The Paris Vendetta

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 rotors 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.”

“Don’t move.” He kept his gun trained on Lyon’s head.

“I imagine you’ll pull the trigger if I so much as twitch?” Lyon asked.

He was impressed at how Lyon clearly sensed the gun.

“You found the old man’s weapon.”

“That head of yours makes a wonderful target.”

“You sound young. Are you an American agent?”

“Shut up,” he made clear.

“How about I drop my weapon?”

The gun remained in the man’s right hand, barrel pointed to the floor.

“Let it fall.”

Lyon released his grip and the gun clanged away.

“That better?” Lyon asked, his back still to him.

Actually, it was.

“You’ve never shot a man before, have you?” Lyon asked.

“Shut the hell up,” Sam said.

“That’s what I thought. Let’s see if I am right. I’m going to leave. You won’t shoot an unarmed man, with his back to you.”

He was tired of the banter. “Turn around.”

Lyon ignored the command and took a step forward.

Sam fired into the floor just ahead of him. “The next bullet will be to your head.”

“I don’t think so. I saw you before I shot Ashby. You just watched. You stood there and did nothing.”

Lyon stole another step.

Sam fired again.

MALONE HEARD TWO SHOTS FROM INSIDE THE CHURCH.

He and Stephanie darted for an opening in the plywood barrier that wrapped the church’s exterior, this one facing south. They had to find the doors everyone else had used to enter.

The three sets in front were closed tight.

Cold rain continued to slash his brow

THE SECOND BULLET RICOCHETED OFF THE FLOOR

“I told you to stop,” Sam yelled.

Lyon was right. He’d never shot anybody before. He’d been trained in the mechanics, but not in how to be mentally prepared for something so horrific. He yanked his thoughts into some semblance of disciplined ranks.

And readied himself.

Lyon moved again.

Sam advanced two steps and sighted his aim. “I swear to you. I’ll shoot you.” He kept his voice calm, though his heart raced.

Lyon crept ahead. “You can’t shoot me.”

“You don’t know me.”

“Maybe not. But I know fear.”

“Who says I’m afraid?”

“I hear it.”

Meagan stirred with a grunt of pain.

“There are those of us who can end a life without a thought and those, like yourself, who can’t bring themselves to it, unless provoked. And I am not provoking you.”

“You shot Henrik.”

Lyon stopped. “Ah. That’s his name. Henrik. Yes, I did. A friend?”

“Stay still.” He hated the element of a plea that laced his words.

Ten feet separated Lyon from the open doors.

His adversary eased another step forward, his movements as controlled as his voice.

“Not to worry,” Lyon said. “I won’t tell anyone you didn’t fire.”

Five feet to the threshold.

“PAPA. COME TO US,” CAI CALLED OUT THROUGH A TREMULOUS BLUE radiance.

Strange and wonderful thoughts stole upon him. But Thorvaldsen couldn’t be talking to his wife and son. The conversation had to be the rambles of a mind in shock.

“Sam needs me,” he called out.

“You can’t help him, my darling,” Lisette made clear.

A white curtain descended in a muted fall. The last remnants of his strength ebbed away.

He fought to breathe.

“It’s time, Papa. Time for us all to be together.”

SAM WAS BEING ANTAGONIZED, HIS CONSCIENCE CHALLENGED.

Clever, actually, on Lyon’s part. Goad a reaction, knowing that doing so could well prevent anything from happening. Lyon was apparently a student of character. But that didn’t necessarily make him right. And besides, Sam had ruined his career by defying authority.

Lyon kept approaching the door.

Three feet.

Two.

Screw you, Lyon.

He pulled the trigger.

MALONE SAW A BODY CAREER FORWARD, OUT AN OPEN SET OF double doors and thud to the wet pavement with a splash.

He and Stephanie rushed up slick stone steps, and she rolled the body over. The face was that of the man from the boat, the one who’d abducted Ashby. Peter Lyon.

With a hole through his head.

Malone glanced up.

Sam appeared in the doorway, holding a gun, one shoulder bleeding.

“You okay?” Malone asked.

The younger man nodded, but a dire expression crushed all hope from Malone’s heart.

Sam stepped back. He and Stephanie rushed inside. Meagan was staggering to her feet and Stephanie came to her aid. Malone’s eyes focused on a body-Ashby-then another.

Thorvaldsen.

“We need an ambulance,” he called out.

“He’s dead,” Sam quietly said.

A chill ran across Malone’s shoulders and up his neck. He urged his legs into tentative, stumbling movements. His eyes told him that Sam was right.

He approached and knelt beside his friend.

Stickly blood clung to flesh and clothes. He checked for a pulse and found none.

He shook his head in utter sadness.

“We need to at least try to get him to a hospital,” he said again.

“It won’t matter,” Sam said.

Dread punctuated the statement, which Malone knew to be true. But he still couldn’t accept it. Stephanie helped Meagan, as they stepped close.

Thorvaldsen’s eyes stared out blindly.

“I tried to help,” Meagan said. “The crazy old fool… he was determined to kill Ashby. I tried… to get there-”

Choking sobs pulsed from her throat. Tears flowed down her cheeks.

Thorvaldsen had interjected himself into Malone’s life when he really needed a friend, appearing in Atlanta two years ago, offering a new begi

We shall never speak again.

The last words spoken between them.

His right hand clutched at his throat, as if trying to reach through to his heart.

Despair flooded his gut.

“That’s right, old friend,” he whispered. “We will never speak again.”