Luc Bertrand- American Assassin

by A. F. Grappin

  Thank the powers that existed that cell phones were a thing. He settled himself on a low stone wall and pulled out his phone.

  "Is this seat taken?" a voice asked.

  Luc scooted a few centimeters without thinking, not looking up at the owner of the voice. He realized in the middle of tapping in the guildhall's secure number that the request to sit had been made in French. Not Portuguese. Not Spanish. Not English.

  French.

  His other attentions returned. There was plenty of space to sit on the wall he'd perched on. There had been no need for someone to ask him to make room to sit. Yet, standing before him was a middle-aged woman who was clearly still waiting for him to respond to her.

  "Can I help you?" he asked in French, just to make sure he hadn't imagined her speaking to him in such an unusual tongue for this city.

  "Ines Franco, Order of Release," she leaned in and whispered, switching to English.

  Something in him tensed, but at the same moment, he was flooded with relief. Another assassin. No one else would introduce themselves that way.

  Unless they were secretly Order of Hell, the paranoid part of his brain chimed in.

  "Luc Bertrand, Order of Release," he replied automatically, pushing away the relief and gathering his wits and around him again.

  There was a long, awkward pause. Luc didn't offer a handshake or even a hint of recognition. Nor did he utter another word. This assassin clearly knew who he was. That didn't mean he had to trust her. Let her give him information; anything he said might clue her in to things she shouldn't know if she was a Hell assassin in disguise.

  "Scout sent me," Ines said finally. "Scout Sujyot. Your administrator."

  Luc remained silent.

  "What can I say or do to gain your cooperation?" the other assassin said finally.

  Luc honestly didn't know the answer to that. Hell operatives had infiltrated privileged positions in the Guild before. He'd seen it in Vienna. He wasn't about to trust just anyone claiming to be from Scout.

  Then his own idiocy struck him. He'd already been about to call Scout. What was stopping him from doing it now?

  "Pardon me for a moment," he said. The woman nodded and stepped a few meters away when she saw him lift his phone again.

  "Betty Ferriby," came the voice on the other line when he called the guildhall.

  He was going to need to get Scout's direct number. One day. "Hi, Betty. It's Luc."

  "Oh! Luc! Scout said you were on assignment. Your travel went well?"

  "Fine, thank you. Is Scout available?"

  A pause. "They're debriefing someone right now. Can I help you?"

  Luc suppressed a sigh. "How much else did Scout tell you about my assignment?"

  "Um... one sec. They left a note. I think they expected a call." Some shuffling followed. "Oh, here it is. It says, 'Yes, I sent Franco. Yes, she's okay. No, I didn't give her any details. Yes, she's willing to help however you need. Yes, I purposefully asked for an Order of Release assassin. You're welcome. Also, she has your hotel reservation info for tonight.'" Betty paused. "Does that tell you anything you need?"

  He would have to see that Scout got a raise. "Everything." Even some questions he hadn't thought to ask. "Tell Scout thanks."

  "You got it. Good luck on the assignment."

  Call over, he stood and, pulling his small wheeled suitcase behind him, approached Ines.

  "Okay. How well do you know this city? I'm tracking someone and he may already be gone."

  Ines smiled. She had a pretty smile. "Well enough to know who to ask to find your quarry. Come with me."

  14

  "I'm sorry," Ines said for what felt like the ninetieth time in a handful of days. "I've never had this sort of trouble before."

  Luc waved her apology aside. "I knew coming here that it was a long shot. He's been a thorn in my side for twenty years. I couldn't expect him to appear so easily." He didn't bother to tell her that most of those decades, he hadn't fully realized how much of a thorn Ahimoth truly was. More like a barb poking into his hip. Enough to cause pain, but no lasting damage day-to-day. But on closer inspection, it had been tearing up muscle and bone. It needed to be removed, even if it meant yanking it out and causing more destruction. Once the corruption was removed, perhaps it might heal.

  Luc had been in Brazil for a week, with nothing to show for it but diminishing funds-- not that his expenses were something he worried about--and a foul mood. He'd had to admit that Ines was thorough when it came to searching. And she hadn't lied about knowing the area and who to ask. Sadly, every contact she'd reached out to had either come up dry or led to a dead end. Ahimoth wasn't idle, just as Luc had suspected. But he hadn't expected the man to be this mobile. He mentally slapped himself for that poor assumption. Of course the Templar would be in constant motion.

  She was watching him expectantly, making him wonder if he'd spoken or just thought he had. "You have been doing your best. I appreciate it." A pause, during which she still stared at him. She had a habit of doing that. He knew it was one he shared, a tactic to make the other person uncomfortable and chatty. Sometimes silence was the perfect tool. He didn't like it turned on him, but he was too tired and frustrated to complain about it, or even to resist it. "Where are we again?"

  "Caxias," she replied.

  He shook his head. They'd long ago left Sao Luis behind, venturing a few hundred kilometers inland. Trail after trail, they'd followed reports of second- or third-hand sightings of Ahimoth. Their one solid visual --from an ancient security camera in Anajatuba a few days ago--hadn't gotten them more than another vague sidestep closer to him. If that.

  The pizza place they'd found was good. At least, as far as pizza itself went. Luc ate only because he was hungry, not because he wanted any of it. He knew he needed to eat if he was going to have any chance of keeping up the chase and then hold his own once he came face to face with the bastard.

  One more day, he told himself. Two at most, and he had to leave Brazil. It chilled him despite the summer warmth to think how Insidia may have hinted at the outcome of this pursuit. When he'd agreed to leave her in charge of Whitney--a decision he was still questioning--she'd asked for nine- or ten-days' worth of groceries. Had that been one of her riddle-like hints? Did she know how this would all play out, or was she the one playing him? Even fallen, there was power in the deities. As unsettling as the thought of her manipulating him again was, it gave him a sinister hope. If it was a clue, then he was only a few days away from the crux of it all. Of course, that brought a whole free will versus fate debate into play, and he did not have the mental fortitude to argue that with himself now.

  For the sixth--or was it seventh? --night in a row, Luc stayed up far too late. He knew it was foolish, but he couldn't stop himself from aimlessly losing himself in the streets. The odds that he would somehow stumble across Ahimoth in the road were beyond slim. Yet there he was, until well past midnight.

  As had become a habit, at about two A.M., he checked his phone for some indication of where his temporary partner and guide had found them beds. Finding the place was always an adventure unto itself, and Luc finally found his way to tonight's hotel a little after three in the morning.

  The state of the hotel's "lobby" didn't lend Luc much hope that the room would be decent, but it wasn't as if he was making a home there. It was a place to get some sleep; that was all. He located the door to their room and couldn't help but notice the faint glow of light under the door.

  Ines had told him up front that she tended to sleep with a television on, even though the sound was down. The light was a good signifier of something wrong immediately upon waking. If the TV was off, it meant someone had turned it off. If still on, it would allow some light in the room to help prevent intruders from hiding.

  She was correct. The moment Luc stepped into the room, he knew an intruder was there. Abruptly more alert than he'd been in the last three fruitless days, Luc flicked his fingers to loosen them. A stiletto was in his
grip less than a second later. Darts and poison were close at hand, as always. He closed the door behind him as if nothing was wrong, but it was pointless. The intruder already knew he was there and that he'd been found out.

  In the hue-changing glow of the television, Luc saw Ines sprawled on one of the room's beds. A long, shining blade stuck out of her chest. A sword

  At the other end, hands wrapped around the hilt and staring at Luc, was Ahimoth.

  15

  Ines groaned weakly at Luc. Not dead, not yet. But the sword couldn't be that far from a vital organ. Even as he watched, stunned into stillness, Ahimoth put more pressure on the weapon, making Ines cry out.

  "This was meant to be a warning you came back to," the Templar said. "Stop following me, unless you wish to end up like this. I will do this same to you, even if you are family."

  Luc's gut went green, but not in reaction to the sight before him. It was for another girl named Inez, who had died at the hands of the Knights Templar. Indirectly or directly, it made no matter. Luc hadn't been able to save his sister; he could save this foreign sister from the Guild.

  The howl that filled the hotel room was unlike any sound Luc could have identified as his own.

  He crossed the distance to Ahimoth in less time than it would take to blink his eyes. Even so, the Templar had time to pull his sword from Ines's chest.

  Except the sword wouldn't move. Luc caught sight of his impaled partner watching him. In that fragment of a second, she too had somehow found time to think and act. Her hands gripped the blade, resisting the pull of her attacker. The sword remained where it was. How she had the strength to oppose him, Luc didn't know. Nor did he have time to consider.

  Ahimoth had only just given up on his sword and turned to face Luc when he was hit by 86 kilograms of berserk French assassin. In a total absence of finesse, Luc threw one arm out to hook around the older man's neck, which his other hand jabbed with the stiletto. His clenched fist connected, but the stiletto wasn't in it. His hooked arm swept over Ahimoth's head as the man ducked away.

  The two men came up facing one another, but there was no pause or stalemate. Ahimoth took the offensive, rushing Luc to catch him off balance. It would have succeeded had Ahimoth not misjudged his position in the room. He struck the corner of one of the beds just hard enough to elicit a low curse from him as well as break his own balance. Luc was back on him a breath later, gracelessly trying to bring him to the floor with a body slam. He twisted out of the way just barely in time to avoid the stiletto Ahimoth had somehow gotten hold of. Luc found himself face-down on the floor. He picked a direction and rolled. He could feel the Templar's shadow on him, taste steel in the air as the stiletto came down at him. He scrambled back to his feet once he ran out of floor to roll on, only to find himself facing the wall. Still desperate to keep in motion, he sidestepped and twisted to face his opponent.

  The blade plunged into his side with more force than one man's strength. He'd chosen poorly and twisted right into his own knife, wielded by the Templar Knight bastard. At least in twisting, he'd also ripped the stiletto from Ahimoth's grip. It wasn't the first time he'd been stabbed, though there would never be any getting accustomed to such a sensation. Adrenaline surged through him in a new wave, bringing sharper contrast to his vision. The room was clearer. He could see glee and regret melded together in Ahimoth's expression. It almost made him wonder if the man had any sentiment toward him. There wasn't a hint of doubt that he knew who Luc was.

  Luc, on the other hand, bore no sentiment at all. Despite the stiletto tearing up his insides, Luc rushed again. So much of him wanted to draw the blade as if he were nothing more than its sheath, but he needed his strength. Time for his usual old tricks.

  Poison.

  Thank whatever powers there be that his stiletto was not treated. Ahimoth shot punches, kicks, elbow strikes, and flurries of other combination attacks that Luc could only barely defend or avoid. The man was large and past his prime in years, but he was fit. It was all Luc could do to keep up. Thoughts of poison were dashed from his mind; it would have been useless anyway, some small voice inside him squeaked. Poison took too long. When this ended, it would only take seconds.

  Ahimoth's fingers brushed the tip of the stiletto. Luc felt it move inside him, and suddenly that was all he could feel. He was sure he would know if it was scraping against bone, but his organs... what damage was it doing to them with his every move?

  A flick of the Templar's eyes told him that the man was thinking the same thing. He was wearing Luc down, watching as his strength and focus ebbed. It would only be a matter of time before he was completely spent. But removing the stiletto could speed up the process as he lost blood. Luc saw the attack for what it was when Ahimoth suddenly lunged. Luc's own hand went to the stiletto, drawing it from his side as he'd told himself he shouldn't. He turned his wrist sharply to put the blade where Ahimoth's stomach would be.

  Ahimoth wasn't there.

  The older man had once again returned to Ines and clutched his sword's hilt. The Brazilian assassin wasn't strong or swift enough to offer more than token opposition this time, and the blood-slicked blade retreated from her flesh.

  Luc leaped at Ahimoth's arm, throwing his weight at the man's shoulder. The sword went back down, burying that same inch and more back into Ines's body. She cried out, her voice drowned out by Luc's grunt and a howl from Ahimoth as Luc buried the stiletto into the Templier's ribs. It was a high blow, from the back, only a few centimeters outside the spine. He felt the steel slide between bones unobstructed. A wheeze escaped Ahimoth.

  In a burst of strength, the older man threw Luc off him, but he staggered a few steps before regaining his balance. Luc took that stagger as another opportunity to attack. His tackle's momentum was enough to take them both to the wall before Ahimoth completely lost his footing and fell toward the window. The glass, like everything else in the hotel room, was cheap; it shattered like no other window would have at being struck with Ahimoth's head and shoulders. Luc and Ahimoth went down in a shower of glass shards. Not bothering to assess his injuries, Luc scrabbled to find the stiletto sunk into Ahimoth's back. His fingers closed around it and pulled, freeing it though it seemed to suddenly weigh a dozen pounds. It came down again into Ahimoth's back, then a third, a fourth, a fifth time.

  Ahimoth wasn't moving. Or breathing.

  That couldn't be it. Luc leaned against the stiletto, but his last strike had sunk into bone so it wouldn't easily move again. Either that or his own strength was finally giving out. He rocked slightly, trying to elicit some response from the old man. A scream. A gasp. A twitch.

  Ahimoth shuddered suddenly. Even though he'd been trying to get that kind of response, Luc hadn't expected it. He weakly flung himself backwards and landed on his ass. His head came up, his vision resolving itself into the new sight before him.

  The body was no more than a body. It hadn't been more than a corpse before. But now, the edge of the sword was sunken into the side of its neck. Ines stood over the corpse, breathing in shallow gasps. Luc could see her arms shaking as she clutched the blade that had for so long been buried in her own flesh.

  The other assassin let out a quiet string of what Luc assumed were Portuguese curses.

  "Is he dead?" she asked.

  "He's dead."

  16

  "Who was this..." Ines sank onto the floor next to Ahimoth's corpse and leaned against the wall.

  Luc climbed awkwardly back to his feet, grabbed a pillow, removed the pillowcase, and shoved the wadded fabric against Ines's gaping chest wound. She didn't need to be told to put pressure on it. The other pillowcase was likewise wadded up and pressed into Luc's side. He went to his knees beside the body, never happier to be off his feet. "My father," he said.

  "Family feud?" She closed her eyes for a few moments and went silent long enough that he wondered if she was passing out. They needed medical attention. If either of them slipped into unconsciousness, they might not wake up. He was a
bout to jostle her back awake when she spoke again. "What are you doing?"

  Going through the corpse's pockets one-handed wasn't easy, but Luc was determined to get as much information from the body as he could. Even two-handed, it would have been difficult. Ahimoth was hanging partly out the window. Though they were on the first floor, the windowsill was low, and Luc had no desire to topple outside into the night. "I'm finally getting answers."

  The only possessions Ahimoth had were a cell phone and a wallet. No keys, no loose change, not even a gum wrapper. The cell phone was a burner, a temporary one with no contacts programmed into it. There wasn't even a recent call history. He tossed it aside. The wallet was empty of currency save for a trio of prepaid MasterCards. Besides that, there were the standard clear pockets for photographs. The pockets were torn, cloudy, and well used, even though the wallet was so new it still smelled like fresh leather. The photo pockets weren't empty.

  The first photo was several decades old, with cracked and wrinkled edges, a yellowed background, and poor resolution. The young couple were in a traditional, conservative pose, with the man sitting and his wife standing behind him with her hands on his shoulders. She was all smiles; he looked more solemn. Even without the beard, it wasn't difficult to identify a young Ahimoth. The woman in the portrait looked familiar, too, but...

  "No..."

  He flipped the photo over. In true old-fashioned form, someone had written on the back of the photo in a severe hand.

  * * *