The Lafayette Sword by Eric Giacometti

Author:Eric Giacometti
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Freemasons;Freemason secrets;Freemasonry;Gold;Nicolas Flamel;thriller;secret societies;Paris;New York;Statue of Liberty;esoteric thriller;secret;secret knowledge;enlightenment;Eiffel tower
Publisher: Le French Book
Published: 2016-07-16T18:21:26+00:00

61

Rue Dante, Saint Ouen, a northern suburb of Paris

Present day

The street smelled like mold. The sidewalk, the filthy walls of the houses, and the pavement itself exuded the odor. It was as if the smell of decomposition had become embedded in the air. Even the dry cold of the night couldn’t chase away the sickly smell.

How unpleasant, he thought as he removed the blade from its case. He would have preferred a more agreeable environment, but this was the only spot where he could accomplish his task without being noticed. He stood just outside a garage and waited for his victim. If his reconnaissance was correct, the man would be here any minute now. Bad reporters are always on time, he thought as he watched a gray cat poise to leap on a rat that was its match in size.

“I am the Sword of Light, the Elu of vengeance.”

The excitement spread through him. Blood flooded his brain in an ancestral reflex. He could already imagine the reporter’s face when the blade entered his chest.

The double murder at the Freemason headquarters had been the catalyst. Now he knew that he couldn’t abandon his mission. Killing had become as vital as… Eating? Drinking? Copulating? Really, there was nothing like this quest. Perhaps it was the search for this ultimate secret that gave him such a thirst for blood.

And now he was going to murder again—his last murder before his departure for New York. This would be for pleasure, but would also serve a purpose, not for his quest, but for society. He would be eliminating a parasite.

He checked his watch. His prey would pass by here in less than four minutes. He had already left the paper and was heading for the Mairie de Saint Ouen metro station.

It had been almost two decades since he’d seen the reporter. What a bastard. The man had mocked him in an article on rising businessmen who sponsored commando training for deserving executives. It was trendy at the time. He had been naïve and had gotten trapped by the reporter. The newspaper had published photos of him in fatigues and a beret, telling his underlings far-fetched war stories. The article had made him out to be a drill sergeant, and everyone—from employees and peers to his wife—had made fun of him. He fell into depression afterward and needed therapy.

It was the first time he had felt the irrepressible desire to kill with his own hands. His shrink had said that such feelings were natural, but acting on them wasn’t.

But now he was going to do it. This murder wasn’t a logical part of his quest, but just an additional moment of pleasure. A small vengeance. A treat.

He heard footsteps in the deserted street. Late by just two minutes. Excellent. He had sharpened the blade with a stone, and now he held the grip against his leg.

The footsteps got louder. His blood throbbed in his head. It hurt.

The reporter was right in front of him, fiftyish and flat-footed, with straight hair and a smug look on his face.

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