Richard Doetsch - The 13th Hour

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?”