Luc Bertrand- American Assassin

by A. F. Grappin

  The massive sigh the young man let out was very un-Balance-like. "Fine, Dad."

  Luc accepted that small victory and scanned his surroundings. While in some ways, the city reminded him of Vienna, it was completely foreign. Buildings reached a certain height and then they all just...stopped. While some of the structures seemed historical, none of them had that aged, wise look of the palaces and cathedrals in Austria. The city was much younger, busier, and, as he had already come to describe the United States, rougher around the edges.

  Bit by bit, Luc's honed senses kicked back in, and he became abruptly aware of being watched. Jerking his arm holding the folder so it was closer to his body, he realized it was just Quirky trying to get a look at the contents.

  "Geez, sorry. I was just trying to see who we're offing," the initiate said.

  Clenching his jaw at the irreverence for their job and target, Luc stepped out of the center of the sidewalk and leaned against a nearby building. His ears were starting to tune back into all the ambient sounds around him, picking out bits of conversations from evening pedestrians and dismissing most of the words as unimportant.

  Flipping open the folder, Luc was relieved to see that at least administration in the States wasn't neglected. Inside was all the information on his target he would have expected: name, a few photos, address, employment, and so on. In reality, it almost appeared like a morbid job application file, if people applied to be corpses.

  It came as no surprise that his target was a politician. This was the seat of power for the country, after all.

  "A Senator?" Quirky squeaked. Luc gawked at the boy who was staring at the papers around his arm. Had he ever been that awkward, squeaky, and worst of all, loud?

  "Please, don't shout again. Ever. And no, she isn't a senator. She's a senator's aide." It had been years since Luc had shared contract details with anyone, and it felt strange to open the folder wide and position it so someone else could see the information it contained.

  "Heather Valen," Quirky read aloud. He wasn't shouting, but he wasn't whispering, either. It still sounded horrifically loud to Luc, though. "Age thirty-nine. Aide to Minnesota sentor Dean Barkley."

  Biting back a reprimand, Luc chose new words and said, "I appreciate the assistance, but I can read for myself."

  "Sorry."

  He paused. "Where is...Rasika?"

  "Rasika?" Quirky echoed.

  "A restaurant. 633 D Street, Northwest. Valen has dinner there regularly. If it's close, it may be a good starting point."

  "I don't know the restaurant, but D Street is like a block or two that way." Quirky pointed behind them.

  Luc checked his watch. Valen's usual dinner time was late, but not long from now. "Do you like Indian food, Quentin?"

  "Ew."

  "Trying new things builds character. Hurry now. Son."

  Despite not having a reservation, Luc managed to get a small table for himself and Quirky at what turned out to be an ultra-modern restaurant.

  "Are we really playing at being father and son?" Quirky asked as they followed the hostess to their table. At least the boy was whispering. "I'm still too old to be your kid, and we look nothing alike."

  "This isn't a movie. No one is likely to ask or to care. But if they do, say what you like. Son, nephew, brother, I don't care. But only if asked. We don't need to complicate this. We're only looking out for Valen. Thank you," he said as they were seated. Over the menu, he continued. "You remember what she looks like?"

  "I'm not an idiot. I saw her picture," Quirky said. "That her?"

  Luc looked up to where the boy was pointing. A large group of people had just come in, headed by a poised, charismatic man who commanded the attention of everyone in his entourage. It was all too easy to pick up the name "Barkley."

  It was the senator Valen worked for. This was too easy. Valen was right behind Barkley's left shoulder, wearing in a sensible floral-print dress. Her long corn-silk-colored hair was pulled back in a ponytail. The notebook and pen in her hands looked cemented in place. She scribbled furiously as Barkley spoke to those around him.

  "Be better to take out the Senator, wouldn't it?" Quirky whispered. "I mean, if we're trying to disrupt the political process..."

  "Hush. Our contract is for her alone."

  "So go get her."

  Again, Luc stared, wide-eyed at the initiate. "And draw attention to ourselves? We'll wait for the right time. Be sensible." He wanted to ask what was the matter with the child, but he realized the answer. Quirky was a child, and he clearly had no judgment on this. Yet. This whole accompaniment system was clearly a disaster. At least Luc had his eyes on his mark. It wouldn't be difficult to watch Valen until she inevitably separated from the group. A bathroom break, calling it quits for the night, whatever. At some point, she would be alone. After that, she wouldn't come back. Barkley would be minus one aide.

  Even while eating his dinner--which turned out to be delicious--Luc kept the target in his periphery. As much water as the woman downed--along with the occasional cocktail--she seemed to have a bladder the size of France. There was no way any person could contain that much liquid without visiting the restroom. Yet, there she was, still not excusing herself from the crowded table. Others did so, some more than once.

  Beside Luc, Quirky wolfed down his food as though he was afraid someone would steal it. Perhaps he wanted to eat it quickly so he didn't taste it as much. Luc ate slowly, drawing out his meal so it gave him more time to get the opportunity he needed to release Heather Valen from her life. But the woman continued to sit, taking occasional nibbles from her plate. In between, she continued writing furiously in her notebook.

  After more than an hour, Luc finally ate the last bite of his food--long gone cold--and reconciled himself to having to order dessert to prolong their stay. Valen had still not once gotten up from her seat. Luc had stuffed himself with a huge portion of food, and as long as it had taken him, he'd gained nothing but a stomach that felt like it was going to burst. If things didn't progress after dessert, he was going to have to find his way to Valen's home and wait for her there. Maybe for hours.

  When dessert arrived, he pushed the plate toward Quirky's empty chair and resumed his veiled scrutiny of the Valen woman. She was involved in the conversation, which up until now had been political discussion Luc had ignored. It seemed to have moved onto personal back-and-forth, which Luc took as a good sign. Their plates were empty, and if the business talk was finished, they might be finally wrapping up.

  Then, blessedly, Luc heard someone ask for the bill. He turned to tell Quirky to hurry and finish the cheesecake.

  The boy wasn't there. The dessert was untouched.

  In a panic, Luc realized he hadn't seen Quirky for some minutes. Where had the boy run off to? If he'd excused himself to the restroom, Luc had completely overlooked that. The boy was missing and had been for probably ten minutes or more.

  Schooling himself to remain calm, Luc signaled his waiter and asked for the check. Whatever happened, he had to be ready to pursue Valen when she left. If it meant Quirky missed out on his dessert, so be it. It wasn't as if the sweet treat was needed.

  Senator Barkley got to his feet, and his accompanying party did likewise. Luc couldn't wait much longer. His target was rapidly heading toward the door, her notebook closed and tucked into her bag. Where was Quirky?

  Barkley and a few other suited men led the way out. It was as the party cleared that Luc finally spotted his student. In a pitiful attempt at concealment, Quirky had hidden himself in a crowd of people still waiting for tables. Hiding onesself in plain sight was a valid practice, but this wasn't a huge crowd. Luc could only watch as Quirky lifted what appeared to be a drinking straw to his lips, his eyes locked on the woman who was drawing nearer to him.

  If time had slowed down, like it always did in the movies, Luc might have been able to stop things. To his chagrin, the pace of the world kept going at the standard rate of sixty seconds to the minute, and Luc simply wasn't
fast enough to act in time. The rapid progression of events didn't stop Luc from seeing in vivid detail what happened.

  Quirky's inhale was brief, and the burst of exhaled air even quicker. Untrained or unexpecting eyes wouldn't have been able to see the thumbtack-sized dart zip out from the end of the straw, but Luc couldn't miss it.

  The amateur assassin, however, appeared capable of missing anything. His shot went wide, despite how close he and Valen actually were.

  Or perhaps, Luc realized, his shot was right on. The dart struck Senator Barkley's sleeve, about four centimeters below the man's elbow. The point had no trouble sinking through the layers of fabric making up his coat and shirt. The self-pleased look that took over Quirky's face told Luc what he feared was reality: the dart he'd just shot was poisoned. The senator was a dead man, even though he still walked. But how rapid-acting was the poison? Most common poisons took time to stop a heart.

  Luc didn't have time to worry about it. The boy's foolhardy actions put them both in a shocking amount of danger. They had to leave, now.

  Risking being remembered, Luc called, "Quentin! Let's go, son."

  Clearly unaware he'd done anything wrong, Quirky extricated himself from the waiting diners and practically bounced to Luc's side. He smiled, not at all an expression Luc was accustomed to seeing on anyone belonging to the Order of Balance. Luc led the way out of the restaurant, though it felt odd following the politician's party out, knowing that it was a walking dead man he was following. Once in the cold D.C. night, Luc turned towards the way they'd come, heading back to the guildhall. Quirky, still looking pleased with himself, all but skipped along beside him. The boy hadn't said anything yet, but he was an excited preteen. He wouldn't be able to hold back his pride at his actions for long.

  Once he did speak, Luc would have plenty to say in response.

  6

  The bounce in Quirky's step remained until the boy finally couldn't hold back his excitement. By then, they were nearly back at the closed International Spy Museum.

  "Not long now. He's probably starting to get nauseated and woozy," Quirky said. At least he had the good sense to whisper.

  Luc stepped abruptly but smoothly to the side, into Quirky's path. The boy stepped to the side to keep from colliding with Luc, but Luc was already in his new trajectory. The dance continued for less than three seconds, until Quirky wound up with his back pressed against a building, staring up into Luc's eyes. It grated on Luc to have to appear threatening, to actually loom over a boy of less than thirteen years to make a point, but he couldn't allow a transgression like this to slide.

  "You are a murderer, Quentin McJackson," Luc said. The even tone of his voice would make his untouching, hovering presence that much scarier. Maybe it would knock some sense into the boy. Quirky was certainly wide-eyed all of a sudden.

  "W-what?" he stammered. "I'm an assassin."

  "You have taken and succeeded at your exit exam? Been assigned a contract by administration with a clear target? Balanced life and death for that single target alone?"

  "N-no. But I assassina--"

  "You murdered that man, Quentin," Luc interrupted. "He was not our target, and no matter what reasoning you might think was right for his death, it was neither justified nor cleared by administration. Our target was his aide. That was all. Without the backing and support of the Assassin's Guild, you murdered someone tonight." He stepped back, giving the suddenly pale-faced boy some air. He seemed to be holding his breath. "It's shameful, son."

  Quirky was trembling visibly in the streetlit glow of night. In that light, Luc couldn't help but remember that the boy, despite being in training to be a killer, was just a boy. Luc himself had never been that small, at least not in this sort of a position. He'd come to the academy at Reims late, well past his most awkward prepubescent years.

  Luc sighed audibly and squatted a little so he was eye-to-eye with his student. "It was a brash mistake, but people are allowed to make mistakes, Quirky. I want you to understand that your mistake cost a man his life. You spoke of making there be one less politician, but who says he was a bad one? It wasn't your call to make."

  "Am I out of the academy?" The boy's words came out thin, nearly a wail.

  "No. I won't expel you for it. But let this be one of the first lessons I give you directly. It may be the most important of all. People make mistakes. Assassins make mistakes. But when we do, people die. It could have been you to die, or some other innocent, if your dart had gone astray. You were aiming for the senator, yes?"

  Quirky nodded.

  "And how much blowgun training have you had?"

  "Well, spitballs at the girls--"

  "And your spitballs have never gone off-target and struck someone else?"

  There it was: the moment of sudden comprehension. Luc wondered which alternate possibilities were going through his head. Was he imagining accidentally killing a parent, a child, a young creative, the future President, what?

  "I'm sorry, Father. I won't do it again."

  Luc tried to make a small, encouraging or comforting smile appear, but it wasn't easy. It might have scared Quirky a little more, actually. He straightened and backed a half-step further. "I'm glad to hear that. Be patient. We'll get you trained so you won't miss."

  The boy fell into step beside him. "Ever?"

  "No one is perfect. But you'll also learn judgment so if you worry about missing, you won't take the shot. Half of good aim is not taking the shots you might not make."

  The boy's next word came out as the faintest whisper. "Cool..."

  Luc allowed Quirky to show him the after-hours entrance to the guildhall, which turned out to be a maintenance door with a security sensor that had to be blocked as they slipped inside. At the bottom of the stairs, Luc stopped Quirky.

  "I have to ask. Who gave you the poison for the dart?"

  The boy's color had returned over the last block or so, but he went pale again. "Um..."

  "Quirky, whoever did it set you up for this. I'm guessing you didn't steal it?"

  His eyes went so wide Luc thought they might pop out. "No, sir. I have...a case, actually." He dug into his pocket and came out with a small, matchbox-sized metal case. He handed it over, and Luc looked inside to see three small blowdarts and an empty space where the fourth had been.

  "Who gave it to you?"

  "The head of the guildhall, Father."

  Luc closed his eyes and exhaled. "King Roger, right?"

  Quirky nodded.

  "Go on up and get some sleep. Remember what we've talked about. Why you and I are both here."

  The boy dashed up the stairs, and Luc could hear his panting breaths after a few steps. He waited a few minutes before heading up himself. This wouldn't be pleasant.

  Rubbing his jaw lightly, he decided that no matter how he prodded the other assassin, he wasn't going to let the man land a second punch.

  7

  Ten minutes later, Luc reached the guildhall living room, having more than taken his time climbing the single flight of stairs. Quirky was nowhere in sight, which was excellent. In fact, none of the students were there, which was even better. They must be in their rooms, asleep or entertaining themselves.

  Those who were in the living room were the adults, nearly all of them. Luc's few faculty members were lounging. Cliff Boand had a beer can in hand and sipped at it while perusing a magazine. The guild assassins, whom Luc hadn't even begun to get to know yet, were gathered around the coffee table, each with a handful of red-backed playing cards with apples on them. Raucous laughter erupted at intervals, peppered with occasional groans. Scout made up the sixth of their game-playing party, and thankfully, King Roger was nowhere to be seen. Luc approached the table.

  "Pardon my interruption, Brother and Sisters. Sibling Scout, might I report?"

  Scout immediately put down their hand of cards, gave their partners permission to go on without them, and led Luc to the office.

  "I saw Quirky come back a while ago. It wen
t well, I trust?" Scout said once they had privacy.

  "I'm afraid not. Extenuating circumstances stopped me from releasing my mark. Can the contract be reassigned? I have pressing school matters to attend to."

  Scout's face clouded, but the administrator didn't ask for more details. "I'll give it to Kimiko. Do you want me to send Quirky back out with her?"

  "No. And in fact, I don't want my students going on these ride-alongs any longer."

  Scout's eyes widened. "That's the majority of their schooling. On the job training."

  "It's not productive. It's placing inexperienced, immature individuals in positions of power they are not ready for. Their judgment needs to be cultivated before they test themselves against reality."

  "I suppose, if you say so. You're the principal." They paused. "I will need to report this to our regional director."

  Luc nodded, but his mind was still whirling over the events of the night, everything he'd found wrong with the academy in just two days. "Hold off, for now, if you can. Let's call this a probationary period. Let me have some time to settle myself and my staff and students into a new routine before anything becomes permanent. I have some things I want to try to add more structure to the ECAA. If needed, I will reinstate the on-job training."

  Scout nodded. "Okay. For now, no tag-alongs. I'll give you a week before I call our RD."

  "Two?" Luc asked.

  "Okay, Luc. Two weeks."

  Nodding, Luc headed for the door. "I apologize again for interrupting your game. I'll let you get back to it."

  "You're welcome to join us," Scout said. "It's easy to learn and just pop right in. Pretty casual."

  "I appreciate it, but I need some rest."

  Luc refused to fall asleep. He waited in his room for hours. Even the bedroom walls were soundproof, so he had no idea when the card game ended, or when (or if) everyone finally settled for the night.

  Once three A.M. came around, Luc got off of his bed and quietly stretched his muscles. He had work to do.

  Shortly after, he eased open a bedroom door. It hadn't taken him long to find the right one. Years of practice made getting into the room a simple task; the door hadn't even been locked. There was a single occupant in the bed, wheezing softly on every exhale. Luc's knife, honed scalpel-sharp over the last half hour he'd lain awake, was already in his hand. He pressed the edge--the unsharpened one, just to be safe--against the exposed throat of the sleeper. Had he been using the edge, he could as easily sliced the throat as shaved away the horrid-looking neck stubble that covered the skin.