It took a moment for Dance to realize that Sam’s smile wasn’t forced, it was genuine. But before Dance could get two steps up the stairs Sam stepped through the door at the top of the stairs and slammed the three-inch metal door closed with a floor-shaking thud, the magna lock instantly catching, sealing them in.
SAM RAN TO the pantry of the kitchen, ripped open the door, slipped the octagonal key in the slot, and pushed open the hidden door panel to reveal the air- conditioned computer room.
The rack mount server contained four individual hard drives. Each pop-and-lock unit had five hundred gigabytes of memory, enough space to record five days’ worth of video.
He inserted a cable into the PC port. With his knife he stripped the other end and jammed the bare wires directly into a wall socket. Designed with a surge protector to guard against electrical spikes and breakers to guard against lightning, the fail-safes all guarded the primary power source and communication cables into the system. There was nothing to stop the destructive force of the 110 volts as they poured through the PC cable directly into the circuits.
Within seconds, the mainframe began sparking, smoke rolling out of the media bays. With the system fried, he unplugged the cable from the wall before a fire started. He might have stooped to stealing, but he could justify his actions in the end. On the other hand, murder and arson weren’t part of his vocabulary.
Using his knife, he popped out the four cooked hard drives, placed them atop the mahogany box, and picked it up. He closed the hidden panel in the pantry, closed the door, and raced out through the kitchen, bursting out the back door into the parking lot.
“We done?” Brinehart asked.
“Success,” Sam said, hiding his nerves as he looked at the young cop.
“Wow.” Brinehart broke out in a big smile. “That was easy.”
Sam walked straight for Shannon’s Mustang, finding the driver’s-side door still open and the keys still in the ignition as he’d hoped. He threw the box and hard drives in the passenger seat.
“Hey,” Brinehart called out. “Dance decide where you’re going to put Shannon’s Mustang?”
Sam turned to see Brinehart leaning against Dance’s beat-up Taurus, Nick’s face staring at him through the rear window.
“You’ve got to admit, Shannon had good taste in cars,” Brinehart said as he walked toward Sam.
“Yeah,” Sam replied as he climbed into the driver’s seat, glad that Brinehart hadn’t taken the keys. Sam checked under the seat, in the door pouches, and finally found what he was searching for in the glove compartment. He knew Dance carried two guns and was glad his partner, Shannon, had chosen to follow the same path by sticking a backup nine-millimeter in the glove compartment.
“So we’re done?” Brinehart asked, continuing his approach.
Sam turned the key. The three-fifty engine growled to life as if awakened from a long sleep. He gripped the pistol tightly and felt a warm feeling of safety course through him as he tucked the gun in his waistband. He hit the gas, threw the car into first, and popped the clutch. The wheels spun wildly as the Shelby engine roared, launching the car out of the parking lot.
“Oh, yeah, we’re done,” Sam said to himself.
DANCE CHARGED UP the stairs, ramming his shoulder into the three-inch steel fire door. Not only did it not budge, but it made no sound as his two-hundred-pound body bounced off its thick surface.
“Son of a bitch,” Dance said, aiming his gun at the door.
“Whoa, whoa,” Randall shouted, “the ricochet will kill you.”
Dance began shaking violently in frustration and charged down the stairs. He ran through the vault door and from room to room, frantically looking for a way out, through the storage room, the conference room, and to Hennicot’s elegant office looking for an alternative exit for emergencies, such as the one they were in right now.
As he was about to exit the office, he saw the white crumpled-up piece of paper on the floor, a piece of debris in one of the cleanest spaces he had ever seen. He picked it up, quickly read it, stuffed it into his pocket, and ran back out front.
“What if we set off the sprinkler system,” Arilio said as he pulled out his lighter. “I bet you it releases the door. I can guarantee, Hennicot wouldn’t want one of his employees to get accidentally cooked down here.”
“Put that away,” Dance said. He pointed to the flat metal disks interspersed throughout the ceiling. “It’s a Halon system to protect the valuables. They don’t want water getting on anything. You set it off in here, we’ll choke and pass out. Besides, it calls the Fire Department, you fool. Any other bright ideas?”
“Well,” Randall said, “the door’s magnetically sealed, on a battery backup. I’m sure cutting the power won’t work.”
“Thanks for pointing out the obvious, moron,” Dance said.
“Ahhh,” Randall said in an all-knowing tone.
“What?” Dance asked, seeing hope bloom in Randall’s eyes.
“We just need to turn off the magnet, interrupt the flow of electricity,” he said, walking over to the display case and snatching the small box off the leg. He ran straight for the stairs and headed up, Dance and Arilio two steps behind.
He affixed the box to the top of the door upon the magnetic plate and without fanfare, without a sound, the door slipped open.
THE AS 300 sat on the tarmac waiting for takeoff, already fifteen minutes behind schedule. There had been no update since the announcement that they would be briefly delayed. Rumors circulated that they wouldn’t be leaving due to a mechanical problem and would need to change planes. A murmur of disappointment grew among those heading off for vacation, those heading home, those who would be missing business meetings and doctor appointments. But that scenario seemed unlikely as there were three planes ahead of them awaiting clearance to depart and a growing number behind them entering the queue.
Julia thought about quietly checking her phone for messages but didn’t want to break FAA rules and end up having to explain herself.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, good morning. My name is Kip Ulrich, I’ll be your captain on our short flight to Boston. As you have probably realized, we are a little backed up this morning, but I assure you it’s not mechanical difficulties or weather holding us back. Today our delay is a rather cute, four-legged animal. If you are on the left side of the plane, you can see him. Maybe give him a little wave.”
Julia and Katherine looked outside to see a yellow Labrador running wildly about the tarmac, four ground-crew members frantically chasing him.
“I can pretty much assure you, ladies and gentlemen, that the chase is nearing its end, as I’ve just been told a mechanic is en route with a nice juicy steak. We’ll be under way shortly.”
Julia smiled at Katherine. They both took one more look at the running Lab before closing their eyes to await takeoff.
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.
