Luc Bertrand- American Assassin

by A. F. Grappin

  What if they hadn't been?

  That led to some horrible implications. That the Knights Templar knew who Luc's real father was. He'd turned them down, and shortly after, Esme had come to kill them all.

  What if that wasn't coincidence?

  It might only be unfortunate timing, but it was too convenient not to ponder it. Luc had been found by the Knights Templar, offered membership, had declined that membership... and within days, his family had been killed. He should have died with them.

  But what if he'd been the target from the beginning? He'd wondered as much before, idly, while in the throes of anger in remembering it. His hatred of the Knights Templar had colored his thoughts before, but this might prove him right. He'd been the real target, but not only because he'd denied their membership. They'd finally found him, some long-lost son of... what, an escaped Templar? A defector? A traitor or spy? And when he didn't play their game, they tried to kill him.

  Too much conjecture fell together more snugly if he wasn't just some random boy the Templars had wanted. The thought of his father being one of the Templars' number made him sick to his gut. Perhaps his birth mother had been tricked and had tried to escape the Templars' clutches. And she'd kept her name from the birth certificate in order to protect him.

  That could make sense. And if it was true, it had worked... for a time.

  And what of the Guild? Had they known or guessed? How long had they had his birth certificate and adoption papers? From the beginning, when Auguste Fosse had rescued him from the Templiers? Did they learn of it when he joined up? Or... why had Fosse been there in the first place to rescue him? Could that have also not been a coincidence?

  For once in his life, Luc almost felt like the questions answered outweighed the questions that arose from this new information. Almost. He was nearly through the file, and he didn't doubt there could be further answers buried there. If he'd been trying to hide pertinent information from someone, he would have buried it towards the end, as well.

  His attention now amped up to full, he continued to scroll through the files. There was a copy of the news article from the fire that destroyed his life in Tours. That seemed to be the end. A number of blank pages ended the file. Luc scrolled past six. Then nine. Then fourteen. The file still said there were nearly twenty pages left even after that. Stubbornly, he kept scrolling.

  The sudden black text interrupting all the white was jarring. Thirteen pages from the end of the file, there was another new document. It looked like the adoption papers that had transformed him from Jean Dupont to Luc Bertrand. But the boilerplate forms were newer and better printed. The name of new parent/guardian was one he recognized all too well:

  Auguste Fosse.

  His old mentor had formally adopted him. Was that normal Guild procedure? Luc would have to ask Scout and Betty. He'd never been an academy professor. If they did technically adopt their students, he had no experience doing so. It certainly made sense, considering the formal titles of the Guild. He was Father Luc to all. Auguste had been Pere Auguste to him. Strange to think the old man had never actually informed Luc that he was his legal guardian. Not his old headmistress, not the regional head of the Guild, not the Guild itself. Fosse.

  Finally finished with perusing the file, he swiped his laptop mouse to close it out.

  The button stuck, highlighting the document as it slowly scrolled back upwards. Frustrated, Luc tapped at the sticking button, but then the screen caught his eye.

  Hidden text appeared on the selected pages. The seventeen or so blank pages he'd scrolled past weren't blank at all.

  9

  It only took Luc a moment to figure out what had happened. In a poor attempt at digital security that had probably been sufficient back in 1992 or so, someone had converted the text to white rather than black or manipulated images to show up as white only, or negatives. However it had been done, it hadn't removed them completely. Because the Guild would never throw away information. But in the years since the hidden information was disguised, it had lost importance. What security measures the Guild had in place now had never been updated on the old files.

  He'd inadvertently uncovered another set of legal documents. The first few pages were the actual forms. They were poorly printed and nearly impossible to read. The lines of text were slightly disjointed at frequent, regular intervals. The papers had gone through a shredder, but some diligent, determined individual had recovered the shredded pieces and reconstructed them before finally making the scan or copy.

  He pitied the assassin whose job that had been. Because Luc didn't doubt one of his brethren had been set to that task.

  It only took Luc thirteen or so minutes to grow so frustrated he couldn't continue trying to make out any of the text. Not the finer text, anyway. The header on the first page was obvious.

  He thought it might be another set of adoption paperwork. His gut said to keep trying to make sense of it, to try and parse some sense out of the uneven words. His curiosity was piqued; the attempt to hide this information deep in his personnel file told him this was the most important thing in it.

  Frustrated at his inability to make any headway on it, Luc finally scrolled past the last shredded-and-restored page and into a typed transcript and report on the papers that he couldn't read. It almost made him want to slap himself. Of course the Guild had added that in. They wouldn't want anything unsolved or undiscovered. If there was hidden information, they would have dug it out.

  It was another adoption application. But this one was dated in 1991- the same year Luc had been adopted by Auguste Fosse.

  The signature was for Benoît Semeur. Luc had never heard the name in his life. But in a portion of the report, it was noted that this Monsieur Semeur claimed to be Luc's biological father. The final poorly redacted page included another photocopy, but this was of a picture. The man was dark haired and bearded. He wasn't looking at the camera, which Luc guessed meant the photo had been taken surreptitiously by one of his brethren. It had the sort of feel to it. It was no candid picture, but a stolen one. Even so, the hint of eyes Luc could see on this man were enough to tell him he'd seen this man before.

  Beneath the photo, handwritten, were the words:

  * * *

  Benoît Semeur- alias

  Pauperes commilitones Christi Templique Salomonici

  * * *

  Luc's Latin was beyond rusty, but he knew what he was reading. The Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and of the Temple of Solomon.

  The official name of the Order of Solomon's Temple. The Templiers.

  The Knights Templar.

  The man pictured was Ahimoth, one of the only Templars Luc had had the misfortune of coming face-to-face with.

  Years and miles had dimmed the details of that encounter, but the biggest impressions were still fresh in his mind. Ahimoth had been a beast of a man, tall and broad. He'd been perfectly intimidating to the thin, undersized teenager Luc had been at the time. Yet that undersized teen had defied and denied the big Templar. Yet he'd said Luc's father was a member. It meant he knew who his father was.

  Luc's mind whirled, and his eyes went once again to the photograph of "Benoît Semeur." Ahimoth. Who claimed to be Luc's biological father.

  A wave of queasiness invaded Luc's being. It may have been his imagination, but the ears of the man in the photograph looked awfully like Luc's own. Luc's jaw was more defined, but that was largely due to his own natural boniness. Ahimoth carried a bit more weight or had when the photo was taken. Luc's hand went unconsciously to his forehead, feeling the shape of his hairline and comparing it to what he could see of Azimuth's. The color was different, with Luc's hair being blonde nearly to the point of colorless and Ahimoth's being dark but at a glance, more matched than didn't. He hadn't seen it before, but there were numerous features on Ahimoth's face that Luc recognized in his own.

  The word that passed between Luc's lips wasn't appropriate. He didn't want to keep staring at Ahimoth's photograph, searching for
differences that might convince him they weren't related. Luc couldn't help himself. More similarities stood out: the shape of his nostrils, the angle of his eyebrows. Still nauseated, Luc pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. But even in that darkness, he couldn't wash away what he'd seen. He was adopted, and the family he'd loved had been killed by the family he'd been born into.

  Ahimoth had known exactly what he was doing when he'd tried to snatch Luc away from the Bertrands, and then to keep him from joining the Guild. He'd been coming after his son. Did Esme know that, too? Had Luc's "little sister" known who Luc was? It was a tangle. Esme had known he was adopted. He'd already figured that out. Had she known that the organization she would end up tangentially associated with was also the one who wanted the Bertrands killed? Her first contract had been for her family. Had it purely been to make her cut ties and throw herself wholly into her assassin's role, or had the Templars been involved?

  "Merde," he muttered to his desk. "What a clusterf--"

  "Ma-ma-ma-ma!" came a small voice near him.

  Luc jumped to his feet, nearly upsetting his chair. The pressure he'd been putting on his eyes made his vision white and spotty, but it began to clear as he realized just who had spoken. Whitney laughed and clapped at his sudden movement, smiling with some of the biggest eyes Luc had ever seen. Lost in the implications of the information he'd just received, he'd completely forgotten she was there.

  Fighting the sudden moisture gathering at the corners of his eyes, Luc gathered her up and held her close to his chest. She made some happy nonsense noises and nuzzled into the warmth. That shocked him, as he felt icy to the core.

  "We're more alike than I realized," he whispered to the toddler. "I swear to you again, I'll do better for you than anyone ever did for me."

  His eyes went again to the image still displayed on his computer screen. "I'll show you what a father really is. And make sure no one ever hurts us again."

  10

  Monday started with a flurry of activity, spurred by Luc's realtor informing him that the couple selling the house he'd put an offer on had accepted it. Better yet, they'd accepted his "generous additional incentive" as she put it, and the paperwork was rushed so he could move in not on Wednesday, but on Tuesday. Tomorrow. Luc spent his day in preparation. He kept his chambers tidy and had few sentimental possessions, so there wouldn't be much difficulty in packing his rooms. Even so, he wasn't about to trust his personal effects to his staff or students. It was a matter of pride and privacy, not trust. He could take care of himself. And he didn't much like the idea of one of his students packing up his underwear. Sending one to purchase a dozen moving boxes was nothing, though. And once he had everything packed, they could use the exercise of loading it.

  Afterwards came a phone call to Shotgun Shelly at the antique shop. Through making the arrangements, and then overseeing his and Whitney's things being loaded into one of the Guild-owned vans, a fragment of Luc's mind wasn't on the tasks at hand. He couldn't stop thinking about Ahimoth, the Knights Templar, and the implications of his own adoption.

  The back-burner distraction continued through lunch-- which involved Whitney making a mess and needing a bath-- through the afternoon, through dinner-- which ended with another bath-- and well past Whitney's bedtime. Luc found himself standing over the crib he'd so recently bought that would be one of the last things loaded into the Guild van for transport. Whitney lay on her back, her chubby arms extended up over her head, her little chest rising and falling in silent breaths. Sleep was evading him to the point he couldn't even make himself lie down. He was too wired, ready to move her as far away from his life of secrecy as he could.

  But he couldn't move either of them far enough away from his own past. He was going to have to deal with Ahimoth and the Knights Templar. Even though it had been a decade, it had followed him. The Order of Hell had found him eventually; it stood to reason that the Templiers would, too. It was only a matter of time.

  He would have to find Ahimoth first. But where did he even begin to look?

  Briefly, the thought that the Knight may already be dead flashed across his mind. It could explain why the Templars hadn't yet found him again. But it was a hollow hope. He had to be certain.

  In a sleep-deprived daze, he found himself standing in the Umbra Motus parking lot early on Tuesday morning. Whitney pressed against him, half-seated on his hip and half-supported by his left arm. One of her hands had a death grip on the back of his shirt. The other was shoved into her mouth, covered in drool. More of the same drool darkened the burgundy of Luc's button-down. The last of his things were being loaded. Luc was more than a little grateful to have initiates to do the grunt work of moving. He'd informed Betty that he would be calling as soon as the paperwork was finalized and he could officially move into the house. Once he made that call, Betty would inform these same initiates to begin unloading the vans. All he had to do was wait for the results.

  His dazed, exhausted brain followed that random trail of thought. He was not the best for the job of moving. He'd hired a moving company to do it. He was not qualified to negotiate and organize purchasing a home. He'd hired a realtor to do it. Most importantly, he was not the best at researching potential assassination targets. He'd proved that years ago, when Scout had gone on vacation but Betty hadn't yet transferred to the east coast. He'd been horrible at vetting contracts, at finding out personal histories, schedules, and the like.

  Betty and Scout, on the other hand, were good at it. Amazing, actually. It was part of what they did for a living.

  He didn't have to seek out Ahimoth himself. He could set them to it. He'd done it with Perrillo. Why couldn't he do it for his own personal use?

  A glance at his watch told him he still had nearly forty minutes until he had to be at the closing. It would only take ten minutes to get there. Twenty, tops. He had time. Without a word to his crew, who was nearly finished loading anyway, he headed back into the club and then downstairs to the guildhall.

  "I need to open a contract," he said, startling Scout in the middle of a swallow of coffee. "To be assigned to me. I need information on. As much as possible. As soon as possible. It's a priority, and I'll see to it the Guild is compensated for the delay on other contracts, if it comes to it."

  Scout blew their nose and tossed the tissue away, coughing a bit as they did. When they spoke, their voice was hoarse. "Sure. Who's the mark?"

  Luc clenched his jaw for a moment. "I have two names, but I don't know if either is even accurate. Aliases. I do have a digital copy of a photo, but it's...old. Probably not much to go on..."

  "I've worked with worse," the administrator said. "What are the names?"

  "Ahimoth is the name he gave me. He's also gone by Benoît Semeur, but I would wager a million dollars that it was a false name." When Scout asked for the photo, Luc realized the only way to get the photo to Scout and Betty would be to send his whole personnel file to them. Could he trust them?

  He had to start trusting somewhere, he eventually decided, and handed off his daughter to the administrator so he could forward the file from his phone.

  "That's a long file..." Scout said, opening it as soon as it was downloaded to their computer. They squinted for a moment, taking in the filename. "This is your personal file," they added, looking to him as if asking if he'd sent the right document.

  "This is personal," he replied, reclaiming Whitney. "I'm sure I can trust your discretion?" It was both shockingly easy and gut wrenching to get the words out.

  "Of course. I could have just gotten this from the Guild database, though." Scout started scrolling their mouse wheel. "What am I looking for?"

  Of course it was accessible to the administrators. It was probably accessible to him, too. So much for secrecy. "Towards the end. There are a dozen or so blank pages. Not really blank. Poorly redacted. The photo is in there."

  Scout located it a few moments later. "I'll run him through the database and see if anything pops up on face recogniti
on. If nothing hits, we have some other resources, but I'll start there. And..." they glanced at their screen, "I'll check on the names too. Ahimoth and Benoît Semeur." They totally botched the pronunciation of the name, but there was at least some effort to make it sound French. Luc let it slide. "There wasn't a last name with Ahimoth?"

  "Not that I remember," Luc admitted. "Sooner would be better than later. This could be very pressing." He almost chided himself for the gross understatement that was.

  "You got it, Father," Scout said, and immediately began clicking and then typing. After a moment, they lifted a hand to shoo him way. "Let me work."

  Nodding his thanks one last time, Luc carried Whitney from the office. It felt strange, not returning to his chambers. But he had a closing to attend. And a house to move into.

  And, soon, a Templar to kill.

  11

  It was surprisingly easy for Luc to lose track of time as days passed. Without the guildhall right outside his door and Umbra Motus upstairs, there wasn't a constant drive to work pulling at him. He did, however, have Whitney to replace that constant drive, and she was just as demanding-- if not more demanding-- than both businesses put together.

  It only took until Saturday for Luc to realize he couldn't do this alone. Just as he couldn't run the guildhall or his club by himself, parenting was another career move that was not meant for one person to tackle alone. Luc had known several single parents and wondered more than ever how they managed it.