Richard Doetsch - The 13th Hour

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

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

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

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

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

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

And Nick and Marcus were caught in the middle.

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

The moment hung in the air. Time ticking…

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

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

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

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

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

With hate-filled eyes, Dance complied.

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

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

Brinehart turned to Dance.

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

McManus and Brinehart turned their attention to Nick.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?” Nick looked at McManus.

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

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

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

Brinehart handed him the keys.

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

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

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

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

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

“Turn around,” Dance ordered Marcus.

“In your dreams, you bastard.”

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

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

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

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

“My apologies, sir,” McManus said.

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

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

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

The three cops got into the patrol car and left.

Dance turned and leaned into Nick’s face.

“Does he know?” Nick said.

Dance continued glaring at Nick but remained silent.

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

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

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

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

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

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