Steve Berry - The Templar legacy

He dashed after her, rounding the chapel.

He didn't want to shoot. He needed her alive. Even more important, he needed what she carried. So he sent a bullet to her left, at her feet.

She stopped and turned to face him.

He rushed forward, gun leveled.

She stood at the end of the fourth span, nothing but darkness and water behind her. A clap of thunder violated the air. Wind came in wild gusts. Rain poured across his face.

"Who are you?" he asked.

She wore a black bodysuit that matched her dark skin. She was lean and muscular, her head sheathed in a tight hood, only her face visible. She carried a gun in the left hand, a plastic shopping bag in the other. She extended the shopping back out over the edge.

"Let's not get hasty," she said.

"I could simply shoot you."

"Two reasons why you won't do that."

"I'm listening."

"One, the bag will drop into the river and what you really want will be lost. And two, I'm a Christian. You don't kill Christians."

"How do you know what I do?"

"You are a knight of the Templars, as are the others. You took an oath not to harm Christians."

"I have no idea whether you're a Christian."

"So let's stick with reason one. Shoot me, the books swim in the Rhone. The swift current will take them away."

"Apparently we seek the same thing."

"You're a quick one."

Her arm stayed extended out over the edge and he contemplated where best to shoot her, but she was right-the bag would be gone long before he could traverse the ten feet that separated them.

"Looks like we have a standoff," he said.

"I wouldn't say that."

She released her grip and the bag disappeared into the blackness. She then used his moment of surprise to raise her gun and fire, but de Roquefort pivoted left and dropped to the wet stones. When he shook the rain from his eyes, he saw the woman leap over the edge. He stood and rushed over, expecting to see the churning Rhone sweeping by, but instead below him was a stone platform, about eight feet down, part of a pylon that supported the outer arch. He saw the woman yank up the bag and disappear beneath the bridge.

He hesitated only an instant, then jumped, landing on his feet. His middle-aged ankles rattled from the impact.

An engine roared and he saw a motorboat shoot out from under the far side of the bridge and speed away, toward the north. He raised his gun to fire, but a muzzle flash signaled she was firing, too.

He lunged flat to more wet stone.

The boat dissolved out of range.

Who was that vixen? Clearly, she knew what he was, though not who he was since she'd not identified him. She also apparently understood the significance of the book and the journal. Most important, she knew his every move.

He came to his feet and stepped beneath the bridge, out of the rain, where the boat had been moored. She'd also planned a clever escape. He was about to climb back up, using an iron ladder affixed to the bridge's exterior, when something in the darkness caught his attention.

He bent down.

A book lay on the soaked stone beneath the overpass.

He brought it close to his eyes, straining to see what the damp pages contained, and read a few of the words.

Lars Nelle's notebook.

She'd lost it during her hasty retreat.

He smiled.

He now possessed part of the puzzle-not all, but maybe enough-and he knew precisely how to learn the rest.

MALONE OPENED HIS EYES, TESTED HIS SORE NECK, AND DETERMINED nothing seemed broken. He massaged the swollen muscles with his open palm and shook off the effects of being unconscious. He glanced at his watch. Eleven twenty PM. He'd been out about an hour.

Stephanie lay a few feet away. He crawled toward her, lifted her head, and gently shook her. She blinked her eyes and tried to focus on him.

"That hurt," she muttered.

"Tell me about it." He stared around the expansive hall. Outside, the rain had slackened. "We need to get out of here."

"What about our friends?"

"If they wanted us dead, we would be. I think they're through with us. They have the notebook, the journal, and Claridon. We're unnecessary." He noticed the gun lying nearby and motioned. "That's what kind of threat they think we are."

Stephanie rubbed her head. "This was a bad idea, Cotton. I should have never reacted after that notebook was sent to me. If I hadn't called Ernst Scoville, he'd probably still be alive. And I should have never involved you."

"I believe I insisted." He slowly came to his feet. "We need to leave. At some point cleaning personnel have to come through here. And I don't feel like answering any police questions."

He helped Stephanie up.

"Thanks, Cotton. For everything. I appreciate all that you did."

"You make it sound like this is over."

"It is for me. Whatever Lars and Mark were looking for will just have to be found by somebody else. I'm going home."

"What about Claridon?"

"What can we do? We have no idea who took him or where he might be. And what would we tell the police? The Knights Templar have kidnapped an inmate from a local asylum? Get real. I'm afraid he's on his own."

"We know the woman's name," he said. "Claridon mentioned it was Cassiopeia Vitt. He told us where she is. Givors. We could find her."

"And do what? Thank her for saving our hides? I think she's on her own, too, and more than capable of handling herself. Like you say, we're not deemed important any longer."

She was right.

"We need to go home, Cotton. There's nothing here for either of us."

Right again.

They found their way out of the palace and returned to the rental car. After losing the first tail outside Rennes, Malone knew they'd not been followed to Avignon, so he assumed either men were already waiting in the city, which was unlikely, or some sort of electronic surveillance had been employed. Which meant the chase and shots before he managed to send the Renault into the mud was a dog-and-pony show designed to rock him to sleep.

Which worked.

But they were no longer deemed players in whatever game was unfolding, so he decided they would head back to Rennes-le-Chateau and spend the night there.

The drive took nearly two hours and they passed through the village's main gate just before two AM. A fresh wind raked the summit and the Milky Way streaked overhead as they walked from the car park. Not a light burned within the walls. The streets were still damp from yesterday's weather.

Malone was tired. "Let's get a little rest and we'll leave out around noontime. I'm sure there's a flight you can catch from Paris to Atlanta."

At the door, Stephanie opened the lock. Inside, Malone flipped on a lamp in the den and immediately noticed a rucksack tossed into a chair that neither he nor Stephanie had brought.

He reached for the gun at his belt.

Movement from the bedroom caught his eye. A man appeared in the doorway and leveled a Glock at him.

Malone brought his weapon up. "Who the hell are you?"

The man was young, maybe early thirties, with the same short hair and stocky build that he'd seen in abundance over the past few days. The face, though handsome, was set for combat-the eyes like black marbles-and he handled the weapon with assurance. But Malone sensed a hesitancy, as if the other man was unsure of friend or foe.

"I asked who you are."

"Lower the gun, Geoffrey," came a voice from inside the bedroom.

"Are you sure?"

"Please."

The weapon came down. Malone lowered his, too.

Another man stepped from the shadows.

He was long-limbed and squarely built with close-cropped auburn hair. He, too, held a pistol and it took Malone only an instant to register the familiar cleft, swarthy skin, and gentle eyes from the photo that still angled on the table to his left.