King twisted his lips, thinking, and in that single tiny movement, Luc saw what King Senior must see when he looked at him: a small boy, eager to please, wanting to be just like his father. But there was still much in him that clearly wasn't his father. Luc was banking on that.
A full minute passed, and King opened his mouth to answer, but Luc was already halfway to the door. The boy's actions would be his answer.
* * *
13
It was with leisurely steps that Luc walked through the building, taking in the new paint, the spotless furnishings only recently removed from their protective wrappings, the recessed lights that had yet to be turned on for the first time. It would be too bright as they were, he noted. He would have to get colored sheets--gels, he thought they were called--and other ways to soften and darken the place. The sign outside proclaimed "COMING SOON: UMBRA MOTUS." Luc hadn't bothered to add any further information to the sign. Let the locals wonder at it until he opened the building to the public. Clientele would form the ambience of this new venture just as much as he would. Besides, he'd never run a club before; he had no idea how things would go. He would fumble through until he figured it out, though.
The stylized neon sign was due to arrive by the end of the week. Luc still had people to interview for the job postings he'd advertised. But the work inside was finished. The building was his. The hundreds of thousands of dollars he'd spent had not been wasted.
Summer waged war with thermometers outside, bringing humidity with it to make people miserable. July had yet to end. The work had gone much more swiftly than even he'd expected possible, and that included the surreptitious building of the expansive basement.
There would still be plenty of work to do downstairs, but that would also be a learning process. The professors and students who would be taking up residence there would help him find the most efficient means of storing equipment, boarding staff and initiates, and generally running the ECAA. It couldn't be solely him, after all. Luc might have good ideas for executing the major overhaul, but there were plenty of details he needed help with.
The knock that came at the door was so soft a grasshopper landing on a blade of grass would have drowned it out. Luc unlatched and opened the door to let in his staff and students. There was one more head than he'd expected.
"Scout? What are you doing here?" he asked.
The small administrator shrugged. "I put in for a transfer. The ECAA needs administration just like the guildhall does. You're busy and don't need to take on that part of the job yourself. Yet. And I'm done working for Roger. They'll replace me easy enough back there. Holy cow. This place is huge!"
Luc smiled in thanks and waited for the rest of his staff and students to come. Closing and locking the door behind them, he finally responded. "This is only the ground floor. Come with me."
The basement had four separate entrances, three separate boarding wings--no one would have a large room, but the point was not to have much idle time in them--and a handful of small offices. There were two classrooms, again both modestly sized, and a single large open room that would serve as training area, target range, and meeting hall. There hadn't been space for a common room, but that was the beauty of the club idea. Umbra Motus would largely function as a late afternoon to early morning social place, which would give his family the run of the place for late morning to early afternoon. And if his future clientele were anything like he hoped, the club would also be a recreational base for his initiates in the little downtime they had. In theory, it was perfect. Only time would tell if he was right.
The few staff and students barely made a dent in the housing areas of the new underground ECAA. Scout seemed to notice that right away. "What are you going to do with all this space? We don't need anywhere near this much. Even if we'd brought the guildhall with us."
"What else does one do with space? Like a goldfish, we will grow into it."
Scout blinked at him, and a second passed before they seemed to understand. The administrator's eyes sparkled with eagerness. "Grow?"
"This school is pathetically small. The academy I attended had three times the student body, and it was Order of Release only. If we manage to fill both student housing wings, we can put bunk beds in to double that. That would give us potential for sixty students."
Scout tried to repeat the number, but their lips moved silently.
"It will take time to reach those numbers. I've contacted the Continental Head of the Guild and requested more staff to accommodate dealing with a larger student body. Most importantly, if this is to be a comprehensive academy, we need all five orders represented in the staff. Ideally, with more than one of each order. I will not be able to train all Release initiates on my own. With luck, we can double or triple our student numbers in a few short years. I hope to reach maximum capacity in perhaps a decade."
"You really came into this thinking that long term?" Scout asked.
Luc nodded. "Quick fixes do no good." He turned to watch his staff and students, now finished with their exploratory tour, approaching him and Scout.
"I'll admit," Professor Cliff Boand said, "that when you first arrived, a lot of us made bets on how quickly you'd resign. I didn't think I'd be so happy to lose two hundred dollars."
"I hope you have learned your lesson about betting the odds against me," Luc said. "I deliver." He looked over his assembled school. Fewer than ten people, and that was including himself. It was a start. "I assume you overheard my intent for the long-term development of this academy?"
A chorus of nods answered.
"The goal is to, over time, not only build our numbers, but the D.C. guildhall's as well. I want to turn out so many well-trained assassins that the guild has to open new guildhalls all down the east coast. And perhaps even traveling inland. However, for the moment, let us focus on teaching who we have with what staff and equipment we have. It will improve as time goes on." He straightened. Considering his normal ramrod posture, that was no easy feat. "Rest tonight. First thing tomorrow, we begin with Poisons. After that will be two and a half hours of physical drills. I expect attentiveness and obedience. After lunch will be a Concealment lecture, demonstration, and technique evaluation. Evening will be dedicated to any remedial work on any subject, on an individual basis. Do I hear any objections?"
The first voice to respond was King Roger the Second's, but everyone else repeated his words.
"No, Father."
Lesson Seven: Assassin’s Tool
1
Quentin "Quirky" McJackson said what everyone else was thinking. "We could have been there, too."
Luc Bertrand didn't respond, but he didn't have to. The gravity of the situation was clear in the subdued silence that settled over the ECAA body like a blanket. Even the youngest students were still. Despite the severity of the missive they'd all read, that silence could only last for so long.
"I can't believe they're all gone," Mother Renee Bardwell-Wiseman said softly. "All of them?"
"That's what it says." Father Cliff Boand shook his head. "I liked them. For the most part."
"They will be missed," Luc said, hoping that would punctuate that topic. Let them all mourn on their own. There was still business and teaching to do. "This only puts more pressure on us to work harder, doesn't it? Dedicate today's work to their memories." He nodded. "Back to work. Post-dinner remedial training will be cancelled to allow for reflection and grieving."
The staff and students of the East Coast American Academy dissipated. The younger students trailed after Mother Renee to a classroom, while the older ones returned to the indoor target range for accuracy practice. A few went into the individual protected booths with pistols. Soon, the ECAA would be full of noise. Only of gunfire, though. He'd been stressing the importance of silence in all things to his staff and students for the last four years.
They were assassins, after all.
The first gunshot came before the soundproofing door was completely closed. Luc had noted the ope
n door and expected the sound, but a few of the students jumped in surprise. Luc suppressed a chuckle. Surprises were good for them. Perhaps they would be better on guard for the next one. It was all training.
Content that, for the moment, the ECAA was running well on its own, Luc headed to his small office in the back wing. He kept his hands clasped behind his back, holding the report he'd just shared with his staff and students. The second portion, which he hadn't shared, was folded in his pocket.
Once alone, he removed the second piece of the report and read it for the seventh time since he'd received it that morning. Its contents remained unchanged since his last reading.
* * *
Father Luc S. Bertrand,
It is with severe grief that I must once again abuse your ability and good judgment for the betterment of the Assassin's Guild. In light of the disaster that has deprived the guild of its main east coast United States guildhall, I hereby offer you a new advancement.
Your record of service is not the least of the reasons for this offer. I would not be lying if I stated you are the best Order of Release assassin in your immediate area. The sad truth is the unexpected loss of our shared family at the District of Columbia guildhall leaves you as the most senior master assassin in the Eastern United States in good health and good standing.
I am aware of your feelings on the operation of both academy and guildhall from the same location, but I cannot think of anyone currently better suited to fulfill the guild's immediate need. This may be only a temporary fix. I am working on allocating more resources for the operation of the guildhall portion of your new assignment.
This position as head of guildhall comes with some benefits you are likely unaware of. Scout Sujyot will be able to enlighten you on that front.
I look forward to hearing your response at your next earliest convenience. And congratulations in advance.
Yours,
Father Reuben K. Gleissner
Assassin's Guild, World Head
* * *
Luc didn't know if he'd hoped the words would change or not. It didn't take a genius to note that there was a certain expectation in the letter. Though Gleissner repeatedly stated it was only an offer, it was really an appointment. He would be head of the new guildhall here in Virginia Beach whether he liked it or not.
Why did he have to be considered one of the best? Why had he made decision after decision that led him here? Luc was already the youngest academy headmaster in guild history. In fact, when he'd taken his mastery exam, he'd been one of the youngest--if not the youngest--ever to do so. And now, to become a guild head at twenty-nine?
He checked the date on the letter. Gleissner had written it on the 14th. Luc checked his calendar.
July 23rd, 2007.
The 14th had completely passed him by. Birthdays simply hadn't been important to him for the last few years. So he wasn't twenty-nine. He was thirty.
Gleissner had to have known. Did the man consider this some odd birthday present, writing it on Luc's thirtieth birthday?
He folded the letter back up. There was no choice here. Head of the guildhall he would be.
Perhaps it meant he would get more explanation to what had happened to the D.C. guildhall. All the initial missive said was that it was "an unfortunate accident." But what could have taken out the entire guildhall? Luc had lived there for several months. The head, King Roger, would not have gone down easily. Neither would the rest of their small staff. This was something bigger.
Luc booted up his computer and began to draft an email. Letters might be what Gleissner preferred, but an email would be just as good. Slowly, he typed his response.
He'd accept the position he couldn't decline. But he would also demand answers. If he was gaining more authority, it would mean more trust. If whatever had happened in D.C. could threaten his people in Virginia Beach, he would have to know.
2
The announcement of how the ECAA was about to be turned upside down could wait until tomorrow. Or perhaps even the next day. Luc would let his people have at least some mourning period before he revealed another big shock.
Fortunately, he had the luxury of being able to dole out news as he saw fit. Being in charge of the academy, Luc was able to set his own schedule. Over these last four years, he'd gotten things running so smoothly that it was no issue for him to disappear from the place every evening. With that as his routine, he could expect no one would be surprised if he left. Luc changed from his nondescript black ensemble into one of his "going out" outfits. The silk shirt was dusky purple, the slacks and sport coat charcoal. He didn't bother with a tie, but he did make sure that his shoes were polished to a mirror shine. Before leaving his room, he gave his hair a brief check in the mirror. It was only slightly mussed, just enough to suggest he'd recently rolled out of bed, and not because he was asleep.
Perfect.
In less than two minutes, he was at his destination. All it took was a walk up a flight of stairs, a push at a false wall, and he was there. A thumping barrier of sound assaulted him, enough to drown out the gunshots from below even if there had been no soundproofing. Recessed lights, some behind mesh that dimmed them, some behind colored gels that softened them and turned the atmosphere semi-chaotic, dotted the walls. For the most part, it was dark. And loud. Still, it was Luc's second home, just one level above his other.
The ECAA was wholly underground. Umbra Motus was only a front, but the club Luc owned served as a perfect disguise. It had opened and almost immediately become one of the hottest nightspots on Atlantic Avenue, perhaps in all of Virginia Beach. Even though the night was young--not even really night yet for a couple hours--people were already enjoying themselves. Couples, trios, and even quartets danced and grinded on the floor; the bar was crowded with young men and women. Luc had made a point of playing to both sides of his clientele and kept at least one male and one female bartender on duty at all times. Tonight, it was Carmen and Cameron, a pair of twins who had been a hell of a find. Carmen could set a damp match on fire, and Cameron insisted on working shirtless, showing off his defined, oiled chest. Luc didn't demand the man work shirtless-or that his sister work in a tight, tied up, nearly see-through blouse, but if it brought them tips and kept them happy, who was he to complain?
Luc had hardly stepped from his "office" into the club proper when one of the bouncers appeared next to him.
"Bonsoir, Percival," Luc greeted. "All is well?"
"So far, yes sir." The bouncer only came up to Luc's nose, but he was at least twice as thick, and all of it was muscle. Around the club, three others of similar builds watched for trouble. Either they weren't needed at all, or they did their job perfectly. In four years, there had only been two small incidents in Umbra Motus. Luc planned to keep up that excellent track record.
"Excellent," Luc said, putting some thickness into his accent. He suspected part of his club's success came from his being "exotic," even though France was far from an exotic country. Still, he'd learned quickly that his youth was often overlooked by potential clients when they noticed his clothes and accent. As if speaking differently than everyone here made him extraordinary. Not that he was ever going to give up something of an advantage. It felt good to speak his native tongue even if it was only for show. "My usual table, s'il vous plait."
Percival didn't have to make way. Idle conversationalists and dancers alike simply got out of his way without complaint or delay. Luc clasped his arms behind his back as he followed his bouncer to the only unoccupied booth in the club. While people crowded around the other tables, crammed tightly into the space, there was no one at all at this one, though it was the single largest booth in the club. The table was round, the booth seat three-quarters of a circle. Its position was perfect for seeing the entire dance floor, the bar, and the front entrance all at a glance. Luc easily slid partway into the booth and settled in place. "Have Cameron make me the usual," he instructed. Percival didn't complain at being treated as a waiter and strode toward
the bar. Luc smiled. Five months ago, when he'd brought the bouncer onto the staff, he'd had to teach the man that any order he gave was to be obeyed. It was not beneath him; it was necessary. Percival had learned with only a tiny bit of blood involved. And of course, once Luc was certain the lesson had set in the man's mind like concrete, he'd given him a raise. Luc might be a strict employer, but he was also a generous one.
Less than a handful of minutes later, Percival returned with a martini glass. He set in on the table before Luc somewhat formally. "One Corpse Reviver," he said. It wasn't until Luc gave him a small nod that the bouncer retreated.
Luc sipped, savoring the apple brandy and sweet vermouth. It normally took him about two hours to finish his cocktail. He enjoyed the slow consumption, surveying his domain like a king. Despite the thumping music and voices and general chaos, it was calming and comforting. No one bothered him here. Occasionally, a clubgoer or two would get in in their heads to try and score some points with the owner. Luc would entertain them, enjoy their company, and then send them on their way. He knew about the whispers that went around about him--largely about his being "smoking hot" to quote a few--but he wasn't about to get attached to anyone.
No one approached this evening, though, not for the two hours of his cocktail sipping nor the two hours of his second one. By then, his stomach was aching for the dinner he'd skipped with his staff and students. He'd made sure the club had an above-average kitchen staff, even though the fare they served was somewhat typically American: deep fried everything. Luc wanted none of it. He drained the last of his second Corpse Reviver and slid out from his booth. With a nod toward the center of the club that no one saw, he strode back to his "office" and its concealed staircase back to the ECAA.
A plate had been left for him, of course, and he reheated the chicken and vegetables with mushroom sauce before taking it to his real office. There was no email response from Gleissner yet, but his inbox was still flooded.
Luc Bertrand- American Assassin Page 6