Once Dwayne had closed the door behind him, Luc double-checked the date and time, just to make sure he wouldn't be calling during service. It was early afternoon on a Thursday. It would be fine. He dialed the number. As always, it didn't even complete its first ring before someone answered. "Church of Christ United Faiths." The woman's voice was flat.
"Bonjour, Myrna," Luc said.
The faintest hint of a smile entered the stern secretary's voice. "Good afternoon, Luc." Still a hard pronunciation, but she did better than Dwayne did.
"En français s'il vous plaît," he replied.
He could even hear the woman blush. Her attempted French was horrific, but the woman tried. It was more than most people he'd ever come across. "Bone joor, Luc."
"Très bon. Much better. Is Pere Martin available?"
"Of course. Just a moment."
There was no hold music. Miss Frich didn't even cover the receiver. Luc heard her no-nonsense footsteps walk the few paces from her desk to the door of Father Martin's office, and then their brief exchange.
"Luc Bertrand on the phone for you, Father. I think it might be another of his troubled youths."
"Of course. I'll talk to him right away."
A few seconds later, Miss Frich was back. "I'll connect you now, Luc."
"Merci, Myrna. Have a beautiful day."
"I will, Mon-syure. You, too."
There was a click, followed by, "Hello? Luc?"
"Pere Martin."
"Luc! Always so wonderful to hear from you. Should I be expecting someone to stop by late tonight?"
"It may not be tonight," Luc replied. "But I would expect in the next few days or so. His name is Dwayne Bush. Moral dilemmas. Right and wrong. Sin. The normal troubles."
On the other end of the line, the preacher sighed. "I appreciate all you do for those orphans, Luc. But must you teach them that curriculum?"
"Is it not better that it be us, who do not take it lightly, than to allow those with horrid motives to do it? There would be so much more loss of life if we did not exist."
"They're children."
"As was I, once. And I probably could have benefitted from having someone like you to speak with."
Father Martin's smile was much more audible than Miss Frich's had been. Luc could almost feel it over their connection. "You should come to service this Sunday. We would love to have you. Bring the children."
"Perhaps another week, Pere."
"We are here every week. I will look out for Dwayne for you."
"Thank you."
"God be with you, Luc."
"Goodbye, Pere."
Luc hung up and left his office, stepping silently down the corridor to the next office. His own administrators, Scout Sujyot and Betty Ferriby, looked up despite his silence.
"Hold off on Dwayne's exam," he said. "At least for another week."
"Noted," Betty said, typing into her computer.
"Thank you," Luc said. "Anything to report before I go upstairs for the evening?"
"Yes, actually." Scout spun in their chair, grabbing a file folder as they spun past a shelf stacked with them. "Contract for you."
"Splendid," Luc said tonelessly, accepting the folder. "Work never ends, does it?"
Betty squeaked a laugh. "I'm almost twice your age and I still haven't stopped. And I'm just an administrator."
"Merci, Betty. Anything else?"
Scout shook their head. "That's it."
"I'll look over this at dinner, then. You have the school until I return."
"Check to that, boss."
Shaking his head at his staff, Luc headed upstairs to his club, the rave that was waiting to happen come nightfall, and an early dinner.
2
The East Coast Assassin Academy was situated underground. Above it was Luc's front, the business he'd built to serve as a disguise for the real activities on his property. Umbra Motus had been, for over five years now, the center of Virginia Beach's nightlife.
And Luc was its king.
At the moment, his kingdom was subdued. The sun was another few hours from disappearing, and the club wouldn't really come alive until night began to take over the sky. In the mornings, the huge room that housed tables, bar, and dance floor was a sort of hangout for the assassin initiates that made up his student body. At least, it was a hangout in the mornings, when they had some free hours to themselves. But by three in the afternoon, all the ECAA students and staff vacated. The club opened its kitchen and the dance floor and waited for its partygoers to storm in. It wasn't often that Luc ascended to the club before the night's rave was in full swing, but this just seemed the day for it.
A quick word to the afternoon bouncer—today it was Frederick--set the kitchen staff working on a meal for him. Luc slid into his perpetually-reserved booth and opened the folder Scout had given him.
The picture and information belonged to one Tanya Spackman. Luc had seen hundreds of files over his career, but something out of the ordinary caught his eye.
Contract files were always labeled on the front page with the assassin it was assigned to. On this one, though, there were three lines of handwriting. Two had been crossed out multiple times, rendering them unreadable.
Beneath them was Luc's name.
Luc flipped open his cell phone and tapped out a quick text.
Scout, come upstairs. L
The administrator was sitting in the booth a moment later. "Something wrong?"
Luc slid the paper across the table without a word. Scout's eyes immediately went to the bit of scratched out ink. "Oh," Scout said.
Luc leaned back in the booth and raised an eyebrow.
"We've had issues with this contract," Scout said.
"What issues?" Luc narrowed his eyes, trying to read the names that had been scratched out. "Did they not accept the contract for some reason?"
Scout shook their head. "No, nothing like that. They said they couldn't complete it."
Luc gave up trying to read the names. Clearly, Scout was avoiding telling who had returned it incomplete. If he wanted, he could command the administrator to tell him. Luc didn't like forcing his will on his employees. They were family, and family didn't do that sort of thing to one another. Scout may not be the head of the guildhall, but they did have a responsibility to help maintain all the assassins' well-being. Luc let them keep their silence on who had failed.
"What about it made them unable to complete it?"
Scout shrugged. "They wouldn't say, exactly. Just that they couldn't. Maybe you'll figure that out when you go out for it."
Frowning, Luc replied, "It says she is a computer engineer. What trouble could she possibly give me? Or have given the others?"
Scout shrugged again. "Like I said, I don't know. But they both seemed pretty shaken up."
"I'll find out in a few hours, then."
Scout took their leave just as Luc's meal arrived. He ate silently, still perusing the file. He'd fulfilled contracts on dozens of people like Spackman. So had all the other acting assassins in his guildhall. What could have so shaken up any of them that they returned the file? And it had happened not only to one, but two of his people.
His fork clinked on the empty plate, and Luc realized he'd finished his entire meal without noticing. There was nothing left to do now unless he wanted to have a drink. The few customers in the club were eating. There was no dancing yet. The colored lights hadn't even been turned on yet. There was nothing for him to survey and enjoy, and it was far too early to have a drink.
Having nothing else to do, Luc decided it would be best to sate his curiosity and find out just what was going on. He had answers to seek. Rising from the booth, he tucked the folder under his arm and returned to his "office" that led downstairs. A change of clothes had him out of his vest and tie and into something he could move in. The concealed weapons he always carried settled back in place, hidden in the folds of his new set of clothing: black track pants, a charcoal grey T-shirt, and a navy blue hoodie.
So clad, and with the papers from the target file folded and tucked into his pocket, Luc took a different exit: this one into the cooling Virginia evening.
3
The wind off the water was just beginning to threaten a chill when Luc left the Umbra Motus property and began his stroll up Atlantic Avenue. To all outward appearances, he was just one more thirty-something trying to hold onto the last traces of summer. People who had spent the warmest parts of the day near the water finally admitted defeat and packed up their things. Luc strolled on, hands in the pockets of his hoodie.
His mind kept going over Tanya Spackman's file. That in itself wasn't unusual. Luc always went over details, trying to guess just which of the places labeled "frequent locations" he would most easily find his mark. At this time of day and this day of the week, home would be his best bet.
It was Scout's phrasing that worried him. That and those two scratched out names. But mostly, that the two assassins assigned to the target before couldn't complete it. Couldn't was such a strong word, and Luc could only think of a single reason two of his people would be incapable of following through.
Damn Statford.
Damn that crude, buffoonish private investigator. Luc still had his confusion about just what the man had done to him. He'd claimed it wasn't his doing, but Luc and the assassins underneath him had been rendered incapable of taking out a specific target. The oaf claimed not only was God real, but all gods were real, and that Luc was now beholden to one of them. Insidia, was her name. Luc didn't believe in any god; he'd given up on religion when his home had burned down with his family in it. Whatever the cause, though, Luc had had to make adjustments to his guildhall. Innocents were now off the table; he physically could not release any innocent. That had been easy to work around; simply narrow the acceptable targets to those who had committed crimes. It had turned out to be quite a loophole. Something as simple as music, movie, or book piracy could conceivably be considered a crime. Scout and Betty had done a fine job.
Until now.
Spackman was a software engineer, and she no doubt had some sort of pithy, petty crimes behind her. When it came right down to it, few people were truly innocent.
A few blocks away from Umbra Motus, Luc called a local taxi company. Sitting on a bench outside a restaurant, he lamented--not for the first time--the area's lack of a decent public transportation system. He expected at least a thirty-minute wait for the cab to get to him but wasn't surprised when fifty-two minutes had passed before it pulled up to the curb. He got into the cab wordlessly, gave the driver an address on High Borough Court, and waited in silence after that.
The cabbie dropped him at the corner, which suited Luc fine as the address he'd given was only one house down anyway. The sky had finally given way to night by the time they arrived. He paid the exorbitant fare without complaint; anyone who lived in this neighborhood had plenty of throwing around money. Luc could afford one of these half-million-or-so-dollar homes well enough if he wanted, but what would he do with that much space, save open another academy? He strode towards the house he'd given the address for and barely made it seven steps before the cab tore away with a loud squeal of tires.
He immediately turned around and sped up, leaving High Borough Court behind. A left on Downshire Chase, a right on Stapleford Chase, another left on Royal Oak Close, and he was heading toward his real destination. Spackman lived in this high-end neighborhood. Royal Oak Close ended in a T-intersection with Regent Park Walk, and that was where he was going.
A single light was on upstairs in Spackman's home. There were no cars in the driveway. The garage was closed. Luc knew from the file that his mark was single and lived alone; what she did with a house this large was beyond him. Then again, the file also said she had a number of hobbies, and her career paid more than enough to cover mortgage on this huge place as well as to fund all those hobbies.
Pulling up his hood, Luc made short work of scaling the brick wall to peer carefully over the sill into the lit window. Spackman was sitting at a desk with back to the window. Some sort of colorful game was on the computer screen. A light blue box with gold text and what looked like a glowing-eyed suit of armor clutching an icy sword stood upright on the desk next to her. Spackman was wearing thick headphones, clearly immersed.
As if luck were tempting him, pushing to find out just why the mark was still alive after two assassins tried to kill her, the window was cracked open. It was little more than an inch of an opening. Just enough to let in some cool air. For that inch, there was only a screen between him and the target. A few seconds with a knife parted just enough of the screen's mesh to let him slip the end of a dart gun through.
If his first shot had been the only one to go wrong, Luc could have dismissed it. But after three shots, he never quite managed to strike anywhere near the mark. One shot actually struck the back of the chair, and to Luc's eye, appeared to pass through the upholstery of it and probably stop within the padding. The other two had fallen short or missed by a shocking amount. The darts were little more than pins. Whenever Spackman eventually found the two that had gone astray, she would likely assume they were dropped from a garment or something. New shirts were always studded with the things, and they were easily lost. Sadly, by then, the poison on them would be dried and aged to the point of ineffectuality.
Luc's accuracy was far better than this performance indicated. One miss he could excuse. Even two, if he chalked it up to calibrating to the situation. But this was three horrible failures. As if three misses weren't enough, the fourth pin-dart didn't fire at all. The dart gun locked up, and Luc knew that this was all no accident. It was nothing on his part that was going wrong.
It was Statford. Or Insidia. Whatever the explanation, there was nothing Luc could do to release this woman. The contract would go incomplete.
Again.
Once back on the ground, Luc headed away from the house, starting another twenty-ish minute walk. This time, it was to a nearby fire station. About halfway into his stroll, he called another taxi company to request a pickup. Even after the other ten minutes it took to get to his specified pick-up point, he still had to wait twenty more minutes before this cab came.
On the ride back to Atlantic Avenue, he pored over the events in his head. Spackman had to have some petty crimes in her past. Almost everyone did. Children were the most frequent exception. So what about Spackman made her an innocent? What was stopping his assassins from taking this simple mark down?
He wasn't going to call Statford. The less contact with that ogre, the better. He'd figure this out himself.
4
Scout seemed only marginally shocked that Luc returned the contract incomplete. "Refund the customer's fee plus ten percent with our apologies," Luc instructed. "And keep me informed of any further complications in any contract. Before I'm the third assignee."
What followed were two and a half months of infuriatingly frequent contract failures. Over the insanity that was the end-of-year holidays, the new year, and heading into February, Scout and Betty reported nearly a dozen targets that no one seemed able to kill.
On February sixth, Luc sat down once again with the failed files, determined to figure out what it was that tied them together. It might have made more sense if all contracts that were vetted had been incompletable, but since November, eighty-one contracts had been completed with no issue. Dwayne Bush had made his peace with his career and taken his exit exam back in December. Whatever Father Martin had counseled him had helped. The young man had fortunately had no complications and left the ECAA. Just last week, he'd been reassigned to the guildhall in Ohio. Luc didn't want to consider what the young man would have thought if his methods had failed for physics-defying reasons. It didn't matter. What did matter was figuring out just why these particular people were suddenly untouchable to Luc and his people. There had to be some connection.
Many immediate possibilities were quickly cast aside. The demographics of these eleven targets
were varied. Four of them were under the age of twenty-one, five were between twenty-one and sixty, and the other two well into their golden years. Seven were female and four male. Five were Caucasian, three Hispanic, two African-American, and one Asian-American. Two had been born outside the United States while the others were natural-born citizens. Their financial situations ran the gamut, their careers--or in the minors' cases, their school transcripts--were as varied as they were. What baffled him was that one of the targets was a convicted felon on parole. That went directly against the definition of "innocent."
Luc leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. Maybe he would have to call on Statford and demand an explanation.
The thought made his stomach turn.
That night's rave held no draw for him, and Luc couldn't even make himself consider dinner. His office felt stifling, though. There was merit in stepping away from a problem. Luc had pored over each of those files enough that he could name all eleven of them in alphabetical order, age order, by order of their birthdays, or in a dozen other organizations.
Bundling up against the cold outside, he left the building to go for a walk.
His hands deeps in his pockets, Luc tried to stop going over details and possible connections in his mind. What he wouldn't have given for one of those "Eureka" moments that so often came in the shower. But in the last week, he'd taken extra showers, and the moment hadn't come.
If not for almost two decades of honed awareness, Luc would have been too lost in thought to realize he was being followed. He sighed inwardly, not in any mood to be dealing with a student's fumbling attempt to catch him off guard. It was a regular thing. How else would the initiates in the ECAA improve, if not to try their skill on someone much more experienced than they were? Yet Luc had no patience for it right now. A dozen steps down the sidewalk, he paused and turned, eyes already scanning for where his trailing student might be concealing her or himself.
Luc Bertrand- American Assassin Page 11
