The Templar's Revenge (A James Acton Thriller, #19) (James Acton Thrillers) Read online

  Interpol Agent Hugh Reading lay in his bed, his CPAP mask in place as he tried to ignore the sun pouring in around the edges of the thick curtains. It was long past the time to get up, though he had barely slept last night, the drunken tourists partying until at least 3 a.m. if not 4, not a wink of sleep achieved until they had passed out.

  L’Estartit was always a tourist town, but when he had come here as a kid with his parents to scuba dive, it had been off-season and quiet. He had never been here in the height of tourist season, and he swore he’d never do it again. It had lost the charm his mother spoke of, true of most tourist towns whose populations would swell over the summer.

  It might as well have been Spring Break in Florida, something his younger self might have enjoyed, but not a fifty-something old bastard with sleep apnea and joints that protested every morning when he woke.

  Yet the noise of L’Estartit couldn’t spoil the trip.

  Nothing could.

  His son Spencer was with him. One week in the sun, on the beach, scuba diving, father and son bonding. It was more than he could have hoped for just a year ago, yet here they were, together, just the two of them, and he was confident the boy—young man—was enjoying himself.

  No awkward silences, no mood swings. Just smiles and laughter.

  They had been estranged since his divorce, well over a decade of almost no communication, the boy shutting him out of his life despite his mother’s best attempts. The divorce had been as amicable as it could have been, and he didn’t blame his wife for the situation that developed. Eventually, he had given up pressuring the boy, instead, hoping that over time, he would come around. He’d send the obligatory cards and gifts at the appropriate times, and never received a thank you.

  But a couple of years ago, in a renewed attempt at reconciliation, his son had taken his call. Conversations had begun, then some lunches, then some pints, and eventually, this vacation, which was working out brilliantly.

  He couldn’t be happier.

  Good food, good company, and a good view.

  Yes, the beaches of Spain had their good views even an old bastard like him could appreciate through sunglasses. His mid-twenties son’s head was on a swivel, and the good-looking lad had many smiles returned. Reading had no doubt if he were caught staring, arms would be crossed and disgusted looks delivered as his victims hurried away.

  But he was an old pro.

  He never got caught.

  It was enough to put the spring back in his step, and on occasion, remind him that he was still a man with a libido, a libido that needed stroking, the last woman he had been with dying in his arms, expressing her love for him. His chest ached and his eyes watered as he tried to push the memory of Kinti away.

  He tore off his mask and turned off the life-saving machine. He had been diagnosed with sleep apnea a couple of years ago after he caught himself falling asleep at the office. When he was diagnosed, he hadn’t been concerned. “Who cares if I snore? I live alone.” Yet as his doctor had explained, snoring wasn’t the issue, it was the fact he would stop breathing, and that could cause heart damage. When he stopped breathing, his blood pressure shot up, and it could cause Left Ventricle Hypertrophy, a thickening of the heart wall, that could eventually cause heart failure. He had been tested and was fine, his sleep apnea caught in time, but the entire experience had pissed him off.

  He had heard of sleep apnea most of his adult life, yet thought it simply meant you snored and stopped breathing sometimes. If someone had told him it could kill him and how, he might have paid more attention. Why that wasn’t advertised, he had no idea. But now he had his CPAP machine, and loved it. He felt at least ten years younger. He had been waking up dozens of times an hour. Not enough to be aware of it, though enough to ruin his sleep patterns, leaving him exhausted the next day.

  Now that he was properly sleeping through the night, he was a new man, or at least a renewed one. Though not so much today. He needed at least six hours on the machine, preferably seven, yet had only managed five. He’d need a nap this afternoon.

  He stretched out a yawn, then growled when his phone vibrated on the nightstand. He could smell bacon and eggs through his door, his son apparently giving up waiting for him to make an appearance.

  Good to know the lad can cook.

  He picked up the phone and his eyebrows rose as he saw the call display.

  Greg? Isn’t it three or four in the morning there?

  He swiped his thumb. “Greg, what are you doing up at this hour?”

  “Hey, Hugh, what do you think? Jim and Laura are in trouble.”

  Reading tensed, reaching for the pad and pen he kept with him wherever he went, now sitting on his nightstand. “What’s happened?”

  “The details are sketchy, but Jim just called. Apparently, someone tried to kill them on the way to their meeting in France, then the chateau they were at was assaulted. I guess there are people dead, and Jim was wounded in an explosion. People are still after them, and they’re going to try and get out of town before they’re found. They apparently found the True Cross. That’s what this is all about.”

  “The True Cross?”

  “Yes, it’s supposed to be the cross Jesus was crucified on.”

  Reading whistled. “Well, if that’s not worth killing over, I don’t know what is.”

  Milton chuckled at his sarcastic tone. “Yeah, there’s nothing like religious icons to bring out the best in people. Anyway, they asked me to contact you, because their phones are dead. I’m going to text you their new number so you can reach out to them, okay?”

  “Got it. Send me it now, and I’ll call them right away.”

  “Good. Let me know if you hear anything.”

  Reading nodded. “Will do.”

  He ended the call and waited for the phone to vibrate. It did, and he jotted down the number just in case, then transferred it to his contacts. He dialed, and an automated message indicated it was out of range or turned off.

  Why the bloody hell would they turn off the phone?

  41

  Saint-Pierre-la-Mer, France

  Schmidt stepped out of yet another hotel, the search for the professors so far fruitless. This might be a small town, but during tourist season, like now, it was jam-packed, the usually sleepy hotels bustling with activity. Showing desk clerks the photos of the professors on his phone, without being able to claim he was with the police, was proving to be pointless, suspicions heightened since last night’s events limiting his options. He had more success bribing doormen and bellhops, than going inside and questioning clerks who were more likely to be under the watchful eye of management. Yet even that had proven a waste of time so far.

  He checked his phone for the location of the next hotel, then continued down the street, his eyes constantly scanning for the professors, or any other suspicious activity, such as someone ducking down an alley or rapidly changing direction to face away from him.

  But he saw nothing. His man Joachim, severely beaten by Laura Palmer, was in the hospital now, under the careful watch of one of his men. He was conscious, and would apparently make a full recovery, the unprovoked attack not meant to kill, just to disable.

  He wouldn’t underestimate her like Joachim had.

  He knew nothing about these two beyond what he had found on the Internet, and they had proven more resourceful than he would have expected of two academics. They had evaded the assassination attempt, evaded capture, survived the explosion on the boat, got the drop on one of his highly trained men, and continued to elude him. They had skills, acquired somehow, which was making his job far more challenging than he had expected.

  And far more interesting.

  He loved the chase, and this was a chase. As long as he succeeded in the end, he didn’t particularly care how long it took.

  But he had to win.

  Losing wasn’t an option with him. He would find them, recover the cross, then kill them. The contract would be fulfilled, he’d receive his payday
, then he’d decide whether to take the True Cross for himself, and kill Pierre Ridefort, should he object. Pierre was a punk-ass spoiled kid, who had thrown a years-long temper tantrum, and deserved a good beating.

  No man who wanted his own father dead was a man.

  From what he could tell, Jacques Ridefort had done nothing wrong, merely threatened a brat’s inheritance.

  Grow up, you self-entitled self-absorbed millennial twit, and be a man. Make your own way in the world, instead of relying on Daddy to take care of you.

  Schmidt had little time for Pierre’s kind, and no respect for many of his generation. In the Army, he had seen them, little snowflakes who couldn’t take the reality of reality, washing out in the first week or two, which was fine. He didn’t want a sniveling weasel with him in the foxhole when the shit hit the fan. His Army days were behind him, but when evaluating men for assignments like this, he’d hack their social media accounts and see the types of posts they had.

  If they were Social Justice Warriors, he’d immediately exclude them. He didn’t need delusional people who had to retreat to their safe spaces if they heard an opinion that contradicted their own. He didn’t need people who hugged their teddy bears and cried when they lost an election.

  There were always winners and losers in life. If you lost, then you sucked it up and moved on, and tried to win the next time out. You didn’t sit around for four years crying and whining and throwing a fit. You got on with your life, made the best of the situation you could, then next time, tried that much harder.

  And that was the problem with the kids today. They had been raised in environments where score wasn’t kept, where no one was to blame, where bullying wasn’t tolerated, and where no one failed.

  That wasn’t life.

  Kids left the bubble of school for the real world, and had absolutely no concept of how to react when things didn’t go their way. For their first twenty years, nothing that had ever gone wrong was their fault, it was always the system’s. They never lost a game, they never failed a course, they were always given an extension on a deadline.

  Then when they had their first real choice to make, the choice clear in their minds, it had to be some conspiracy when they lost, someone had to have cheated, someone had to have lied, because they were raised to believe they were always right. It was inconceivable that they could have lost. And after a youth spent being encouraged to fight for what they thought was right, even if they were factually wrong, that’s what they did. On social media, in protests, on campuses.

  Schmidt had no time for it.

  Finish school, get a real job, take your lumps, and improve yourself. If you don’t like the results of a vote, don’t demand another vote. The systems in democracies had worked for decades in most cases, for centuries in some. Why should they change just because one generation thought it was rigged because they didn’t win?

  He growled at a group of teenagers, walking four abreast down the sidewalk, forcing others to go around. He shoved his way through, a string of French curses thrown at his back, his hand slowly reaching for his weapon.

  Now, now. Calm down.

  He looked ahead at the next hotel, just as someone turned quickly down a side street. He picked up his pace and reached the road, staring down to see what appeared to be a woman, dressed in white, running.

  It had to be Laura Palmer, the clothes definitely not workout wear.

  He pushed through the crowd and broke out into a sprint, his footfalls echoing through the tight street. The woman glanced over her shoulder and he smiled.

  It was her.

  And she wasn’t getting away this time.

  Laura didn’t recognize the man, but there was no doubt he recognized her. It was his haircut and demeanor that had aroused her suspicions, evidently accurately. She ducked down the next street, running past the tourists as quickly as she could, dodging around a group of seniors and into another laneway, doubling back the way she had come.

  She had to shake him and get a rental car. James was in no condition to defend himself, and the only way out of here was by vehicle. If she knew Milton, he would have already contacted Reading, and he would already be taking action, but he would also be walking right into the thick of things, without knowing what was going on.

  It could get him killed.

  She was sure Milton would have told him about the violent altercations last night, but Reading was a “storm into danger type” when it came to his friends.

  Oh God, I hope he doesn’t bring his son!

  She checked over her shoulder and saw her pursuer closing the gap as she turned back onto the main street, stepping onto the roadway and running with the traffic rather than battling the more unpredictable pedestrians. She spotted the car rental place the desk clerk had told her about, but instead ran past it—there was no way she could rent a vehicle from here.

  Then a thought dawned on her, and she nearly smacked her forehead for being so stupid to have not thought of it before. She pulled out her phone as she hurried across the street, toward the port, and dialed her travel agent’s number, a number she knew well, that predated her smartphone. She had planned on calling her to charter a flight for them once they were mobile, but why put her to use now?

  The precious woman answered on the first ring. “Laura, so good to hear from you!”

  She decided to play it cool, not wanting to frighten the woman. “Hi there, no time to talk. I need you to rent us a car in Saint-Pierre-la-Mer, at the Eurocar agency on Boulevard des Embruns. Got that?”

  “Eurocar agency in Saint-Pierre-la-Mer on Boulevard des Embruns. Got it. For when?”

  “Right away. Tell them I’ll be picking it up in a few minutes, and to have it ready to go. We’re in a hurry. No pre-check BS either. I just want to walk in, show ID, and walk out with keys.”

  “Is something wrong?”

  “No, just in a hurry, that’s all.”

  “Ok, consider it done. Do you want me to call you at this number to confirm when it’s ready?”

  “No, just call me if there’s a problem.” Laura ended the call, stuffing the phone back into her pocket, then fished out a few 100 Euro notes, clasping them tightly in the palm of her hand. She ran down the pier, searching for a boat with a local, spotting several. She stopped at one who had some scuba gear, and held up the notes.

  “Three hundred Euros if you take me out right now, no questions.”

  The man stared at her for a moment, when someone in the next boat stepped onto the dock. “You don’t want his boat, Mademoiselle. It’s completely unreliable.”

  She glanced at the new arrival, then at the man in the boat. “Is this true?”

  He shrugged, a silly grin emerging. “Imagine if Jag made boats.”

  Laura chuckled, then pointed at the other man’s boat. “And yours?”

  “Guaranteed to give you a smooth ride.”

  “Can you take me now?”

  “Sure, Mademoiselle. The pretty lady wants a boat ride, the pretty lady gets a boat ride.”

  Laura freed the lines to the surprise of the man, then jumped in. “Quickly, please.”

  He climbed in after her and fired up the engine. As they pulled away, she spotted her pursuer as he reached the pier. He sprinted toward her then gave up, shouting at some of the other boat owners, apparently not having as much success as she had. She lay down flat so he couldn’t see her, the captain glancing back at her, curious.

  “Are you okay?”

  She nodded, then noticed he had scuba gear as well. She pulled out another couple of bills. “Two hundred more if you let me borrow your scuba gear. I’ll return it to the dock before the end of the day.”

  He eyed her, slowly shaking his head. “I don’t know. That stuff is expensive, and, well…”

  She pulled out five more. “Another five-hundred. That’s one thousand Euros total.”

  He grinned. “The lady wants scuba gear, the lady gets scuba gear.”

  She rose slightly and sta
red at the pier, not spotting any sign of pursuit yet. She quickly donned the gear, testing the regulator, then pointed to a large yacht nearby. “Go behind him and stop. When I go over, head south for ten minutes, then circle back. Take your time. If anyone asks where I went, just tell them the truth.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed as he steered them around the yacht, cutting the engine. “Are you in trouble? Do you need help?”

  She shook her head. “Don’t worry about me. Just a bad date I’m trying to dump.”

  The man’s eyes widened, his jaw dropping. “Ahhh, I see. Some men just can’t take no for an answer.”

  She smiled as she sat on the edge of the boat. “Thanks, my friend. You’ll get your gear back soon.” She tipped over the edge before he could say anything, then cursed as she remembered her phone was in her pocket, unprotected from the water.

  Too late now.

  42

  Giasson Residence

  Via Nicolò III, Rome, Italy

  Mario Giasson smiled at his two young daughters, giggling as he Charlie Chaplin’d their breakfast to the table.

  “You’re so funny, Daddy!” laughed Zoé.

  He grinned as he put two plates of rösti potato pancakes in front of them, then two glasses of ice-cold milk. “Today, we eat like I did when I was a kid.”

  Zoé raised her hands in the air. “Yay!”

  “Now, don’t tell Mommy when she gets back. She’ll say I’m trying to make you fat.” He poked Zoé’s stomach, eliciting squirms and giggles. He had decided a treat was in order while his wife was away visiting his mother-in-law, and he loved to spoil his children.

  It was always good fortune when his wife visited the in-laws. Without him. His mother-in-law seemed to have a perpetual hate on for him, about the only good thing he had ever done was father two grandkids for her. Other than that, it didn’t matter that he was a good husband, father, and provider, with a prestigious job as Inspector General and head of the Corps of Gendarmerie of Vatican City State. He would never win with her, no matter how much Marie-Claude loved him and defended him.