’s car. Racing to the body of Shannon.

He still had time.