The first gunshot came from behind Simon, then it seemed everyone was shooting at once. A furious firefight, even if all the bullets were aimed at the four North Africans. Screams. Pandemonium. Danni was running past him down the aisle, kneeling, shooting one of the bombers in the head, then rising, turning, shooting the man still in his seat a second time, a third. Jean-Marc and Michel, the security guards, had reached the front of the auditorium. Simon lost sight of them as the audience rose and frantically sought to escape. More shots. Before Simon could bring his weapon to bear, the attackers were down. All of them.
He looked toward the lobby, seeing a man running out the front doors. The first to leave. Fifty years old. Tall. Black hair. Roman nose. It was him.
Luca Borgia.
“Borgia!”
The man slowed, but only for a second, before continuing. He held something in his hand.
But Simon was already outside, running down the stairs in close pursuit. “Borgia,” he shouted again.
This time the man turned. Simon recognized him from the dozens of photographs he’d looked at online. Borgia reached the bottom and began to run across the red carpet, haltingly at first, then faster. Simon caught him in ten strides and tackled him to the ground. Borgia landed on his back, wriggled free. He held a phone in his open palm.
His thumb came down on theSENDkey as Danni’s boot crushed his wrist.
Borgia screamed.
The phone dropped from his hand.
Behind them, men and women streamed out of the theater. A column of soldiers charged up the stairs. Sirens came from every direction. Mayhem.
Simon picked up the phone. A ten-digit number blinked on the display. He looked toward the auditorium—waiting for the terrible cataclysm—then back at the phone.
The call had failed.
Simon closed the flip phone and placed it in his pocket.
“Is it you? Riske?” Borgia climbed to his feet, clutching his shattered wrist. “I’m going to the police. I’ll tell them what you’ve done.”
Simon pressed the machine gun to Borgia’s stomach. “You,” he said, thinking of Rafa, then of the others.
“We’re done,” said Danni.
Simon shot her a glance, not understanding. “We can’t leave him here.”
“We’re done,” she said again. “Let’s go.”
“Yes, go,” said Borgia, threateningly. “Leave. But I will find you, Riske. Count on it. We know all about you.”
Simon lowered the weapon. Danni was right. They were done. The bombers were dead. They had stopped the attack. No innocents would die tonight. What else were they to do? The cellphone by itself constituted no proof. On what grounds could they have Borgia arrested? If the Italian could have Kruger freed from a jail in Singapore, he would have himself released within the hour by a French magistrate.
“We’re done,” said Simon.
“Believe me,” said Danni, taking his arm. “He isn’t going anywhere. Are you, Signor Borgia?”
“Who are you?” demanded Borgia.
Danni put her face close to his. “I am the angel of death.”
There was a flash of blue, a glint of silver. Borgia grunted as the knife entered his chest. Danni wrapped an arm around him, ramming the blade home, twisting it. Borgia’s eyes widened, and she noticed that one was blue, the other brown. His mouth fell open. A skein of blood poured forth.
Danni left the blade inside him.
They were ten steps away when he fell to his knees, dead.
Epilogue
London—Six Weeks Later
