Steve Berry - The Templar legacy

He handed Stephanie the gun. "Stay here."

"Where are you going?"

"To repay a favor."

He crouched down and hustled forward, weaving through the shelves. He waited, then tackled one of the men as he leaped from the last tread. The size and shape of the man was reminiscent of Red Jacket, but this time Malone was ready. He brought a knee into the man's stomach, then pounded a fist to the back of the neck.

The man went still.

Malone surveyed the darkness and heard running a few aisles over.

"No. Please leave me be."

Claridon.

DE ROQUEFORT HEADED STRAIGHT FOR THE DOOR THAT LED OUT of the archives. He'd descended from the ramparts and knew the woman would want to make a hasty retreat, but her choices were limited. There was only the exit to the hall and one other, through the curator's office. But his man stationed there had just reported through the radio that all was quiet.

He now knew she was the same person who'd interfered in Copenhagen and probably the same one from last night in Rennes-le-Chateau. And that realization spurred him on. He must learn her identity.

The door leading out of the archives opened, then closed. In the wedge of light that splashed in from the hall he spied two legs lying prone on the floor between the shelves. He darted over and discovered one of his subordinates unconscious, a small dart planted in the neck. This brother had been stationed on the ground floor and had retrieved the notebook, journal, and lithograph.

Which were nowhere to be seen.

Damn her.

"Do as I instructed," he called out to his remaining men.

He raced for the door.

MALONE HEARD THE MAN'S COMMAND AND DECIDED TO HEAD back to Stephanie. He had no idea what the men had been commanded to do, but he assumed it included them and wasn't good.

He crouched down and eased his way through the shelves, toward the table.

"Stephanie," he breathed out.

"Here, Cotton."

He slipped close to her. All he could hear now was the rain. "There must be another way out of here," she mouthed through the darkness.

He relieved her of the gun. "Somebody left through the door. Probably the woman. I saw only one shadow. The others must have gone after Claridon and left through another exit."

The door leading out opened again.

"That's him leaving," he said.

They stood and rushed back across the archives. At the exit Malone hesitated, heard and saw nothing, then led the way out.

DE ROQUEFORT SPOTTED THE WOMAN RUNNING DOWN THE LONG gallery. She whirled and, not losing a step, fired a shot his way.

He dove to the floor, and she disappeared around a corner.

He came to his feet and bolted after her. Before she'd fired, he'd caught sight of the journal and the book in her grasp.

She had to be stopped.

MALONE SAW A MAN, DRESSED IN BLACK TROUSERS AND A DARK turtleneck, gun in hand, turn a corner fifty feet away.

"This is going to get interesting," he said.

They both ran.

DE ROQUEFORT KEPT UP HIS PURSUIT. THE WOMAN WAS CERTAINLY attempting to leave the palace, and she seemed to know the geography. Every turn she took was the right one. She'd deftly obtained what she came for, so he had to assume that her escape would not be left to chance.

Through another portal, he entered a rib-vaulted hall. The woman was already at the far end, turning a corner. He trotted over and saw a wide stone staircase leading down. The Great Staircase of Honor. Once, lined with frescoes, broken by iron gates, and sheathed with Persian runners, the stairway had lent itself to the solemn majesty of pontifical ceremonies. Now the risers and walls were bare. The darkness at the bottom, some thirty yards away, was absolute. He knew below were exit doors into a courtyard. He heard the woman's footsteps as she descended but could not make out her form.

So he just fired.

Ten shots.

MALONE HEARD WHAT SOUNDED LIKE A HAMMER REPEATEDLY striking a nail. One sound-suppressed shot after another.

He slowed his approach to a doorway ten feet ahead.

HINGES SQUEALED AT THE BASE OF THE INK-BLACK STAIRWAY. De Roquefort recognized the sound of a door groaning open. The storm outside grew louder. Apparently his indiscriminate shots had missed. The woman was leaving the palace. He heard footsteps behind him, then spoke into the mike clipped to his shirt.

"Do you have what I wanted?"

"We do," was the reply through his earphone.

"I'm in the Conclave Gallery. Mr. Malone and Ms. Nelle are behind me. Handle them."

He rushed down the staircase.

MALONE SAW THE MAN IN THE TURTLENECK LEAVE THE CAVERNOUS hall that stretched out before them. Gun in hand, he ran ahead with Stephanie following.

Three armed men materialized from other portals into the room and blocked their way.

Malone and Stephanie stopped.

"Please toss the gun aside," one of the men said.

No way he could take them all before either he, Stephanie, or both of them went down. So he allowed the gun to clatter on the floor.

The three men approached.

"What do we do now?" Stephanie asked.

"I'm open to suggestions."

"There's nothing for you to do," another of the short-hairs said.

They stood still.

"Turn around," came the command.

He stared at Stephanie. He'd been in tight spots before, a few just like the one they were facing. Even if he managed to subdue one or two, there was still the third man, and all were armed.

A thud was followed by a cry from Stephanie and her body collapsed to the floor. Before he could move toward her, the back of Malone's head was pounded with something hard and everything before him vanished.

DE ROQUEFORT FOLLOWED HIS QUARRY, WHO RUSHED THROUGH the Place du Palais, quickly fleeing the empty plaza and winding a path through Avignon's deserted streets. The warm rain fell in steady sheets. The heavens suddenly opened, cleft by an immense flash of lightning that momentarily lifted the vault of darkness. Thunder shook the air.

They left buildings behind and came close to the river.

He knew, just ahead, the Pont St. Benezet stretched out across the Rhone. Through the storm he saw the woman navigate a path straight for the bridge's entrance. What was she doing? Why go there? No matter, he had to follow. She possessed the rest of what he'd come to retrieve, and he did not plan to leave Avignon without the book and journal. Yet he wondered what the rain was doing to the pages. His hair was matted to his scalp, his clothes pasted to his body.

He saw a flash ten meters ahead of him as the woman fired a shot into the door that led to the bridge's entrance.

She disappeared inside the building.

He rushed to the door and carefully gazed inside. A ticket counter stood to his right. Souvenirs were displayed in more counters to the left. Three turnstiles led out onto the bridge. The incomplete span had long ago ceased being anything but a tourist attraction.

The woman was twenty meters away, running down the bridge, out onto the river.

Then she disappeared.

He rushed forward and leaped over the turnstiles, racing after her.

A Gothic chapel stood at the end of the second pylon. He knew that it was the Chapelle Saint-Nicholas. The remains of St Benezet, who was originally responsible for the bridge being built, were once preserved there. But the relics were lost during the Revolution and only the chapel remained-Gothic on top, Romanesque below. Which was where the woman had gone. Down the stone staircase.

Another greenish bolt of lightning flashed overhead.

He shook the rain from his eyes and stopped at the top riser.

Then he saw her.

Not below, but back on top, racing toward the end of the fourth span, which would take her halfway out into the Rhone with nowhere to go, since the spans to the other side of the river had washed away three hundred years ago. She'd obviously used the stairs to dip beneath the chapel as a way to block any shot he may have wanted to take.