Besides, he had funds to spare. He could afford to make demands if he found the right place. And as far as he was concerned, the sixth place he saw was right. If there were code violations or repairs needed, it wasn't immediately noticeable, and he could deal with them as they came along. "Offer their asking price. And an extra ten grand if this is mine and ready to move in by this weekend."
The realtor gaped. "Are you sure, Mister Bertrand?"
He couldn't be bothered now to correct her mispronunciation of his surname. He simply nodded. "An extra ten grand. Twenty if they're out by Wednesday afternoon." There. That would give them some incentive to move. Twenty grand was still less than he'd made in completing the contract last night.
A hollow feeling spread through his stomach. The contract. The man had had a name. He had to remember it. It couldn't be among the hundreds he'd forgotten over the years. Because one day, Whitney would ask him. He would have to be able to answer, if he wanted to keep his conscience intact.
Tyler. The man's name had been Tyler Perrillo. He'd have to find out more from Scout and Betty.
The realtor stepped back into the living room of the house Luc had been touring. He'd never realized she'd left the room. Smiling, she was slipping her cell phone into the pocket of her power suit's coat. "I've let my colleague from the seller's know that your offer is on the table. He seemed excited to hear it. I'll contact you the moment I have a reply. Allow me to show you the door, Mister Bertrand. Unless there was another property you wished to see?"
"Non, you've been more than helpful."
"Excellent! Well, as I said, I will contact you. And good afternoon to you, Miss Whitney!" the realtor waggled a finger at Whitney's nose, crossing her eyes as she did so. The child wiggled and let out a loud giggle as they left.
It was a few hours later than he'd hoped, but there was still more daytime left than he'd honestly expected. Time enough for one more stop.
The sign on the shop was supposed read "CALIBER ANTIQUES AND PAWN." Except more than a few of the letters screwed into the brick of the building had been vandalized, stolen, or ruined over the years. Instead, it read, "CA IBE ANTI ES AND PA N." It wasn't one of those seedy-looking pawn shops, although it did sport the obviously unmaintained sign as well as windows with bars on the inside and outside. A metal scissor grate was pulled to the side of the door, the only signal that the store was open for business.
Inside, surprisingly clear air greeted Luc's nose. He'd seen more than a few antique stores or pawns that smelled of old must and dust, thanks to a hundred flea markets' and attic sales' worth of stuff contained in a small space. Caliber didn't have that smell at all. The inventory wasn't a hodge-podge of items, either. Rather than things being heaped and piled on whatever flat surfaces there were, every item was carefully cleaned, organized, and labeled. Most of the labels were large index cards, covered with information on the piece: year it was made, materials, craftsman or factory, and price. And every tag had the words "Price Negotiable" stamped in dark ink. There were also reference numbers on each tag.
"Can I help you?" came a strong but slightly gravelly woman's voice. There was a Southern twang to the words, but not a Virginian accent. At least, the proprietress didn't sound like the native Virginians Luc had been around for years now. He hadn't bothered to make a study of United States accents, much more than the stereotypical ones. He could tell a Parisian from a toulousain in a few words, but the vast variety of American speech would always be a mystery to him. Suffice it to say, the silver-haired woman behind the counter "wasn't from around here."
"Bonjour, Madame," Luc said.
"Don't gimme any of your smarmy French lip, Luke Bert-rand," she replied. "We speak English in here."
"As you wish," he replied. "It is good to see you again, Shelly."
"Shotgun" Shelly had never given Luc any other information on her name. She'd said he didn't need to know it, which was true. Smiling, she came around the counter and put her hands on her hips. She barely came up to his armpits.
"Last time you were here, you done bought me out of all my guns and ammo. Took me all winter to start gettin' any of that back. I ain't got no more collectible firearms if that's what you're looking for ag'in." Her stony brown eyes trailed to the nodding off Whitney in Luc's arms. "I ain't selling you bullets or nothin' volatile while you got a baby with ya anyway."
"I'm here for something else," Luc said, letting a bit of sheepishness creep into his voice. She wasn't lying; he had bought out all her firearms almost two years ago. Hers and from every other pawn shop he could find for miles. It had been a single, misguided attempt to mitigate the chaos after the Fall. Things had gone hectic and dangerous rapidly, and he'd thought removing potential firearms from being looted or bought in desperate fear or anger might help prevent at least a few deaths. And it did help make things a bit easier and safer for his own people. He liked to think so, anyway. He still had to figure out just what to do with the two storage units he'd rented in different parts of the city. One was full of unloaded weapons, the other of ammunition in every caliber he could get his hands on. He should probably just let the Guild higher-ups know about them, but he hadn't bothered.
It didn't matter at the moment, though. "I'm furnishing a house," he explained, "and I didn't want mass-produced, poorly crafted furniture." While true, it wasn't the real reason he'd come. Chain furniture stores would be easier to track, should anyone be attempting to track him. He liked the anonymity of the pawnbroker's store. Shelly wouldn't question his paying in stacks of cash, either. He'd done it before, with the firearms.
"Well, then. Okay. Want me to show ya around, or you wanna browse on your own for a bit?"
"I'll peruse the floor, if you don't mind. I'll ask if I have any questions. Thank you."
Whitney's weight went completely dead in his arms. She'd finally nodded off.
"I got an old pram in here if you need to set your little'un down while you shop. I can keep her at the counter with me. No stressin'."
"I'd appreciate that."
Ninety minutes and a few thousand promised dollars later-- he hadn't had the cash on him, but Shelly knew he was good for it-- Luc was back in his Audi and heading to Umbra Motus. Shelly would keep his selections aside until he was certain he had the house to put them in.
"It's been one hell of a day, hasn't it, mon petit?" he asked the still-snoozing girl in the backseat. An aching pang struck his heart at the same moment he had to smile at the reflection of the back of her car seat. He would need to get a second mirror to put in the backseat so he could see the reflection of her face. "Welcome to my life," he whispered.
7
Luc found himself thrust largely into a foreign world over the next day. It seemed as though his staff was avoiding him. No one had come to him for a question or a problem since he'd first walked into the guildhall with Whitney in tow. It wasn't until he realized he'd been without a shower for nearly two days that he began to realize just how much his life had been pulled from his hands. Whitney, while not a newborn requiring constant holding, changing, or feeding, was still a massive demand on his time. She seemed discontent if he was out of sight for even the few moments it took him to use the restroom. He'd subconsciously neglected showering because that would take longer than a simple potty break.
He doubted he really had the body odor he imagined coming off him in waves, but he couldn't remember the last time he'd gone so long without at least some form of bathing. His hair felt limp and oily, his skin gritty. He needed to not worry about Whitney, just for thirty minutes.
"Normally, I wouldn't ask this of you," he said, "But it's an extreme case."
"Father, don't even worry about it!" Scout Sujyot already had Whitney in their lap. The younger administrator was holding Whitney's hands and singing an odd song about a chicken. Whitney's giggles were immediate, but the way she looked to Luc to display her joy made him nervous. How would she handle it when he was out of sight? Maybe this was a bad idea.
"Go on," Betty said, practically sweeping him out of the office. "Take a shower, take a nap, go upstairs to get a hot meal or something. We've got her. Don't worry."
He thought he could already hear Whitney fretting, getting ready to start a fuss now that he was out of sight of her. "Maybe I should--"
"You should go take care of yourself. And don't worry about her. I raised a child myself, plus I have two grandkids. I can handle her. Plus, Scout is here. And even if Scout weren't, I could watch Whitney and still get that research done for you. I'll send it to your email once it's ready. I said don't worry. Now go on. Come back in two hours maybe. You can't pour from an empty cup. Every parent needs time to recharge themselves."
The administration office door closed in his face, and he swore he could hear Whitney already crying for him. Something in his chest tugged that way, but at the same moment, his muscles all sagged, and a whiff of his imagined body odor reached his nose. As painful as it was, Betty was right. He still had to maintain himself.
A shower and a hot meal later, he felt more like a human being. He'd forgone his normal drink up at the club, but it was early in the day anyway, so it wasn't odd. It felt strange that he hadn't even thought about Umbra Motus in a couple days. He normally spent every second or third evening there, being the visible king in his castle and surveying his domain. Not to mention he ate most of his meals there. He'd neglected that, too. At least nothing seemed to have burned down in his absence. The bartenders, security, DJ, and staff reported nothing amiss for the last couple days. Everything was running smoothly.
It was only Luc himself who seemed to have a loose cog that wouldn't fit into place. How did others do it? How did they manage careers, life, and children? Whitney was only one small girl. How could she unbalance his life so easily? He felt out of touch with everything, and it had barely been 60 hours since this whole situation had begun.
But he couldn't regret it. Whitney needed someone in her corner, a father who would take care of her. That was what he'd tasked Betty with; he'd actually remembered-- to his surprise-- to ask for all the information the Guild had on Tyler Perrillo. Whitney would need it someday.
To his surprise, the shower and meal had only eaten up about forty minutes. He'd felt like he was taking forever on both things, but most of that time had been taken by the preparation of his meal upstairs. He still had time to kill. What was he supposed to do now? He considered taking a second shower and really making sure he took his time with it but cast that aside as unnecessary. He could go for a run, but that would involve not only changing clothes to go out in the cold, but then another change and another shower after that so he didn't smell like sweat. He should have done that earlier.
Luc snapped awake, shocked to realize he'd fallen asleep sitting up in a chair in his fake office in the club. At least the door was closed. He hadn't meant to nap. How long had it been? Blinking hard to push the sleep from his eyes, he opened the office door a crack. Thumping bass and a synthesized melody thundered into the room, rattling his teeth. Umbra Motus didn't start playing music until 4pm at the earliest. He'd slept for hours.
Closing the door in a hurry, he turned and took the secret staircase underground. Betty and Scout didn't seem at all put off by a longer shift babysitting than initially planned. They reported Whitney had napped long and well-- "As I hope you did," Betty commented-- and had already had some mashed sweet potatoes and peas for dinner.
"We got that info sent to your email at about noon," Scout added, tapping Whitney's nose with a fingertip to say goodbye. "Yes, we did." The administrator looked up at Luc, eyes bright behind their glasses.
"I won't impose on your jobs any further, if I can help it," Luc muttered. "But thanks."
"It was really no trouble," the two said, almost in unison. They had certainly been working together for a few years. They were of completely different ages and races, with Scout being far darker skinned and half Betty's age, but they almost looked like siblings at that moment. Luc left them to continue their work.
Back in his rooms with Whitney contentedly playing with some foam blocks on the floor, Luc opened his guild email. Even though the one sporting the subject line RE: TYLER PERRILLO was bold and drew attention as being unread, Luc's eyes went first to the email right below it.
SENSITIVE PERSONAL INFORMATION: LSB
It was the email from Zaccheo. The one he'd received the night he'd taken Emily out on a contract. The night he'd killed Whitney's father.
He hadn't gotten to really look at it.
Opening the email, he read Zaccheo's message again. His personnel file. Everything the Guild had on him. For a few long minutes, he only stared at the attachment filename. Then, on its own, his hand moved and opened it.
8
Luc hated reading paperwork on electronic screens. It was so easy to gloss over words and miss critical information. As tempting as it was to print out the file, Luc knew better. Digital security was far from ideal, but better to only worry about that and not a loose paper copy existing. The most determined person could still decipher an obscured and shredded document.
Squinting at his computer screen and fighting eye strain and distraction, Luc read his file.
The first few pages were nothing special. They were comprised of the standard information: his date of birth, address of assignment, Order affiliation, his date of graduation from the academy, and the date of his mastery exam. After all that were dates of his transfer to the United States, the address of the old guildhall in D.C., even copies of plane tickets that were years in the past. Anything related to his career that the Guild had had finances or fingers on was documented. Luc glanced up at the total file properties. The number of pages was in the triple digits. This would not be a short excursion through his life. But he was still curious.
After the initial information came the invoices. Monthly costs for his schooling, meals, upkeep, training. Luc knew from running the East Coast Assassin Academy just how much money was invested in the upbringing of each of his students. If he hadn't already known, he might have boggled at the funds that had gone into his own education. It made sense that the Guild took a hefty percentage of each assassin's contract payment. It reimbursed funds spent in upbringing and helped invest in the next generation. Not to mention any needed investigation cover-ups or government bribes.
Luc felt a yawn bubble up in him, but the urge was gone before it ever reached his mouth. It was crucial he remained alert. He fought the urge to glaze his eyes over as he scrolled past dozens upon dozens more financial documents. His whole life pared down to monthly statements. And then, financial documents and contract reports. Most of those were only half-page notes or less, or else his file might have been in the thousands of pages long.
Hours and hundreds of pages later, Luc found the next section of information that actually meant something: government documents. First on the list was his birth certificate. In a sort of auto-pilot mode, he nearly scrolled past it, but once he recognized it as not being another invoice, he backed up and inspected it further. There again was his birthdate, place of birth, and the time of birth.
Beneath that, the "born to" spaces were blank.
Luc blinked. His eyes shot back up to the top, to his name.
Jean Dupont
Luc continued to stare. Jean Dupont was a French equivalent to being a John Doe. He went back to the date of birth.
July 14, 1977
It was correct. As was the hospital.
Baffled, Luc slowly continued to scroll. The next papers were dated mere days later, on July 19th, 1977.
They were adoption papers. Jean-Phillipe and Isabeau Bertrand adopted Jean Dupont, making him legally their son. Included were forms that renamed the newborn Luc Sebastien Bertrand.
That couldn't be real. Could it? Had he really been adopted? What of his birth parents, then? Whose names were missing from that birth certificate?
The piece of his brain that truly registered what he was seeing went into
a frenzy. It raged, insisting this was a faked set of papers. He wasn't adopted. He wasn't! His parents had been the Bertrands from the start. Isabeau had borne him, same as she had with Esme, Henri, and Inez. He was her child! When the fire had taken their home, it was his parents and siblings who had been burned to ash and bone.
But the analytical part of his mind was sifting through decades of hints, reconstructing the puzzle of his life with this possible new piece. What was unnerving was so many little things made more sense if he had been adopted. He hadn't resembled either parent, bearing a light complexion, pale hair, and blue eyes neither Jean-Philippe nor Isabeau had had. Unlike him, his siblings had strongly borne their parents' features.
Hadn't Insidia gotten a sort of smirk at hearing his name? Had she known it might not actually be his?
When he'd found out Esme was alive two years ago, when she'd admitted to assassinating their family, she had emphasized it as her family.
She'd known.
Fuck. Even his little sister had known. Probably from the Order of Hell somehow. Or had she known even back when they were children? Had their parents told Esme the secret they kept from Luc?
His mind jumped back a bit further, to one of the moments that had begun all this: when that bastard from the Knights Templar had attempted to recruit Luc to their cause. The man had offered special training in lacrosse. The sport had been Luc's life then, though he sucked at it. He could have had the advantages. The man had insisted that Luc's father was one of their order, but Jean-Philippe had been nothing special. Certainly not the type to have a secret life or belong to a private organization like that. When Luc confronted him about it, he thought the denials had been lies.
Luc Bertrand- American Assassin Page 26