The Templar Reprisals (The Best Thrillers Book 3)

by James D. Best

  Also by James D. Best

  The Steve Dancy Tales

  The Shopkeeper

  Leadville

  Murder at Thumb Butte

  The Return

  Jenny’s Revenge

  Crossing the Animas

  No Peace

  Other Novels

  Tempest at Dawn

  The Shut Mouth Society

  Deluge

  The Templar Reprisals

  Nonfiction

  Principled Action

  The Digital Organization

  Write Great Fiction

  Collaborative Works

  Wanted, A Western Story Collection

  Wanted II, A Western Story Collection

  Miracles and Massacres

  Being George Washington

  Praise

  “The James Best books … are about the best new western series to come along since Larry McMurtry.” True West Magazine

  “You’ll find yourself lost in the book—the fast pace keeps it interesting.” Maritza Barone, Woman’s Day

  “James D. Best has written at least six books. I read them and enjoyed them immensely.” Gary Clothier, Star Democrat

  “This is a fast-paced tale with an interesting hero … you’ll certainly find enough twists and turns to provide an entertaining and exciting story.” Western Writers of America

  “Best paces his stories so well readers will find it difficult to put down.” Diane Scearce, Nashville Examiner

  “A great book; I do hope that The Shopkeeper gets the readership it richly deserves.” Simon Barrett, Blogger News Network

  “Once again, Best has penned a fine read.” Roundup Magazine

  “I loved it! The story is told in such a classic, smooth tone—it’s really fast paced throughout.” Jonathon Lyons, Lyons Literary

  “James D. Best is arguably one of the best writers of westerns.” Alan Caruba, Bookviews

  “They are just excellent reading.” Holgerson’s Book and Bookstore

  “This is a compelling narrative and as good as the best of classic westerns. James D. Best is a name to remember.” Saline River Chronicle

  “The writing is clear and straightforward with plenty of action attached. For an entertaining read, The Shopkeeper draws high marks.” T. Akery, ’Bout Books

  “Great stories, interesting and diverse characters and plenty of action! I have enjoyed every one of them.” Larry Winget, NYT/WSJ bestselling author

  “The Steve Dancy series is as good as they come.” Roundup Magazine

  “Best's writing style is a romp, and he nails the dialogue. Two thumbs up!” Leadville Laurel, Leadville Literary League

  “[Tempest at Dawn is] the best novel EVER on the U.S. Constitution.” Larry Schweikart, professor of history and author A Patriot’s History of the United States and a dozen other history books

  “If you want to know the truth about the character of those gentlemen and you want to learn about the evolution of one of the greatest documents ever created by man---the Constitution of the United States---relax in your bed, favorite chair or recliner, and enjoy.”

  Allen Ball, Beaufort Observer

  “Thanks to James Best’s masterpiece, Tempest at Dawn, I felt like the 56th delegate at the Constitutional Convention. Vivid narrative and expressive dialogue.” Michael E. Newton, author The Path to Tyranny, Angry Mobs and the Founding Fathers, Alexander Hamilton.

  “The novel captures the real drama that ensued behind closed doors as they hammered out what is now the oldest living constitution and the foundation of the nation. Read it for its historical value. Read it for its dramatic value. But read it!” Alan Caruba, Bookviews

  “The Shut Mouth Society is a fast-moving, well-written novel.” David M. Kinchen, Huntington News

  "The novel has everything from intrigue and murder to romance.” Faith Friese Nelson, A Writer’s Journal

  “Best makes Deluge a compelling—indeed frightening—story. This is a highly recommended natural disaster thriller, written with acute attention to reality and little, if any, needless melodramatics.” Jack Rochchester, The Fictional Café

  The Templar Reprisals

  A Best Thriller

  James D. Best

  Queen Beach Publishing

  Copyright © 2021 James D. Best

  All rights reserved

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  ASIN: B08YN3B1V3

  Cover design by: Wayne Best

  Original Cover Image: Gerardo Fraile

  Published by Queen Beach Publishing

  Printed in the United States of America

  To Gary and Angie

  Chapter 1

  Paris had lost much of its charm. Greg Evarts started to express his disenchantment with their favorite city but decided to keep his mouth shut. There was no reason to dampen his wife’s enthusiasm.

  She shook her head. “I can’t believe they ruined my city.”

  “It’s not ruined,” he consoled.

  “It’s no longer magical. In my book that’s the same as ruined.”

  “Trish, you don’t really mean that.”

  They were strolling across Pont Neuf to the Sequana restaurant on Île de la Cité island. Early for their reservation, they detoured into a bastion. Originally, the series of bastions had been designed so pedestrians could get out of the way of large carriages. Now they served as observation points to view the River Seine. They leaned against the stone railing and Patricia Baldwin hooked her arm through his as they watched the dinner cruise ships float gently up and down the river. Evening light played off the rippling water and they could hear faint dreamy music in the distance. It was perfect.

  “You’re right, I didn’t mean it,” she said.

  Evarts smiled and put his hand on her forearm.

  “I do miss the Paris of my college years, though,” she said.

  “It’s still here. You just have to look harder.”

  “Greg, we’ve been looking for two days. So far, we’ve only spotted an echo. The Middle East attire and the forest of selfie-sticks bother me, but the soldiers are truly off-putting. How can the most romantic city in the world maintain its reputation with dead-serious soldiers marching everywhere in urban formations.”

  “We’ve been visiting tourist attractions. Unfortunately, they’ve become targets for terrorism. You’ve got to admit the district around our hotel is Parisian to the core.”

  “A pricy hotel in a niche district. That’s not the Paris of my youth.”

  Evarts squeezed her forearm, saying nothing. He didn’t want to argue. Not this evening. This was their anniversary, and four years of marriage had taught him that when his wife’s mood turned sour, say nothing, but give verbal or physical feedback to show he was listening. It worked. She smiled and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

  Originally built in 1607, Pont Neuf was the oldest standing bridge crossing the Seine and had a reputation as a meeting place for lovers. Île de la Cité was the birthplace of Paris and in those early days, the bridge served as the hub of the city. At that time, it was clogged with vendors, street entertainers, and petty criminals. Benjamin Franklin found the bridge so seedy that he refused to walk across it. Now the bridge had been cleared of people earning a living, licit or otherwise.

  It was quiet. It w
as peaceful. It was romantic. A picture-perfect summer evening in Paris and they were positioned perfectly to enjoy the twilight. Evarts felt inner contentment.

  A horrific scream. A woman’s. Then a chorus of screams. Men and women. People in a panic ran toward them. What the hell was happening? Something terrifying! Something right behind this herd of screaming people. Evarts grabbed Baldwin’s arm and jerked her to his other side so his body could shield her from the mob. He felt her pull him away from the charging hoard, but instinct caused him to resist. He swiveled around to examine the other direction when he heard automatic gunfire come from the Right Bank.

  Damn! They were in the middle of a terrorist attack.

  He pulled Baldwin below the stone railing.

  People ran. People screamed. Evarts heard glass shatter, horns blasting, and the crash of metal against metal as cars slammed on their brakes or hit the gas. Tranquility had instantly turned into chaos.

  Soon, their alcove started to fill with people trying to escape the hail of bullets. This was a two-pronged attack. One or more terrorists on the Left Bank had done something to chase people toward gunmen on the Right Bank.

  Evarts thought fast.

  If the gunmen marching across the bridge had plenty of ammunition, they would soon reach their bastion. He heard three or four automatic rifles. He wasn’t going to wait to be murdered.

  “We’re going away from the gunfire!” Evarts screamed over the noise.

  Baldwin immediately nodded.

  Holding hands, they scurried around the perimeter of the bastion until they were on the edge that led toward the Left Bank.

  He waited until he heard the gunfire lighten. At least some of the shooters were changing magazines.

  He yelled, “Now!”

  They ran as if the Devil himself was behind them. After a couple of strides, Evarts pulled his wife in a weaving pattern. He was scared. He became more frightened when he heard all the guns start up again. As he ran, he scanned the bridge in front of him. People were panicked. They stopped running away from whatever was behind them but couldn’t make the decision to reverse course. Most fell to the ground or dove toward one of the bastions. None ran with him. What was he heading toward?

  As his visibility up the bridge walkway cleared, he gasped. Ahead were two blood covered men wielding curved swords. He scanned the area between him and the nearest terrorist. No weapons. Not a rock or brick or even an umbrella. He let go of his wife’s hand and never broke stride as he picked up a selfie-stick. He collapsed the stick and ripped off the swivel end as he ran.

  The nearest terrorist charged, screaming.

  Evarts feinted a block with the selfie-stick, but then veered and ducked under the swing of the sword. He thrust the selfie-stick upward into the throat of the terrorist. Evarts felt the jagged, broken end dig deeply into the terrorist’s neck. As both hands went to his throat, the terrorist dropped the sword.

  The second assailant came fast, sword held high for a killing blow. Too fast for Evarts to pick up the discarded sword. He braced his legs to jump to the side when he heard his wife yell.

  “Arrête ou je tire!”

  The harsh scream carried all the authority of a policeman. The command to stop or I’ll shoot worked. The second terrorist turned and started to charge her until he saw no weapon in her hand.

  He returned his attention to Evarts. Too late. Evarts had retrieved the sword from the ground and had already begun his swing.

  Evarts used every muscle in his body as he slashed a crosscut against his opponent’s body. The downward driving force ripped through the upper ribs on a slant and almost came out at the hips.

  He didn’t hesitate. He grabbed Baldwin’s hand and ran like hell for the Left Bank.

  Chapter 2

  Evarts checked his watch. They had been locked in a bleak interrogation room for over three hours. A table, four hardwood chairs, and two bottles of water. Nothing else, not even a two-way mirror. They had escaped the terrorists, only to be detained by the Paris police. When they had first arrived, the police wanted to split them apart, but Evarts insisted they stay together. Separating witnesses was a standard police tactic, not for the purpose of intimidation, but to insure objective testimony. Due to the abject shock and suffering of the attack, the police finally relented and allowed them to stay together. That told Evarts that they were being held as witnesses, not suspects. Good. The long wait probably meant the police didn’t know that he had killed two of the assailants.

  The door opened and two tired-looking policemen entered. They plopped into the opposite chairs like they had been standing for hours, which of course, they hadn’t.

  “Excuse us for the delay,” one of them said in heavily accented English. “This has been an exhausting night with many people killed, injured, or horribly traumatized. How are you?”

  “Okay,” Evarts said, “but hungry and tired … and anxious to return to our hotel.”

  “We understand. We’ll make this as brief as possible.” He rummaged in his pocket and slid across the table two foil wrapped snacks. “I hope this will fortify you for a bit. I’m sorry, but we do need to ask some questions.”

  “You wouldn’t have a bottle of chardonnay in that pocket, would you?” Baldwin asked.

  The policeman grinned. “I regret, Madame, we have no wine in this station. A pity.” His smile faded. “I am Capitaine Durandus and this is my colleague, Lieutenant Guerin.”

  Guerin nodded.

  Evarts knew these ranks equated to Chief Inspector and Inspector. The highest working ranks in the French police. Perhaps they did know about him killing two of the terrorists.

  Durandus open a thin manila folder, “Let’s see. You are Mr. and Mrs. Evarts … or is that Baldwin?”

  Evarts answered. “I am Greg Evarts, and this is my wife, Patricia Baldwin. My wife is a popular author and lecturer, so she retained her name after our marriage. It’s a common practice in the United States.”

  “Yes, I know.” Durandus said. “But common or not, whoever designed our forms did not make an accommodation for this eventuality.”

  He gave Evarts a look that conveyed that this bureaucratic gaffe was somehow his fault.

  “Then fill out separate forms,” Baldwin said matter-of-factly.

  “But you insisted on staying together … and now we must interview you together.” As if the thought had just occurred to him, he added, “Why was that?”

  “Why would you even ask such a thing?” Baldwin’s tone conveyed peevishness. “We were innocent bystanders to a bloody terrorist attack. Are you suggesting you’d have preferred to isolate us from each other? That would have been heartless … cruel.”

  A gallic shrug. “Perhaps, Madam, but as your husband knows, that would have been standard police procedure.”

  Durandus gave Evarts a pointed look. They knew. The chief inspector had not been delayed interviewing other witnesses; he had been checking their background.

  Evarts returned the hard stare.

  “Is that not correct, Chief Evarts?”

  “Correct in the case of a crime,” Evarts said, “but when married witnesses have been subjected to an emotional ordeal like a car crash or mass shooting, we allow them to console each other.”

  “But a crime may have been committed,” Durandus said.

  “May? I understand the need to refer to perpetrators as alleged, but I believe your morgue can confirm that a crime was committed.”

  “A crime beyond the terrorist attack,” Durandus clarified.

  Evarts didn’t speak. As police chief of Santa Barbara, California, he knew better than to volunteer information without understanding what the questioner already knew.

  Durandus sighed. “Chief Evarts, we—”

  “Please call me Greg.” Evarts interrupted.

  “This is not an informal interview. Your professional position is important to our inquiry.”

  “No, it isn’t,” Evarts said quietly, but firmly. “Capitaine Durandu
s, please get to the point. Otherwise, we’re leaving. It’s been a rough day.”

  “Indeed.” Durandus again tried the hard stare. When Evarts didn’t buckle, he did an abbreviated gallic shrug. “Very well. As you should have surmised, we have cameras on Pont Neuf. I watched you expertly kill two sword wielding terrorists as if they were a mere nuisance to your crossing the bridge. Impressive for a policeman. Highly impressive for an administrator … what do you call them in the states … ah, yes, a desk jockey.”

  “Your point?”

  “Why were you on that bridge at that time?”

  Baldwin slapped the table. “That’s your question? Not what did we see? Did you ask your other witnesses, why were you at a tourist site on a glorious Paris evening?” She stood. “Come on, Greg, were going to our hotel. I need a drink … and I don’t need to sit around in this godawful room responding to insipid questions.”

  Evarts put a restraining hand on his wife’s arm. “I understand, Trish, but have a seat for a second. The Capitaine has piqued my interest.” She gave him a dirty look as she reluctantly sat back down. “Capitaine Durandus, in answer to your question, we had an eight thirty reservation at Sequana. Easily checked. Assuming your questions have a point, please get to it, or my wife and I will return tomorrow to give a statement.”