“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.
Malone 5 - The Paris Vendetta
SEVENTY-THREE
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.
He clamped his right hand over the bleeding and rose to his feet.
THORVALDSEN TRIED TO SEE WHAT LYON WAS SHOOTING AT. Someone had thrown another chair. Then he spotted a black form rushing past, on the other side of the monument that served as his hiding place.
Dodd saw it, too, panicked, and scampered off, putting a procession of tombs between her and the nave.
Thorvaldsen caught a fleeting glimpse of the face of the form as it hustled past.
Sam.
He heard two more shots, then the thud of flesh and bone meeting stone.
No. Please, God. Not again.
He aimed at Peter Lyon and fired.
ASHBY DOVE FOR COVER. THE NAVE HAD ERUPTED INTO A mélange of gunfire from all directions. He saw Lyon flatten himself on the floor and also use the chairs for cover.
Where was Caroline?
Why hadn’t she returned?
THORVALDSEN COULD NOT ALLOW ANYTHING TO HAPPEN TO Sam. Bad enough Meagan was involved. Caroline Dodd had disappeared, surely toward the open portal where wind and rain continued to howl. It would only take a moment for Lyon to recover and react, so he scampered away, toward where Sam had headed.
MALONE SHIELDED HIS HEAD WITH HIS ARMS AS THE EXPLOSION thundered through the nave, rattling the walls and windows. But his toss into the crypt had been true and the explosion’s brunt force stayed below, only a smoke and dust cloud bubbling up from the stairway.
He glanced around.
Everyone seemed okay.
Then panic assumed control and people swarmed for the exit. The priest and the two altar boys left, disappearing into the choir.
He stood before the main altar and watched the chaos, mindful that the bomber had probably made his escape. As the crowd thinned, standing at the rear of the center aisle was Stephanie, holding her gun to the ribs of Long Nose.
Three Paris policemen appeared through the main doors. One saw the automatic in Stephanie’s grasp and immediately found his weapon.
The other two followed suit.
“Baissez votre arme. Immédiatement,” one of the officers shouted at Stephanie. Drop the gun. Immediately.
Another non-uniformed officer appeared and called for the officers to stand down. They lowered their weapons, then rushed forward to handcuff Long Nose.
Stephanie marched down the center aisle.
“Nice catch,” he told her.
“Even better throw.”
“What do we do now?” he asked. “We’ve surely heard the last from Lyon.”
“I agree.”
He reached into his pocket and found his cell phone. “Maybe it’s time I try to reason with Henrik. Sam should be with him.”
He’d switched the unit to silent on the taxi ride to the church. Now he spied a missed call from about twenty minutes ago.
Thorvaldsen.
Placed after they’d talked.