Richard Doetsch - The 13th Hour

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ms. Quinn?”

“Yes?”

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

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

“You obviously know why I’m calling.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Perhaps we can speak this afternoon?”

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

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

“It’s 914-273- 9296.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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