That was new.
Even newer was the fact that all twenty-seven of the new emails had similar subject lines: FW: CONTRACT- PENDING VERIFICATION
Luc had never seen that subject line before, much less had it forwarded. But the sending addresses for them all bore the tag @unseen.global.
They were from registered Assassin's Guild email addresses.
He opened the first one. The forward told him that it had been auto-sent from Scout Sujyot, his administrator.
That was right, Scout was on vacation. They'd just left and wouldn't be back for nearly a month. Scout had told Luc before they left that things were so slow in the contract department that it shouldn't be an issue. All academy staff contracts were simply being forwarded to the guildhall in D.C. for verification before being assigned.
Well, the D.C. guildhall was gone now...which had to mean their contracts were now going to the new guildhall.
Here.
Luc had never worked administration. He had no idea how contracts were supposed to be verified. Well, he now had twenty-seven to go through.
His dinner sat next to him with only a single bite taken out of it. It was long cold before Luc was finished puzzling over the emails.
3
Luc's faculty handled the news of his promotion so well he wouldn't have been shocked if they'd told him they'd expected it. They probably had, actually. Many of them had come from the D.C. guildhall, and they knew firsthand how low staffing had been in the area. They easily accepted the news and Luc's subsequent request for help. None of his staff had administration experience--they'd been either field assassins or teachers their whole careers--but they were willing to fumble through alongside him. To his surprise, Fathers Cliff Boand and David Wendt insisted on taking most of the contracts for themselves. They practically ordered Luc to send them the contract emails.
When he returned to his office, Luc forwarded all but one contract to his staff. Immediately, he felt weight come off him. It felt amazing to have his people so staunchly in his corner, ready to rise to the need for help. Still, he thought it best that he have some idea what the administrators did, so that one contract, selected at random, he would take care of himself.
The potential target's name was James Melzer. The contact info only had an address. None of the "frequent sightings," "workplace," or other location information Luc was accustomed to. The lack of even a photograph was baffling. How much research into potential targets did Scout and other administrators do before passing contracts on to the field assassins for completion? The thought staggered him. And how was he even supposed to decide if this James Melzer would better serve the world dead than alive? It boggled the mind. Luc decided he never wanted to be an administrator. Still, he was going to keep this one for himself, just to see how bad it all really was.
The address was an apartment complex on Kelsey Bay Lane. He could at least find the place and see about getting a glimpse of Melzer for starters.
It only took Luc about half an hour to drive to the complex--using one of the more boring, ignorable cars he'd purchased for the academy and not his brand-new Audi, of course. It would have been a twenty-five-minute trip, but to keep up boring appearances, he'd stopped in a fast food drive-thru line for something to eat while he sat in the parking lot. It felt odd, having a bag of food next to him that had cost less than ten dollars. He couldn't remember the last time a meal--other than home-cooked--had cost so little. Then again, he didn't normally eat this garbage. The "cheese" burger was tasteless except for the sweetness of the bun and ketchup, the soda was overly sugary, and the "French" fries were just plain insulting. He would probably be sick later. Plus, it was strange to be eating inside a vehicle. He would never do this, normally. But a cover was a cover.
He'd chosen his parking spot carefully, one that gave him a view of the second-floor apartment door where Melzer lived. His timing was horrific. He'd forced down the greasy meal and was down to the dregs of his slowly sipped beverage before there was any activity at the door he was observing. Luc tried not to perk up at the sudden reward for his patience. A man who was probably only a few years older than Luc himself--so mid-thirties, perhaps--exited the apartment. Trailing after him was a woman in her late twenties. She was loaded down with a large quilted shoulder bag and a squirming bundle of clothing in her arms.
That man had to be Melzer, and the woman his wife, carrying their child. Luc sneered at the man's refusal to help his wife with her burden. He didn't even open the car door to help her settle the baby in the car seat. Nor did he kiss her goodbye or give anything more than a nod. He trod to a different vehicle, got in, and started up, backing out before his wife even had the infant buckled into its car seat.
Luc was already thinking this man would be justified as a contract target.
Just as he reached to turn his ignition back on to follow the man's car, though, he heard the woman's voice through his open window.
"There we go, James. Ready to go see Gramma?"
Luc paused. The baby was named James. Possibly after his father. The man had never exchanged words with the woman, giving no chance for his name to be said. He could be a James. But the baby was definitely a James.
He didn't have long to make his decision. The man's black car had found its opening and was pulling out of the parking lot altogether. The woman's car--with the definite James inside--was backing out of its parking space. In a hurry he didn't like, Luc let his mind whirl over the last few moments' bits of information. The man hadn't helped carry the woman's things. There had been no kiss goodbye. No embrace. There had barely been a nod or a wave. They were leaving in different cars. The man could be anyone: a boyfriend, a neighbor, a cousin.
But the baby was definitely James. A James, if not the James.
Cursing softly in French--the curses were so much more colorful and damning than English ones--Luc started up the car and rolled up his window. He didn't like how exposed he felt, nor did he like thinking that he was just following this woman to another residence. She'd said they were going to visit Gramma. Considering the woman's age, he doubted "Gramma" was old enough to be in assisted living. There would be no waylaying her before she got to that house. He'd have to continue keeping tabs on her until he could confirm his suspicions. Could that infant be the potential target?
Luc couldn't stop thinking about the man. It would make more sense for the man to be the target. Who would want to have an infant assassinated? Besides, he knew where he could find the woman and the baby if he didn't follow them. But if the man was also James, this could be a golden opportunity for him to follow the man and find out where he worked or shopped or spent free time.
The world took the decision away from him. The sedan the woman drove made it to the parking lot exit before Luc even pulled out of his parking space. By the time traffic finally let her out, the man's black car was long gone. He'd never find it. Luc settled himself in for a short tail of the woman, but the last thing he wanted was to alert her to being followed. He'd never done his pursuits in a car before, and he immediately didn't like it. He felt like he was the one being followed.
It didn't take long for paranoia to get the better of him. Surely his poor tailing had the woman alert to his presence. There wasn't much promise of information at the end of this road, either. Plus, it appeared the woman was actually leaving town. "Gramma" must live in a nearby city or suburb.
This wasn't a dead end. It was simply a waiting game. He would sort it out in time. At the next opportunity, Luc made a legal U-turn and started heading back towards Atlantic Avenue and Umbra Motus.
He still felt like he was being followed.
A few random turns and near-constant checking his side and rearview mirrors told Luc he was right to be paranoid. Someone was following him.
No, not someone. He knew who it was. It was the black car he'd last seen at the apartment complex. And in the driver's seat, the dark-haired, grumpy-looking man he'd taken for James Melzer.
Who
ever he was, this guy was good. He'd probably been trailing after Luc from the beginning, and Luc had been oblivious because of his own fumbling pursuit. What had given him away? The stakeout, probably.
His eyes kept flicking to his rearview, trying to assess as much as he could about the man after him. The buffoon's lips were moving, no doubt talking back to whatever was on the radio. Or perhaps singing along with it. He couldn't be certain. But the man wasn't trying to hide that he was following Luc. That was worrisome.
A cold bead of sweat tickled Luc's forehead. Could this man be one of the horrid Order of Hell assassins? Or worse, one of the Knights Templar? He hadn't thought about those people in years. Luc had left that drama behind in Europe. Those two groups of people were behind nearly every traumatic thing that had happened in Luc's life. Coming to the United States four years ago had been his escape, his new start.
They always tracked him down, though. It was clearly too much to hope for that he'd forever be off their radar. That single drop of sweat multiplied. Why now? Why did his past have to come back to terrorize him when things were going so well?
A check of his mirrors showed a silver pickup truck behind him. His side mirror showed a blue sedan behind it, and a red one behind that. No sign of the black vehicle. Luc scanned all the traffic around. What black cars were around were either going the wrong way or making turns that didn't suggest pursuit. There was no way Luc had managed to shake his follower.
Which had to mean the man had purposefully stopped his chase.
It was another half hour before Luc, having taken a roundabout route just because, finally parked back at Umbra Motus. The feeling of being followed or watched still hadn't left.
And his hands were trembling.
4
Luc spent the next week trying to confirm his suspicions that the baby was his target. Fearing the appearance of the man he suspected to be a Knight Templar, he didn't stakeout the parking lot again. It was either driving past or passing by on foot. He could more easily conceal himself when he wasn't worrying about a vehicle. So it was park in a different location and walk a few blocks.
He was rewarded, though. Over seven days and two dozen stakeouts of different lengths at different times of day, he saw nothing of the brutish man. More importantly, he spied the woman with her son more than once. Most importantly, he never saw another man enter the apartment, leave it, or moving around inside if the woman was out. She lived alone. That first stakeout had been a fluke. The brute was probably not even a boyfriend, much less a husband.
So he couldn't be James. The baby, on the other hand, was constantly referred to as "James" or "Jimmy."
Luc had no idea why someone would want a baby assassinated, but there had to be a reason. Of course, he didn't have a clue how he was supposed to find that out and make a call of judgement. He knew it was absurd, but his pride kept him from asking his staff. Cliff and David had both reported some of their contracts complete. How they'd managed to verify the legitimacy of their targets was beyond him.
Worse, more contracts had been coming in every day. Scout wouldn't be back from vacation for at least another week, and all Luc's questioning about when he'd get another administrator were met with deflections. His professors were frighteningly busy, but he still hadn't completed even this one contract yet.
There couldn't be much more he would learn with more stakeouts. He had to make a decision.
He would have to take care of it.
It was simple enough to pose as a jogger out for laps around the block and wait for his opportunity. Even in the light clothes, he had half a dozen ways to kill on him. The weather wasn't too hot, and Luc kept up an easy enough pace that he could maintain the jog for a long time, until the opportunity arose. He was going to give himself an hour. If Melzer and his mother didn't appear in that time--or if he happened to miss them leaving--he would take his activity into the apartment. There were ways to get in anywhere undetected, even in daylight.
On his third lap, Luc saw movement in the apartment parking lot, but it wasn't them. As he was nearly past the building on his fifth lap, a door opened, but it still wasn't them. He got more false alarms on his ninth and tenth laps. When he turned the corner on his thirteenth lap and the parking lot came into sight, he noticed an empty parking space that had been occupied before.
He'd watched that vehicle every lap, but now it was gone. Sometime in the last three and a half minutes--the length of time it took him to do a lap--Melzer had emerged and escaped.
Well, inside to wait it was.
Getting inside took all of two minutes, and that included crossing the parking lot and climbing the stairs to the door. He wasn't certain just what he expected to see in the apartment, but its plainness shocked him. There were no secret documents, no confidential files, no eavesdropping equipment. There wasn't even much proper furniture. The couch was shabby--probably secondhand or an old family piece, judging from the many threadbare patches in its upholstery. Luc would have been afraid to sit on it for fear it would collapse beneath him. The television in front of it was newer, but still at least five years out of date. The "cabinet" it sat on would have fit in perfectly in a young man's dorm room. It was made of lumber scraps and cinder blocks. The floor was scattered with toys, most of them also clearly hand-me-downs. The blocks' edges were rounded from several children's worth of playtime, and the paint was scuffed and uneven. Little foam squares with letters and animals were cracked and missing chunks. The overused items seemed out of place amidst what appeared to be new carpet and fresh wall paint.
The kitchen was much the same. The sink was clear, the clean dishes in a rack next to the sink to dry. The plates, bowls, and cups were mismatched. Even the silverware appeared to be from several different sets, but it was all at least clean. In here as well, the flooring looked fairly new. The appliances were stainless steel, barely smudged by fingerprints. One piece of scribbled crayon "art" hung on the refrigerator, next to a page with baby hand- and foot-prints in paint. "JIMMY, 8 months" was printed neatly on that page.
Heading into the bedroom, Luc saw more of the same. Then he realized why he felt so off. Any evidence that a government traitor lived here would have pointed at the mother being marked for assassination. Of course, that wasn't the case. The baby was his target. What would a baby do with surveillance gear or documents?
A dresser in the bedroom was covered with photographs, many in mismatched frames. All featured the baby in some way. Of course, many showed mother and child together. There were none of the father. Naturally, Luc had figured out that the father was not involved early on. The photographs did tell him something new, though. Two things, in fact. One frame had been decorated with stickers. On the bottom, "Jimmy" was picked out in cute letters. On top, rather than "Mommy" or "Mama," whoever had added the stickers had written out "Jennifer."
The child and mother shared initials. How cute.
The other thing the photographs told him was that whoever the boy's father was, he probably hadn't died. If he had, there would be some pictures. Photos of Jennifer and her man on dates, getting married, other life events. Pictures would have meant the man had been loved. But there were none. Most likely, he'd either abandoned them or been cast aside. More confirmation that the baby was his mark.
Luc was already concealing himself--rather amateurishly--behind the open bedroom door when he finally realized just what had set him in motion. His reflexes had taken over completely, making him move before even registering what he was doing. But over his silence, he heard it: a key in the door, turning the lock, the doorknob opening.
Melzer and his mother had returned. That must have been a short errand, a trip to get milk or something. Well, now that they were back, it was only a matter of minutes before Luc could make good on the contract.
"Hey, pretty boy," a voice said. It wasn't a woman's voice. "I know you're in here. Now I don't like bullies. You've been stalking this nice woman, and that's bullying. It stops now."
&nbs
p; Luc furrowed his brows at the backside of the bedroom door. Pretty boy? Bullies? What was this moron talking about?
Whistling reached Luc's ears, coming from outside the bedroom. The man--Luc knew it had to be the brute who had tailed him that first stake-out--was whistling. He didn't recognize the tune, though he felt like he should have. Music was one thing Luc had never taken much interest in. The whistling was slowly drawing closer. It was so shrill that it almost drowned out the man's heavy footfalls. This guy had no sense of silence. He was practically stomping his way into the apartment. That on top of the incessant whistling.
"Pretty boy?" The whistling stopped for the sing-song question. A second passed, and then it was replaced with singing. "Oh little sister. Pretty, pretty, pretty, pretty girl. Pretty, pretty. Such a pretty, pretty, pretty girl. Come on baby, please, please, please." Another pause, and then, no longer sung, "Where are you?"
It had been probably twenty years since Luc last played hide-and-seek with his younger siblings. He'd never liked the game then, and he found that he still didn't now. Even though concealment had been part of his training, and he was good at it, he hated this tension. The woman wasn't here. The baby wasn't here. And they wouldn't be, he was certain. This man in the apartment was some sort of bodyguard. He wouldn't let them return until the place was clear of threats. This attempt was a complete bust. Luc found himself wondering if the man had noticed Luc running laps and forced this confrontation. Had he sent the Melzers away to make Luc act?
He didn't like being toyed with.
More importantly, he didn't like the futility of this situation. It was past time to leave. Regroup. Plan. This assignment was clearly more difficult than he could ever have expected.
"Come on, motherfucker. I know you're here. You know I know you're here. I know you know I know you're here. Just pop that pretty blond head out and we can talk man-to-man, huh? I don't wanna hafta kill you, but I will."
Luc Bertrand- American Assassin Page 7
