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  Rogue Op

  A CHUCK BRANDT THRILLER

  ROGER WESTON

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, dialogue, and plot are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons or events is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2015 by Weston Publishing Enterprises

  All rights reserved.

  Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 1

  Monastery in the Pyrenees Mountains of Northern Spain

  The lonely, haunting voices of monks chanting ancient hymns filled the empty stone hallway as Chuck Brandt approached the chapel. The ancient passage swept beneath Gothic arches and an elaborately-ornamented ceiling. Wearing a monk’s habit, Chuck walked slowly. His gaze found a wall carving where the angel of death, carrying a sword, passed through the land of pharaohs. Chuck moved on and stopped at the open doors of the chapel. The stone architecture soared high overhead, providing shelter and comforting sinners as it had for nine hundred years. Chuck stepped inside. Stone-block columns rose seventy feet like the bulwarks of a castle. Monks stood like forlorn soldiers of the dead, dressed in long dark robes, faces shaded in the caves of dark hoods. Their voices chanted the same sorrowful words that their brothers had chanted in ancient times when their devotions were answered with violent death at the hands of persecutors…even as was still happening today.

  A gathering of candles burned under the tympanum, a decorative wall ornamentation with statues of Christ, the Virgin Mary, and Saint Peter. Wall paintings topped the arches above the statues. On these, saints forgave the sins of the repentant, and the Good Samaritan came to the rescue of a dying man. Martyrs met violent deaths.

  Chuck got down on his knees and said a prayer of protection for Maria. He silently mouthed the words of the 91st Psalm. With his head bowed, he allowed the tones of the ancient chants to fill him as he had for weeks now. He felt the same peace in his spirit that had aided his recovery from the gunshot wound that had almost killed him. He gave silent thanks for his healing.

  The holy chants filled the chapel with reverence and solemn tones. The voices reverberated through the vast cavern of the church, off the stone walls and arches. A tear ran down his cheek, and he wiped it away with the back of his hand.

  Chuck thought of the confession from which he had just come.

  “I am unworthy to be here,” he had said, looking across the antique desk at the priest.

  The priest who was the abbot of the monastery where he was recovering at had nodded knowingly, a gray-haired man with compassionate eyes. “We are all sinners, but our God is forgiving.”

  “I have saved many lives, Father…hundreds.”

  The priest smiled. “That is good.”

  “No, Father, it is not. To save lives, I had to take lives.”

  The father looked at him seriously. “I know. The old farmer told me how you saved his life at the hacienda.”

  “That’s not the only time. I was a government assassin for many years. My job was to eliminate killers who targeted the innocent and plotted the destruction of our society. I am a sinner.”

  The abbot’s compassionate eyes drifted off toward a bookshelf along the office wall as he considered Chuck’s words. “Yes, it is wrong to take a life, but evil must also be confronted. There has always been law and justice. Let us not forget the words of the Lord, ‘There is no greater love than to give your life for another’. You very nearly gave your life to save the old farmer. It was only by the grace of God that you lived.”

  “But why, Father? So many good men have died in the line of duty. Why should I be spared?”

  The father shook his head. “The Lord works in mysterious ways.”

  Chuck paused for a moment then said, “He certainly does.”

  “It is not wrong to protect the weak from the destruction of evildoers.”

  Chuck took a deep breath. “Yes, there were times when I was clear about my purpose. I knew that I was saving lives. But there were also times when nothing was clear.”

  The priest nodded slowly, his eyes shifting back to the bookshelf.

  “It’s worse than that, Father. I was used as a pawn on one occasion. I was lied to. I did my job, but I made a terrible mistake. This weighs on my conscience.”

  The priest looked down at his hands where he was weaving rosary between his fingers. “You are a good man. We all make mistakes. God forgives our sins and transgressions when we ask for forgiveness with a humble heart.”

  Chuck was quiet for a moment. “I have been here for two months now, Father. I have known peace here like I’ve never known in the world. I have even wondered what it would be like if I stayed.”

  “No,” the father said quickly, “this life is not for you.”

  Chuck shook his head. “Yeah, I know. They’re just thoughts. I’ve had a lot of time over the past two months to reflect on my life and to pray for guidance, but I keep going back to one thing.”

  “Keep praying. In time you will know what to do.”

  “But what if I don’t? What if I don’t get a clear answer? Do you know how many times I have prayed for help? You have no idea. Why don’t I have clarity?”

  “Sometimes it’s hard to hear the quiet voice amid all the distraction and chaos of the world.”

  “I’ve had few distractions here.”

  “You must be patient. Sometimes one must wait for an answer.”

  “Wait for how long?” Chuck leaned forward and put his hand on the desk. “Forever?”

  The priest shook his head. “There is a time for everything under the sun. Our timing is not always God’s timing.”

  Chuck was silent for a minute. “I fear that when I leave this place, I will do the kinds of things that I have done before. It’s the only life I know. I have always felt a need to protect those who cannot protect themselves.”

  “I will pray for you. Go now. You are forgiven.”

  “Thank you, Father.”

  Rising from his knees, Chuck put the thoughts of his confession out of his mind. He sat back in the hardwood pew and listened to the gentle chanting of the monks. As their soft tones drifted through the chapel, he thought of Maria. He had thought of her every day for two months. Thoughts of her had constantly troubled him. Where was she now? Was she safe? Was she still alive? How much time did she have? There were so many distractions in the world, but there were also distractions in the monastery for a man like Chuck Brandt.

  He rose and walked slowly down the aisle. The monks
continued to chant. They had taken care of him while he healed from his gunshot wound. They knew that he was a guest and not a monk, and they treated him with respect. Chuck approached a chorus of candles. Some were lit, but others were not. He lit a candle for Maria, just as he had done every day now for the past two weeks.

  After leaving the chapel, he walked slowly down the stone hallway with his fingers clasped together. He daydreamed of going into the wilderness and becoming a hermit—a monk without a community, a loner who prayed and contemplated, a man of peace, a man who left the world’s troubles to others. He was distracted from these musings when a brother turned the corner and walked toward him. As the man drew closer, Chuck lifted his gaze to the hooded figure. Chuck had not talked to this brother before, but for a brief moment, they made eye contact. Something in his expression disturbed Chuck. The shrewd eyes peered out of the big dark hood as if from a cave. But it was not the cave of a hermit in peaceful contemplation. It was a cave of trouble. Chuck saw something in his eyes that spoke of the world, something that had not been said. The man knew something. But he had decided to keep his lips sealed, which was what everyone did around here.

  ***

  Chuck’s accommodations at the monastery were empty and Spartan. The scent of fresh-burned wood filled the warm air in the two story white-washed structure. Honey-colored wood paneling covered the four walls of the windowless interior of Chuck’s sleeping cell, which was the size of a master’s cabin on an early 20th century tramp ship. The only difference was that the wood-paneled walls of a master’s cabin would have been finely-finished and luxurious whereas the pine planks lining this monk’s cell were rough and unfinished. An empty wooden bookshelf hung over a honey-colored desk, which stood over a matching chair. A half-open curtain revealed a wood-lined prayer nook, which was located next to a sleeping alcove that was built into the wall. The sleeping alcove reminded Chuck of the recesses he’d seen years ago in the walls of the subterranean catacombs near Kiev, Russia. There he’d seen the dusty bones of martyrs aging in the lonely niches. Chuck feared that if Lazar’s men ever found out where he was hiding, this homey little room would become a death trap because there was only one way out it—down the stairs. The entry hallway down below on the first floor was safer because there were two doors—one out into the main community hallway and a second out into his private garden.

  He had no interest in sleeping at the moment and he’d prayed enough for now. He pulled off his brown monastic robe and laid it on the wooden slats of his sleeping alcove. He felt more comfortable in his t-shirt and jeans. A woodstove sat on a raised brick platform in the middle of the room, and it was pumping out heat, so Chuck decided to do his exercises on the first floor as usual, but it wasn’t just the cooler air down there that drew him. Rather it was the close proximity to the back door to the garden yard, which was always comforting. Chuck had made it a habit to spend most of his time down there where he could make a quick escape if needed.

  He glided down the narrow enclosed stairway to the red, Spanish-tiled floor of the entry hallway which stretched for twenty feet. Sunlight streamed in, lighting up the red tiles. The left side of the entryway had a long white wall, its emptiness only broken by the front door to Chuck’s temporary home, a door that opened to an exterior community walkway. Next to the front door was a small two-way cabinet. The right wall of the entryway was lined with large windows and a sliding glass door that opened to a private garden where Chuck had been tending to the vegetables for several weeks now. The garden was closed in by a pine fence, eight feet high with a gate.

  Chuck lay down on the floor on his back. He spent half an hour doing flutter kicks to work his abs and strengthen his core where his bullet wounds continued to heal. The soreness was getting better each week.

  Then he heard a sound.

  He rose quickly and stood in the hallway listening, watching the door handle, his senses on high alert.

  CHAPTER 2

  Chuck stood motionless in the hallway, ready to move fast, but nothing happened. The sound did not recur. He watched the door. He listened. He glanced out the window into the garden. The gate was still closed as it should be. The sliding glass door that led to the garden was just seven steps away. He could leap-frog them in two bounds. If needed, he could be out the door and out of the garden in a few seconds. He’d rehearsed the route daily.

  In the background, he could hear the distant chanting tones of the monks, but they were only echoes from the chapel that was across the enclosed courtyard from his quarters. It was something else that concerned him, something close.

  Had the sound come from the small revolving cabinet that was next to the entry door of his quarters? He had been at the Monastery of Saint Ignatius of Loyola in the Pyrenees Mountains of Northern Spain for two months now and had become accustomed to the routine of the Cistercian monks. The two-way compartment was used by the cloistered monks to deliver meals. A brother in the outer hall would place a meal tray in the built-in cupboard then would close the outer door. Then the monk inside would open the inner cabinet door in his quarters and remove his meal. This process used to deliver nourishment to the monks was designed to minimize distraction from the prayers and contemplations that the Cistercian brothers practiced as they lived out the virtues that their order asked of them—humility, silence and obedience.

  Chuck knew their routine. The only problem was that it was not mealtime. Why would someone be delivering a meal now? This did not fit the pattern. If he had learned one thing here at the monastery, it was that the routine of the monks was predictable.

  Chuck stood still for a moment not moving, his muscles tensed. Not only was it not mealtime, but he’d requested that all his meals be put on hold while he fasted for three days and nights.

  Had Lazar found him? No, he couldn’t have. The monks took their job of protecting him seriously. After he’d been shot and nearly killed at Lazar’s hacienda in the farmlands of Catalonia while trying to rescue Maria, the old farmer had brought him here when he was unconscious and arranged for his care. The monks had treated him with great respect, and he believed they’d honored their promise of secrecy. He knew that they would rather die than betray a trust. But maybe after Chuck’s confession to the holy abbot, the man had wavered in his loyalty. Or maybe one of the monks had been approached and bribed while outside of the monastery, and had fallen into sin and temptation. Such things did happen.

  Chuck hoped that this was not the case. He’d gone on long walks with the brothers on the trails in the nearby Pyrenees Mountains. He was certain that the monks were honest men. Nevertheless, he knew he must be careful.

  His confession with the abbot teased about his mind. Had they decided to evict him? The thought burdened his spirit. He had known peace here. Perhaps his confession had upset the father. Maybe now that the abbot knew his guest was an ex-assassin, he was concerned that it would bring trouble to the monastery. Chuck regretted his confession now. The last time he opened up like that was to a shrink after his wife died. That had been a mistake and nearly cost him his life. Had he once more made the error of trusting another human being with secrets of his dark past? Nausea spread through his nerves.

  For two months now, despite the pain he’d suffered, he’d enjoyed moments of inner peace like he’d never experienced before. Those moments, though fleeting, felt like heaven. They were only possible because the monastery had opened their doors for him and given him a place to recover. He was told that monks were praying for him and for his soul, and he appreciated that. He also felt gratitude for the farmer who had brought him here.

  But Chuck now feared that he could lose his life if he opened the door to the revolving cabinet. He knew that many dangerous people in the world would stop at nothing to terminate him.

  He feared that if he opened the cabinet, he would be opening a door to his past, and he wasn’t ready to go back yet, especially since he wasn’t even fully healed.

  If only he could stay here forever… His r
ecovery had been a time of solitude and prayer. It was a good life. Silence, work, prayer, chastity, humility—these were the virtues lived by the monks at the Monastery of Saint Ignatius of Loyola.

  Chuck slowly stepped over to the cabinet. What if someone had placed a bomb rigged with a motion detector in it? He turned and looked out the window to the garden. Professionals would surely have the back gate covered.

  Suddenly, he heard voices from outside. On impulse, he reached for his handgun, but of course he didn’t have one here.

  He took a deep breath and hoped that he was just being paranoid. Whatever was going on was probably of no great concern. He told himself this, but he didn’t necessary believe it, especially when he heard the voices beyond the door. Then came a knock, a soft knock, yet somehow the knock set off more alarm bells in his mind. Questions flooded his brain but were ignored. Time stood still. Two seconds felt like a long hard day.

  “Excuse me, brother.”

  “Yes,” said Chuck. “What is it?”

  “You have a visitor. I was told to bring him to you.”

  It was the voice of Brother Ernesto. Chuck knew him well. He relaxed a little.

  “Who is it?”

  A different voice said, “Brandt, this is Sargento Gonzales. I am with the policia in Lloret de Mar.”

  Chuck tensed. He stepped back from the door.

  Brandt. They knew who he was. He hadn’t heard his name spoken in two months. How had they found him? Chuck’s mind raced through various scenarios. Should he escape out the back? Should he let the man in and face possible arrest or worse?

  Chuck took a deep breath. “Are you alone?” he said.

  “Yes, I come here on unofficial business.” Gonzales again. “I must talk with you. There is nothing to worry about. You have my word. This is a personal matter. I need your help.”

  Chuck exhaled slowly. Then opened the door.

  Sargento Gonzales was a big plain-clothed police officer with a waxed mustache. His thick, greased hair was neatly and carefully combed. His dark eyes radiated respect.