The Paris Vendetta Page 0,126

jumped and realized that Thorvaldsen had fired at the floor, close to his left foot. The ping of metal to stone sent him staggering back toward the exit doorway. But he knew better than to try to make a run for it.

He'd be dead before he took one step.

SAM HEARD A SHOT

"Stay where you are," Thorvaldsen yelled over the wind and rain. "You sorry excuse for a human being. Do you know what you did? He was the finest son a man could have and you gunned him down, like he was nothing."

Sam stopped and told himself to assess the situation. Act smart. Do what Norstrum would do. He was always smart.

He crept to one of the columns and stole a look into the nave.

Lyon was to the right of the altar, near another column, standing, watching, listening.

"I TOLD YOU NOT TO MOVE," THORVALDSEN SAID. "THE NEXT bullet will not hit the floor."

He'd thought of this moment for a long time, wondering what it would feel like to finally confront Cai's murderer. But he'd also heard Sam's warning, concerned that Lyon may be only a short distance away.

"Thorvaldsen," Ashby said. "You have to see reason here. Lyon is going to kill us both."

He could only hope Sam and Meagan were watching his back, though neither one of them should be here. Funny. He was a billionaire many times over, yet not a single one of those euros could help him now. He'd crossed into a place ruled only by revenge. Within the darkness, he saw images of Cai as a baby, then an adolescent. He'd owed it to Lisette to ensure the lad grew into a man. Over four centuries Thorvaldsens had lived in Denmark. The Nazis had done their best to eradicate them, but they'd survived the onslaught. When Cai was born he'd been ecstatic. A child. To carry on. Boy or girl. He hadn't cared.

Just healthy. That's what he'd prayed for.

Papa, take care. I'll see you in a few weeks.

The last words Cai had said to him during their last telephone conversation.

He did see Cai a few weeks later.

Lying in a casket.

And all because of the worthless creature standing a few meters away.

"Did you think for one moment," he asked Ashby, "that I'd allow his death to go unanswered? Did you think yourself so clever? So important? That you could murder people and there would never be consequences?"

Ashby said nothing.

"Answer me," he yelled.

ASHBY HAD REACHED HIS LIMIT.

This old man was deranged, consumed with hate. He decided that the best way to deal with the danger was to face it. Especially considering that he'd caught sight of Peter Lyon, on the far side of one of the columns, coolly watching the encounter. Thorvaldsen was obviously aware of Lyon's presence.

And the others inside, they seemed to be the Dane's allies.

"I did what I had to do," Ashby declared.

"That's exactly right. And my son died."

"You have to know that I never intended that to occur. The prosecutor was all that interested me. Cabral went too far. There was no need to kill all of those people."

"Do you have children?" Thorvaldsen asked.

He shook his head.

"Then you cannot possibly understand."

He had to buy more time. Lyon had yet to move. He just stayed behind the column. And where were the other two?

"I've spent two years watching you," Thorvaldsen said. "You're a failure in everything you do. Your business ventures all lost money. Your bank is in trouble. Your assets are nearly depleted. I've watched with amusement as you and your mistress have tried to find Napoleon's wealth. And now here you are, still searching."

This fool was offering far too much information to Peter Lyon.

Then again.

"You're mistaken. I have a wealth of assets. Just not where you can discover them. Only in the past few days I've acquired a hundred million euros in gold."

He wanted Lyon to know that there were a lot of reasons why he should not be shot.

"I don't want your money," Thorvaldsen spit out.

"But I do," Lyon said as he emerged from the shadows and shot Henrik Thorvaldsen.

SAM STOPPED AT THE REPORT OF WHAT HAD TO BE A SOUND-suppressed weapon. He hadn't been able to hear what was being said as he was some fifty feet away from the conversation.

He glanced into the nave.

Peter Lyon was gone.

THORVALDSEN DID NOT FEEL THE BULLET ENTER HIS CHEST but its exit produced excruciating pain. Then all coordination among brain, nerves, and muscles failed. His legs gave way as a fresh rush of agony