He crept to one of the columns and stole a look into the nave.
Lyon was to the right of the altar, near another column, standing, watching, listening.
“I TOLD YOU NOT TO MOVE,” THORVALDSEN SAID. “THE NEXT bullet will not hit the floor.”
He’d thought of this moment for a long time, wondering what it would feel like to finally confront Cai’s murderer. But he’d also heard Sam’s warning, concerned that Lyon may be only a short distance away.
“Thorvaldsen,” Ashby said. “You have to see reason here. Lyon is going to kill us both.”
He could only hope Sam and Meagan were watching his back, though neither one of them should be here. Funny. He was a billionaire many times over, yet not a single one of those euros could help him now. He’d crossed into a place ruled only by revenge. Within the darkness, he saw images of Cai as a baby, then an adolescent. He’d owed it to Lisette to ensure the lad grew into a man. Over four centuries Thorvaldsens had lived in Denmark. The Nazis had done their best to eradicate them, but they’d survived the onslaught. When Cai was born he’d been ecstatic. A child. To carry on. Boy or girl. He hadn’t cared.
Just healthy. That’s what he’d prayed for.
Papa, take care. I’ll see you in a few weeks.
The last words Cai had said to him during their last telephone conversation.
He did see Cai a few weeks later.
Lying in a casket.
And all because of the worthless creature standing a few meters away.
“Did you think for one moment,” he asked Ashby, “that I’d allow his death to go unanswered? Did you think yourself so clever? So important? That you could murder people and there would never be consequences?”
Ashby said nothing.
“Answer me,” he yelled.
ASHBY HAD REACHED HIS LIMIT.
This old man was deranged, consumed with hate. He decided that the best way to deal with the danger was to face it. Especially considering that he’d caught sight of Peter Lyon, on the far side of one of the columns, coolly watching the encounter. Thorvaldsen was obviously aware of Lyon’s presence.
And the others inside, they seemed to be the Dane’s allies.
“I did what I had to do,” Ashby declared.
“That’s exactly right. And my son died.”
“You have to know that I never intended that to occur. The prosecutor was all that interested me. Cabral went too far. There was no need to kill all of those people.”
“Do you have children?” Thorvaldsen asked.
He shook his head.
“Then you cannot possibly understand.”
He had to buy more time. Lyon had yet to move. He just stayed behind the column. And where were the other two?
“I’ve spent two years watching you,” Thorvaldsen said. “You’re a failure in everything you do. Your business ventures all lost money. Your bank is in trouble. Your assets are nearly depleted. I’ve watched with amusement as you and your mistress have tried to find Napoleon’s wealth. And now here you are, still searching.”
This fool was offering far too much information to Peter Lyon.
Then again.
“You’re mistaken. I have a wealth of assets. Just not where you can discover them. Only in the past few days I’ve acquired a hundred million euros in gold.”
He wanted Lyon to know that there were a lot of reasons why he should not be shot.
“I don’t want your money,” Thorvaldsen spit out.
“But I do,” Lyon said as he emerged from the shadows and shot Henrik Thorvaldsen.
SAM STOPPED AT THE REPORT OF WHAT HAD TO BE A SOUND-suppressed weapon. He hadn’t been able to hear what was being said as he was some fifty feet away from the conversation.
He glanced into the nave.
Peter Lyon was gone.
THORVALDSEN DID NOT FEEL THE BULLET ENTER HIS CHEST but its exit produced excruciating pain. Then all coordination among brain, nerves, and muscles failed. His legs gave way as a fresh rush of agony flooded his brain.
Was this what Cai had felt? Had his boy been consumed by such intensity? What a terrible thing.
His eyes rolled upward.
His body sagged.
His right hand released its grip on the gun and he crashed down in a palpitating mass, the side of his head slamming the pavement.
Each breath tore at his lungs.
He tried to master the stabs at his chest.
Sound muffled.
Location failed.
Then all color drained from the world.
SEVENTY-SIX
MALONE CAUGHT SIGHT OF THE SAINT-DENIS BASILICA through the rain, about a mile ahead. No police vehicles were outside, and the plaza before the church was deserted. Everything around the church was dark and still, as if the plague had struck.
He found his Beretta and two spare magazines.
He was ready.
Just get this damn helicopter on the ground.
ASHBY WAS RELIEVED. “ABOUT TIME YOU SAVED ME FROM THAT.”
Thorvaldsen lay on the floor, blood gushing from a chest wound. Ashby could not care less about the idiot. Lyon was all that mattered.
“A hundred million euros of gold?” Lyon asked.
“Rommel’s treasure. Lost since the war. I found it.”
“And you think that will buy your life?”
“Why wouldn’t it?”
A new sound intruded on the monotonous drone of the storm.
Thump, thump, thump.
Growing louder.
Lyon noticed it, too.
A helicopter.
SAM CREPT CLOSE TO WHERE ASHBY AND LYON STOOD AND SAW the gun in Lyon’s hand. Then he spotted Thorvaldsen on the floor, blood pumping out in heavy gushes.
Oh, God.
No.
“WHERE IS THIS GOLD?” LYON ASKED ASHBY
“In a vault. That only I can access.”
That should buy him a reprieve.
“I never liked you,” Lyon said. “You’ve been manipulating this entire situation from the beginning.”
“What do you care? You were hired, I paid you. What does it matter what I intended?”
“I haven’t survived by being a fool,” Lyon declared. “You negotiated with the Americans. Brought them into our arrangement. They didn’t like you, either, but would do anything to capture me.”
Rotors grew louder, as if right overhead.
“We need to leave,” Ashby said. “You know who that is.”
An evil light gathered in the amber eyes. “You’re right. I need to leave.”
Lyon fired the gun.
THORVALDSEN OPENED HIS EYES.
Black spots faded, yet the world around him seemed in a haze. He heard voices and saw Ashby standing close to another man, who was holding a gun.
Peter Lyon.
He watched as the murdering SOB shot Ashby.
Damn him.
He tried to move, to find his gun, but not a muscle in his body would respond. Blood poured from his chest. His strength waned. He heard wind, rain, and the pump of a deep bass tone thumping through the air.
Then another pop.
He focused. Ashby winced, as if in pain.
Two more pops.
A red ooze seeped from two holes in the forehead of the man who’d butchered his son.
Peter Lyon had finished what Thorvaldsen had started.
As Ashby collapsed to the floor, Thorvaldsen allowed the surprising calm coursing through his nerves to take him over.
SAM CAUGHT HIS BREATH AND STOOD. HIS LEGS WERE FROZEN. Was he afraid? No, more than that. A mortal terror had seized his muscles, gripping his mind with panic.
Lyon had shot Ashby four times.
Just like that.
Bam, bam, bam, bam.
Ashby was certainly dead. But what about Thorvaldsen? Sam thought the Dane had moved, just before Ashby died. He needed to get to his friend. Blood flooded the marble flooring at an alarming rate.