Luc Bertrand- American Assassin

by A. F. Grappin

  Everyone seemed to be on their best behavior today, though. So when the crash hit Luc's ears, he thought it was part of the music. The hurried parting of dancers told him different. Furrowing his brows, Luc stood at his booth, trying to see past the crowd to what insanity was going on in the entrance to his club. Bouncers left their wall positions and converged on a single space, but the mass of people still impeded Luc's view. Had some over-enthusiastic clubbers gotten into a fistfight? They would pay for whatever damage their brawl did to his building. That had only happened twice in the nearly four years the club had been open, and people learned quickly what wasn't tolerated here. It seemed he was due for another lesson.

  Gasps and startled screams rose from the clubbers, barely louder than the still-thumping music. A moment passed, and the music finally died with a cliché record scratch sound and immediate shattering of glass. The unmistakable dull thud of flesh striking flesh followed, multiple times.

  Luc waited. This was what he'd hired the bouncers for. Whoever had gotten out of line would be subdued and brought to him.

  Still, he hated the waiting.

  The sounds of the melee and the gasps of those who could actually see finally died, and the crowd on the dance floor parted to open the path to Luc. Before he could even see who his bouncers had in their grips, he heard the voice.

  "Hey, Pretty Boy!"

  Luc's shoulders went back, his posture stiffening even more than normal.

  Pretty Boy.

  Statford.

  He was here.

  8

  On his feet in seconds, Luc strode to the site of the disturbance, prepared to order his security to rough the man up and make note of his face. Statford would never set foot in Umbra Motus again.

  When he finally reached the scene, what he saw was not what he expected. For some unfathomable reason, all five of the security team were down, writhing as if in pain. Percival, in particular, was in the center of the impromptu ring made by the bystanders. The legs of a chair straddled him, two on each side. Percival was squeezed uncomfortably into the space between them.

  The chair had been dragged out onto the dance floor. Luc scowled, eyes scanning the floor. If there was a single scratch or scuff...but then his enraged vision cleared enough to take in the final element of this baffling spectacle.

  In the chair straddling Percival, apparently uninjured and looking far too pleased with himself, was Statford. The nuisance was smirking, and one foot--covered in a filthy sneaker--was resting on Percival's throat, the toe nudging the big man's chin upward so he was gazing helplessly upside down towards Luc.

  "There you are! You sure look different when you're not fleeing for your life, Pretty Boy," Statford said. Even his voice was an offense. Luc was amazed his ears didn't start to bleed.

  "Get up," Luc snapped, clearly enunciating his words so that both the moronic Statford and the disgraced Percival would hear. Not only that, he put every bit of his four years of leadership behind the two syllables.

  Under the chairs, Percival shifted feebly. Statford didn't move.

  "Oh, you meant me!" Statford said, stretching his arms over his head and settling into a deep slouch. Somehow, he made it look comfortable. "Nah. I'm good where I am. Thanks, Pretty Boy."

  Luc refused to rise to the name-calling bait. "What do you want, Statford?"

  If the barbarian was surprised Luc knew his name, he hid it well. "Just came to chat, Luke! Lukey." He even managed to sully Luc's name with the auditory vomit that was his voice. "I like Lukey."

  "Then start talking, Thomas." That was one thing Luc loved about being French. He could pronounce a word perfectly, but he could still make it sound like he was wiping his ass with it. The man's name lingered in the air, sounding like used toilet paper. He fancied he could hear some of his more regular clientele sniffing the air for the offending scent that was "Thomas."

  "What, no sitting and sharing drinks and appetizers like gentlemen? I'm starving."

  "The requirement would be for you to be a gentleman. You have two minutes."

  "Before you what? Bring in more goons? You saw what I did to these..." He paused, counting slowly on his fingers. "...five. Call the cops?" Statford smirked. "You won't. They might find out what's in your basement."

  Luc blinked. That threat had to be a bluff. There was no way this buffoon could know about the ECAA.

  "But how could a 'brutish Neanderthal I cannot seem to avoid' know about that?" Statford's eyes sparkled. He'd said exactly what Luc had been thinking. Worse, Luc recognized the phrase as something he'd written in his emails. Verbatim. Had the man somehow tapped into his computer? There was no way. But he clearly knew too much. Like he had his own administration working to gather information. He'd known where to find Luc. Known his name. And now was quoting Luc's private emails. Something smelled rotten. Worse than the excrement Luc had vocalized around the man's name.

  Luc jerked his head toward the door. Before Statford had a chance to protest, Luc strode past him towards the exit and the open air. As he passed his men, he paused to speak to one who was mostly sitting back up. "Get things back under control, Jeremy. Immediately. Comp a round of drinks to all of age. Milkshakes to those who aren't."

  His bouncer grunted an acknowledgement that Luc almost didn't hear. He was already outside. Statford joined him in the parking lot in a matter of seconds.

  "I have questions I do not want to ask," Luc said, staring down at the man. He'd already located the brute's car--the one that had tailed him that first trip to size up Melzer.

  "Then why bother telling me? Keep that shit to yourself, Lukey. And while you're at it, stay away from Jimmy Melzer and his mother. I've been nice until now, but if you get anywhere near them, it's gonna spell an end for you." He went on even as Luc opened his mouth, cutting him off. "I told you before I don't like bullies. Leave him alone. Whoever hired you, whatever they're paying you, it's not worth your life. Because if you keep going after him, I will kill you. Comprenay voo?"

  Luc's soul ached. The man even butchered the simplest of French words. "I assume you were trying to ask me if I understand. Your speech patterns are atrocious. But no, I do not understand. I have a job to do, Statford. If it means I must go through you to complete it, I shall."

  "You'd be better off just going back to Belgium and having some waffles. My client is more than you can handle. I guarantee it."

  If his soul had been sore before, now it was positively afire. "I'm French."

  "Whatever. Make toast, then. Or fries. I don't care what you do. Just stay away from James Melzer."

  Statford had the gall to turn his back on Luc. It was at that moment that he was pleased he never went unarmed. Even showering, he kept something on him. In less than a fraction of a breath, Luc closed the widening distance between himself and the brute. By the time he reached the man, he already had two blades out. The one in his right hand was poisoned, the left one not. He liked having options.

  As quickly as he moved, Statford matched him. In the millisecond before he reached him, Statford turned, and Luc found himself face-to-barrel with a pistol. The gaping void of it stared him straight in the eye.

  At least Statford realized just what sort of danger he was in at the same time. Probably because a single flick of Luc's wrist would sink a blade into his flesh. Either wrist. Luc's left was pressed against Statford's side. The right one...

  "Do you want to take your knife away from my crotch, please?" Statford asked.

  As a matter of fact, Luc didn't.

  9

  "Haven't you ever heard the expression, 'Never bring a knife to a gunfight?'"

  "Have you ever heard the term, 'Sous-merde?'" Luc shot back.

  Statford paused. "Can't say I have. But that's because we speak English here. Not Nasal Seepage-ish."

  "It means being called a piece of shit is too good for you, Thomas."

  "That's a good insult. How did you say it again? Sue Murd?"

  Luc pressed his right blade
just a little harder against Statford's manhood. A prick of the blade wouldn't do much, not right away, but the edge was sharp enough and the poison potent enough that it wouldn't take much of a cut to end the moron. Statford's death would be slow.

  "You realize this bullet would be in your head before you did more than nick me, right, Frenchie?"

  "Then we would both be dead," Luc replied. "Gun or no, you will not leave here alive."

  "I'm not fond of that idea, and I'll wager you aren't either, Lukey. So how's about we settle this like gentlemen? You a betting man?"

  Luc raised an eyebrow. "No, and I doubt you have any inkling what it is to be a gentleman, but I am listening."

  "Knife fight. You versus me. He tilted his head down, looking at the knife still held at his crotch. "No poison. Either of us."

  Once again baffled at how this Neanderthal knew something he shouldn't know, Luc pulled his right hand back. The barrel of the pistol retreated from Luc's face, and then he brought his other blade back. He made the two knives disappear without any flourish or sign. That kind of showmanship was for the media. "Terms?"

  "I win, you leave Melzer alone. Permanently. And, you swear never to harm an innocent again. And that applies to all your people, too. I know you've got a whole cadre down there."

  "And when I win?"

  Statford either missed the "when" or didn't care. "If you win, I back off. You'll never see me again. But I won't protect you from the consequences of your actions."

  "Either way, you are banned from setting foot on my property in the future." Luc produced one knife again, unpoisoned, of course. He studied the edge. "If it is to the death, these terms do not matter, naturellement. So how do we decide who wins?"

  "Would you consider fighting to the pain?"

  "I am not familiar--"

  "Screw it," Statford interrupted. "Fencing rules, then."

  Luc's eyebrows rose. "Fifteen points? One point for drawing blood?"

  "Let's make it five points. Total. No sense in us both ending up bloody messes. So whoever gets to three points?" Luc nodded his agreement. "Do you have another knife handy?"

  Luc couldn't hold back his snort. "Haven't you heard the phrase, 'Don't bring a gun to a knife fight?'"

  "Don't try being cleverer than me."

  "It is hardly trying." Luc pulled a second knife and held them out for Statford to choose first. "Shall we begin?" Luc asked.

  "No cheap shots. No additional weapons. And stay away from the face," Statford said. At least he gripped the knife like he knew what he was doing. Not that it would be much of a contest. "Okay, start."

  Luc was taller than Statford by a few centimeters, but he was also slimmer than the man. He'd spent the last few minutes studying how the man moved, his mannerisms. Confident he could both outspeed and outmaneuver his opponent. Luc's abrupt start forward, duck under any potential strike, and rapid steps past Statford's back proved he was correct. At least for this one moment. It was more a jouster's charge than any real proper fighting technique, but when it came to it, whatever worked was best.

  "First blood," Luc said, turning to face Statford again.

  The slice in the man's pants was obvious, partly because Statford was picking at the denim. "I said no cheap shots!"

  "You said to begin. I did. If you were not prepared, you should not have called to commence."

  "Asshole."

  "Savage."

  After that, Statford proved lighter on his feet than Luc expected. There were no more easy openings. This barbarian did know what he was doing. Luc slid and sidestepped, and it took him longer than he liked--and a lot more effort than he liked--to land his second strike. Once he did draw blood on Statford's arm, though, it finally occurred to him that he wasn't thinking. First of all, this skirmish was taking place in the parking lot, in full view of anyone. If a police cruiser passed by...this was foolish. He had to draw the end of this away from potential observers.

  Also, he was an assassin. He'd been schooled in concealment. Why wasn't he using the night to his advantage?

  While Statford was taking the unspoken pause between rounds to inspect the slash on his arm, Luc melted into the shadows at the side of the building. All he had to do was connect one last time, and Statford would be out of his life forever. And he could complete this damned contract. He was ready for this to be over.

  A slight pressure blossomed into a warm ache in Luc's leg. What had just happened? Luc probed his thigh and found a knife sticking out of it.

  "That's two to one, Frenchie!" Statford's voice rang. "Now give it back and we go round four."

  Luc knew better than to remove something penetrating the skin for fear it would make things worse, but a little more probing told him the point had only sunk in enough for it to support itself. It was a flesh wound. No real danger. It barely hurt extracting it, but he was still careful to draw it back at the exact angle it had penetrated.

  He emerged from the shadows, not liking how Statford had been staring right at where he was. How was this buffoon managing this?

  "Two-one," Statford repeated as he took the knife back from Luc. "Ready to go again, or do you forfeit?"

  Not bothering to respond with words, Luc turned and darted back into the shadows. No lying in wait this time. He'd have to keep moving. Statford had gotten lucky with that throw. It wouldn't happen again. A moment of self-observance told him the gash in his leg was a minor annoyance at best--far less of a nuisance than Statford was--so he raced around the back of Umbra Motus and scrambled up the side of the building to the roof. If Statford looked for him there, it would be a shock. And from here, Luc would have a perfect vantage for a throw of his own. If Statford was going to play that way, so be it.

  A knife appeared from the darkness below with just enough warning for Luc to twist his shoulders aside so it missed his face. It should have continued past him and clattered against the roof behind him. Instead, the thing landed next to him, and belatedly Luc again felt an oozing warmth. This time, from his arm.

  Statford had not only found him up here, but very nearly mirrored the two blows Luc had given him. Fuming internally, he considered leaving the knife up here. Let Statford reclaim his own weapon. But it was one of Luc's knives, which meant it was quality. It wouldn't do to leave it here, even for a short time. Gathering the slightly bloodied blade, he descended back to the ground.

  Glaring at Statford, he tried to figure out how the man was picking him out of the darkness so easily. Twice now, he'd made--and landed--throws that Luc doubted he could make himself. Blind, no less. Statford had to have some sort of night vision. But the man had no bulky goggles or anything to suggest it. It was infuriating.

  "Two to two, Lukey," Statford said. "Third time's the charm. Might as well give up on the hiding, too."

  "I use what tools I have at my disposal. As do you, it seems."

  "I was content to keep things fair. You were the one who decided to bring other weapons into it. Shadows and all that crap. We're supposed to only use the knife."

  His fist struck Luc in the jaw so quick Luc didn't see that one coming. Luc's vision went starry.

  "Oops," Statford said.

  Luc's vision was still coming back from the bright lights when he decided he was finished. In a repeat of his first attack, he sped into Statford's personal space. But this time, he didn't follow through. Once close in, he stayed there. His blade sank into Statford's side.

  "Trois," Luc whispered into the man's ear.

  Then he felt the blade sink into his own side.

  "It's pronounced 'three,' asshole," Statford whispered back.

  10

  Luc and Statford released their holds on one another. Stepping backward, Luc couldn't help but feel the twinging ache of the stab wound in his side. Adrenaline had dulled it for now, but once that natural painkiller dwindled away, he was going to be in excruciating pain. It was only some solace that Statford must be feeling the same way. At least, now that this stupid duel idea of Statford's
was over, Luc could go back inside to his people. He kept a medic on staff, fortunately, who would have no problem making sure Luc suffered no prolonged effects of this. Unless Statford's strike had been lucky enough to nick an artery, Luc would live.

  Statford, on the other hand, wouldn't have such good and immediate medical attention. And since Luc had won the duel, Statford would have to withdraw from Luc's life, which meant that even going to the police would be useless. That vow had better keep Statford from giving any details about Luc or the ECAA to the authorities.

  "Get out of my sight, Statford. That is game over. Fini. You will remove yourself from my life and stay out."

  "And you'll make your vow to never kill another innocent."

  Luc liked how strained Statford's voice had gotten. He didn't like knowing his own sounded the same, and he especially didn't like the words coming out of Statford's mouth.

  "Excusez-moi?"

  "Don't play the idiot, Frenchie. You lost."

  "It was first to three points, Statford. Best three out of five"

  "Actually, I said, 'whoever gets three points,' and you agreed."

  Luc's mind, only slightly dulled by pain, flashed back to the terms of their duel. The buffoon wasn't lying. Those were the words he'd said. But the implication...

  "You did this on purpose," Luc said. "In case you lost, which you did."

  Statford shrugged, and Luc grinned at seeing how the man immediately regretted the motion. "Think of it as both of us winning. You got your three points, so fine. I'll get out of your way. You won't see me again. But I also got three points. Which means I get your vow." Statford, in his idiocy, drew the knife from his side. "Actually, you still come out better. Since you'll be leaving Jimmy Melzer alone, you won't be dying in the horrific rage of something you can't understand."