Luc Bertrand- American Assassin
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American Assassin
The Deadly Studies of Luc Bertrand: Volume Two
A F Grappin
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American Assassin Copyright 2019 by A.F. Grappin Cover art by Designed by Starla
Interior by Imagine That! Studios
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afgrappin.com
For everyone who has come along on this rather hectic four-year journey.
To all those who have already become members of the Orders.
Contents
Lesson Six: Assassin’s Mentor
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Lesson Seven: Assassin’s Tool
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Lesson Eight: Assassin's Deity
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Lesson Nine: Assassin's Keeper
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Lesson Ten: Assassin's Kin
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Afterword- A Note from A. F. Grappin
A F Grappin
Lesson Six: Assassin’s Mentor
1
Luc deliberately left his cane on the plane. In part, it was because he didn't want his first steps in his new home country to appear dependent and weak. Mostly, though, because he didn't need it. Nearly three months had passed since he'd been shot, and his leg had healed well. He'd really only used the cane to placate his medic back in Vienna.
Well, Luc was a long way from Vienna now. His medic, grudges, and old life were all an ocean away. He should have arrived in the U.S. a week ago, but Washington, D.C. had had a monstrous snowstorm over the last few days, and his arrival had been delayed. It meant wasting time staring at the empty places in the Vienna guildhall where Gilles should have been. A few more days being watched with pity out of the corners of eyes. Hours upon hours more to watch life go on around him while Luc waited in stagnation for the next stage of his life to begin.
Three months and an ocean didn't make the pain go away. Luc tried not to think about what he'd lost at the tail end of last year. Worst of it was having thrown away a relationship of five years, all because of a personal vendetta. He'd let it ruin everything.
2002 hadn't been great to him, but it was over. 2003 would be better.
It had to be.
Except he had no idea exactly what he was walking into in the United States. He only knew it was bad. Luc Bertrand had immigrated to the States to take over directorship of the East Coast Assassin Academy, a job that had been turned down by at least seven other candidates. He'd been told the school needed to be brought back up to standard. The powers that be in the guild had ultimately decided that rather than offer the position to another experienced, tried, and tested assassin, they'd give Luc the opportunity. Twenty-five years old wasn't too young to run a whole school.
Luc wasn't certain he believed that, but who was he to question the administrators? Nevermind that he'd been questioning authority his whole life. He'd taken the job because he needed to get out of Europe. There were people there who wanted to kill him, but he wasn't running away. It had been a necessity to leave. His personal feud with the Knights Templar had gotten out of hand. That's what had lost him everything, from his long-time boyfriend to his self-respect. He'd been shot, he'd killed a traitor, and he still hadn't gotten the answers he'd wanted. His obsession with revenge had torn his life apart.
No time to think about that now. The Luc who had lived in France and then Austria was someone else. He was American now, at least according to his documentation. The guild provided everything, including falsified and yet perfectly legitimate paperwork stating he'd immigrated ages ago. As far as his records said, he'd been a U.S. citizen since his pre-teen years. No lengthy naturalization process for him. At least he didn't have to hide his accent. They hadn't changed his birthplace on his records.
Dulles International Airport was everything Luc had expected in an American hub: crowded and rude. Mostly, though, loud. So very loud. A thousand conversations battered his ears. Luc tuned them out, surrounding himself with calming silence. Then, bit by bit, he let himself hear things. His own hushed footsteps, the brush of fabric as his legs passed one another while walking. A child crying.
Someone calling his name.
"Bertrand? Bertrand?"
There were tons of people lined up, holding hand-lettered signs with surnames on them, just like a cheesy television show or movie. He hadn't really thought people did that, but there it was. One man among the sign-holders was shouting at the top of his lungs. The sign in his hands was so messy it looked more like it said "Buttered," instead of "Bertrand."
For a moment, Luc stood back and studied the man. He was huge--not as tall as Luc, but much broader--with an unkempt salt-and-pepper beard that would have been appropriate to a mountain man. Sunglasses hid his eyes, even though he was indoors. His clothes were all black, his leather coat covered with patches, mostly motorcycle-related. But high on the left shoulder was a symbol Luc recognized. The Assassin's Guild had five individual orders, and each order had its own coat of arms. They weren't much u
sed, and they definitely weren't publicized, but this man was brazenly wearing his on his coat. Sure, a casual onlooker probably wouldn't have a clue what the symbol meant, but already, here was a breach of proper behavior in an assassin.
At the very least, though, the patch told Luc that this man was indeed here for him. And he was Order of Rejection. It wasn't Luc's order--he belonged to Release--but he'd been warned that the ECAA did things differently. For one thing, all five orders went to school together. In Europe, each order had its own academy, secret and separate from the others. Luc would be presiding over students from all five orders here. It was going to take some time figuring out how that would work. He could pass his knowledge to Release students, but he had no real clue how the others taught their proteges. The professors under him would have to help him keep things organized there.
Luc stepped up to the bearded man and nodded. The fellow tilted his head up, but Luc couldn't read his expression with those sunglasses covering his eyes. The sneer that came a second later told him all he needed to know, though.
"Get outta here, kid," the man spat in a thick American accent. There was no music at all to his words.
"I'm Luc Bertrand," Luc said simply.
An eyebrow raised over the top rim of the sunglasses. "You say you're Luke?" He even pronounced Luc's name harshly. A barking laugh came out of him. "You're supposed to be our new director? They said they were sending someone young, but you're not even out of diapers yet. Go back to Germany or wherever you're from and tell them to send us a real teacher."
Luc had expected this sort of reaction, though he'd hoped he might be spared it. "I suspect you're one of the current staff at the ECAA, then, Son?" He hadn't initially planned on using the subordinate titles with his professors, but he would if he had to. If he had to insist on being called Father Luc, so be it.
"You got some nuts, kid. Get out of here." The mountain man lowered the sign. "Call me son..."
"This is neither the time nor place to challenge me," Luc whispered calmly, stepping in close to the man. "This is a public setting. Take me to the ECAA now, and we'll have it out there if you insist. But if you attempt to deny me the position the guild has assigned me, I will see to it that the heads of your order take you up on disciplinary charges. Like my age or not, I am your new director, and I will be obeyed. Is that clear?"
The man balked, but he was right to do so. In stepping close, Luc had produced a knife from his clothes and pressed it against the man's hip. No one would be able to see it, but the brutish professor could certainly feel it. Luc had initially second-guessed himself on bringing it. The blade was made of some sort of triple-hard fiberglass or something--he hadn't the mind for lab work--which let it go through metal detectors. Concealing it through airport security checks had been easy, too. Now he was glad he'd brought it.
"Do we have an understanding, Son?" Luc asked.
The man grumbled something that might have been a "Yes, sir," but Luc couldn't be sure. It might have been a string of swear words. Luc chose to hear what he wanted to. Secreting the blade back in his clothes, he reopened the distance between them. "And you are?"
"King Roger the First," the man snapped. "This way."
Luc ignored the sarcasm and false name, following easily after the burly man. He had a feeling there would be plenty of battles over the next weeks and months, if this first encounter was any indication. He'd have to choose on a case-by-case basis which needed to be fought immediately and which could wait. Wearing himself out on manners right away would only leave him without energy for the bigger problems.
What concerned him at this moment was how easily this man had let Luc close in for what could have been a killing strike. If this man truly was a professor at the ECAA, Luc would more than have his work cut out for him.
2
Luc could tell just from the drive to the ECAA that he was going to have a hell of a time learning his way around Washington, D.C. There had to be some pattern, some underlying city planning that made the road setup make sense. At a glance, though, he was completely lost in traffic circles and drastic changes in atmosphere from neighborhood to neighborhood. It had taken him years to become comfortable in Vienna. D.C. was going to take him longer.
It didn't help that his only companion at the moment had exactly nothing to say. He could have been giving some vestige of a tour of the city, but "King Roger" was tight-lipped, except for occasional puffs on a cigarette. Luc endured the tobacco smell and the unhelpful silence. Trying to get his bearings in the mess of one-way streets and traffic circles that made up D. C. occupied his minutes.
His Majesty pulled the car into a garage near the intersection of a street named after a number and one named after a letter. Luc had no idea which ones. Even if he had, it wouldn't have done him any good. He was totally lost and disoriented, but he would figure it out. Maps would be invaluable, once he had internet access in his office. Afoot, he followed the king as he crossed the street--not bothering with the crosswalk--and headed for a corner building.
"International Spy Museum" stated the building's sign. King Roger headed straight for it. Luc couldn't help but be amused. Wordlessly, he followed His Grace inside, where the man paid admission for the two of them. Still chuckling inwardly, Luc put on his tourist face and gawked at the surroundings. Much of what he saw appeared to be fictional representations of spy practices. The name James Bond figured prominently.
The king strutted past the exhibits as though he owned the place, not caring that he was shoving past actual patrons of the museum. Luc twisted and turned, slipping through the crowds without so much as brushing fabric. He offered soft apologies to people his guide ran into, receiving affronted glares in return. Giving up his tourist play, Luc slipped into a door marked "Maintenance Only" after the king. No secrecy, no worrying about being stopped or watched entering. At least no alarms went off.
The maintenance stairs went only one way: up. The two men climbed one flight, and then it was through another door. This one, at least, was disguised perfectly to look like a wall. The regular door was next to it; Luc assumed it led to the second floor of the museum. The door they went through, though, led to a common room very different from the one Luc knew at the guildhall in Vienna. It was smaller, brighter, and dirtier. No one appeared to have cleaned in months, and the air was stale and reeked of old tobacco smoke.
The triple handful of people greeted his majesty with a roar completely unbecoming of their shared profession. The king returned the clamor with a roar of his own, leaving Luc behind in the entrance without so much as an introduction.
He hated to admit it, but Luc wasn't shocked by the rudeness. That was in part because he'd heard tales of American "manners," partly because he knew this school was failing. They desperately needed structure.
What Luc hadn't expected was to have no support from his staff. King Roger's voice boomed through the room. "...asshats in Europe sent us some skinny French twit! You shoulda heard him trying ta tell me off in the airport. Fucker had the nuts to..."
Luc tuned him out after that. Again, he reminded himself to choose his battles. He'd deal with His Majesty soon enough.
At first glance, he couldn't help but notice how his staff outnumbered his students. He had to assume that the adults here were the professors, of course, and that those younger than himself were the students. If he was correct, that meant he had ten staff--including himself--to teach only five students. That was, unless there were others hiding somewhere.
Well, no sense in delaying any longer. A few of the assassins here not clinging to the king's ranting words were studying Luc. They did this under the guise of looking elsewhere, but Luc knew better. At least they hid their real interest. There was some assassin-like behavior here. Two of the students were openly gawking, as if they'd never seen another human before. For the moment, Luc ignored them.
Choosing one of the adults who was not hanging on King Roger's words, Luc approached. The assassin's size and smooth
face made him think it was a woman, but posture and the look in their eyes made him second guess that it might be a man. The clothes didn't help at all, being nondescript. When they greeted him with a simple, "Hello," even the voice didn't help. Luc decided to think of the individual as "they" for now.
"Pardon me," Luc said, keeping his accent from getting too thick, lest the American not be able to understand him. "Might I be pointed towards my chambers and office?"
"You're the new principal then?" they asked.
"I prefer the term headmaster, but yes. Luc Bertrand, Release." He held out a hand.
Without a pause, they took Luc's hand in a solid shake. "Scout Sujyot, Balance." Scout smiled and got up from their chair. "There's only one office here, and that's guildhall administration. I'll show you the classroom, though. And we have a couple free bedrooms, so you can have your pick."