The 13th Hour

CHAPTER 1

10:00 A.M.

ALL WAS RIGHT IN the world, at least for the moment. The lights were on, planes weren’t falling from the sky, robberies hadn’t occurred, and Julia was safe and alive. Smiles were still worn on the faces of the shoppers, people went about their routines in anticipation of another fun-filled summer weekend.

No one was aware of what was coming, no one knew the terrible turn life would take in an hour and fifty minutes except Nick. He had glimpsed the world of Byram Hills and knew how time would unfold from now until nightfall. But he had an ability that the men of fiction and history did not possess. Fate lay in his hands, he could change the future, by his actions he could change the course of time.

JULIA STOOD IN the back of The Right Thing, staring at frames. She had no idea how big a sonogram picture was and had no idea what size frame to buy. She grabbed a set of three, each a different size, and figured she’d just make it work. She raced to the book section, grabbed her favorite Dr. Seuss book, Fox in Sox, and on her way to the checkout counter, grabbed a roll of teddy bear wrapping paper.

She was bursting with anticipation as her friend, Angela, checked her out. It was an excitement like that she felt as a little girl on Christmas, a feeling that Santa would make her dreams come true. But the excitement she was feeling now was not in receiving but in giving, the giving and sharing of life, providing Nick with the ultimate expression of their love, the gift of a child.

She got back into her car and turned out of the parking lot heading for the airport. Though check-in and security were brief at Westchester Airport, she wanted to give herself plenty of time for once, instead of having to rush, instead of having to make a mad dash for the gate.

As she entered Route 684, her cell phone rang.

“Hey, Jo,” Julia said as she saw the caller ID and hit the speakerphone.

“I’m so sorry about this,” Julia’s secretary, Jo Whalen, said. “Mr. Isles and Mr. Lerner are in court and, of course, there’s another crisis on the Collier deal. They say the merger can’t and won’t happen if the Collier children’s trusts do not reflect the appropriate caveats in the event of the children’s divorce.”

Julia laughed. “The kids are five and seven.”

“Maybe their parents can look into the future, I don’t know. Mr. Lerner wants you to handle the conference call in their absence.”

“You’re kidding? When?”

“Now. Mr. Lerner prefaced his call by saying the $12 million in billables on the Collier account should be worth taking a later flight for.”

“Let me turn around,” Julia said, crestfallen, feeling as if Christmas had been canceled.

“I don’t think so,” Jo snapped at her. “I’ve got the call set up, I can patch you in. You’ll straighten out this lucky sperm club trust in plenty of time and make your flight.”

Julia smiled. No one was better than Jo. “I’m going to pull over so I don’t lose signal. Why don’t you patch them all in?”

“Have a safe flight, honey.”

“Thanks, you’re the best.”

“Okay, everyone,” Jo said. “I have Julia Quinn for you.”

“Good morning,” Julia said as she pulled to the side of the road. Jo was so good, she had saved her and kept her life orderly for the tenth time today.

With the unexpected delay, she’d just have to do her usual run for the gate, but she’d still make her flight. She looked at the teddy bear wrapping paper sticking out of the bag and smiled, Nick was going to be so surprised.

“So, I understand there is some concern on the matter of the children’s trusts,” Julia said out loud as she leaned back in her car seat. “Well, let’s see what we can do to protect their future.”

BOB SHANNON WALKED out of the bagel store, his bottle of Gatorade already half gone. He ate his bagel as fast as he could, trying to finish it before he got into the Mustang. He hated crumbs, and the poppy seed bagel had a tendency to make its presence felt weeks after it had been eaten, as the seeds permeated every nook and cranny.

With his last bite, he arrived at his car. Brushing himself off, he hopped in just as his cell phone vibrated with an incoming text message.

He looked at his phone, not recognizing the number. Another message came in, and then another, and another. He paged through his phone and found the incoming messages to actually be five pictures. He clicked on the first one but was interrupted by an incoming call from the same number.

“Detective Shannon,” he said as he answered.

“Did you look at the pictures yet?” the caller asked.

“Who is this?”

“I’m at the private air terminal at Westchester Airport. I’m driving a blue Audi. And detective, trust no one, especially your partner.”

The line went dead.

Shannon stared at his phone as if it was somehow pulling a prank on him. He looked again at the number but didn’t recognize it, so he pulled up the first picture.

It was a shot of a green Taurus. Dance’s piece of junk. Shannon at first hadn’t understood why he drove it. Though it had the souped-up 350 V-8 police engine, it still looked like a banged-up vehicle that someone had left at the side of the road. But as Shannon learned, Dance spent a good deal of time down county and in the Bronx, moonlighting in less-than-legal side jobs, and had chosen a car that would never be noticed, that would never call attention to itself, as a black Shelby Cobra Mustang would.

Shannon thumbed through to the next picture. It was from the rear of Dance’s car, the trunk sitting wide open. Shannon chuckled, he was being goofed on. The pictures looked like those various-angle photos you saw of used cars in the back of magazines, but he could never imagine who would buy Dance’s car.

But as he clicked on the third picture, he realized this was no game. It was a much closer shot of Dance’s trunk, and it was filled with what looked like treasure. Swords of gold, bejeweled daggers, several ornate guns, and sitting among it all was a black velvet bag, its mouth wide open, the diamonds inside sparkling in the sunlight.

Shannon grew suddenly serious. If this was a joke, someone had gone too far. But as he clicked to the next picture on his phone he knew that the situation went much farther.

The rear door on the right side hung open. The passenger was belted in, sitting in a pool of blood that seemed to cover his entire torso. Shannon looked closer but could not make out the face. But no matter, he knew he was looking at a corpse, he was looking at a murder scene.

He finally clicked to the final shot, a shot that sent his mind spinning, a shot that nearly seized his heart. It was a much closer image, this time through the left rear passenger door of the Taurus. The face could be seen plain as day. It was pale, almost blue from bleeding out. The mouth hung open, slack-jawed. The eyes were lifeless, dry, and without any sign of a soul.

Shannon looked up, suddenly feeling a rush of paranoia such as he had never known. He looked back down at his cell phone, thinking he might have been seeing things.

But there was no doubt, Bob Shannon was looking at himself.

NICK SAT IN his car at the private air terminal waiting for Shannon. He couldn’t afford to waste time explaining things again, so he had formulated the perfect device to get the detective’s attention.

He had run back to the Taurus before his last time shift, opened the door on Shannon’s side, reached in, and grabbed the cell phone from the detective’s waist. He read Shannon’s number, entered it into his own phone, and threw Shannon’s back in the car. He quickly circled Dance’s car, taking the five pictures he’d just sent, building them in intensity as he went, creating an invitation that Shannon would never refuse.

On the seat beside him was the Colt Peacemaker he had plucked from the bushes, its chambers emptied of the spent silver bullets. It was the same gun he had stared at nearly twelve hours ago in the interrogation room, the pistol that Dance had shot Julia with and had planted in the trunk of his car to frame him for her murder. It had become a symbol of death and greed. But now, the etchings upon its barrel and stock became prophetically personal, reflecting Nick’s own quest for justice: The gate that leads to damnation is wide-To hell you shall be gathered together-Yet ye bring wrath-Darkness which may be felt-Whoever offers violence to you, offer you the like violence to him.

The whining roar of an American Air jet shook Nick’s car like sustained thunder as it leaped off the tarmac into the crystalline blue sky. Planes and jets took off and landed with regular frequency, without incident, as the aviation business went about its morning routine.

Nick stared out through his windshield across the large expanse of tarmac at the central hub of Westchester Airport’s main terminal where six medium-sized passenger jets took on travelers to whisk them out to all parts of the country. On the outermost bay was a white AS 300, its red and blue circular logo prominently displayed. The North East Air jet sat quietly being fueled and prepped for flight: food and drink carts were replenished, aisles were vacuumed, fresh pillows and blankets brought on in preparation for the boarding that would commence in an hour’s time. It received the temporary designation of Flight 502 with a one-hour flight time to Logan International Airport in Boston. It was the plane that would carry Julia aloft, carry so many unsuspecting passengers only two miles before it fell from the sky, plunging them all to their death in a tangled heap of flame.

Nick had fought so hard to stop the robbery, to save Julia, he’d neglected to think about the 212 on the plane who died. But now, as impossible at it seemed, Julia was among them.

It took ten hours to save Julia from her imminent death, to remove her killer from the world. Yet despite all of his effort, he had delivered her right back to the first death she had avoided, the first death she was saved from. Through his missteps he had placed her on the plane with no excuse to get off, through his poorly executed moves she had been left to experience the most horrible of deaths, a death he had feared all his life. He couldn’t imagine what had gone through her head as they crashed in midair and tumbled out of the sky.

Nick realized all moments, every tick of the watch led to now. Led to stopping the plane crash to save not only Julia but the 212 others who had needlessly died.

And though he had initially thought it was simple to stop the tumbling domino of the robbery in order for Julia to live, he knew now that the impact of his actions could have far worse results.

He wasn’t about to rely on simply taking the key for Dreyfus’s plane, or on just leaving a message for Julia to not get on Flight 502. He couldn’t call the airline or the FAA, explaining he had a premonition. He had considered an anonymous bomb threat but dismissed the idea, knowing he had to do more than prevent the plane crash in order to keep Julia alive. He also had to keep the robbery from ever happening.

He knew that every action he took had repercussions, no matter the nobleness of the intention. He had seen it with Marcus’s death, with McManus’s death, with Shannon’s, and with Julia ending up on the doomed airliner. As each moment was modified it would ripple through time, having hundreds, even thousands of effects.

If Nick made the wrong move, the wrong decision, it would reverberate through the future, and instead of stopping the plane crash, his misstep might compound the tragedy of the crash of Flight 502, perhaps sending it tumbling onto the populated town of Byram Hills or, even worse, the children’s day camp instead of the wide-open, vacant sports field.

Who was to say that fate was even reversible? Was Julia destined to die this day no matter what, whether by gunshot, plane crash, or some other means? Were the 212 passengers aboard Flight 502 meant to go down in a horrific aviation disaster despite every effort to halt the Cessna 400 from taking off?

Nick suddenly shook off the pessimistic thoughts, returning to hope, the greatest of emotions, something that could wipe away fear, could eliminate doubt, could inspire faith in even the most impossible of situations. He was here now, he had inexplicably marched back through the day, to this last of hours, to this final chance to save Julia’s life.

So with hope in his heart, Nick focused, searching for that singular action, that one deed that would change the future for everyone. Julia, Marcus, Shannon, Dreyfus, McManus, himself. He didn’t know what it was, but he knew that he would find it before the hour was up.

Nick picked up his phone again and tried Julia; for the second time he went right to voicemail.

“Julia,” Nick said. “It’s me. Do me a favor, do not get on that flight to Boston. I don’t care why you’re going, I don’t care if you get fired, do not get on that flight. I have a terrible feeling, I can’t explain it. Just do what I say. Call me when you get this.”

Nick turned his attention to the Cessna 400. Parked within a long line of small jets and planes, the white aircraft looked like a Corvette of the sky, its sleek lines, its swept-back window giving the impression of a man-made bird of prey.

The blue Chevy Impala sat just behind the small plane, its trunk open, as Paul Dreyfus removed his briefcase and a small duffel, laying them upon the ground. He was neatly dressed in gray slacks and a blue tie, his sport coat hung on the open door of the Impala, his gray hair combed as if he were off to Sunday mass.

Nick had watched him for several minutes moving around his plane, talking on his cell phone, when up the single-lane drive came a dark green, waxed and polished BMW. The car drove across the nearly vacant lot and parked on the other side, right next to where Dreyfus was waiting.

A man in a crisp blue shirt and pleated pants emerged from the car and warmly greeted Dreyfus with a two-fisted handshake. There was a polished, regal air about the man. He looked to be in his late fifties, his strong shoulders and narrow waist evidence that he was more than fit, his dark perfect hair flecked with gray that dominated his temples.

The two engaged in an animated conversation full of hand gestures and head nods, until finally, the regal man popped his trunk. Dreyfus crouched and unzipped the black duffel. With a great deal of effort he withdrew an object, carried it over to the BMW, and placed it inside the trunk, closing the lid.

Nick’s heart ran cold as he instantly recognized the mahogany box. There was no mistaking the two-by-two foot dark wood case, its three silver keyholes glistening in the midmorning sun.

And then the man in the blue shirt turned, the sun hitting his profile, and the last twelve hours of Nick’s life were turned inside out, sending his mind reeling, for he realized who he was looking at.

It was the European, the man who had showed up in the interrogation room, who had given him the watch, who had set him on this journey to save his wife. Yet here he was taking delivery of the mahogany box Sam Dreyfus was supposed to steal one hour from now, the box that created the impetus for so much violence and death, for Julia’s torturous demise on two separate occasions, the box whose theft and possession would ultimately precipitate the crash of Flight 502.

Nick’s mind filled with confusion at the alliance of Paul Dreyfus and the European. He had never formed a connection, never thought he had been sent on his journey for anything but Julia. He thought of the box as simply the goal of thieves, the prize sought by Sam Dreyfus. He’d never truly pondered its contents or worth, dismissing it as the precious secrets of an old man. But now…

It was inextricably linked to Julia’s death, to the crash of Flight 502, a wooden box whose contents were sought by too many.

He had never expected to see the mahogany box here already, thinking it still in the safe in Hennicot’s basement, which, in his mind, meant only one thing: The true thieves were standing before him on the other side of the parking lot.

Nick leaped from his car and broke into an all-out sprint across the blacktop lot. The European caught sight of Nick’s frantic approach, quickly got into his car, and pulled out. Nick sprinted across the fifty-yard-wide lot, past Dreyfus, running alongside the moving car as it headed for the exit, pounding the driver’s-side window. The man briefly looked at Nick before hitting the gas and leaving him in a cloud of dust where he finally slowed to a halt to watch the man’s escape.

But then fate had finally intervened on his behalf: Up ahead by the entrance gate, the black Mustang pulled into the single-lane driveway of the parking lot, the blue and red lights within its black front grill staccato-flashing. With a loud chirp the siren sounded as the muscle car skidded to a sideways stop, blocking the BMW’s exit.

Shannon jumped from his car, holding his hand up, stopping the European man’s exit, and pulled the gun from his holster.

“Please step out of the vehicle,” Shannon yelled.

But the man was already complying.

“Did you send those photos?” Shannon continued shouting.

The European stared at him in confusion.

“I sent them,” Nick said as he ran toward Shannon, coming to a stop beside him. Paul Dreyfus came jogging up, winded, and exchanging angry glances with his blue-shirted associate.

“What kind of sick joke do you think you’re playing?” Shannon said through gritted teeth.

“I assure you, Detective,” Nick said, “this is no joke.”

“Where did you get them?”

“You have to bear with me,” Nick said, his hands raised in a pleading fashion. “In the trunk of that car is a stolen mahogany box that belongs to Shamus Hennicot, the owner of Washington House in Byram Hills.”

Shannon stared at Nick for a moment before turning his attention to the man standing next to his BMW. “Do you mind opening your trunk?”

Without a word, the man hit the button on his key fob, releasing the hood. Shannon walked around and saw the clean trunk, empty but for a single two-by-two dark wooden box.

“Okay, so he has a box in his trunk,” Shannon said. “What the hell is it?”

“My name is Paul Dreyfus,” Dreyfus said, approaching Shannon. He held out his wallet, displaying his driver’s license. “I work for Shamus Hennicot; my firm handles the security systems for Mr. Hennicot, including Washington House.”

Shannon took and read Dreyfus’s license, matching the face to the picture on the license. He turned to the other man. “And you are?”

“Zachariah Nash. I am Mr. Hennicot’s personal assistant, I oversee his estate.”

“And you are who?” Shannon finally asked Nick, his temper rising with the confused situation.

Nick was speechless at the revelation that the European, Nash, the one who had given him the watch, worked for Hennicot.

“Do either of you know this man?” Shannon asked, alluding to Nick.

“No,” Dreyfus said.

Nash shook his head.

“My name is Nicholas Quinn.” Nick regained his composure and focus and turned to Dreyfus. “An hour from now, your brother steals Shamus Hennicot’s collection of weapons, diamonds, and that box.”

Dreyfus, Nash, and Shannon stared at Nick, exchanging glances as if they were in a shared dream with a madman.

“Not this box,” Dreyfus said softly, taking a step toward Nick as if entertaining his crazy notion.

“That’s the box Sam steals from Hennicot’s safe,” Nick said. “I’m sure of it.”

“The box in the safe at Washington House,” Dreyfus continued, with an almost bedside manner, “it’s a duplicate, an empty prototype.”

“What?” Nick’s eyes filled with anger.

“My brother will not get his hands on this box or what’s inside it, I assure you.”

“Why didn’t you just tell him you already stole it?” Nick said, his voice straining, his words making no sense in this hour before the robbery had even occurred.

“Excuse me?” Paul Dreyfus said. “I didn’t steal this.”

“The box in the safe was a decoy, then?” Nick asked, already knowing the answer.

“Who are you?” Dreyfus’s face became overwhelmed with confusion.

Nick’s mind was teetering on the brink of a nervous breakdown. He had formulated a plan, one that he thought was nearly foolproof, but now, with the revelation that Dreyfus and Nash were working together, that the box in the safe was a fake…

Nick stared back, not knowing how far to go, how far to push the issue before his last ounce of credibility was lost.

“Two hundred and twelve people die on Flight 502 later this morning. My wife dies on that flight because of your brother, because he was after whatever is in that box. Why didn’t you just tell him it was empty?” Nick could no longer separate the future from the past.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Paul Dreyfus asked.

“I’m sorry,” Shannon said to Dreyfus. He looked at Nick as if he was an outpatient from an asylum. “Mr. Quinn, why don’t you come with me?”

Shannon took Nick’s arm.

“I’m not crazy,” Nick erupted, tearing his arm away from Shannon, approaching Dreyfus. “Has anyone seen Hennicot’s weapon collection? You did his security, you designed the system to protect everything? Has his weapons collection ever been made public?”

Dreyfus stared at him. “No.”

“Up until an hour from now, has the security system you designed ever been compromised?”

“No,” Dreyfus said with a shake of his head.

“Spanish swords, Sri Lankan daggers, Ottoman sabers-so no one is aware that Sultan Murad V’s custom Colt Peacemaker etched with religious symbols-Catholic, Jewish, Islamic, Buddhist-is in a display case in Hennicot’s little basement fortress?”

Dreyfus stared at Nick, his face impossible to read.

“You were just there, Paul,” Nick said addressing him as if they were old friends. “Was the case intact?”

Dreyfus nodded. “What are you getting at?”

“The fourteen remaining silver bullets that were custom-made, each personalized before being loaded in the chamber, they had a saying on them in Arabic…”

“… May you be forbidden from Paradise,” Dreyfus said slowly.

Nick reached into his pocket, pulled out his closed fist, thrusting it in Dreyfus’s face, finally opening it to reveal a handful of the silver bullets.

“What the hell is going on?” Shannon said.

“Look into my eyes, Paul,” Nick implored, ignoring Shannon. “I am not crazy. I trust you, I understand you’re feeling the betrayal by your brother. But he needs to be stopped now, before the robbery. He screws everyone, he comes here, to you, he steals your plane and causes this.”

Nick reached into his pocket and pulled out Marcus’s letter. He tore the Wall Street Journal page out and shoved it into Dreyfus’s face.

Dreyfus took the printout and became lost in the horrific image of the scorched field, the tail section of the smoldering plane prominently displayed. He scanned the other news stories, the stock closing numbers… and finally the date and time of the printout: July 28, 4:58. he continued to stare at it as if it would somehow change.

“Do you see it?” Nick said.

“The time?” Paul said slowly, as if trying to comprehend the impossible.

“No,” Nick said as he pointed across the tarmac at the North East Air jet sitting just outside the gate being prepped for flight. “The tail section, the N-number.”

Dreyfus looked at the AS 300 jet outside the main terminal, at the large red and blue corporate logo on the white tail section. His eyes drifted down to the registration number, the unique identification required to be displayed on all aircraft: N95301.

It took Dreyfus a moment before looking back at the paper in his hand, at the image of the blackened wreckage, at the white tail section prominently displayed, its logo clearly visible, as was its N-number: N95301.

“Your brother steals what he thinks is the real box from Hennicot’s safe. He comes here to see you. He steals your plane and causes all of that,” Nick said, pointing at the picture of the devastation. “And he dies along with everyone else.”

“What is that?” Shannon said, pointing at the printout.

But Dreyfus didn’t respond, his eyes ping-ponging between the photo and the plane across the tarmac. He finally looked at Nick and without a word, handed him back the paper.

Nick tucked it into his pocket, knowing he had just won an ally.

“Your brother’s flight just got in from Philly,” Nick said. “He’s being picked up right about now.”

Nick turned to Shannon. “Your partner, Ethan Dance, is working with Paul’s brother, Sam, along with Brinehart, Randall, and a cop named Arilio to rob Washington House. He kills my wife.” Nick paused, bracing himself for revealing Shannon’s future. “And he’s the one that kills you.”

“That’s it,” Shannon shouted, grabbing Nick and spinning him around. He quickly cuffed him and spun him back to stare into his eyes. “You’re talking like a madman.”

“I’m not crazy,” Nick pleaded.

“Yeah? Where the hell did you get those pictures you sent to my cell phone?”

“The pictures I sent you are date stamped. One hour and fifteen minutes from now. Dance shoots you in the gut and tucks you in the backseat of his car where you die.”

“Detective?” Dreyfus said, trying to interrupt.

“How the hell would you know that?” Shannon railed at Nick, ignoring Dreyfus.

“The same way I know that Dance is a dirty cop, the same way I know about the St. Christopher medal in your pocket,” Nick said. “You and Ethan both graduated from St. Christopher High School in Brooklyn. You’re cousins and he got you your job.”

“How the hell…?” Shannon glared at Nick.

“Did you look at the time stamp on the pictures?”

“Why the hell would I look at the time stamp?” Shannon erupted. He stood there a moment thinking… he reached into his pocket, withdrew his cell phone, and flipped it open. He thumbed through to the first picture.

And finally looked at Nick. “How is this possible?”

Nick turned to Paul, his eyes pleading. “You know what your brother is about to do, that’s why you traded boxes. You saw what happens, you saw the tail section. Tell him, dammit!”

Dreyfus looked at Nick, trepidation in his eyes. He looked toward Nash, who nodded in approval.

Dreyfus turned to Shannon. “My brother is arriving at this very moment on a flight from Philly-”

“And your partner,” Nick cut in, “is picking him up.”

Shannon stared at Nick and Dreyfus, his eyes awash in confusion. He looked off into the distance, though he was focused within his mind. After a long moment he reluctantly reached into his car and thumbed the radio.

“Lena,” Shannon said into his walkie-talkie.

“Good morning to you, too, Shannon,” Lena’s staticky voice came back over the radio.

“Have you seen Dance this morning?”

“He left here a little while ago, right after you.”

“Do you know where?”

“Did you lose your partner again, Shannon? Why don’t you just call him?”

“I don’t want to do that,” Shannon said, rushing her. “Can you get a fix on his car?”

She paused a moment.

“You’re kidding, right?” she finally said.

“No, I’m serious.”

“He’s with you at the airport. Isn’t that where you are?”

“Where at the airport?

“Jesus, Shannon, you’re like a half mile apart. He’s at the main terminal. Would you like me to come out there and introduce you?”

DANCE SAT IN his Taurus outside the main terminal of Westchester Airport, primed and ready. He had awakened this morning knowing that he would finally rid himself of the burden of Ghestov Rukaj. But even more than paying off the bounty, he would be pocketing over $15 million once he took care of Brinehart and Arilio. Randall would live-he looked at him as the overweight uncle who knew his deeds but never tattled. He was one of the few people he actually trusted in life, but the others were simply a means to an end.

And then he would disappear. Amsterdam would become his home. He would live out his life as far away from this place as he could, happy, content, with no more worrying about money or his survival.

He had cut it down to the wire. Rukaj and his men were relentless, contacting him, visiting him, reminding him of his pending demise come midnight if he failed to come up with the money.

He and Sam Dreyfus had run the scenario countless times over, planning for contingencies, for mistakes. They ran it on paper, in discussions, Sam had even made a computer model. They planned it down to the second. The job would take less than fifteen minutes.

They were well prepared, well protected, and nothing could stop them.

SAM DREYFUS WALKED out of the main terminal of Westchester Airport, stepping into the warm morning sun. He was a mix of emotions, knowing that he was heading down a path he could never return from, but he kept his mind focused on the dark wooden box, kept his thoughts fixed on the rewards he would soon be reaping. He headed straight to the green Taurus parked in the arrivals area, his brown, neatly parted hair fluttering in the slight breeze.

“Everything on schedule?” Sam said with a smile as he got in and slammed the door.

“My three guys will meet us there at exactly 11:10,” Dance said.

“You have my stuff?”

Dance nodded.

“I need to make sure everything is in order.”

Without a word, Dance pulled out of the arriving passenger pick-up zone and pulled into the area reserved for TSA and police.

Dance popped the trunk and they both got out of the car, walked around, and looked inside.

Sam unzipped the first duffel bag. He pulled out a silver box with a red half dome atop it, flipped it on, and checked the LEDs ensuring the high-spectrum, wide-angle lasers were functioning and had enough battery for at least fifteen minutes. He’d made them himself, all twelve, from a schematic he had found in Paul’s files. He didn’t know who had created their unique design, but he did know Paul was trying to formulate a countermeasure to their function that he could incorporate on future jobs.

Sam followed suit with each of the remaining eleven boxes and moved on to the three black laserscopes. Attached to five-inch tripods, they were similar to the laser sight on a gun, with a single high-intensity beam that could be seen in harsh sunlight, allowing him to focus them at the various exterior cameras.

There were two small, matchbox-sized devices, magnetic interference emitters, which he rolled about in the palm of his hand, flipping the tiny buttons on and off.

He finally checked the glass cutter, the simplest tool in the bag but the one with the most reliability. No electronics, no electricity, lasers, or high-tech circuitry, just a small diamond tip and a suction-cup-equipped metal bar.

Sam’s cell phone rang. He quickly answered it tucking it against his ear.

“Sam,” his brother, Paul, said. “Don’t say a word.”

“Yeah,” Sam said with a fake smile as he closed the trunk, walked back, and got into the car.

“I’m at the private air terminal,” Paul said. “I already opened Hennicot’s safe; I have the box.”

Sam said nothing as his blood began to boil.

“The man you are with, Detective Ethan Dance? When all is said and done, he will shoot you and you will die.” Paul’s voice had an icy tone. “Think about what you are doing, think about what you’re going for. I know it’s not the antiques or diamonds, all you want is what is in this box. Well, you chose the wrong partners. I’m holding it in my hands right now. If you want it, you come to me.”

Without a word, Sam closed his phone. Dance got back into the car and pulled out into the flow of traffic.

“We need to go to the private air terminal,” Sam finally said.

“Why,” Dance asked.

“We have a problem.”

“Shit,” Dance said as he pulled out his gun. “We haven’t even started yet.”

“What’s that for?” Sam asked, looking at Dance’s nine-millimeter.

“To take care of the problem.”

AT 7:00 A.M., when Paul Dreyfus learned of what Sam was about to do, he had called Shamus Hennicot, even though he was implicating his brother, and explained what was about to happen.

Shamus told him not to be concerned with anything except the box and that he could do whatever it took to obtain it before it fell into Sam’s or anyone else’s hands. He told him to let them take the weapons and the diamonds-they had no meaning to him and were all insured.

Paul had known Shamus for five years now. He had designed the security for all of his homes around the world: for Washington House in Byram Hills, for his wife’s cottage on the coast of Maine, his château in Nice, the rarely visited bungalow on his private island in the Maldives, and his summer home on the ocean in Massachusetts. Paul and Shamus had become more than friends, more than confidants, sharing stories of the heart, the loss of loved ones, the private revelries of success. Shamus gave him wise business advice and direction, but only when it was asked for.

Paul had told him of his brother Sam and the never-ending trouble and anguish he created, but it was always Shamus who reminded him that family is the most important of things, a bond that cannot be broken. It is family that knows our true selves: our wants and needs, our fragile egos and faults, not the façade we display to the world. He reminded Paul that he was Sam’s only connection to his youth, the one who knew him before the harsh realities of life, before drugs, alcohol, and rebellion.

It was two years ago when Shamus had asked him to construct the box. He told him that he needed to lock away family secrets, to secure them in an impenetrable location that no one could access, but that at the same time the contents must remain mobile.

Paul did not ask what was to be stored away, what was to be hidden from the world, but Shamus insisted on divulging the mystery. And he went one step further. He asked Paul to be part of a triumvirate, along with his personal assistant, Zachariah Nash, and himself. They would be the three who would know the contents of the box and control access to it.

Paul spent a year on the box’s design, constructing prototypes that he tested under the harshest conditions, finally arriving at the finished product: a one-inch titanium case wrapped in fire-resistant Nomex and three layers of Kevlar, an idea usurped from NASA space suits designed to withstand all manners of temperature, pressure, and assault. The lock was a second generation of his octagonal key design. Three slots for three eight-sided keys whose insertion was to a specific lettered coordinate on each key. A combination that had over three thousand possibilities between the slots, the keys, and their eight positions. Sheathed in African mahogany, the box’s appearance was like that of the finest pieces of furniture, while its endurance and impenetrability were on par with the most secure recesses of the White House.

Paul got off the phone with Shamus, raced to the airfield, and flew straight to Westchester in less than an hour, his small private plane able to fly in air corridors too low for commercial traffic.

With full access and no need to be concerned with video cameras, Paul had jumped into the waiting rental car, gone over to Washington House, and taken the box from Hennicot’s safe, replacing it with the empty final prototype he had created during the design phase.

Dance drove his green Taurus up the single-lane entrance into the large parking lot of the private air terminal. The lot was adjacent to a sea of planes that were situated in a parallel line to afford access for their owners when they arrived. The bevy of jets all faced the byway strip, the causeway onto the main runways of the airport proper.

Dance drove up to and parked between a BMW and a blue Chevy Impala that were parked in spaces adjacent to a small, sleek white plane. A dark mahogany box sat on the hood of the BMW as if it was some kind of trophy on display.

A thick man with neatly groomed gray hair stood next to the BMW, his hand upon the box. His shoulders were strong, his gaze intense, fixed upon Sam in the passenger’s seat. A second man, taller, polished, a country-club type, sat in the front of the German-made vehicle, the door open, his feet resting on the blacktop.

“Wait here,” Sam said as he got out of the car, slamming the door behind him.

The two brothers were polar opposites in many respects. Sam’s skinny, slight frame stood in sharp contrast to his brother’s bulky build; where Paul had gone gray, Sam’s head had yet to know that color; where one was confident and successful the other was twitchy and nervous, knowing that his well-laid plans were completely shot, as evidenced by the presence of the object of his desire sitting on the hood of the BMW.

“What the hell have you done?” Sam whispered in an almost animal-like voice.

“You’re kidding, right?” Paul snapped back. “You break into my files, you plan to rob not only my best client but someone who is one of my closest friends.”

“Fuck you.” Sam’s bloodshot eyes squinted in resentment.

“Good answer.”

“Don’t talk to me like I’m a child,” Sam shot back.

“I never have,” Paul said. “Did it ever occur to you that maybe it’s your misperception of life that leads you to that conclusion?”

“Don’t talk to me about life.”

“Right, your life is so bad-” Paul’s body language spoke as loudly as his words “-you’ll destroy everyone else’s to feel good?”

“Fuck off,” Sam exploded.

“There you go again with that brilliant vocabulary. You’re sloppy, foolish, and reckless. Do you know how easy it was to figure out what you were doing? To fly up here and take this box from the safe before you could get near it?” Paul ran his hand along the smooth surface of the wooden lid.

Sam’s breathing became labored with anxiety.

“Look, tell me what you want,” Paul said as he patted the box. “Is it the money, recognition, or is it just this box?”

Dance stepped from his car and approached Sam. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

“Wait in the car,” Sam said.

“Who is this?” Dance waved a finger at Paul as he looked at the box atop the BMW. “And what’s up with the box?”

“It’s nothing,” Sam said.

“Right, it’s nothing,” Dance responded.

“It’s between me and my brother.”

“Brother?” Dance said in surprise. “What the hell is going on?”

Neither Dreyfus answered, both caught up in their mutual anger.

“Who are you?” Dance said, looking at the man sitting in the car.

Suddenly, a black Mustang shot up the driveway into the parking lot, screeching to a halt in front of Dance.

“Hey, Dance,” Shannon said calmly as he got out of his car.

Dance turned to his partner, his eyes looking about for anyone else, as if he was expecting someone.

“Everything all right?” Shannon asked as he followed Dance’s gaze.

Nick stepped from the passenger seat of Shannon’s car and walked around the vehicle.

“I’ve got a bit of an issue here; nothing I can’t handle,” Dance said, putting on his false face. “What brings you here?”

“I’ve got some people making some awfully strange accusations.”

“Some people?” Dance asked, looking at Nick.

Nick glared back at him.

“I don’t particularly like false or unfounded accusations.” Dance paused. “Isn’t it off-base to question your superior?”

“Just tell me what you’re doing here,” Shannon said, running his hand through his black hair, “so I can get back to dealing with more important things.”

“It’s personal, Shannon, so leave now before we have an issue.” A hint of anger rose in his voice.

“Yeah, it’s personal,” Nick mocked him.

Dance turned to Nick. “Who the hell are you?”

Nick stood quietly staring at the man who had wreaked havoc on his life.

“He said you were going to kill his wife,” Shannon said accusingly. “Do you know what the hell he’s talking about?”

“Listen, Shannon,” Dance said, as if speaking to a child. “Internal Affairs already has a file on you. One phone call and you’ll not only go down but end up in a prison where the inmates hate cops.”

“Boy, you really think that scares me?” Shannon said, stepping forward, his chest expanding in anger. “I know I’m clean and I know you’re not. Enough of your bullshit.”

Dance laughed, mocking Shannon. “We’ll chat later. In the meantime me and my friend have an appointment to get to.”

Dance turned to Sam and motioned for him to follow him back to his car.

Sam just stared at him, the moment dragging on. He looked back at the box, at his brother standing there, his hand upon it.

“Dance,” Sam said quietly. “We’re not going.”

“What?” Dance spun about as if a knife had been plunged into his back.

“I’m calling the whole thing off,” Sam said.

Dance walked right up into Sam’s face, breathing on him like an enraged bull. His eyes moved about, looking at Paul, looking back at Sam, looking toward the box on the car.

Without warning, Dance drew his pistol. His left arm shot out, grabbed Paul, and pulled him into a headlock. He jammed the nine-millimeter to Paul’s head.

Shannon was like bottled lightning drawing his Glock, aiming it head-high at Dance. “What the hell, Ethan?”

Dance ignored Shannon, grinding the pistol into Paul’s ear as he shouted, “What’s in the box, Sam?”

Sam looked at Paul, his mind fogged with panic.

Paul remained the personification of calm-he had been in war, he had been in battle, and he knew that cool heads prevailed.

“I didn’t wake up this morning with the intention of ending my day empty-handed. Answer me, what the hell is in that box?”

“It’s not what you think,” Sam said.

“It’s enough to screw me over. Is it worth more than $25 million? Is it enough to trade your brother’s life over?”

“Put the gun down, Ethan,” Shannon whispered.

“I think you better open the box before I kill your brother,” Dance thumbed back the hammer of his gun.

“Dance,” Shannon yelled. “Goddammit, put down your weapon.”

“Can you handle the blood on your hands, Shannon?” Dance twisted Paul so he was a shield between him and his partner. “You talk a big game, but can you make the shot, are you that confident that you can kill me? If you miss, can you deal with the guilt of collateral damage?”

Nick remained still, a silent observer to the unfolding anarchy.

Shannon stared into Dreyfus’s eyes, seeing a man who knew no panic, whose mind was calmly looking for solutions, for escape.

A Chrysler Sebring shot up the drive, coming to a screeching halt behind the standoff. Johnny Arilio leaped from the car, his gun leading the way, pointed straight at Shannon. Randall emerged from the driver’s seat, slowly drawing his pistol and aiming it at the other side of Shannon’s head.

“It pays to have friends,” Dance said.

Shannon gripped his nine-millimeter tighter, knowing that if he gave it up, the man in the crook of Dance’s arm would be dead in moments.

“I’ll tell you what,” Dance said. “Lower your weapon, toss it away, and I won’t shoot everybody here, beginning with the man in my arms.”

“You wouldn’t-”

Dance fired his weapon into the tarmac, sending a shock through everyone.

And the moment spun into chaos.

Nick stood his ground, staring at Paul Dreyfus and Dance’s gun, which once again was held against his head. Sam was in a full-on panic, his skinny arms shaking as his eyes darted around frantically searching for salvation.

“The next one will land in flesh,” Dance said. “Mark my words, Shannon.”

Shannon stared at Dance. Knowing the truth to his statement, he finally relented, placing his gun on the ground and pushing it ten feet out of reach.

“Hey, Randall,” Dance said. “In the trunk of my car are some police-issue zip-ties. Get them and secure everyone.”

Arilio waved Nick and Zachariah Nash over to stand next to the Mustang. Randall grabbed the plastic restraints from Dance’s trunk and quickly zip-tied their wrists in front, sitting them down against the muscle car.

Arilio turned to Shannon, pointing his gun at his chest.

“You guys just made the biggest mistake of your life.” Shannon’s eye burned with rage as they secured his wrists.

“Just cooperate, Shannon, and sit your ass down,” Arilio barked as he pushed the detective down next to Nick.

“See what you have done, Sam?” Dance said as he looked at the three prisoners, turning his attention back to the man he held in a headlock, then finally back to Sam Dreyfus.

“You’re not backing out on me.” There was a hint of fear in Dance’s voice. “I’ve got commitments, promises to uphold.”

Dance stood there controlling the moment, thinking…

“This your brother’s plane?” Dance looked at the white Cessna on his left. “You know how to fly?”

Sam reluctantly nodded.

Dance turned his attention back to Paul and drove the gun into the side of his head, grinding the barrel into his ear.

“So, we have a choice. A choice where everyone here can live or die. And it’s all up to the Dreyfus brothers. The fate of you all rests in their hands.”

Out of nowhere, a yellow Labrador retriever emerged from the woods, running by. He suddenly stopped, his head jerking back and forth, looking at everyone.

“We have a choice between box number one.” Dance tilted his head at the mahogany box that sat atop the BMW, ignoring the inquisitive dog. “A choice where you can all live while Sammy boy flies us out of here with our prize, or we can go ahead with the theft of Washington House, a choice where, sadly, we’ll have to kill you all before we depart here to relieve Shamus Hennicot of some antiques and diamonds.”

The dog suddenly started barking, coiling back on its four legs as if it could sense danger. The incessant loud bark intermingled with a low growl.

All eyes were on the dog when all of sudden, without warning, Dance shot it.

With a screaming yelp, the dog flinched and ran away, but within twenty feet, it slowed and teetered about, its eyes confused and pleading, before it collapsed dead on the ground.

“You cruel bastard,” Nash said.

“Hey, I wouldn’t want it to delay our departure,” Dance said, half serious before turning to Sam. “Now, unless everyone here wants to die like that dog… one of you please open the box.”

Sam and Paul remained silent.

“Open it,” Dance screamed, squeezing Paul’s neck tighter with his arm.

“I can’t,” Paul said. “It requires three separate keys.” Paul pointed toward the three keyholes. “I only have one.”

“Where are the other two?”

“With Shamus Hennicot,” Paul said.

“Where is he?”

“You don’t have a chance of getting the keys from him. He’d let us all die before you got into that box.”

“Well, then, he made your choice. I can live with that. I’ll just kill you all now, go get the diamonds from his house, and stop with all of this bullshit.”

Dance ground the barrel of his gun into Paul’s temple and drew back the hammer-

“You son of a bitch. Leave him out of this,” Sam said, stepping toward Dance.

“Didn’t you think about the consequences when you started down this road?” Dance yelled at Sam. “You said you wanted out of his shadow, now you want to protect him?”

“I was the one who wanted the box, my brother had nothing to do with this.”

“Well, if it required three keys, how were you going to get it open?”

Sam couldn’t meet Dance’s eye.

“Boy, you are the stupid one in the family, huh? You have no idea how to open it?”

“I would have figured it out.”

“Then figure it out now,” Dance shouted, the veins in his neck distending with his rage.

Sam turned and looked at the box.

“What the hell is in it?” Dance asked. “So help me God, it better be worth millions or I promise, you’ll all die here today.”

Without warning, Sam spun about, his arm flying through the air, punching Dance in the side of the head.

But the blow barely fazed him, and he quickly responded, aiming his nine-millimeter. Sam retreated in fear. And without hesitating, Dance pulled the trigger.

The bullet exploded from the barrel, hitting Sam in the knee, sending him tumbling to the ground.

“That was stupid,” Dance said. “You’re lucky I need you, otherwise that bullet would have hit you somewhere fatal.”

Sam rolled about the ground clutching his blood-soaked knee.

Dance tightened his grip about Paul’s neck and dragged him backward. He aimed his pistol at the box atop the BMW, firing off a quick shot.

The heavy box skittered along the car roof as the bullet barely split the side corner.

“Don’t bother,” Paul said. “I designed it. It’s got a bulletproof, fireproof titanium core.”

Dance pressed the barrel back in Paul’s ear. “You designed it? Then you open it or die.”

“I can’t.”

“Then you’ll be the first to go-”

“Dance,” Nick called out as he rose to his feet. “Look at me.”

NICK GLARED AT the detective. He had seen Dance’s future and what he was capable of. He had killed Julia in cold blood, and Marcus and Dreyfus and McManus and who knew how many others. And while Nick had moved the pieces around on the chessboard, while he had played with fate, nothing would change the evil that was in Ethan Dance’s heart. The corrupt cop would go on killing, ending lives for his own purposes.

“You want your money?” Nick said. “Killing him won’t open that box, but I’ve got something far greater. Worth more than you could ever imagine.”

Dance stared at him.

Dreyfus’s words echoed in Nick’s mind, “perception of value,” and Marcus’s “the greedy mind, the double-down, double-or-nothing, win-a-thousand-go-for-two attitude.”

“Let him go,” Nick said. “And I promise, I’ll prove it to you.”

Nick held his trussed arms out as he walked over to Dance and stared into his eyes.

“Let him go, take me instead, and I’ll give you something that will grant you more wealth than you could imagine.”

“Fuck you.”

“If it doesn’t meet your needs, then you can kill me in his place.”

Dance continued staring at Nick.

“Tucked in a shoe in your office is a St. Christopher medal given to you at graduation. Your mother had it engraved, Miracles do happen.”

“How the hell did you know that?” Dance said.

“Do you believe in miracles, Dance?” Nick asked. “Cut me loose,” Nick said as he held up his zip-tied hands. “And I’ll show you a miracle that can make you richer than you could ever imagine.”

JULIA LOOKED AT her watch. It was 10:55. She pushed her Lexus to over eighty miles per hour. Once again, despite her best intentions, she was running late. She was thanking God that Westchester Airport was a regional terminal, a facility that she could actually run through and perhaps make her 11:16 flight.

The conference call had gone on longer than she anticipated, the other attorneys on the call feeling compelled to argue over nothing in order to justify the extra hour of billing. Julia hated attorneys like that. Their conduct created a global hatred for her profession.

She hit the speakerphone on her cell and dialed her voicemail. Nick had tried her twice. She was sure he was calling to apologize for their fight this morning and regretted that he had beaten her to the punch.

Of course, he could also be calling about dinner with the Mullers, making one last-ditch effort to get out of it.

“Julia,” Nick’s voice echoed in the car. “It’s me. Do me a favor, do not get on that flight to Boston. I don’t care why you’re going, I don’t care if you get fired, do not get on that flight. I have a terrible feeling, I can’t explain it. Just do what I say. Call me when you get this.”

Julia listened to the message. Nick’s voice was so urgent, so pleading. Though he didn’t apologize for their fight. Not that that mattered. But…

She couldn’t understand how he’d found out she was going to Boston. No one knew except her, Dr. Colverhome, and Jo, and neither of them would ever tell Nick.

It wasn’t the first time Nick had tried to talk her out of flying. She had canceled a business trip last February based on his fear of a snowstorm in the middle of the country, and of course there were no problems, all flights arrived intact and on time. It wasn’t as if he were crying wolf; it was just his way of saying he couldn’t live without her.

Even when Nick was mad at her, it never diminished his love, his caring, his worry. She loved Nick with all her heart, but today, she loved him even more.

He’d had a tough week, a tough month with work; she could hear the stress in his voice. He needed a surprise, a life affirming moment. And what better way to do that than a romantic dinner for two at which she would explain that dinner would soon be for three?

She didn’t care if she had to run a world-record sprint through the terminal, she would make her flight. She was even more determined now.

“COME WITH ME to my car.” Nick pointed at his Audi fifty yards away on the other side of the parking lot near the exit. “I can offer you not only something of far greater value, but also a way for you to get out of here without anyone knowing where you went.”

Dance removed a knife from his pocket and cut Nick free from the zip-ties about his wrists. “Pick up the box.”

Nick lifted the surprisingly heavy case off the roof of the BMW.

Dance tucked the gun into Nick’s back, pointing him toward the blue Audi, leaving Paul kneeling over his brother’s bleeding leg. Shannon and Nash remained bound and sitting upon the ground under the watchful eyes of Randall and Arilio.

Arriving at the Audi, Nick placed the box on the hood of his car and held his hands up in a gesture of surrender.

“First look on my front seat,” Nick said, pointing into his car.

Dance opened the door to find the gold and bejeweled Colt Peacemaker on the seat. He lifted it out, staring at the weapon.

“I’m sure you know what that is and where it’s from.”

“Do you have the rest?” Dance said in shock. “Do you have the diamonds?”

“In my inner jacket pocket are two letters,” Nick pointed toward his pocket.

“Slowly.” Dance motioned to Nick to remove them before placing the barrel of the gun squarely in the center of Nick’s forehead.

Dance laid the Peacemaker on the roof of the Audi as Nick pulled out and handed him the first envelope. He looked at the blue crest before quickly opening it and reading the two sheets.

Nick slowly withdrew the watch from his pocket and held it out.

“A watch,” Dance said as his eyes flicked between the gold timepiece and the letter. “Are you fucking kidding me? Do you think I’m a fool?”

Dance scanned the letter from Nash again. “What kind of bullshit is this?” Dance jammed the gun harder into Nick’s head.

“Read the next one,” Nick said calmly, handing him Marcus’s letter while tucking Nash’s letter back into his jacket pocket.

Dance began to read.

“Look at the last sheet,” Nick said. “The printout from today’s Wall Street Journal.”

Dance read it through, confusion creasing his brow.

“Look at the date and time,” Nick said. “That’s eight hours from now.”

“A kid could have made this with Photoshop.”

Nick slowly reached back into his breast pocket and withdrew his cell phone, flipping it open.

“What are you-”

“Relax,” Nick said as he flipped it open, pulled up the picture of Dance’s car, and handed him the cell phone.

Dance thumbed through the pictures of his car, stopping at the image of his trunk. He stared at the golden weapons, the knives and swords, and the bag of diamonds, his eyes finally falling on the Colt Peacemaker, the same gun that rested atop Nick’s car.

“What kind of trick is this? That stuff isn’t in my trunk. I just looked into it a few minutes ago.”

“It’s no trick,” Nick said calmly. “You’re looking at the future.”

“How is this possible?”

“Bear with me a moment. If the letters you read are the truth, think of what you could do.”

And Dance’s mind began to work.

“Manipulate the past, know the outcome of lotteries, horse races.” Nick appealed to his greed. “Use it wisely, and you could amass a fortune.”

“Why would you give this up? You would trade all of this for that guy’s life?” Dance pointed his gun back toward Paul Dreyfus.

Nick nodded.

Dance smiled. “No,” he said, shaking his head as the pieces came together. “That’s what Shannon meant about my killing your wife, that’s what these letters are about. I do it in the future and you’ve come back to stop me.”

Dance looked around. And stared at the watch.

“Holy shit,” Dance said in realization.

As Dance became lost in his thoughts, Nick looked about the parking lot, down the driveway toward the road.

“I know who your wife is,” Dance said. “Hennicot’s attorney, right?”

Nick said nothing.

“If I take this watch,” Dance smiled a cruel smile at Nick as his thumb moved about the golden case, “who’s to say I still won’t kill her?”

Nick’s heart began to pound, the blood coursing through his body, filling him with fury.

Dance looked again at the watch in his hand and it was all the distraction Nick needed.

Nick snatched the Colt from atop the Audi and holding it like a hammer drove it into Dance’s temple. Nick’s left hand grabbed and twisted the Glock from the detective before he could react and tossed it aside. He raised the Peacemaker again and drove it down against Dance’s nose.

Tossing the gun aside, Nick pummeled Dance with all his rage, all of his anger and frustration, his fists a blur of wrath directed at the evil soul before him.

Despite all of his strength, despite all of his experience on the street, of fights and killing, Dance was no match for the passion-fueled onslaught being released from Nick’s soul. Nick had seen his wife die, experienced her death too many times, in too may ways, and all of it brought about by this man.

Nick finally stood, leaving the broken and battered detective writhing on the ground.

Nick spied the gold watch, his passport for the day, gleaming in the sunlight. He picked it up and tucked it into his back pocket.

Then he picked up the ornate pistol, reached into his pocket, and withdrew a silver bullet. He flipped out the cylinder and dropped the.45 slug into the gunmetal chamber. He flipped it back and gave it a spin.

He looked at the gun, at its intricate design, at the golden finish that shined in the midmorning sun, giving the impression of a holy aura about the weapon. Nick thought of the Arabic lettering upon the bullet casing, May you be forbidden from paradise, hoping that the phrase had some magical property of actually weighing down the soul so it could be dragged into hell.

He laid the gun against Dance’s head.

“You’re going to kill me to avenge a murder I haven’t even committed yet?”

Nick drew back the hammer, clicking it into place.

Dance stared up helplessly into Nick’s eyes.

As Nick looked at the bloodied cop, a man who had shot his wife, had killed his best friend, killed Paul Dreyfus and Private McManus, set in motion the crash of Flight 502, Nick realized he was looking into the heart of evil, looking at a man who saw humanity as his pawns, a man who was without morals or compassion.

And then a crushing realization coursed through his body, as if the three sisters of fate were holding him back. For none of those things, none of those deaths had yet occurred, they were all in the future, a future that was no longer fixed but left to chance.

But as Dance’s eye burned up at him, Nick saw the coldness, the lack of a soul and knew this man would visit darkness upon others throughout his life.

“You can’t do it, you can’t pull that trigger, can you?” Dance said.

Nick’s eyes softened.

“You know what, if I killed your wife in the future-” Dance paused as if he was about to apologize, but that possibility quickly passed as a mirthless smile creased his lips “-she probably deserved it.”

With those words burning in his ears, with all reason gone from his mind, Nick wrapped his finger about the antique pistol and…

… pulled the trigger.

SHANNON STARED UP at Randall and Arilio standing next to the Chrysler Sebring, watching Paul Dreyfus wrap a makeshift tourniquet about Sam’s leg. The two dirty cops exchanged whispers.

Shannon sat up against his Mustang next to Nash. He had quietly dragged the zip-tie against the blacktop, shaving it, compromising its integrity. He took a glance at the far side of the parking lot where he saw Nick and Dance begin to fight. Without further delay, Shannon drew his arms apart, twisting, stretching the zip-tie, ignoring the pain as the plastic cut into his skin, until it finally broke.

Randall and Arilio caught sight of Nick beating on Dance, but they were too late.

Shannon sprang to his feet, and his fist caught Randall square on the nose, exploding it in a crimson mess as he stumbled back against his car, dazed and confused. But Shannon continued moving toward him, unleashing two massive body blows into Randall’s soft belly, sending the middle-aged cop to the ground barely conscious and in agony.

As he turned, he knew Arilio would be a far different opponent, younger, faster, angrier, and still holding on to his gun, which was now aimed at Shannon ’s head.

“ Shannon, back off or I’ll kill you where you stand.”

Shannon didn’t answer. He had never understood why people in fights, in life-and-death situations, felt compelled to talk.

With a sweep of his rising left arm, Shannon deflected the gun up and away from his body as he wrapped his hands about Arilio’s wrist, twisting the police-issue Glock and compromising the cop’s ability to effectively use it.

Arilio’s instinctive reaction was to battle for control of his gun, which was exactly what Shannon was counting on. Arilio twisted his wrist while grabbing at Shannon ’s arm, trying to free his weapon. Shannon ’s right fist cocked back and unleashed his fury into Arilio’s throat, stunning him, sending his hands to his damaged esophagus. Shannon tore the pistol from the cop’s hand, all the while continuing a massive succession of blows to Arilio’s head and body. The cop had no chance, as his hands had instinctively wrapped his throat trying to catch his breath. And within ten seconds, he was disabled upon the ground.

DANCE WAS STILL alive. The gun’s hammer had fired against an empty cylinder.

“You can’t kill me, can you?” Dance said, taunting Nick, who stood above him holding the Colt Peacemaker.

“It was never my intention,” Nick said as he looked down the drive at the approaching car.

The black Mercedes limo drove up the drive behind Dance, pulling to within a few feet of where he lay.

“There are some people who are better equipped for that sort of thing.” Nick looked up as the rear door of the black car opened.

Dance turned his head and saw the two large men emerge from the driver and passenger doors of the black stretch Mercedes. Their shoulders were wide, each wore a short-sleeve button-down shirt. Imposing pistols rested in shoulder holsters on the left side of their bodies.

Without a word they walked past Nick, reached over, and effortlessly hoisted Dance to his feet.

Dance’s face went white with fear.

“No way,” he screamed. “I said I’d pay you tonight.”

A short man emerged from the rear of the vehicle, his good eye squinting in the bright sun while the milky one was wide open, oblivious to the glare.

Dance ripped his arms away from the two bodyguards, threw his shoulders back in defiance, and stared at Rukaj. “You said I had till midnight.”

“I got a call a little while ago.” Rukaj looked at Nick before casting his eyes back on the cop. “I was told you had no intention of paying me, that you were going to fly out of here this morning.”

Nick began taking small steps backward, moving away from the Albanian and his two-man wrecking crew. He had lifted Rukaj’s number from Dance’s phone near the end of the eleven o’clock hour, finding the cop’s cell on his dead body. Nick knew it was the last call Dance had received, and he had seen how terrified the caller had made him. He dialed Rukaj just after 10:00 A.M., knowing that the Albanian would pay a personal visit if he learned he was being lied to and betrayed.

Dance stood, flanked by the two hulking guards, and glared at Nick. “You son of a bitch. It was all bullshit: the watch, that box. It was all a trap, you bastard.”

And without warning, Dance spun about, ripping the pistol out of the driver’s holster, and in a fluid motion, he continued his momentum spinning toward Nick and firing a single shot.

The bullet hit Nick in his right side, the force of the nine-millimeter bullet knocking him off his feet.

The bodyguard grabbed Dance’s arm, twisting the gun from his grip, snapping his wrist in two with a loud crack. The two guards each took an arm, pulling them outward, sending Dance into agony.

Rukaj walked over and knelt over Nick. He laid his hand against the wound, seeing the blood bubbling through his shirt. He silently stared into Nick’s pain-filled eyes before exhaling and rising to his feet. He turned back and walked up into Dance’s face.

“I came here to scare you, Dance, not to kill you,” Rukaj said in his thick accent. “If you were going to run you had fourteen months to do it, you wouldn’t wait until the last minute. But now… You just shot a man, most likely killed him.” Rukaj stared back at Nick lying upon the tarmac, blood pouring from his side. He caught sight of the dead dog, lying in a pool of blood twenty feet away. “Did you kill the dog, too?”

Dance stood there like a rag doll, his arms being torn apart by the two bodyguards.

“Sometimes in life,” Rukaj said, “we don’t realize how one simple action, one single mistake will affect our future.”

Rukaj nodded to his bodyguards, who twisted Dance’s arm even harder, sending him into a crippling agony.

“You’re useless to me now,” Rukaj continued. “A cop committing murder doesn’t play well. They’ll hunt you, and I can’t afford you leading them to me.”

Rukaj pulled out his knife, its polished metal shimmering in the morning sun. “I don’t do many favors, and I certainly won’t get in the habit of it, but I believe your slow death will allow more than a few people to go on with their lives.”

Dance looked back and saw Shannon and Paul Dreyfus fifty yards away sprinting madly toward them.

Rukaj laid the blade under Dance’s eye, trailing it down his cheek. “Time to pay up.”

Dance’s eyes filled with terror as the bodyguards pushed him into the back of the Mercedes. Rukaj took one last look at Nick and, without a word, climbed in and shut the door.

And the limo pulled away, driving out of the parking lot, disappearing around the corner, leaving Nick to die.

JULIA RACED THROUGH the main entrance to Westchester Airport, her foot burying the accelerator of the Lexus. She looked at the clock: 10:58. She was determined to make it, she wasn’t about to let her plans for the evening, her plans for surprising Nick, disappear because she was late for a flight.

As she zipped past the private air terminal she couldn’t help wondering what the unmarked police cars with their flashing lights were doing.

And then up ahead, racing toward her, were two TSA cars, the lights upon their roofs spraying the air with their red, white, and blue strobes. An ambulance could be seen in the distance coming her way. She hoped whoever they were racing to was all right, that it wasn’t a matter of life and death.

But her curiosity quickly waned as she thought of Nick and the baby inside her. She couldn’t wait to surprise him tonight.

NICK LAY ON the ground, blood pouring out of his right side. Paul Dreyfus arrived and knelt, tearing off his own shirt, applying it to the large exit wound at Nick’s back, trying to stem the bleeding.

“Oh, man,” Dreyfus said, trying to make light of the severity of the situation. “How are you?”

“Ouch.” Nick tried for humor, but it slowly faded. He had no idea what the bullet had pierced but whoever said being shot didn’t hurt had never been shot. It felt as if he had been hit by a rocket, the tip of which had passed through his side.

The blood loss was enormous, pooling out beneath him on the black tarmac. His eyes began to drift as he grew ashen.

Suddenly, Nick’s body seized up, his limbs rigid, his jaw clenched. And then he fell limp.

“Shit, we’ve got cardiac arrest. The blood loss is too much,” Dreyfus yelled as he started CPR. “I really need a-”

But Shannon was already there, ripping open the AED, the police-issue automatic external defibrillator that was in his trunk. He turned it on. A subtle beep began growing as it built up a charge.

Dreyfus ripped open Nick’s shirt. He tore the cross from his neck, dug through his pockets, removing the etched silver bullets, his keys, his cell phone; in the rear pocket he found the watch. He pulled out the antique, knowing its value, and placed it in his pocket, making sure he had cleared all the metal from Nick’s body.

Shannon passed the electrode pads to Dreyfus, who affixed them to Nick’s chest, his failing vital signs already being interpreted by the machine.

“Three, two, one,” the electronic voice called out. “Clear.”

And Nick’s body arced up in shock as the pulse was sent through his heart’s electrical system, fully stopping it so the body’s natural process could restart it.

But Nick’s body didn’t respond. The AED began its ascending whine again, building up a charge.

“Three, two, one. Clear.”

Nick rose again, before settling back down.

His heart restarted. His breathing was faint, but it was there.

“Where the hell is the ambulance?” Dreyfus shouted.

Nick’s eyes opened to half mast, looking up at Dreyfus.

“The jet,” Nick said, weakly.

Dreyfus took his hand and dangled the keys to his Cessna in front of Nick’s half-closed eyes. “There’ll be no plane crashes today. You just hold on.”

Nick struggled to speak. “My-”

“Try not to speak.” Dreyfus tried to calm him.

“My watch?” Nick whispered.

“No worries, it’s in my pocket. I’ll hold on to your stuff till we get to the hospital.”

“What time is it?” Nick’s voice was barely a whisper.

“What?” Dreyfus leaned an ear to Nick.

“The time,” Nick struggled to say.

“It’s 10:59,” Dreyfus said, looking at his own watch. “Don’t worry, the ambulance should be here any minute.”

It didn’t matter. There would be no plane crash, Julia would live, she was out of danger and Dance sat in the rear of Rukaj’s limo on the way to his death.

Nick’s heart slowed.

The world grew numbingly cold, and he felt a chill he had felt eleven times already, every hour. He had the same metallic taste in his mouth, but he knew he was not dancing in time anymore. The watch was gone, out of his reach.

But as he thought on it, it didn’t matter. He’d removed Dance from the fateful moment, and without him there would be no plane crash in Byram Hills. Julia was safe, Marcus was safe, everyone was safe. He looked at the price of fate, trading his life so they could all live, and in his mind, the sacrifice was more than worth making.

He had become the focal point of time. Because he had been shot, Rukaj chose to kill Dance, making it impossible for him to endanger Julia, Marcus, Paul and Sam Dreyfus, Shannon, and McManus. Nick’s actions here in the last five minutes, culminating in his death, would reverberate through the lives of countless people, most of whom would never even hear of Nicholas Quinn. People would get on planes, go on vacation, head off to business meetings, never realizing how close to death they had come.

But above all, most important, Julia would live.

He only wished he could see her once more, to hold her, to tell her that he loved her one last time, to apologize for getting caught up in the race of life, never appreciating the value of time, never living in the moment or understanding what was truly important. For in the end he was leaving her alone, leaving her with nothing.

From the edge of his vision, it began to creep in, a darkness that obscured his sight in spite of the bright morning sun. It muted the sounds around him, enveloping him in a heavy blanket, until the world finally went black.

And Nicholas Quinn died.