The Paris Vendetta (39 page)

SEVENTY-THREE

A
SHBY BREATHED AGAIN AS
L
YON HEARD
C
AROLINE AND LOWERED
his weapon.

“Sit in the chair,” Lyon ordered. “And don’t get up.”

Since there was only one way out of the basilica and he’d never come close to making an escape, he decided the safe play was to obey.

“Hey,” the first female voice called out in the dark. “You don’t really think she’s going to show herself, do you?”

Lyon did not reply.

Instead he marched toward the altar.

S
AM COULD NOT BELIEVE
M
EAGAN WAS ACTUALLY DRAWING
Lyon her way. What had happened to the
I can’t
she’d uttered outside in the rain? He watched as Lyon walked down the center aisle, between rows of empty chairs, gun at his side.

“If all my friends jumped off a bridge,” Norstrum said. “I wouldn’t jump with them. I’d be at the bottom, hoping to catch them.”

He tried to make sense of what he’d heard
.

“True friends stand and fall together.”

“Are we true friends?” he asked
.

“Of course.”

“But you always tell me that there will come a time when I have to leave.”

“Yes. That may happen. But friends are only apart in distance, not in heart. Remember, Sam, every good friend was once a stranger.”

Meagan Morrison had been a stranger two days ago. Now she was placing her ass on the line. For him? Thorvaldsen? It didn’t matter.

They would stand or fall together.

He decided to use the only weapon available. The same one Caroline Dodd had chosen. So he shed his wet coat, grabbed one of the wooden chairs, and hurled it toward Peter Lyon.

T
HORVALDSEN SAW THE CHAIR ARCH ACROSS THE NAVE TOWARD
Lyon. Who else was here? Meagan was past the altar, in the upper ambulatory. Dodd was a meter away, terrified, and Ashby was near the west transept.

Lyon caught sight of the chair, whirled, and managed to maneuver out of the way just before the chair struck the floor. He then aimed his gun and fired a round toward the choir and the episcopal throne.

S
AM FLED HIS HIDING PLACE JUST AS
L
YON AVOIDED THE CHAIR
He darted left, between the columns and tombs, staying low, heading toward where Ashby sat.

Another shot rang out.

The bullet pinged off the stone a few inches from his right shoulder, which meant he’d been spotted.

Another pop.

The round ricocheted off more stone and he felt something sting his left shoulder. Intense pain shot through his arm and he lost his balance, careering to the floor. He rolled and assessed the damage. His left shirtsleeve was torn.

A blood rose blossomed. Sharp pain stabbed up from behind his eyes. He checked the wound and realized that he hadn’t been hit, only grazed—enough, though, to hurt like hell.

He clamped his right hand over the bleeding and rose to his feet.

T
HORVALDSEN TRIED TO SEE WHAT
L
YON WAS SHOOTING AT
. Someone had thrown another chair. Then he spotted a black form rushing past, on the other side of the monument that served as his hiding place.

Dodd saw it, too, panicked, and scampered off, putting a procession of tombs between her and the nave.

Thorvaldsen caught a fleeting glimpse of the face of the form as it hustled past.

Sam.

He heard two more shots, then the thud of flesh and bone meeting stone.

No. Please, God. Not again.

He aimed at Peter Lyon and fired.

A
SHBY DOVE FOR COVER
. T
HE NAVE HAD ERUPTED INTO A
mélange of gunfire from all directions. He saw Lyon flatten himself on the floor and also use the chairs for cover.

Where was Caroline?

Why hadn’t she returned?

T
HORVALDSEN COULD NOT ALLOW ANYTHING TO HAPPEN TO
Sam. Bad enough Meagan was involved. Caroline Dodd had disappeared, surely toward the open portal where wind and rain continued to howl. It would only take a moment for Lyon to recover and react, so he scampered away, toward where Sam had headed.

M
ALONE SHIELDED HIS HEAD WITH HIS ARMS AS THE EXPLOSION
thundered through the nave, rattling the walls and windows. But his toss into the crypt had been true and the explosion’s brunt force stayed below, only a smoke and dust cloud bubbling up from the stairway.

He glanced around.

Everyone seemed okay.

Then panic assumed control and people swarmed for the exit. The priest and the two altar boys left, disappearing into the choir.

He stood before the main altar and watched the chaos, mindful that the bomber had probably made his escape. As the crowd thinned, standing at the rear of the center aisle was Stephanie, holding her gun to the ribs of Long Nose.

Three Paris policemen appeared through the main doors. One saw the automatic in Stephanie’s grasp and immediately found his weapon.

The other two followed suit.

“Baissez votre arme. Immédiatement,”
one of the officers shouted at Stephanie. Drop the gun. Immediately.

Another non-uniformed officer appeared and called for the officers to stand down. They lowered their weapons, then rushed forward to handcuff Long Nose.

Stephanie marched down the center aisle.

“Nice catch,” he told her.

“Even better throw.”

“What do we do now?” he asked. “We’ve surely heard the last from Lyon.”

“I agree.”

He reached into his pocket and found his cell phone. “Maybe it’s time I try to reason with Henrik. Sam should be with him.”

He’d switched the unit to silent on the taxi ride to the church. Now he spied a missed call from about twenty minutes ago.

Thorvaldsen.

Placed after they’d talked.

He saw a voice-mail indicator and listened to the message.

“This is Meagan Morrison. I was with Sam today at the Eiffel Tower when you came. Henrik gave me his phone, so I’m calling at the same number where you called him. I hope this is Cotton Malone. That crazy old man has gone inside Saint-Denis after Ashby. There’s another man and a woman in there. Sam told me the man is Peter Lyon. Sam went in there, too. They need help. I thought I could let Sam do this alone. But … I can’t. He’s going to get himself hurt. I’m going in. I thought you should know.”

“We have to get there,” he said.

“It’s only eight miles, but the traffic is heavy. I’ve told the Paris police. They’re dispatching men right now. A chopper is on the way for us. It should be outside. The street’s been cleared so it can land.”

She’d thought of everything.

“I can’t send the police in there with sirens blasting,” she said. “I want Lyon. This may be our only shot. They’re headed there quietly.”

He knew that was the smart play.

But not for the people inside.

“We should beat them there,” she said.

“Let’s make sure we do.”

SEVENTY-FOUR

S
AM CLUTCHED HIS ARM AND KEPT MOVING TOWARD THE END
of the church that, he assumed, faced the plaza outside. He’d succeeded in drawing Peter Lyon’s attention away from Meagan, but he’d also managed to get injured. He only hoped that they could all occupy Lyon long enough for help to arrive.

Thorvaldsen had apparently come to his rescue, firing on Lyon and allowing him the opportunity for an escape.

But where was the Dane now?

He found the last column in the row that supported the vault. Open space loomed beyond. He pressed his spine close and risked a peek into the nave.

Lyon was running toward a staircase, left of the altar, that led up to where Meagan was hiding.

“No,” Sam screamed.

A
SHBY COULDN’T BELIEVE WHAT HE WAS HEARING
. L
YON 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
.

T
HORVALDSEN FIRED ANOTHER ROUND, DISTURBED THAT
S
AM
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.

A
SHBY 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.

M
ALONE 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.

S
AM 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.”

T
HORVALDSEN WAS GLAD TO HEAR THAT
S
AM 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.