C. Palov - Templar's Quest

‘ Scheisse! ’ How was he going to make this right? The trio had dived into the bushes, vanishing from sight.

Removing the GPS transmitter from his pocket, Dolf stared at the minuscule screen. According to the map, they were somewhere in the bushes southwest of his current position.

Yes! But which fucking bush?

And what if they were armed? It would be three against one. They could shoot him dead, piss on his corpse, and walk away with no one the wiser. Then who would take care of his mother? He couldn’t take that kind of chance.

Overcome with shame, his chin dropped to his chest. Unable to think straight, he stared at the ground. A few feet from where he stood, two tottering pigeons fought over a discarded crumb. Flying rodents, the city should poison them all , he thought, tempted to blow the heads off of the squabbling pair.

Instead, he shoved the transmitter back into his jacket pocket and retrieved his cell phone. For several long seconds, he stared at it, vacillating. He wanted to call Herr Doktor and ask whether he should remain in the Jardin du Carrousel or leave the vicinity.

But if I make the call, I’ll have to own up to my colossal failure .

Dolf bit his lip, well aware that he was knee-deep in shit without a shovel.

It was like the summer of ’92 when his thirteen-year-old sister, Annah, had been raped. While Annah refused to go to the police and identify the bastard who attacked her, Dolf had been certain that her rapist was the Turkish fruit vendor down the street. Dolf had seen the bastard eyeing his sister. Blonde-haired, blue-eyed, she was like an angel, and the rape was retaliation for the apartment fire.

Determined to avenge his sister, Dolf had waited in the dark alley behind the market where the Turk sold his over-priced produce. When the Turk hauled a crate of rubbish out to the metal dumpster, Dolf sneaked up from behind and bashed him on the head with his grandfather’s truncheon. Gasping for breath, the Turk had peered at Dolf, a pleading look in his limpid brown eyes. ‘Please, who will take care of my wife and four children if you kill me? I beg you, sir! Have mercy!’

About to bash him again, Dolf hesitated. Confused. Uncertain what to do. When he had earlier fantasized about killing the Turk, it had been quick and easy. Like in the movies. He hated the fact that his enemy, the man who raped his sister, had just caused this minefield of doubt. Enraged, Dolf ended up pummelling the man with his bare fists, swinging with all the might of his 223-pound body.

The long-ago memory caused Dolf’s gut to twist into a painful knot. Afraid that he might actually puke the contents of his stomach on to the pavement, he removed a roll of antacids from his pocket.

Just as he was in the process of peeling the foil away from a pink tablet, he saw Finnegan McGuire emerge from the hedgerow and sprint towards the plaza.

Stunned by the miraculous sight, Dolf dropped the roll of antacids.

He could now make things right!

And when he did, that bastard McGuire would pay dearly for the earlier humiliation. This time Dolf would shoot the American in the kneecaps. Then, when he was incapacitated, he would beat the bastard to death with his bare hands.

Just like he did to that Turk back in Berlin.

39

Planning to do rather than die, Finn ran across the open plaza in a zigzag pattern, a moving target being more difficult to hit.

When he reached the first goalpost, the Arc de Triomphe du Carrousel, he put on the brakes. Standing in the shadow of an ornately carved archway, he scanned the terrain behind him. No Cue Ball .

‘Where is he?’ Finn muttered under his breath, worried that the gunman may have decided to go after the soft targets, Aisquith and Kate, instead.

Catching a fast-moving blur out of the corner of his eye, he swung his head to the left. Relieved, he saw the bald gunman, approximately sixty-five yards away, scurrying towards the monument.

Hurriedly plotting his course, Finn craned his head in the other direction, sighting an enclosure about fifty yards beyond the archway, completely surrounded by an eight-foot-high hedge. Perfect. All of the touristos were focused on one of three things: the Arc de Triomphe, the glass pyramid or the Louvre. Nobody gave a rat’s ass about a bunch of shrubs on the far side of the plaza.

He purposefully stepped away from the niche, putting himself in Baldy’s direct line of sight.

Bear baited, Finn took off running.

No sooner did he pass through the narrow opening in the hedges than he realized that he’d entered an eight-foot-high maze. Going with the flow, he cut to the left and ran to the end of the aisle. Flanked on both sides by towering shrubs, he was completely hidden from view.

At the end of the aisle, Finn hung to the right. He then dodged into the first cutaway that led to the interior of the maze. Coming to an abrupt halt, he flattened his spine against the manicured shrub. A quick peek verified that the goon, silenced gun now gripped in his right hand, was warily venturing down the aisle.

Reaching into his trouser pocket, Finn removed a coin and – aiming for a spot ten yards away – he tossed it up and over the hedge. Even with all the noise emanating from the plaza, he could hear the slight rustle as the coin landed. Well worth the two euros if it fooled the gunman into thinking that he was somewhere other than his current position.

Trap set, he waited until … he glimpsed the gun’s silencer.

Springing out of the shadows, Finn pounded the other man’s right wrist with spine-jangling force. Stunned by the blow, the big bruiser dropped the gun.

A bullet discharged.

Grunting, the goon automatically stooped to pick up his downed weapon. Finn beat him to the prize, kicking the pistol into the hedges. He then threw his weight into a powerhouse right jab, his balled fist connecting with the other man’s face. A thunder punch that induced a sickening crunch! of broken bone and busted cartilage. The bald head instantly whipped to the left, spewing blood spray-painting the nearby bushes crimson red.

A painful blow, it would have felled most men. But the big Neanderthal simply shrugged it off.

That was when Finn noticed the scar tissue around the other man’s eyes, the beefy fists and cauliflower ears: the telltale marks of a trained boxer.

Fuck.

Sneering, the other man whipped a foot-long truncheon out of his belt loop.

Double fuck.

Not about to let the bastard knock him out, Finn lurched towards his adversary, using his raised forearm to block the other man’s swing in mid-air.

Which was why he didn’t see the uppercut aimed at his left jaw.

Thrown off his stride by the intense burst of pain, Finn staggered backward. The bald dude, no doubt figuring his fists were the better weapon, hurled the truncheon aside and came at him fast and furious. Power jab. Straight right. Left hook to solar plexus.

Grateful for the six-pack abs, the best armour a man could have in a no-holds-barred contest, Finn retaliated with a quick left to the jaw and a right shovel to a less than rock solid gut.

Wham, bang, thank you, ma’am!

Dazed, the other man swung wild.

Seizing the advantage, Finn slammed the heel of his hand against his adversary’s chin. The money shot.

Like a giant Weeble, the other man swayed to one side … just before the part of his brain that controlled autonomic function temporarily shut down. Causing the bruiser to collapse in a shuddering heap.

Mass times acceleration equals K.O. Simple physics.

Finn ran over and retrieved the discarded truncheon. Unzipping his Go Bag, he shoved it inside. The gun, having been kicked into the hedges, was a lost cause. He spared a quick glance at his unconscious adversary. If it had been a combat situation, he would’ve neutralized the target. But given that he was already wanted for two murders, he wasn’t about to up the ante. It was enough that he’d disarmed the big bastard.