The Templar's Revenge (A James Acton Thriller, #19) (James Acton Thrillers) Page 7

  “Weapons?”

  “I’ve got a Glock in my shoulder holster, spare mags in the glove compartment.”

  “Can we call someone?”

  “I’ve already tried, but I’m getting no answer. It’s as if the lines are down.”

  “No cellphones at the chateau?”

  “No, Monsieur Ridefort always considered them insecure. In fact, he has jammers so they can’t be used on the grounds.”

  Acton’s eyes narrowed. “A little paranoid, isn’t he?”

  “With good reason, evidently,” said Laura.

  The chauffeur took a corner hard, the tires protesting as Acton was shoved into the door. “Sorry about that.”

  “Don’t apologize. Just get us to the chateau.”

  Suddenly the driver gasped, then there was a loud bang and the windshield splintered. Laura screamed and Acton turned to find her covered in blood. His heart hammered as he reached for her. “Are you okay?”

  She shook out a nod as the car drifted slightly. Two loud beeps were heard from the dash, and the car straightened itself as Acton finally realized what had happened.

  “Holy shit!” He unbuckled his seatbelt and climbed forward. A sizeable chunk of the driver’s face was missing, a well-placed round from a high-powered rifle having removed him from the equation.

  “James!” Acton looked to see where Laura was pointing, the road curving ahead, a sharp drop-off to their left. He battled with the seatbelt, finally succeeding. He reached for the steering wheel when it turned itself.

  “What the hell?”

  “What?”

  He pulled the Glock from the chauffeur’s holster and handed it to Laura. “The car’s driving itself!”

  “That’s handy. But how long will it keep doing it?”

  Acton shook his head as he pulled the driver from his seat and into the back with them, the car continuing to steer on its own.

  “Should we just sit back here and stay down?”

  “Hell no, these systems are designed to shut off if something tricky is detected. And I think you have to keep touching the steering wheel or something.”

  Laura handed him the weapon. “Then I better drive.” She scrambled over the center console and settled into the seat, adjusting it and the mirrors so she could stay as low as possible.

  “How much farther?”

  She glanced at the nav system. “Ten minutes.”

  Acton peered through the rear window, their tail now on their bumper. “Why isn’t he doing anything?”

  “He might be wondering what the bloody hell is going on. They just took out the driver and the car kept going as if nothing happened.”

  “Maybe we should leave them guessing.”

  Laura glanced at him. “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t speed up. Just let the car do its thing, as long as we’re still heading toward the chateau.”

  “You still want to go there? Shouldn’t we look for police?”

  Acton glanced out the window. “I have no idea where the police are, but I do know that apparently we’ll be safe at Ridefort’s place, and it’s nine minutes from here.”

  “Okay, let’s do this your way. But if we get killed, we’re going to have words.”

  Acton grinned at her then looked at the map. “Sharp turn ahead. Better get ready to take over.” Laura nodded, her hands hovering over the wheel. “If we survive this, remind me to buy one of these when we get home.”

  Pierre Ridefort sat in the passenger seat, Schmidt driving, two of his men in the back. “What the hell is going on? Who’s driving?”

  Schmidt shook his head. “I don’t know. My sniper reported a kill, but the car kept going as if nothing happened.”

  “Well, have him shoot whoever’s driving now!”

  “He doesn’t have a shot anymore. We’re long past his position.”

  Pierre’s chest ached, their plan falling apart. If they didn’t stop this American professor from meeting with his father, he’d have to take matters further, which meant members of his family could, and probably would, die. “Then let’s take out the damned car.”

  They rounded a sharp turn, a turn Pierre was painfully familiar with. “We’re going to be home in five minutes. If we’re going to do anything, we’ve got to do it now.”

  Schmidt opened the sunroof, snapping his fingers. One of his men stood in the back seat, hauling with him the biggest machine gun Pierre had ever seen. And when it opened fire, the loudest.

  The car ahead finally reacted.

  “Get down!” Acton dropped to the floor behind the front seats, pushing their poor chauffeur’s body between him and the bullets now tearing at the car. He glanced forward and saw Laura crouched down, the car surging forward as she hammered on the gas.

  “Seven minutes!”

  “We’re not going to make it, not with that kind of firepower.” He scrambled forward and opened the glove box, retrieving the spare magazines. “Just keep us heading in the right direction.”

  He gave her shoulder a quick squeeze, then slithered back to the rear of the car, the bullet resistant glass now a patchwork of splinters he had no doubt would eventually give. Laura made another sharp turn, giving them a momentary reprieve, and Acton took advantage. He lowered the passenger side rear window, not wanting to risk a lucky angle shot making it through to Laura, and positioned himself with the Glock extended out the window, his wrong hand gripping it tightly.

  He waited for the car to reappear in the rear window, then opened fire, carefully switching angles with each shot, but it was too dark, and the window too damaged, to tell if he was even coming close. The car swerved and slowed. And he smiled.

  “Let’s move!”

  Laura hammered on the gas as she sat up slightly, their attackers thrown off the pace, at least for a moment. “Five minutes!”

  “The bastard shot me!”

  Schmidt glanced over his shoulder at his man, Pierre doing the same, almost butting heads. “Did your vest catch it?”

  “Yeah, but still. He’s one hell of a shot.”

  “Bullshit, he just got lucky. Now get your ass back up there and finish him off.”

  The man didn’t look happy about it, but one glare from Schmidt had him back in position, the weapon soon belching lead as Pierre stared out the window and up the hill they were now climbing, the chateau silhouetted against the dusk sky, no lights evident. His family had always kept a low profile, rarely leaving the walls when he was a child, and lighting their home in all its glory would merely attract tourists.

  And that couldn’t be tolerated.

  They owned the land around the chateau, giving them enough of a buffer that the erected fence with razor wire kept out all but the most curious, and their security system detected them quickly enough. There were few incursions, their family’s secret never in any real danger of being revealed.

  And should an actual thief breach the walls, it was likely he would never be seen again, his uncles telling tales of a crypt below, that contained the remains of dozens who had managed the unlikely feat over the centuries.

  The thought of what would happen to his brethren should their plan here fail, sent shivers up his spine. Would they be buried beneath the castle? He assumed they would, as all Rideforts had been for centuries.

  And what of him?

  What would happen to him should he die tonight, his attempt at reclaiming the family honor a failure? Would he be buried with honor, or would he be disposed of as a thief, relegated to the crypt his uncles told of?

  The very idea disturbed him.

  He was a Ridefort. He had never wavered in his commitment to his family name. It was his father he was in a dispute with, a father who would be dead within days, and who had no right to end what had been his family’s duty for centuries. He slammed a fist into the dash.

  Why don’t you just die, already?

  Schmidt glanced at him as bullets continued to rain down on the car ahead, now swerving from side to side, someone re
turning the occasional volley that would have Schmidt’s man ducking back inside every once and a while.

  “This isn’t going to work.” Schmidt surged forward, slamming into the back of the Maybach as it slowed for a sharp turn. Its rear end kicked out, but the driver managed to regain control, pulling away from them as Pierre lowered his hands, raised moments before to cover his face from the expected impact of the airbags.

  Schmidt chuckled at him. “We modified the car. Your movies have been lying to you.”

  Pierre shook his head, pointing at the gates to the chateau. “We’re too late.”

  “Or are we?”

  The Maybach came to a halt, the driver turning it hard so that it blocked the road, centuries-old walls lining either side.

  “What happened?”

  “Automatic fuel cutoff in a rear-end collision.”

  Pierre smiled.

  Acton jumped out the passenger side, the driver side exposed. Laura crawled over the seats as he fired two rounds at their pursuers. The door opened, and Laura spilled out onto the cobblestone road. The gates were only a couple of hundred feet away, but it might as well have been a thousand miles. The road climbed at an angle high enough that they would be completely exposed if they were to try and reach the gate.

  “Stay down, behind a tire.”

  Laura nodded, taking up position behind the front tire, Acton at the rear. Gunfire erupted from several sources, the armored plating on the car beaten, the metallic pings and thuds filling the evening air. Acton lay flat on his stomach then rolled slightly to his side, peering under the car and back at their attackers. He took aim and fired, hitting someone in the shin. A cry rang out, and a body crumpled to the ground as his target continued to scream in agony.

  Suddenly the area was bathed in light, and Acton rolled back behind the tire, searching for the source. The main gate of the chateau was lit up, searchlights aimed down the road at them. He heard machinery, the glare of the lights changing as the gates opened. The sound of at least one engine approached their position, and Acton heard their pursuers’ vehicle roar back to life, beating a hasty retreat.

  “Are you okay?” asked someone in French, Laura responding in the affirmative. Silhouettes rushed toward them, and Acton debated whether to aim their lone weapon at the new arrivals, deciding against it. He lowered it to his side as a hand reached out for him.

  “Professor Acton?”

  He nodded, taking the hand, the man hauling him to his feet.

  “And Professor Palmer, I presume?”

  Laura stood. “Yes. And you are?”

  “Bernard Ridefort. You’re here to see my brother.” He gently pressed on Acton’s back. “Hurry, let’s get inside in case they return.”

  Acton took Laura’s hand and followed Bernard up the road toward the gates, two vehicles from the chateau continuing to block the road, half a dozen men in tactical gear covering their backs. They stepped through the gates, the vehicles returning, and Acton didn’t breathe easy until the gates slammed shut.

  A man appeared in the large, columned entrance, Acton surprised to see him in a wheelchair, the very definition of frailty. “Professors Palmer and Acton, I am Sir Jacques of Ridefort, Templar Knight, and guardian of that upon which He made his ultimate sacrifice.”

  18

  Al ’Ayadiyeh

  Outside Acre, Kingdom of Jerusalem

  August 20, 1191 AD

  Raymond covered his nose and mouth, the stench of death overwhelming. In all his years, he had seen nothing like it, and he prayed he never would again. Yes, at the battle of Hattin four years earlier, more had died, yet that was different. Those were soldiers, every one.

  But not today.

  The slaughter ordered by King Richard included women and children, their only crime being Muslim. The moral high ground occupied by the Christian Crusaders had been lost with one barbaric act, and he was ashamed to be associated with it, despite not participating.

  For he had a far more important task than to partake in the atrocities committed this day. He had to find Sir John, his master’s son. Nothing had gone according to plan.

  Nothing.

  After the banquet upon John’s arrival, they were to have departed for the caves outside Jerusalem, but had been waylaid. King Richard himself made an appearance at the banquet under the guise of welcoming the son of a prized knight, though in reality, probably seeking some place to drink and be merry with those who would shower him with adulation.

  King Richard had invited Sir Guy and his son to court, an offer no one would refuse. It had delayed their departure, though it had provided Raymond and Sir Guy time to continue the training of his son begun by Sir Guy’s nephew during their two-year journey to the holy land.

  And now, with his beloved master dead, murdered in the night by what turned out to be Bedouin slavers, his sole responsibility was to his master’s son, a son he had left behind in a foolish pursuit, a son who hadn’t been seen in weeks.

  A son he had lost hope of ever seeing again.

  It had been a challenge to find their camp again in the dark, and when they finally had, John was gone, evidence of a half-dozen horses left in the sand, though no new blood. Young John had either escaped into the night, or been captured by whoever had arrived after they left. Either way, their search had proven fruitless, the winds quickly erasing any trail left in the sands.

  They were only three now, and had split up to search the slave markets for Sir Guy’s heir. He had yet to hear back from the others, though if they had failed as he had, there would be nothing to report. And as he surveyed the massacre before him, he felt the loss of this one young man more than that of the thousands of innocents that lay before him now.

  And it racked him with guilt.

  Then he saw something. Several knights ahead, beckoning at someone deep within the bodies. He urged his horse forward, peering out over the corpses, to see someone kneeling among the carnage. Someone wearing the tunic King Richard himself had gifted him.

  He urged his mount forward, racing toward the others, then jumping to the ground and rushing toward what could only be his master’s son.

  “Sir John, thank the good Lord you are all right!” He grabbed the boy by the shoulder, spinning him around to confirm it was indeed him. “When we found your father’s encampment, and you were gone, we feared the worst.”

  John didn’t say anything, instead focusing on the bodies of several young children at his feet. He placed his palm on one young boy’s chest, tears streaking his face.

  “Sir, we must leave at once. Saladin’s army is coming, and there will be no quarter for those he finds, not after this.”

  John moved aside the young boy’s robe, revealing a long tube with a strap around his neck. He gently removed it then touched the boy’s forehead. “I will take care of this for you now.”

  “Sir John, we must hurry!”

  John finally stood, staring at four young boys, three horrifyingly young, then wiped the back of his hand across his tear-stained face. He turned to Raymond. “Why do you call me ‘Sir John?’”

  Raymond placed a hand on John’s shoulder. “For you are the eldest, and with your father’s death, you inherit his wealth, his title, and, should you accept it, my loyalty.”

  John nodded, saying nothing, instead slinging the tube he had retrieved over his shoulder as Raymond summoned the others to bring a horse. They both mounted their skittish beasts, the earth already vibrating from the pounding hooves of thousands of Saladin’s soldiers closing in on their position, hell-bent on revenge.

  19

  Ridefort Residence

  Saint-Pierre-la-Mer, France

  Present Day

  Acton’s eyes narrowed as he processed what had just been said. “You’re a Templar?” There was no hiding the skepticism in his voice, and if it weren’t for the fact there were men on the other side of the wall with guns, he would have turned on his heel and walked back to the airport. But that fact, and something a
bout the man himself, gave him pause.

  “Yes.”

  “That’s preposterous.” Laura was the one who voiced his opinion for him, smiling her thanks to someone who appeared with a bowl of water and towels to wash herself of the chauffeur’s blood. It struck Acton as something straight out of medieval times.

  The old man smiled, a shallow, weak effort. “I understand your skepticism, but if you will permit me, I shall prove it to you.”

  Acton glanced about, at least a dozen heavily armed men in sight, how many more weren’t, he had no idea. They appeared serious enough, and had a bearing that suggested they knew what they were doing, as opposed to some of the thugs he had encountered over the years.

  And leaving at the moment wasn’t an option he cared to exercise, or test.

  “Very well.”

  Jacques Ridefort motioned toward the door, and a young man appeared from the shadows, pushing his wheelchair inside. Laura handed back the towel then she and Acton followed, holding hands, the guards remaining outside.

  “Don’t worry, you’re perfectly safe here.”

  Acton exchanged a glance with Laura, and he could tell she was no more comforted by their host’s words than he was. Then his eyes widened. As they moved deeper into the chateau, he noticed the suits of armor, the flags and shields, the swords and other weapons of ancient warfare. All perfectly preserved, all in remarkable condition. And all suggesting at least an association with the Templars. “You have an impressive collection.”

  Jacques glanced over his shoulder. “Preserved from a time when duty and honor meant something. Not like today, when they are just hollow words spoken by hollow people.”

  Acton grunted. “I’ve met a few people who embody those very words.”

  Jacques nodded. “Yes, there are some, but they are too few these days. After the Templars were arrested and the Order dismantled, a few of us went into hiding, eventually settling in this very castle, quietly living out our lives and fulfilling our oath.”

  “But I thought the Templars were eventually pardoned and allowed to live out their lives in peace?” Acton phrased it as a question, yet knew the answer full well.