Paul, an athlete since childhood, had built his body through exercise and diet into a machine that tackled quarterbacks as a Georgia Bulldog and carried the wounded off the battlefield in Southeast Asia. Sam, on the other hand, preferred to pour chemicals in his body to find enlightenment and truth.
Forgoing a career in medicine after seeing too many battlefield wounds and too much blood, Paul Dreyfus followed a path he could never have imagined. Success provided him a Georgian colonial mansion outside Philadelphia, Ivy League educations for his two daughters, a life of luxury for Susan, his wife of thirty-five years, even his own modest boat and plane, both of which he preferred to four-wheeled vehicles. He loved flying, embracing his father’s passion at the age of fourteen. Twice a month their dad took him and Sam on little excursions around the Lehigh Valley, letting them each handle the controls, planting the seeds of a lifelong passion, imparting that feeling of flight that was unlike anything he had ever experienced.
People viewed everything in his life with envy. Everything except his brother. Back in the United States after President Carter’s amnesty for draft dodgers, Sam returned to the States thinking the world owed him a living. Or if not the world, at least his brother, Paul.
Sam might have been many things, but he was still Paul’s brother, he was still family. Draft dodging and drugs were the extent of his crimes, and they were all in his youth. Being obnoxious, rude, and self-centered were not felonious acts. If they were, Sam would have been in jail long ago.
Paul had employed his brother off and on for the last twenty years, paying him a salary that grew to over a million dollars a year for doing absolutely nothing. He actually gave him a small piece of the firm out of sympathy, so there would be something to leave his kids. He’d hoped it would spur some pride, some drive, but like so many efforts before, it proved useless. Sam made few contributions, brought in not a single contract, and seemed uninterested in the business. It had gotten to the point that Paul was seriously considering giving up on his brother altogether.
But during the last year, Paul had seen a change. Sam was at his office by 8:00 every morning, working full days. He gradually began showing up at the main office with ideas, treating employees with respect. It took Sam Dreyfus forty-nine years, but he had finally grown up. With increasing responsibility Sam grew into the family name, trust was restored, their families reconnected. Paul proudly introduced him at presentations. He landed three major multi-million-dollar contracts in six months. Sam wasn’t just working, he was earning his keep.
But then the world spun on its head.
Paul had entered his office at 6:45 this morning to find a receipt for one of his patented octagonal keys lying on the floor. He picked it up quietly, cursing the fool who dropped it, and saw the signature on the bottom. He suddenly realized what Sam had done.
Paul was apoplectic when he found their own security system breached, the Hennicot files and plans gone. Pass codes stolen, combinations to safes and locks accessed, security cards initiated and authorized.
He tapped into Sam’s computer. Though his brother had renewed his faith and trust with his exemplary performance over the last year, Paul kept a back-door access to his files in case his brother ever had a relapse to his former self. Paul felt horrible for his lack of confidence in him, but the guilt was washed away by what he found as he opened his brother’s personal files. His heart broke as he printed out and read through Sam’s notes, as he came to terms with the extent of the betrayal.
Without a word even to his wife, Paul grabbed his emergency briefcase, filled with pass-code resets, five hundred thousand in cash, and his Smith and Wesson. He tucked the three pages he had printed off his brother’s computer inside and raced to the small airfield where he kept his Cessna 400. He paid Tony Richter, the air traffic controller he had known for twenty years, ten thousand dollars to forget he ever saw his plane take off at 7:15, asking him to say that his plane was still tucked in its garage. He didn’t want anyone to know he had left, didn’t want anyone to know he was coming, didn’t want Sam to find out what he was about to do.
Dance’s fist caught Paul square in the right eye, shocking him out of his thoughts, pulling him back to the present moment.
“Where’s the box?”
Paul stared at the man, laughing at his punch. “He said you were going to do that,” Paul taunted Dance.
“Who?”
“He said he knew all about the robbery,” Paul added, reveling in the destabilizing effect it had on Dance. “Said you were going to throw me into a lake, I should have listened to him.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know, but he looked pretty pissed.” Dreyfus paused. “Murderously pissed.”
“The guy you were with?”
Paul just smiled back.
And without warning Dance drilled him right in the mouth. “Did he say I was going to do that?”
And then he punched him in the stomach. “Or how about that?”
Without another word, Dance jumped out of the car and into the front seat, turned on the engine, and turned into the constricted road.
“Let’s see if you know how to swim.”
NICK RAN AT a full clip, faster than he had ever run before. He cut down the field, past the locker house, out across the lacrosse fields, and into the woods. The access road wrapped around the entire complex. If he ran fast enough, with the slow-moving traffic and the far shorter distance by foot, he could intercept them.
Cutting into the small forest on his right, he drove his legs harder, lactic acid pouring through them as if he was in the final kick of a marathon.
Through the woods, he pressed on under the low green canopy of leaves, thinking only of Julia as he leaped logs and bushes. Hurtling out of the brush and trees, his legs pistoning even faster, he emerged into the high grasses that abutted the access road.
Without breaking stride, he reached behind his back and drew his pistol, thumbing off the safety as Dance’s car came into view.
It was traveling slowly, a quarter mile up the road, on approach to the place where Private McManus was standing guard to prevent anyone from trying to enter, never thinking he would have to prevent someone from leaving.
“McManus! Private McManus,” Nick shouted through heaving breaths as he ran toward the National Guardsman.
McManus turned toward him, the confusion in his eyes evident even from this distance.
Nick pointed at Dance’s approaching car.
“Stop him,” Nick shouted at the young Guardsman.
“What?” McManus shouted back as he turned and saw the approaching green Ford Taurus.
“They stole from the wreckage,” Nick screamed, knowing that would get his attention.
“How do you know?” McManus shouted back.
“You were top of your class in riflery, prove it.”
“How the hell did you know that?” the private yelled as he looked toward the approaching car.
“Raise your rifle, don’t let them by.” Nick was less than one hundred feet from the Guardsman.
And suddenly the Taurus accelerated, the large police engine roaring as it sped up.
Blocked by barriers, the open lane was only wide enough for a single car. McManus stood in the gap and raised his M-16, playing chicken with the three-thousand-pound vehicle.
Nick came running up alongside him, his gun drawn, aiming at the driver.
One hundred yards off, still accelerating.
“You can hit the tire, just focus,” Nick said.
“Are you sure about this?” McManus held his gun high, aiming…
“You can do it, just like the range.”
Fifty yards.
“Take the shot,” Nick said.
McManus flexed his finger, focused, and fired off one round from his rifle.
The rear tire of the Taurus exploded in a shredding hail of black rubber, the spinning aluminum wheel falling on the roadway, sending up a shower of sparks.