Eugene Peltier stood between Maurice and the staircase leading down from the clock tower. He held the woman Maurice loved captive, an arm wrapped around her middle with a gun pressed to her temple. “I will take the case,” he said, his tone as cold as his eyes.
“Let her go, and you can have it,” Maurice said.
“No. The pretty chef is my insurance policy. I will have the case and the chef until I am clear of American airspace.”
Maurice shook his head. “Not an option.” You’re not taking her anywhere.” He pulled the map case over his head with his right hand, while aiming for Peltier’s chest with the gun he held with his left hand. “You see, if you shoot her, you lose your leverage and your body shield. You won’t have time to shoot another round before I put a bullet in you. It’s a lose-lose situation.”
Peltier pressed the barrel of the gun harder against Amelie’s temple. “Are you willing to stake her life on it? I have nothing to lose,” Peltier said. “I wasted two years chasing clues, looking for The Lady by the Stream. Two years, following a long list of false clues that lying bastard Benoît gave me when I threatened to kill him. He finally gave them to me, but I killed him anyway. You know where his clues led me? To a cave in Portugal. In it, I found a painting. A picture a child could have painted, titled Deception. The bastard deserved to die. He knew where she was all along but kept her hidden away.”
Heavy footsteps clomped down the spiral staircase, nearing the bottom. It was only moments before the goons joined the fun.
“Now, I will have the last laugh and the Monet my family was promised for helping the Nazis assimilate into France. A painting my grandfather gave his life for. It will be mine.”
Amelie’s eyes narrowed.
Maurice was beginning to know that look. Once again, she was revving up to do something. She mouthed the words, Shoot him. Her hand at her side displayed three fingers, then two.
He braced himself, his finger caressing the trigger. “I almost feel sorry for you. Your obsession has consumed your humanity.”
One.
Amelie went limp and slipped through Peltier’s grip, dropping to the floor.
Maurice fired.
The bullet hit the man in his left shoulder, but he barely jerked backward. Seconds later, he had his gun aimed at Maurice.
Maurice fired again.
Peltier staggered and fired, the bullet going wide.
The two men reached the bottom of the spiral staircase.
Peltier cried out, “Kill him!”
The men rushed Maurice.
He raised the gun and tried to pull the trigger. It misfired. He flung it to the ground, pulled a knife from the scabbard on his arm and flung it at the closest of the two, the blade piercing his neck. The man slowed, clasping a hand to his throat while blood streamed down his arm.
The other guy charged at Maurice like an angry bull.
Maurice waited until the last moment and stepped aside. As the attacker staggered past him, Maurice planted his hand in the middle of the man’s back and pushed hard.
He fell, crashing hard against the floor.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” Amelie said.
Maurice glanced up to find Peltier with his hand fisted in her hair.
“Let go of my hair and I’ll let you keep them,” she said through clenched teeth.
Maurice followed her hand to where she had it pressed against Peltier’s balls with the plastic knife he’d insisted she bring to the party.
“I’m a chef,” she said. “I’m pretty good with a knife, and I know how to cut meat.”
“Amelie?” Maurice started toward her. “Need a hand?”
“I’ve got this bastard. You heard him. He killed Armand. He deserves to die.” She bared her teeth at him. “Go ahead. Make your move. I don’t really need an excuse to bury this knife in you.”
