Steve Berry - The Paris Vendetta

“The person who can save your life.”

ASHBY KEPT A TIGHT GRIP ON HIS EXPRESSION AND STARED AT the gun, wondering if this would be the end of his life.

Lyon had no reason to keep him alive.

“Caroline,” Ashby called out. “You must return. I implore you. This man will kill me if you don’t.”

THORVALDSEN COULD NOT ALLOW PETER LYON TO DO WHAT he’d come to do.

“Tell Lyon to come and get you,” he whispered.

Caroline Dodd shook her head no.

She needed reassurance. “He won’t come. But it will buy Ashby time.”

“How do you know who we are?”

He had no time for explanations, so he aimed his gun at her. “Do it, or I’ll shoot you.”

SAM DECIDED TO MAKE A MOVE. HE HAD TO KNOW IF MEAGAN was okay. He’d seen no movement from the top of the stairs, behind the altar. Lyon seemed more concerned with Caroline Dodd, forcing Ashby to have her return to where they stood, at the nave’s far west end.

While Lyon was distracted, this might be the time to act.

“Hey, asshole,” Meagan called out through the dark, “you missed.”

What in the world?

“AND WHO ARE YOU?” LYON ASKED THE DARKNESS.

Ashby wanted to know the answer to that question, too.

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

The echo off the stone walls made it impossible to pinpoint the woman’s location, but Ashby assumed it was the same figure they’d spotted climbing the stairs into the ambulatory.

“I’m going to kill you,” Lyon said.

“You have to find me first. And that means you have to shoot the good Lord Ashby there.”

She knew his name. Who was this?

“Do you know who I am, too?”

“Peter Lyon. Terrorist extraordinaire.”

“Are you with the Americans?” Lyon asked.

“I’m with me.”

Ashby watched Lyon. The man was clearly rattled. The gun remained pointed directly at him, but Lyon’s attention was on the voice.

“What do you want?” Lyon asked.

“Your hide.”

Lyon chuckled. “Many covet that prize.”

“That’s what I hear. But I’m the one who’s going to get it.”

THORVALDSEN LISTENED TO THE EXCHANGE BETWEEN MEAGAN and Lyon. He realized what she was doing, creating confusion, forcing Lyon to possibly make a mistake. Reckless on her part. But perhaps Meagan had gauged the situation correctly. Lyon’s attention was now divided among three possible threats. Ashby, Caroline, and the unknown voice. He’d have to make a choice.

Thorvaldsen’s gun remained aimed on Caroline Dodd. He could not allow Meagan to take the chance she’d clearly assumed. He jutted the weapon forward and whispered, “Tell him you’re going to reveal yourself.”

She shook her head.

“You’re not really going to do it. I just need him to come this way so I can shoot him.”

She seemed to consider that proposal. After all, he did have a gun.

“All right, Lyon,” Dodd finally called out. “I’m coming back.”

MALONE PUSHED HIS WAY THROUGH THE NEAREST PEW, FILLED with sitting worshipers. He figured he had at least a minute or two. Long Nose had apparently planned on surviving the attack, which meant he’d given himself time to leave the church. But the Good Samaritan woman, trying to return his left backpack, had eaten into some of that cushion.

He found the center aisle and turned for the altar.

His mouth opened to shout a warning, but no sound came out. Any alarm would be futile. His only chance was to get the bomb away.

As he’d studied the crowd, he’d also studied the geography. Adjacent to the main altar was a stairway that led down into what he assumed was a crypt. Every one of these old churches came with a crypt.

He saw the priest take notice of the commotion and stop the service.

He reached the backpack.

No time to know if he was right or wrong.

He snatched the bundle up from the floor-heavy-and darted left, tossing it down the steps where, ten feet below, an iron gate was open into a dimly lit space beyond.

He hoped to God no one was in there.

“Everybody,” he yelled in French. “Get down. It’s a bomb. Down to the floor, behind the pews.”

Many dove out of sight, others stood stunned.

“Get down-”

The bomb exploded.

ASHBY BREATHED AGAIN AS LYON HEARD CAROLINE 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.

SAM COULD NOT BELIEVE MEAGAN 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.

THORVALDSEN 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.

SAM FLED HIS HIDING PLACE JUST AS LYON 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.