The Templar's Revenge (A James Acton Thriller, #19) (James Acton Thrillers) Page 18

  Tong pursed her lips, drawing in a slow breath. “I can only think of two things. One, whoever tried to kill them last night wasn’t supposed to, or two, between then and now, they’ve discovered that the professors have something they want.”

  Leroux grinned at her. “Exactly what I was thinking. I’m guessing that it’s the latter. What do we have on this new number of theirs?”

  Tong tapped at her tablet, a map appearing on the display. “We show it activated a couple of hours ago. It kept in a very narrow area, then a call was made to Dean Milton’s home. It went offline, then came back on. A short call was made to a travel agent, then it went offline again near the port. We’re running that call down, but the agent apparently is in an important meeting.”

  “Probably arranged some sort of transportation. We need to know what that’s about.” Leroux exhaled loudly. “Could their new phone have ended up in the water too?”

  Tong shrugged. “Possible. More likely they just turned it off.”

  “But that’s their lifeline. Turning it off seems rather shortsighted.”

  “Maybe they were being followed and couldn’t risk it ringing?” suggested Child.

  Leroux nodded. “Possible, but it doesn’t matter. Keep monitoring for that phone to come back on. I’ll go talk to the Director and get official clearance to work on this, but in the meantime, keep running with it. We need to figure out who’s trying to kill them and why, before someone takes that contract and finds them first.”

  52

  Spanish-French Border

  Hugh Reading accelerated as they cleared the border between France and Spain, recalling a different time when he was younger and the border was guarded. He had severe allergies as a child, and had been prescribed some sort of medicine—what, he couldn’t remember—that was a powder you sniffed up your nose. He was having a particularly bad attack, so hauled out his medicine and began to take it—much to the horror of his father who looked in the rearview mirror as he slowed at the border, finding his son with powder covering his nose as if he had just snorted a few lines of cocaine.

  Funny today, apparently not so much back then.

  He glanced at his son, doing the navigating. “How much longer?”

  “About an hour.”

  “Try the number again.”

  His son hit redial on the new cellphone number Milton had given them, then shook his head. “Still off.”

  Reading slammed his fist into the steering wheel. “Bloody hell! Why would they turn it off?”

  Spencer grunted. “From what you’ve told me about them, maybe they’re dead.”

  Reading glared at him. “Don’t ever make jokes like that. Ever!”

  Spencer flushed, shrinking away toward the door. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

  A wave of regret washed over Reading, and he reached out, squeezing his son’s shoulder. “Sorry, son, I’m just afraid for my friends, because you’re right, they could be dead, and that thought terrifies me. These are good people, and they don’t deserve to die. Especially when this time, I don’t think they’ve actually stuck their nose where it doesn’t belong.”

  His son sat up a little straighter. “This time?”

  “They have a knack for getting themselves into situations they shouldn’t. Too many times it’s by not minding their own business.”

  Spencer looked at him. “You mean they’re do-gooders?”

  Reading chuckled. “You could call them that. They do like to help people.”

  “What, they’re Social Justice Warriors?”

  Reading outright laughed. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard Jim described like that. That’s like calling Hitler a Jew-lover. Social Justice Warriors listen to only one side of an argument, theirs, and refuse to even let the other side speak. They are the worst kind of protestor. They don’t believe in debate or free speech, and too often feel that if you don’t agree with their quite often incorrect or naïve position, you should be thrown in jail, or worse, killed.

  “Jim has a wide range of views, most I agree with, but some I don’t, but he will always listen to someone else’s opinion and debate them rationally. In his classes, I’m taken to understand that he has zero tolerance for disrespectful discourse on either side. It’s quite the shock to the SJWs that take his class, expecting to be able to just shout down their opponents. More often than not they find themselves tossed from the class, or the course altogether.”

  Spencer stared at the road ahead. “Must make it hard to fill a class, what with the way most of my generation is.”

  “Jim told me that since he’s become a bit notorious in the archaeology community, he’s had a long waiting list.”

  “So he’s a rock star of archaeology?” Spencer grinned at him. “Get it?”

  Reading gave him a look. “I do. Millions wouldn’t, but I do.” He frowned. “We’re going to have to work on that sense of humor.”

  Spencer laughed. “Mom says I’m the funniest guy she knows.”

  Reading shook his head. “Now I know she’s lying. I’m the funniest guy she ever knew.”

  Spencer stared at him. “Now that I can’t imagine.”

  Reading shook a fist at him. “Don’t make me show you how funny I can be.”

  Spencer laughed, holding up his hands in mock defense. “Okay, okay, you’re a funny guy!” He held up his phone then pointed. “Get to the right. We’re turning off soon.”

  Reading checked his mirror and changed lanes, his mind returning to the task at hand, and praying his friends had simply turned off their phone.

  But he knew them.

  And he expected the worst.

  53

  Port of Saint-Pierre-la-Mer, France

  Laura walked down the pier, attaching herself to a group of tourists as she tied her hair back in a ponytail and rolled up her ruffled sleeves, making herself look as presentable as possible.

  It wasn’t easy.

  She hadn’t seen a shower since yesterday morning, too exhausted to take one at the hotel last night, and too worried about James to take one this morning. That wouldn’t normally be an issue if it weren’t for the fact she had been swimming twice in salt water, had a physical altercation with one assailant, evaded another at a sprint, and had been otherwise running on adrenaline for twelve hours. She was sure she didn’t smell the greatest, though her husband always said she smelled like roses.

  God, I love that man.

  She said a silent prayer for his quick recovery as she broke off from the group, making a beeline for the car rental agency. She saw a Renault out front, a man with a clipboard standing beside it, searching the crowds.

  “Hello, I’m Laura Palmer,” she said as she approached, extending her hand. “Someone was supposed to call ahead to arrange a vehicle?”

  “Yes, Mademoiselle.” She held up her left hand. “Apologies, Madame. Here are your keys, your paperwork, and you’re set to go. The bill has already been taken care of. You have unlimited mileage, and I was told to include the insurance option.”

  Good thinking!

  “Thank you.”

  “Just sign here, and initial here.” He indicated two places on his clipboard, and she filled them in, handing it back and taking the keys.

  “Thank you!” She climbed in and fired up the engine as she adjusted her seat and mirrors. She waved at the agent then pulled into traffic, heading for the hotel only minutes from where she now was. She breathed a little easier as she came to a stop, glancing over at the port.

  And her heart raced.

  A boat was docking, her pursuer standing tall in the bow, scanning the area. She could have sworn his eyes came to rest on her for a moment, but that was impossible.

  If I can see him…

  Traffic moved again, and she pressed the gas.

  Let’s go people!

  54

  Ridefort Residence

  Saint-Pierre-la-Mer, France

  Captain Durand stood in the courtyard, staring at the cutting crew as they
did their work. The young man who tended the horses still hadn’t been found, and in the confusion, the count had dropped by one more.

  It made no sense.

  They had started with eight, now they had six, two having disappeared before their very eyes. He turned back to do another count when there was a shout then a crashing sound, followed by breaking glass. He rushed toward the crew as they stepped back, a large hole now visible. Durand held out his hand to one of the uniformed officers.

  “Flashlight.”

  One was slapped in his hand as he knelt by the hole, directing the beam into the darkness below. And he gasped. A car was underneath where he was kneeling, with what appeared to be a bullet hole through one side of the windshield, and a chunk of metal in the other.

  I knew it!

  He stood and pointed at the wall. “Get me that ladder.”

  Two of his men grabbed it and lowered it into the hole. He climbed down and played the beam around the large room, the light coming to rest on a nearby panel with light switches and two buttons with arrows. He tilted his head up to look at the hole. “Everybody clear away from that seam. I’m going to try and open it from down here.”

  “Yes, Captain!”

  He heard the sounds of movement overhead as the cutting equipment was hauled away.

  “All clear!”

  He headed for the wall and flicked the first switch. A line of lights at the far end came on. He flicked the next switch, and another batch lit up. He repeated this until the entire area was bathed in bright light. He turned off the flashlight, shoving it in his jacket pocket as he surveyed the area.

  He was alone, and it seemed to be a garage of sorts, nothing truly unusual here except for the state of an impressive Maybach with a damaged windshield, the driver side torn apart by bullet holes, and evidence it had been in a rear-end collision.

  With a sheet covering the driver seat.

  He eyed the two remaining buttons, one with an up arrow, the other with a down. He wasn’t sure what to do. The car was already down. Pressing the up button would logically send it up. He eyed the ceiling, the placement of several rails suggesting the floor above would drop then slide away. He pressed the up button and motors kicked in, the floor overhead lowering about a foot before sliding open, the ladder clattering to the floor, and a dozen curious faces revealed, staring down at him.

  The car jerked and rose. He took his thumb off the button and it stopped. He pressed the down arrow, and the car lowered. He let go once it returned to its former position. He picked up the ladder and repositioned it. “Get me that Bernard fellow that’s in charge. He’s got some explaining to do.”

  Bernard Ridefort watched as their secret was revealed. From this underground chamber under the stables, the police would soon have access to most of the chateau’s secrets.

  Though not its most important.

  The treasure room.

  It had already been locked down, a key now needed to access the secret chamber, that key located in a safety deposit box in Paris with no links to anyone here. Unless the police broke down the wall, they’d never find it.

  But none of that was relevant.

  They had plenty of “real” money in banks and deposit boxes around the continent, the treasures in the secret chamber priceless and irreplaceable, and not used to fund their operations. Those arrangements had been made centuries before and continued to this day, updated from time to time to take advantage of modern financial methods.

  The Order would continue, though not here. After almost 800 years, they would be forced to move. But who would lead them? Sir Jacques would be dead soon, and his son was a traitor, though their new leader by right.

  And Bernard would never follow him.

  None of them would.

  Pierre must die.

  And should he, there was no male heir. It had never happened in the eight centuries they had been guarding the True Cross. He was the next in line if proper succession was followed. He was the oldest brother after Jacques, and if the lone male heir were dead, it would fall to him and his bloodline to continue, including his own son, close to Pierre’s age, but different from that traitorous bastard in every way important. He would be a worthy Grand Master some day.

  The two guards turned as the excitement surrounding the garage grew, and Bernard slowly backed toward the wall, motioning with his hand for the others to do the same. He kept his eyes flicking between each officer, watching for any sign they were about to turn, it essential their escape go unnoticed for at least a few seconds.

  He took a quick glance over his shoulder and saw the remaining men all gathered together at the wall. He held his hand out to his side, checking the officers once again, then dropped it. He backed up slowly, careful to not make a sound, and passed through a hidden opening in the wall, a trompe-l’œil, an optical illusion that would fool anyone not expecting it. He ducked out of sight then quickly followed the others down the hidden corridor buried within the outer wall.

  Someone shouted.

  “Sir! They’re gone!”

  Durand tensed at the shout from overhead. “What?”

  “They’re gone!”

  He hurried up the ladder and was hauled up the last few feet. He rushed into the courtyard, staring at the far wall where the men had been held, the two officers assigned to guard them standing there, looking about uselessly, avoiding eye contact.

  “Where the hell did they go?”

  “I don’t know, sir. One minute they were there, the next they weren’t.”

  Rage built inside Durand as he glared at the two idiots. “How the hell do half a dozen men disappear while you’re watching them?”

  No response.

  “Well?”

  “I, well, we were watching that secret door open, sir, then when I looked back, they were gone. It couldn’t have been more than a few seconds.”

  “Idiots!” Durand looked about, no possible means of escape within sight, just a long, unremarkable stone wall, stretching from one end of the courtyard to the other. He stared at the wall, searching for something, anything, when his eyes narrowed.

  What is that?

  He leaned to the left, then to the right, something not right about the wall directly ahead of him. He wasn’t sure what it was, but something didn’t appear natural. He stepped toward it, the two idiots following, and stopped several feet from the wall. He leaned to the left then right again, this time the effect more pronounced.

  Something was definitely wrong.

  It appeared as if part of the wall was shifting its perspective out of sync with the rest. He reached out to touch it, and found empty space. He cursed, the optical illusion instantly broken as his mind resolved what it was seeing. He stepped forward, several feet beyond the wall, a passageway behind it revealed.

  And no sign of their suspects.

  55

  Port of Saint-Pierre-la-Mer, France

  Schmidt was pissed. This woman was good. Too good. Which was why he had put out the contract on the two of them. It was now clear they would likely evade him and his men. With the right incentive, surveillance cameras would be hacked, transport records accessed, and the ugly underbelly of society would go to work, greed overcoming most scruples with the right motivation.

  And a million American dollars for the capture of both would be enough, especially for the hackers. They would sit back in the safety of their own homes, or their Russian or Chinese government-sponsored offices, and work the data, sending him a location. He had used them before, and it worked.

  Sometimes very quickly.

  Gone were the days when hitmen roamed the continent, waiting for a contract. They still existed, but the days of hunting down someone through physical clues and guile had been shoved aside by computer algorithms and CCTV cameras.

  His phone vibrated and he pulled it out, swiping to see the message.

  Laura Palmer just rented a car at Eurocar on Boulevard des Embruns

  He tapped the button, cursin
g when he saw the map, the agency not half a mile from where he now stood. He broke out into a sprint, dodging the tourists and locals on the pier, then reached the road, the rental agency just ahead. He jogged to the lot then gathered himself, catching his breath as he straightened his clothes and hair. He entered the small office, smiling at the young man behind the counter.

  “Hello, I’m Professor James Acton. Was my wife Laura Palmer just in here?”

  The clerk’s eyes widened slightly. “Yes, she was. Not ten minutes ago. Were you supposed to meet here?”

  Schmidt laughed, shaking his head. “Sorry, just a miscommunication I guess. You know how it is. Can you help me out though? Did she say where she was going?”

  The clerk shook his head. “Sorry, sir, she didn’t.”

  Schmidt frowned, putting on a show as he tapped at his chin. “I wonder if she went back to the hotel. Do you know which way she went?”

  The clerk seemed happy to answer at least one question helpfully. “Yes, sir. When she pulled out, she went to the right.”

  “Ahh, the hotel. Thank you very much.” He smiled and pushed open the door before turning back. “So, what kind did she manage to get?”

  “Sir?”

  “The car? What kind?”

  “Oh, a very nice one, sir. A Renault Latitude. Blue.”

  “Sounds great!” Schmidt left, striding toward the sidewalk as he activated his comm. “All units. Palmer now has a rental vehicle. A blue Renault Latitude. She was last seen heading north on Boulevard des Embruns. She’s almost definitely going to pick up her husband. Let’s focus on the hotels north of my position.”

  The traffic was heavy and slow, and he needed wheels. He spotted a bicycle rental shop and smiled.

  Laura breathed a sigh of relief as she spotted someone pull out of a parking spot across from their hotel. A car ahead of her braked and she cursed. It drove past the spot, slowing to parallel park, when she cranked the wheel and jammed her front end in, hopping the curb before spinning the wheel to the left and dropping back onto the road, the spot hers in an asshole move if there ever was one.