C. Palov - Templar's Quest

Maybe her strange attraction to Finn McGuire wasn’t a form of Stockholm Syndrome so much as an actual stirring of the heart. Not only was he a physically fit male, but he was honourable and courageous. And much smarter than he let on. The fact that he didn’t preen or showboat made him even more attractive. Attractive like a standing stone. Or a towering oak tree. Beautiful and solid and wildly primitive.

But he is so not my type.

Having always dated ‘academic’ types, it made Kate think that it might be a case of opposites attracting. Like positive and negative poles on a magnet. Or the Yin and Yang of Chinese –

Finn elbowed her in the ribs. ‘We’ve got a crotch rocket on our six!’

‘ What? ’ Kate had to screech to be heard over the top of the sudden roar of a loud engine.

‘I’m going to make a sharp left up ahead.’

Uncertain who or what a ‘crotch rocket’ was, Kate tapped him on the shoulder. ‘But, Finn, that’s a one-way street. If you turn left, we’ll be headed in the wrong –’

She grabbed his waist as the scooter suddenly made a very tight turn, the illegal manoeuvre inciting a loud horn blast from a passing motorist. Craning her head, Kate caught sight of a silver motorcycle about thirty yards behind them, its rider decked out in head-to-toe black leather.

Menacing? Yes. Dangerous? She hoped not.

Wrapping her arms around Finn’s torso, Kate clutched her left wrist with her right hand, locking herself into place. Terrified, she couldn’t tell if her heart was beating too fast or too slow.

Finn glanced in the side mirror, his expression grim. ‘Hold on tight,’ he ordered as he opened the throttle, the Vespa quickly picking up speed.

But not enough speed; the motorcycle was no more than fifteen feet behind them. And gaining.

Accelerating, Finn crossed the heavily-trafficked Boulevard Saint Germain to the accompaniment of blaring horns and foul-mouthed yells. Certain they were going to be hit by a delivery truck, its driver wildly gesturing at them, Kate wrapped her arms even tighter around Finn’s waist.

Somehow, miraculously, they crossed the busy thoroughfare without incident.

Glancing behind her, Kate saw that the driver of the hotrod motorcycle had been the recipient of the same miracle.

Directly ahead of them, the view wasn’t much better, a green street-cleaning truck hogging the entire lane. In a manoeuvre Kate didn’t see coming, Finn jumped the kerb to the right of the truck and passed it on the pavement. The motorcycle also jumped the kerb, its front wheel coming off the ground at least two feet as the driver gunned the engine. The sinister theatrics elicited a cacophony of terrified screams, pedestrians running pell-mell to escape the two vehicles.

Seeing a small cluster of people gathered around a vegetable stand, Kate hollered, ‘Watch out!’

‘I know!’ Finn yelled back at her, both of them flinching as someone threw a head of lettuce, the green projectile bouncing off the scooter’s windshield with a resounding thud.

Having successfully navigated around the vegetable stand, Finn took a hard right, narrowly missing a bicyclist. The sudden turn put them on a cobbled street, one of the tiny lanes that made up the labyrinth of pedestrian streets bordering St Séverin Church. Motorized vehicles were forbidden, but Finn clearly didn’t care about Parisian road regulations.

The same could be said of the driver on the motorcycle, Kate glimpsing a silver flash to the rear of them.

‘Oh, God! Don’t hit the pigeons!’ she screamed a few seconds later as they sped down a minuscule street that was little more than a fissure between two adjoining buildings.

Finn shot her a warning glance in the side mirror. Kate didn’t have to be a mind reader to know she’d just been telepathically ordered to ‘ Shut up and stop back-seat driving! ’

Moments later, as they passed the Gothic St Séverin, she caught sight of the grotesque stone gargoyles that extended from the gables. For centuries they’d stood sentry high atop St Séverin, keeping evil at bay. She offered up a quick prayer, the silver motorcycle still ‘on their six’.

As they approached the congested Quai St Michel, Kate knew Finn had only one option – turn left or end up in the River Seine. Leaning close as he made the approach, she braced herself for the sharp turn, the Vespa precariously lurching off balance.

Which is when it occurred to her that neither of them wore a helmet. Or any other form of protective clothing.

That realization made her pray all the harder.

No sooner did they make the turn on to Quai St Michel than Finn proceeded to weave in and out of traffic. The silver sports bike zigzagged right along with them, easily keeping pace with their every manoeuvre, the helmeted driver waving at her as she glanced at him over her shoulder.

‘Hasn’t your buddy Aisquith ever heard of a tune-up?’ Finn complained. ‘We’d have more power on a tricycle.’

Evidently their pursuer thought the same thing because suddenly he revved his engine. Where before there had been five feet between them, the distance was now reduced to five inches.

Like a high-speed battering ram, the motorcycle butted the back of the scooter.

‘Finn!’

‘I know! I can’t go any faster!’ he hollered, veering in front of a taxi.

The motorcycle pulled abreast of them.

Which is when Kate saw the driver remove a weapon from his jacket.

‘He has a gun!’ she screamed, every muscle in her body tensed, already anticipating rigor mortis.

What happened next was a visual blur as Finn abruptly swerved to the right on to an exit ramp – an exit ramp that descended to the paved wharf that fronted the Seine. On one side of the pavement there was a two-storey retaining wall that abutted the multi-lane speedway; on the other side was the river.

Finn cut the engine on the Vespa and slammed his booted foot against the kickstand.

‘Get off! Quick! He’ll be here any second!’

Kate did as instructed, offering no resistance when Finn grabbed her by the hand and ran over to the water’s edge. About a hundred yards away a grey-haired man seated in an aluminium deck chair was fishing, a dog asleep at his side. Fifty yards in the other direction were two parked cars, their owners nowhere in sight. For all intents and purposes, they were alone.

‘Okay, it’s show time,’ Finn hissed, jutting his chin towards the silver motorcycle zooming down the concrete ramp. ‘You let me handle this. No interfering. Understood?’ As he spoke, he shoved her behind him, shielding her with his much larger body.

‘What are you going to do?’ Kate asked fearfully, wondering if there was anything he could do.

‘I’ll tell you what I’m not going to do … I am not going to retreat.’ Unzipping the canvas satchel slung across his chest, Finn removed the Montségur Medallion from his bag, the gold disc brightly gleaming in the midday sun.

‘Drop your weapon!’ Finn shouted at the helmeted man on the motorcycle. ‘Or the medallion gets hurled in the river!’

26

‘And just so we’re clear –’ smiling mirthlessly, Finn tossed the Montségur Medallion into the air, catching it in his left hand – ‘ this has no value to me whatsoever. One wrong move from you and I will not hesitate to fling it like a damned frisbee into the Seine.’

He hoped to God the bravado worked. If not, they were screwed. Other than the somnolent old man with the hook’n’line dangling in the water, there wasn’t a soul in sight. He and Kate were in the open. Completely exposed. Even the old man wouldn’t know what had happened until all was said and done; the bad guy’s HK semi-automatic had a silencer on the end of it.