The Templar Reprisals (The Best Thrillers Book 3) by James Best (read any book txt) 📕

taught him that when his wife’s mood turned sour, say nothing, but give verbal or physical feedback to show he was listening. It worked. She smiled and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

Originally built in 1607, Pont Neuf was the oldest standing bridge crossing the Seine and had a reputation as a meeting place for lovers. Île de la Cité was the birthplace of Paris and in those early days, the bridge served as the hub of the city. At that time, it was clogged with vendors, street entertainers, and petty criminals. Benjamin Franklin found the bridge so seedy that he refused to walk across it. Now the bridge had been cleared of people earning a living, licit or otherwise.

It was quiet. It was peaceful. It was romantic. A picture-perfect summer evening in Paris and they were positioned perfectly to enjoy the twilight. Evarts felt inner contentment.

A horrific scream. A woman’s. Then a chorus of screams. Men and women. People in a panic ran toward them. What the hell was happening? Something terrifying! Something right behind this herd of screaming people. Evarts grabbed Baldwin’s arm and jerked her to his other side so his body could shield her from the mob. He felt her pull him away from the charging hoard, but instinct caused him to resist. He swiveled around to examine the other direction when he heard automatic gunfire come from the Right Bank.

Damn! They were in the middle of a terrorist attack.

He pulled Baldwin below the stone railing.

People ran. People screamed. Evarts heard glass shatter, horns blasting, and the crash of metal against metal as cars slammed on their brakes or hit the gas. Tranquility had instantly turned into chaos.

Soon, their alcove started to fill with people trying to escape the hail of bullets. This was a two-pronged attack. One or more terrorists on the Left Bank had done something to chase people toward gunmen on the Right Bank.

Evarts thought fast.

If the gunmen marching across the bridge had plenty of ammunition, they would soon reach their bastion. He heard three or four automatic rifles. He wasn’t going to wait to be murdered.

“We’re going away from the gunfire!” Evarts screamed over the noise.

Baldwin immediately nodded.

Holding hands, they scurried around the perimeter of the bastion until they were on the edge that led toward the Left Bank.

He waited until he heard the gunfire lighten. At least some of the shooters were changing magazines.

He yelled, “Now!”

They ran as if the Devil himself was behind them. After a couple of strides, Evarts pulled his wife in a weaving pattern. He was scared. He became more frightened when he heard all the guns start up again. As he ran, he scanned the bridge in front of him. People were panicked. They stopped running away from whatever was behind them but couldn’t make the decision to reverse course. Most fell to the ground or dove toward one of the bastions. None ran with him. What was he heading toward?

As his visibility up the bridge walkway cleared, he gasped. Ahead were two blood covered men wielding curved swords. He scanned the area between him and the nearest terrorist. No weapons. Not a rock or brick or even an umbrella. He let go of his wife’s hand and never broke stride as he picked up a selfie-stick. He collapsed the stick and ripped off the swivel end as he ran.

The nearest terrorist charged, screaming.

Evarts feinted a block with the selfie-stick, but then veered and ducked under the swing of the sword. He thrust the selfie-stick upward into the throat of the terrorist. Evarts felt the jagged, broken end dig deeply into the terrorist’s neck. As both hands went to his throat, the terrorist dropped the sword.

The second assailant came fast, sword held high for a killing blow. Too fast for Evarts to pick up the discarded sword. He braced his legs to jump to the side when he heard his wife yell.

“Arrête ou je tire!”

The harsh scream carried all the authority of a policeman. The command to stop or I’ll shoot worked. The second terrorist turned and started to charge her until he saw no weapon in her hand.

He returned his attention to Evarts. Too late. Evarts had retrieved the sword from the ground and had already begun his swing.

Evarts used every muscle in his body as he slashed a crosscut against his opponent’s body. The downward driving force ripped through the upper ribs on a slant and almost came out at the hips.

He didn’t hesitate. He grabbed Baldwin’s hand and ran like hell for the Left Bank.

Chapter 2

Evarts checked his watch. They had been locked in a bleak interrogation room for over three hours. A table, four hardwood chairs, and two bottles of water. Nothing else, not even a two-way mirror. They had escaped the terrorists, only to be detained by the Paris police. When they had first arrived, the police wanted to split them apart, but Evarts insisted they stay together. Separating witnesses was a standard police tactic, not for the purpose of intimidation, but to insure objective testimony. Due to the abject shock and suffering of the attack, the police finally relented and allowed them to stay together. That told Evarts that they were being held as witnesses, not suspects. Good. The long wait probably meant the police didn’t know that he had killed two of the assailants.

The door opened and two tired-looking policemen entered. They plopped into the opposite chairs like they had been standing for hours, which of course, they hadn’t.

“Excuse us for the delay,” one of them said in heavily accented English. “This has been an exhausting night with many people killed, injured, or horribly traumatized. How are you?”

“Okay,” Evarts said, “but hungry and tired … and anxious to return to our hotel.”

“We understand. We’ll make this as brief as possible.” He rummaged in his pocket and slid across the table two foil wrapped snacks. “I hope this will fortify you for a bit. I’m sorry,