Richard Doetsch - The 13th Hour

“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.