Geek.
And likely, virgin.
It made sense.
Whoever was hiring him had to be wanting virgins dead. It was the why of things that remained the mystery. Of course, in all sorts of traditions and stories, virgins had some significance. Sacrifice immediately jumped to Luc's mind. But there weren't exactly any volcanoes in Virginia Beach for them to be tossed into. Even if there were, K-J hadn't been hiring Luc to throw virgins into boiling lava. What was the sacrifice, then?
Half an hour of searching the internet for virgin sacrifice rituals garnered him nothing solid. There were all sorts of examples of sacrifice, largely references to television and movies, of course, but nothing that really seemed to fit into his situation. So many of the "requirements" for sacrifice involved the sacrificer doing the deed themselves. There was no precedent for a middle man.
That was only for specific types of sacrifice, though. When Luc paused for a necessary break and returned to his computer, a single word jumped out at him. He'd skimmed over it a dozen times, probably. He cringed as he read:
* * *
Virgin Sacrifices typically fall under three main categories:
-As payment to a god or some other power, either to keep them functioning or to win their favor in general.
-As payment to a god or some other power for the exclusive use of some powerful Applied Phlebotinum.
-As a necessary fuel for one's own continued existence (e.g.: a vampire who needs to feast on—or bathe in—virgin blood every once in a while to continue living).
* * *
It was the word "god" that made Luc groan. Ever since that bastard Statford flew into his life like a sparrow on LSD, insane crock about gods and the divine seemed to be creeping into Luc's every day. But there was nothing for it. Luc wasn't so stubborn to think he could skirt logic just because he wanted to. How convenient it would be to make up some other explanation for virgins being targeted. He could skip around Statford being involved altogether.
Unfortunately, he'd been trying to avoid Statford this entire time. Since November, when things started going strange. Luc's time was running out on this. K-J's client—whatever god it was—had given him a time limit. He'd already used up a third of his time. Of course, the whole deadline was for him to kill Brodbeck. He'd already failed.
Luc went pale. That was before she'd given up her virginity. If she and her boyfriend had had—or were having—their special night right now, what would that mean if he tried again to release her in the morning? If she'd given herself to whatever man she was dating, did that rob her of the innocence that made her untouchable?
Luc cursed softly at his computer screen. He only allowed himself a handful of seconds to consider. He would have to take action again. He could still complete his contract.
Halfway through rearming himself, Luc paused. He'd promised Brodbeck that he wouldn't harm her. After that initial failure, he'd said those words. But that had been before he'd figured out this mental labyrinth that was this whole situation. Did that wipe away his words, though?
He'd promised.
This time, Luc cursed at the top of his lungs. If he didn't hold himself to his word, what good was he?
He was Luc Bertrand, master assassin of the Assassin's Guild. He was the Headmaster of the East Coast Assassin Academy. He was the son of Jean-Philippe and Isabeau Bertrand, the only survivor of the slaughter and fire that had killed his parents, brother, and sisters. He was a survivor. He had faced down the murderer who had started the fire and slit their throats, and he had escaped a second time with his life. He'd exposed and killed a traitor deeply seated in the Austrian guildhall. He had been offered a membership into the Knights Templar, turned it down, and lived to tell about it.
He was a survivor, and he would not be brought down, even by a god.
More importantly, he would not be bullied by one, either. He would keep his word to Brodbeck. This twelfth contract would not be fulfilled, even if he could do it right now. He'd made a promise.
K-J and her client would have to deal with it.
Once he'd resolved himself to not killing Brodbeck, it was a short leap to deciding to protect the woman, at least until his own twenty-four hours were up. Finding her again proved no trouble at all, much to his delight. A side note in the information his administrators had given him told him her boyfriend's name—Darrick Gatlin—and his address.
The apartment complex was nothing spectacular. Luc was pleased to find Brodbeck's car parked in the lot, and he even managed to back his own vehicle into a space with a view of the door to unit D-12. Gatlin's unit.
It was going to be a long wait.
8
Lack of sleep started catching up to Luc almost as soon as he turned off his car. It was 4:28 in the morning, and he'd been awake since before 6 A.M. yesterday. Nearly twenty-four hours, and that wasn't even taking into consideration how poorly he'd slept last night. In the last twenty-four hours, he'd led a class of his Order of Release students in hand-fighting drills, given a lecture on poison safety, gone through some financial statements for both the ECAA and Umbra Motus, tried to sift through this whole contract debacle, been confronted by K-J, ordered more pizzas than he cared to admit, failed to kill Brodbeck, finally solved the mystery, and now put himself on watchdog duty. It would be almost 9 P.M. before his twenty-four hours for K-J and her employer were up.
He was going to need coffee.
Even the most prosperous coffee houses apparently didn't open until five, so Luc had to content himself with a cup of swill bought at a gas station. It tasted like mud with a texture to match, but it at least gave him a caffeine jump that would keep his eyes open for an hour until he could get something that actually passed as espresso. What he wouldn't give to be back in Austria right now, where he could get something that didn't fall into the categories of tasteless sludge or brown sadness water.
The short trip to and from the gas station set him on edge. But Brodbeck's car was still in the parking lot, and the lights in D-12 were still out. Luc sighed and took another mouthful of his mud-coffee, trying to drink it as quickly as possible to spare his taste buds from prolonged torture.
Buzzing from his cell phone woke him from a dozing trance at 5:52. Luc's eyes snapped open. He hadn't really been sleeping, had he? Brodbeck's car was still there. D-12 was still quiet. People were emerging from other apartments, starting their days. Nothing suspicious seemed to be going on.
He noticed all that in the space between buzzing from his phone. When it buzzed the second time, he pulled his cell from his pocket and flipped it open.
"Bertrand," he said, his throat scratchy. It was sore. He must have been snoozing with his mouth open. Damn it, he was exhausted.
"Father Luc, it's Betty," came the perpetually-cheerful voice of the administrator.
Luc cleared his throat, only partially dismissing the scratchiness. A half-swallow of cold black sludge still sat in his gas station cup. He grimaced and choked it down. It helped even less. "Yes, what is it?"
"I…" Betty cleared her throat, and the cheerful tone dissolved from her voice. "Well, Father, it's um… Scout and I just got off the phone with a…client. She was not pleased."
Luc froze. "Did she give a name?"
"Only for another contract. She, uh…she said we've used our last chance. Then she—"
"One moment. She said we used our last chance and she gave another contract?"
He could hear the loud swallow Betty made on the other end of the line. He thought he could hear her nodding, too. "Yes, sir. She said that, uh…our next target is…" She cleared her throat. "You, Father."
Luc's next breath wouldn't come. "You mean she expects me to kill myself?"
There was legitimate fear in Betty's next words. "No, sir. She said the contract was given to the Order of Hell."
Chills seized Luc's spine, freezing him to the center of his bones. "Thank you, Betty."
"Sir, the Order of Hell isn't real, is it?"
/> "I'm afraid it is. Put the ECAA on lockdown, Betty. No one in or out. Send alerts to any of our people not inside to find safe places and secure themselves. I… will see about handling this personally."
"Yes, sir, but what—"
Luc ended the call, shivering as cold fear seeped into his blood. This was bad. If K-J had already given up on Brodbeck, it probably meant she and her employer somehow knew their latest virgin was no longer a virgin. Shay was probably safe thanks to that, as odd as that idea may be.
Luc, on the other hand, was not safe. And now, the Order of Hell would be after him. So they did have a presence here. Even if it only meant one assassin, it was too many. He could only hope beyond hope that they did not have their own secret guildhall here as they had in Vienna. That would be too much. He'd thought he was free of the Order of Hell and the Knights Templar when he came to the United States. If he was being dragged back into their attention...
He didn't want to think how badly things would go for him.
At least he had warning. He could protect himself from another assassin, couldn't he? Of course, he could. He was Luc Bertrand, master assassin. He was the Headmaster of the East Coast Assassin Academy.
It sounded far hollower than it had a couple hours ago.
He was a survivor, right? He always survived. He would survive an assassination attempt. He had to.
First, though, he needed somewhere safe to stay until the danger was past. But how long would that take? Had the Order of Hell been given the same twenty-four-hour deadline he had? Unlikely. If K-J really was in the employ of some pissed-off god—as much as Luc hated to admit that might conceivably be a reality—then he was deeply mired in shit. This might be a contract that was open until complete. He'd never be able to rest.
He needed help.
Curses only slightly less bitter than the sludge from the gas station spilled from Luc's mouth as he began the drive to Statford's office.
9
"Pick up, damn you," Luc muttered to his phone as it rang again. It was the ninth time Statford had failed to answer. Luc had been waiting outside the man's office door for nearly an hour already. Naturally, there were no business hours posted, but it was 7 A.M. Normal people were already awake and at least answering their phones at this hour.
Of course, Statford was far from normal.
"Oaf," Luc snarled as he snapped his cell phone shut. "Answer your damn phone. It's a matter of life and death."
Once again, he scanned the other business entrances on this little strip, the parking lot, and the traffic on the road. Nothing suspicious yet. No pedestrians pointedly looking—or not looking—in his direction. The other parked vehicles were empty, their occupants preparing other businesses for the day.
That was when it struck Luc.
Today was Saturday. Would Statford even show up to his office on a Saturday? The man didn't seem too stable. Luc had probably just spent the last hour calling the phone in an office that was completely empty and would stay that way through the weekend. The listed number couldn't be the man's personal phone.
Luc took a deep breath, resisting the urge to close his eyes. He had to remain alert, but he was starting to get sloppy. He had to think. If he didn't pause to really consider what he was doing, it would be his own fault that the Order of Hell succeeded in their contract. He would be making a target of himself.
So, think. Statford wasn't picking up because he wasn't in the office. Whether or not he actually came in on Saturdays was irrelevant, because he wasn't there now. Luc was out in the open for no reason. He could worry about tracking down a different number or sending Statford an email. Right now, the priority was securing himself.
Where would he be safe from an assassin?
He had to turn that question around. Doing so gave him chills.
Where would someone else be safe from him?
The simple answer was nowhere. Not in the basic interpretation of things. He could strike anywhere, at any time. Only his honor kept him from killing people in certain situations, like while in church or on the toilet. That was common courtesy.
The Order of Hell had no such courtesy.
So where was he safe?
Nowhere.
That left him one option. He'd have to make himself a target, hope to draw out whoever was undoubtedly after him right now, and neutralize them in hopes that it might buy him more time to better protect himself and contact Statford. Whatever god was behind all this was the cause. Until he could get rid of the cause of this mess, he'd have to go after the symptoms.
That meant the Order of Hell, and one step closer to the source, K-J. If he could find her.
So where would he be the best target for an assassin? Where would be the easiest place for an Order of Hell assassin to find him and feel safely concealed doing him in? It couldn't help but recall the mastery exam he'd taken back in Vienna. He'd spent a whole twenty-four hours on the run, knowing nearly a dozen other master assassins were trailing him. The paranoia was like an old friend he hadn't seen in nearly a decade, but with a few major differences here.
One, he didn't know how many Order of Hell assassins were after him now. He hoped only one, but that was no guarantee.
Two, there was no time limit on this. It wouldn't end after a day.
Three, this was real. His exam had been more of a mental evaluation than a real test of skill. His life had never truly been on the line. This time, though, he could die.
He'd prefer not to, of course.
Another careful scan of the parking lot outside the row of businesses that included Statford's office left him sure of his safety, at least for the moment. He climbed back into his Audi and started driving. When wanting to be found, the best tactic was to remain in one place. He didn't want to be found, yet. Not until he chose his battleground.
He made a random turn onto Cavalier Drive and tried to imagine what his file would look like. If he'd been handed a folder of information with one Luc Bertrand as the target, what would it say? Where would it point as likely locations to find him? Umbra Motus, naturally. But he was not about to bring another assassin there. Where else? What were his "regular places of business?"
He couldn't think of a single one. Such files normally showed workplaces and home addresses, the grocery stores and restaurants people frequented, doctor's offices and even utility companies. But Luc didn't do any of the shopping for the ECAA or the club. Most of his meals were there at the club itself. His administrators paid the utility bills; Luc just reviewed the invoices afterwards. And it had been years since Luc had needed a doctor for anything the ECAA medic couldn't handle, so doctor's offices were out of the question.
Come to think of it, he didn't think he'd ever been to a physician or dentist since coming to the States. He ran his tongue over his teeth, thinking about how long it had been since he'd had a cleaning. That would have to be remedied. He suddenly felt very dirty.
That was a mental tangent he didn't need right now. Still, he shivered and rubbed his hands on his trousers, trying to banish the dirty feeling.
He would have to create some regular haunts for himself in the future. A residence outside the ECAA, perhaps. Other restaurants and businesses. Make it harder to pin him down, by making it easier. It was a mental cluster of logic. But it wasn't something he could fix now.
So if Umbra Motus was the best place to find him, he would simply have to go there.
And wait to be found.
10
Luc couldn't help but feel both vindicated and terrified. He'd parked his Audi outside the club—which was closed and locked tight, of course—and concealed himself in the alcove that held the front entrance. But he'd only been there for a handful of minutes before he felt a sixth-sense chill of not being alone. It wasn't from the security cameras he had all over his property; this was the chill of being watched by unknown eyes.
The Order of Hell was here.
Suddenly, his plan to take on whatever assassination attempt was com
ing seemed flimsy at best. Still, he had no real choice but to follow through now. He'd fought here before, and the kind of attention it would bring was not what he wanted or needed for the club or the academy. After Statford's intrusion and their ensuing knife fight, there had been police attention. He would not have that again. Especially since this time, someone was going to die.
It wasn't going to be him. But he had no desire to dispose of a body here. Much better to make someone else deal with it.
Hoping against hope that this looked natural and not like a diversion or ploy, Luc emerged from the entrance alcove and strode towards his car. He was far too aware of the door not closing behind him. Would it be obvious he hadn't really just left the club? Too late to worry about. If he'd been watching a target do this, he would have suspected something. This wasn't right. What other option did he have? The trap was set and already executing. It had to play out now.
It was only perhaps twenty or thirty meters from the alcove to his car, but it felt like an endless desert stretched before him. His ears strained, waiting for the muffled shot of a silenced gun, or the wind-parting sound of a blowdart or hand-thrown star coming through the air at him. He sniffed the air, searching for acrid smell of chemical gunpowder. Never mind that if he could smell that, he'd probably already be home to a bullet wound. Goosebumps spread across his shoulders. He could still feel the eyes on him. Aiming?
Luc Bertrand- American Assassin Page 13