the 13th Hour (42 page)

"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."

A
T 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 chateau 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 facade 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.