Please read the opening chapter (actually, the Prologue) to Warrior Monk: A Pastor Stephen Grant Novel.
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Prologue
A few years after the fall of the Soviet Union
A suppressor never threw off his aim. But it served as a distraction while the gun rested in his shoulder holster.
He felt like the target could spot the weapon more easily. Objectively, he understood this wasn’t the case below a suit jacket and trench coat. Still, it didn’t feel right.
The two Americans drove on a narrow country road about an hour outside of Paris. Rain was in the forecast, and the dark gray clouds appeared ready to burst. But not a drop had fallen yet.
Sunflowers populated field after field along the way. He wondered how the tall, top-heavy plants could stand so erect.
His partner on this particular assignment dropped him off around the corner from an old church, a small wood and stone structure at the center of a bucolic village. If all ran on schedule, the target, Vladimir Chenko, would be waiting in a pew.
Chenko not only had been a veteran military officer for the Soviet Union and then Russia, but also was a CIA asset. The Russian reported on the communists for years, and more recently, tried to spot any nuclear materials wandering off. Or, at least, that was his assignment from the CIA.
The nugget was money and an eventual life of capitalist leisure. Chenko retired, and was ready to be united with a bank account packed with U.S. dollars. The Russian sought a safe, preferably tropical location with America’s help.
But Chenko played both sides, and it had resulted in several deaths.
One happened to be the American’s mentor and friend.
By sheer luck, the agency stumbled upon evidence that Chenko had passed on information over the years from loose-lipped field operators who got too trusting, too comfortable and, therefore, sloppy. That information cost the lives of two U.S. operatives and perhaps as many as ten Russian assets who worked to undermine Soviet communism.
With the Cold War over, Chenko apparently thought no one in the West would care enough to unearth his duplicity, or that his tracks were well covered.
Chenko was wrong on each count. The Americans found out and were quite displeased.
The American entered the tiny stone church, and stepped into the rear of the nave. He could smell the age and decay of the place. Like so many others in Europe, this church appeared empty – but for his target. It increasingly seemed that if you wanted to arrange a discreet meeting, a church in Europe was ideal.
He noted the side exit was open, only steps from where a man sat in the third pew, staring at the altar.
Is the bastard praying?
He paused briefly, taking another look around, then moved forward and sat in front of Chenko. The pew creaked. From the sound on the stone outside the doorway, he knew the rain had started to fall. His gaze remained straight ahead, while giving the pre-determined phrase in fluent French. “This church has seen much over the centuries.”
Chenko responded in Russian, “Yes, and it, no doubt, will see more.”
He turned halfway around in the pew, and the Russian smiled broadly.
Chenko switched to English, “I am ready, my American friend.”
Friend?
He didn’t expect the Russian to be armed. After all, this was to be a happy occasion. Nonetheless, he looked Chenko over carefully.
“My wife is on one floor of a Paris hotel, and my mistress on another.” Chenko laughed in delight as some do when they relish getting away with something. “Both await new lives. How are we to proceed?”
Without a word in response or to declare judgment, the American rotated back toward the altar, and reached his right hand inside his jacket for the Glock.
The fat, gray-haired Russian double agent moved with surprising quickness and strength. Chenko whipped a cord around his neck, cutting into his skin and cutting off his air.
He fumbled the gun as his hands reacted instinctively trying to pull away the cord. He was being hoisted back over the pew via this line of strangulation, feet just off the ground, seemingly helpless to fight back.
“I spotted the gun, comrade. Silencers make pistols so bulky,” Chenko spewed into his ear.
Shit, I knew it.
Darkness and death were not far off. He snapped his left wrist back hard, allowing the tactical knife strapped low on his forearm to slip forward. He grabbed it, pressed the thumb stud to open the 3.1-inch serrated-edge steel blade, swung it around, and plunged it into Chenko’s left calf.
The Russian screamed a curse in his native language, but Chenko’s grip on the wire did not falter.
Son of a bitch!
Summoning the last bits of his faltering strength, he began pulling the knife up, slicing through skin and muscle, scraping against bone.
The double agent screamed. Chenko’s left hand flinched and loosened ever so slightly.
Finally, he had his opportunity, jamming his right hand under the wire, and spinning his body away from Chenko and onto the floor, with the bloody knife still in his left hand.
Struggling for air, he staggered to his feet. Chenko was pulling up his right pant leg, and grabbing a small revolver strapped above his ankle.
Crap!
The Russian was straightening up to fire.
One chance existed. He flipped the knife into his right hand, looked at Chenko’s chest, and threw it. The knife struck home. The Russian dropped the gun. There was a strange, disturbing look of fear on Chenko’s face as he turned and looked around the church briefly, and then toppled to the floor dead.
That’s the first of two.
He picked up and holstered the gun; pulled the knife from the dead Russian, closed it and shoved it into his pocket; and took steps toward the side exit.
A voice from the back of the church asked in French, “Why, my son?”
He did exactly what he was trained not to do.
He stopped and turned slightly. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a dark figure in the shadows at the back of the church. A glimmering gold cross hung from a chain around the shadow’s neck, the only clear feature in the dim light.
For some reason, he answered, “It had to be done. Justice.” He walked out into the hard rain.
Less than a minute later, he was picked up at the designated location. Other than an exchange on how the mission was completed, they drove in silence.
In the heavy rain, the sunflowers growing in the roadside fields drooped their heads ever so slightly.
Two hours later, he was on a commercial flight heading back to the United States.
But he felt different this time. It wasn’t guilt, nor regret. There was no satisfaction, which surprised him. He felt empty.
Why risk answering that priest?
He always saw his work as having meaning and purpose. His head continued to recognize this. However, a gnawing for something more had been growing deeper inside.
The vision of the priest and that light-gathering cross kept creeping back into his thoughts during the flight. He tried to read or watch the in-flight movie, but to no avail.
What did that priest think today? Was Chenko praying? Do I care?
On that flight from Paris to New York, he realized that he did care.
(Please do not reproduce in any manner. Copyright Raymond J. Keating)
