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.
But his legs would not move.
A scream rang through the church.
Meagan sprang from the darkness and tackled Peter Lyon.
“PAPA, PAPA.”
Thorvaldsen heard Cai’s voice, as it had been years ago in the final telephone call.
“I’m here, Papa.”
“Where, son?”
“Everywhere. Come to me.”
“I failed, son.”
“Your vendetta is not necessary, Papa. Not anymore. He’s dead. As certain as if you had killed him yourself.”
“I’ve missed you, son.”
“Henrik.”
A female voice. One he hadn’t heard in a long time.
Lisette.
“My darling,” he said. “Is that you?”
“I’m here, too, Henrik. With Cai. We’ve been waiting.”
“How do I find you?”
“You have to let go.”
He considered what they were saying. What it meant. But the implications that their request carried frightened him. He wanted to know, “What’s it like there?”
“Peaceful,” Lisette said.
“It’s wonderful,” Cai added. “No more loneliness.”
He could barely recall a time that loneliness had not consumed him. But there was Sam. And Meagan. They remained in the church. With Lyon.
A scream invaded his peace.
He struggled to see what was happening.
Meagan had attacked Lyon.
They were struggling on the floor.
Still, though, he could not move. His arms lay extended on either side of his bleeding chest. His legs were as if they did not exist. His hands and fingers were frozen. Nothing functioned. Hot pain gushed up behind his eyes.
“Henrik.”
It was Lisette.
“You can’t help.”
“I have to help them.”
SAM WATCHED AS MEAGAN AND LYON ROLLED ACROSS THE floor, struggling.
“You son of a bitch,” he heard Meagan yell.
He needed to join the fray. Help her. Do something. But fear kept him frozen. He felt puny, peevish, cowardly. He was afraid. Then he straightened up from his conflicting thoughts and forced his legs to move.
Lyon vaulted Meagan off him. She thudded into the thick base on one of the tombs.
Sam searched the darkness and spotted Thorvaldsen’s gun. Ten feet away from his friend, who still had not moved.
He rushed forward and grabbed the weapon.
MALONE UNBUCKLED HIS HARNESS JUST AS THE CHOPPER’S wheels kissed the pavement. Stephanie did the same. He reached for the door handle and wrenched the panel open.
Beretta in hand, he leaped out.
Cold rain stung his cheeks.
SAM LIFTED THE WEAPON, HIS BLOODY FINGER FINDING THE trigger. He was deep in the shadows, beyond where Henrik and Ashby lay. He turned just as Lyon jammed a fist into Meagan’s face, knocking her head against the base of one of the tombs, her body settling at a contorted angle on the floor.
Lyon searched for his gun.
The thump of roto
rs outside had subsided, which meant the chopper had found the plaza. Lyon must have realized that fact, too, as he grabbed his gun, stood, and darted toward freedom.
Sam fought the pain in his left shoulder, stepped from the dimness and raised his weapon. “That’s it.”
Lyon halted but did not turn around. “The third voice.”