Richard Doetsch - The 13th Hour

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Love that GPS stuff.”

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

“What direction is he going?”

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

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

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

“Thanks, Lena.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I said you would have it by Friday.”

The entrance to the airport loomed ahead.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re always looking for a fight.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Seems you already did that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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