“No,” Sam screamed.
ASHBY COULDN’T BELIEVE WHAT HE WAS HEARING. LYON WAS finally moving away, toward the other end of the church, far enough that he could make an escape for the doors. He’d been patiently waiting, watching as the demon avoided whoever was shooting at him from the south transept. He didn’t know who that was, but he was damn glad they were here.
Now someone from his immediate right had shouted out.
As if to say to Lyon, Not there. Here.
THORVALDSEN FIRED ANOTHER ROUND, DISTURBED THAT SAM was drawing attention to himself.
Lyon sought refuge behind one of the tombs near the main altar.
He could not allow Lyon to advance toward the ambulatory, to where Meagan was hiding. So he hustled forward, back through the south transept, away from Ashby and Sam, toward Lyon.
ASHBY FLED THE CHAIR AND SOUGHT PROTECTION IN THE shadows. Lyon was thirty meters away, enemies thickening around him. Caroline had never appeared, and he assumed she was gone. He should follow her lead. The treasure was no longer important, at least not at the moment.
Escaping was his only concern.
So he crouched low and crept forward, down the south transept, heading for the open doors.
MALONE BUCKLED THE HARNESS JUST AS THE HELICOPTER lifted from the street. Daylight was sinking away, and only faint slants of light managed to pierce the rain clouds.
Stephanie sat beside him.
Both of them were deeply concerned.
A bitter, angry father bent on revenge and a young rookie agent were not the duo that should be facing a man like Peter Lyon. One wasn’t thinking, the other had not learned how to think yet. With all that had happened, Malone hadn’t had a second to consider the rift between him and Thorvaldsen. He’d done what he thought was right, but that decision had hurt a friend. Never had he and Thorvaldsen exchanged any cross words. Some irritation, occasional frustration, but never genuine anger.
He needed to speak with Henrik and work it out.
He glanced over at Stephanie and knew she was silently berating herself for sending Sam. At the time, that had been the right move.
Now it might prove fatal.
SAM WAS PLEASED THAT LYON HAD HESITATED AND NOT, AS yet, pressed his advantage and made a dash for the staircase that led up to the ambulatory. His left arm hurt like hell, his right hand still clamped on the bleeding wound.
Think.
He made another decision.
“Henrik,” he called out. “That man with the gun is a wanted terrorist. Keep him pinned down until help arrives.”
THORVALDSEN WAS GLAD TO HEAR THAT SAM WAS OKAY.
“His name is Peter Lyon,” Meagan called out.
“So nice,” Lyon said, “that everyone knows me.”
“You can’t kill us all,” Sam said.
“But I can kill one or two of you.”
Thorvaldsen knew that assessment was correct, particularly considering that he seemed to be the only one, besides Lyon, who was armed.
Movement grabbed his attention. Not from Lyon. But off to his right, near the doors leading out. A solitary form, moving straight for the exit. He first thought it was Caroline Dodd, but then he realized that the figure was male.
Ashby.
He’d apparently taken advantage of the confusion and carefully crept from the other end of the nave. Thorvaldsen turned away from Lyon and scampered toward the doors. Being closer than Ashby, he arrived first. He hugged François’s monument again for cover and waited for the Brit to approach through the darkness.
The marble floor was soaked from blowing rain.
Without a coat, he was cold.
He heard Ashby, on the monument’s opposite side, stop his advance.
Probably making sure that he could make the final ten meters without anyone noticing.
Thorvaldsen peered around the edge.
Ashby started forward.
Thorvaldsen swung around the tomb’s short side and jammed his gun in Ashby’s face.
“You won’t be leaving.”
Ashby, clearly startled, lost his balance on the wet floor and rolled to face the threat.
SEVENTY-FIVE
ASHBY WAS PUZZLED. “THORVALDSEN?”
“Stand up,” the Dane ordered.
He rose to his feet. The gun remained pointed at him.
“You were the one shooting at Lyon?” he asked.
“I didn’t want him to do what I came to do.”
“What is that?”
“Kill you.”
SAM COULD HEAR VOICES FROM A HUNDRED FEET AWAY, NEAR the exit. But the storm and the nave’s echo made it difficult to distinguish what was being said. Thorvaldsen was there, that much he knew. Ashby had fled, so he assumed Henrik had stopped the Brit from leaving, finally confronting his nemesis.
But Lyon was still here.
Perhaps Lyon had already determined that only one of the three was armed, since neither of the other two challengers had sent gunfire his way.
Sam saw Lyon flee his hiding place and advance across the nave, using the altar and its surrounding monuments for cover, heading straight for where the voices seemed to be. He headed that way, too.
MALONE CHECKED HIS WATCH. ROUGH AIR BUFFETED THE helicopter, and rain poured down the windows. His mind was in a tense communion with the whine of the rotors. Paris rolled past beneath them as they roared northward toward the suburb of Saint-Denis.
He hadn’t felt this helpless in a long time.
Stephanie checked her watch and flashed four fingers.
Less than five minutes.
THORVALDSEN KNEW HE HAD TO ACT FAST BUT HE WANTED this son of a bitch to know why he was about to die.
“Two years ago,” he said, “in Mexico City. My son was one of seven people who were butchered that day. A shooting you ordered. One that Amando Cabral carried out. For you. I’ve already killed him. Now it’s your turn.”
“Herre Thorvaldsen, you are completely mistaken-”
“Don’t even try,” he said, his voice rising. “Don’t insult me, or the memory of my only son, with lies. I know every detail of what happened. I’ve hunted you for two years. Now I have you.”
“I was wholly unaware of what Cabral would do. You must believe that. I simply wanted those prosecutors discouraged.”
He stepped back, closer to François’ tomb, using its elaborate columns and arches as cover from Lyon, who had to be lurking behind him.
Finish this, he told himself.
Now
SAM STILL GRIPPED HIS WOUNDED ARM AS HE MADE HIS WAY forward. He’d lost sight of Lyon, last seen crossing before the main altar, maybe fifty feet from Thorvaldsen and Ashby.
He must alert his friend, so he took a chance.
“Henrik. Lyon is headed your way.”
ASHBY WAS IN A PANIC. HE NEEDED TO LEAVE THIS GODFORSAKEN place.
Two men with guns wanted to kill him, and somebody just yelled that Lyon was approaching.
“Thorvaldsen, listen to me. I didn’t kill your son.”
A shot banged through the church and rattled his ears. He jumped and realized that Thorvaldsen had fired at the floor, close to his left foot. The ping of metal to stone sent him staggering back toward the exit doorway. But he knew better than to try to make a run for it.
He’d be dead before he took one step.
SAM HEARD A SHOT
“Stay where you are,” Thorvaldsen yelled over the wind and rain. “You sorry excuse for a human being. Do you know what you did? He was the finest son a man could have and you gunned him down, like he was nothing.”
Sam stopped and told himself to assess the situation. Act smart. Do what Norstrum would do. He was always smart.