by Roger Weston
“He’s planning to kill you, Maria. Why’d you go for the shoulder?”
“Chuck told me never kill a man if you don’t have to, and I’ve never killed a man.”
“Yeah, but this guy’s planning to kill us both. Now he’s out there somewhere, and he’s going to come back for you. We’ve got to find him and make sure that doesn’t happen.”
They saddled the horses and galloped down the trail into the hill country. They wove through the forest, weaving through the cypress trees, looking for the assassin. As they were passing through a rocky area among a grove of trees, a flurry of gunshots rang out. Bullets splintered tree bark just a foot from Maria’s head as Hurricane stepped between two trees.
Maria ducked down and drew her gun. Jeff looked at the weapon and said, “Be careful. This guy’s a pro. Remember all drills we’ve been through. This is no dress rehearsal.”
Several more shots thundered. Bullets ricocheted off of rocks behind where Maria and Jeff were taking cover.
“I was gonna bring you back to your dad,” the killer yelled out. “I changed my mind. I’m going to kill you and leave you both for the vultures to pick your bones.”
“I don’t think so,” Jeff said. “I think you’ll be the one left bleeding on Texas soil.”
Holding his gun out in front of him, the man emerged from the foliage of a bend in the trail. He was standing in the open now. “Shut up, fool. You gonna fight with your mouth? I stalk and kill man-game for a living. You die now. Get out where I can see you. If you make me hunt for you, I’ll make you pay. I’ll make you die slow from knife work while the woman watches.”
“You’re a sick person,” Jeff yelled. “You better rethink your choices. Every man faces the reckoning sooner or later.”
“Shut your mouth, dead man.” The killer walked slowly down the trail, gun held ready to drop his prey with fast action.
Maria took a shot at him, but he dove off the trail.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” the killer yelled from the bushes. “Now, I’m going to make you wish a thousand times I’d kill you to end the pain.”
“We better get moving,” Jeff said. “This guy’s a psycho, but he means what he says.”
Maria followed Jeff as they crawled through the underbrush and down the hill. Then they got up and jogged.
As they hiked through a rock-walled canyon, the killer’s voice echoed. “I’m right behind you… behind you…behind you…”
“I bring death… bring death… death.”
Maria and Jeff ducked down behind some big rocks and waited.
Maria spotted the killer walking after them, gun draping from his hand. He was seventy yards away. Maria took aim.
“Let him get closer,” Jeff said.
“I don’t think so.” Maria fired.
The killer twisted and fell. He crawled behind a limestone berm.
“I—” Maria said, “I think I got him. I—”
Jeff seized her wrist and gently tugged. “Come on.”
They wove through an old limestone quarry and hiked through rock country for half a mile. They came to Rattlesnake Cave, which was appropriately named.
“Give me your shoe.” Jeff shook his hand furiously. “Hurry.”
Maria did as he said, and Jeff tossed the shoe several feet into the entrance of rattlesnake cave.
Then they climbed fifty yards of the rock slope and ducked behind a massive block of limestone.
They stayed low and out of sight, but Maria had a view between two rocks at the base of the slab of limestone. She saw the killer ducking down behind a rock about fifty yards from the cave entrance. He stayed there and watched the cave for several minutes. Then he got up and rushed the cave. He paused at the entrance, his gun aimed into the yawning cavern. Then he saw something and smiled. He entered the cave. About ten seconds passed. Then Maria heard a scream.
CHAPTER 3
Seattle, Washington
Dressed in a white apron and t-shirt, Chuck Brandt spooned green beans from an industrial-sized pan as the last visitors to the soup kitchen collected their meal.
As he served them, he smiled and greeted those that he knew by name. Otherwise, he didn’t say a lot.
To his right, Smitty dished out rolls as he frowned at the bypassers. To his left, Marge, in plastic gloves, handed out cheeseburgers and spoke kind words to everyone.
Chuck glanced at the doors. He never forgot that he had plenty of old enemies who would do anything to put a bullet in him, so he never let his guard down. He’d been working here for three months, which was a long time for him to stay in one place. He knew that he could be found out at any time. His life had almost become predictable, so for two months now, he’d been watching the door with rising caution. If an assassin showed up, he would be ready.
Almost without thinking about it, he reached under his jacket and ran his hand over his Colt .45. Then in the next minute he was dishing up food again.
The latest arrival in line, William Cambridge III, was a regular. Lamb-chop sideburns reached down from beneath his Seahawks stocking cap. His eyes were wet with tears as he took his place at the back of the line.
“You alright, Cambridge?” Chuck asked.
The man shrugged.
“Anything I can do for you?”
“I can’t go on like this anymore, Brandt. I gotta find me a job.” He shook his head from side to side.
“It’ll happen.”
“I need one now. I’m tired of living like this.” The big man choked up.
Chuck dished up a large scoop of mashed potatoes and handed the plate across the counter.
“I’m sorry, Cambridge.”
“I don’t know what I’m gonna do. Problem is, nobody wants to hire me. It’s like I’m banging my head against a wall. I’ve got to break through the barrier like you said. I’ve just got to.”
“You’ll do it.”
Cambridge nodded as a tear ran down his cheek.
Chuck continued serving food until the last man in line passed through. Then he walked back into the kitchen to clean up. He had been working for half an hour doing the dishes when Marge led a burly guy in who was carrying two boxes of apples into the kitchen. Rain drops glistened on his curly blond hair.
Chuck eyed the clock then stepped over towards the guy. “I’ll take care of this, Marge.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Hold on.” Chuck wrote down a name and phone number on a piece of paper and gave it to Marge. “See that Cambridge gets this. It might help.”
Chuck then led the burly guy into the walk-in commercial refrigerator, which was the size of a three-car garage.
Chuck pointed at a stack of produce boxes. “Right there is fine.”
As the man began to set the apple boxes down, Chuck felt the phone in his pocket vibrate. There were only two people in the world who knew the number to his phone. Jeff and Maria. He glanced at the display. It was Maria!
Chuck turned to the man and thanked him. After the man walked out, Chuck closed the door and answered the phone.
“Chuck, they came for me!”
“What?”
“They were here. We both got away, but he said that my dad is still alive, and he wants me back. He’s alive! They’re going to come back and get me. I know they will. I’m scared, Chuck. I’m real scared.”
“You got your gun?”
“Yes, and I had to use it to get away from them. It was the first time I ever shot it for real, but I know my dad will send more killers after me. What do I do?”
“Don’t worry, honey. I’ll take care of it. Why don’t you and Jeff come up here and stay on my boat for a while? Bring your mom, too. I’ll find out where your dad is, and I’ll make sure that this time, he doesn’t get away.”
“Oh, Chuck. You can’t. Not this time. He’ll kill you.”
Chuck was quiet for a moment. The only sound was the hum of the refrigerator fan.
“I’ve got to. I’ll be gone by the ti
me you get here. Take care, cover your tracks, and don’t be afraid to use that gun again if you need to protect yourself. Tell Jeff I’m counting on him to keep you safe.”
“Okay…and Chuck?”
“Yes.”
“Take care of yourself, too.”
“I will.”
As he put the phone back into his pocket his mind began to race. He couldn’t understand how Lazar could have survived the fall from the cliff in the Andes. Chuck had been sure that he had died. Only a lucky man could have survived that fall from that height. Chuck had watched as he plunged a hundred feet into the raging river below.
If Lazar was alive, the country was in danger. Chuck would have to go to Washington D.C.
CHAPTER 4
Next day
Washington D.C.
As Chuck walked through Regan International Airport in a black business suit, his mind replayed the events from three months ago. With his own eyes he had witnessed Lazar’s fall into the raging Apurimac River. How could he have survived? Was Maria telling the truth? Or had she been duped by Lazar’s former men who were now leading Chuck into a trap? Whatever the case, he would find out. He couldn’t just ignore word that Lazar may be alive. The man was extremely dangerous and had been plotting against the U.S.A. The more he thought about it, though, the more he was convinced that the general had indeed died and his men were out to seek revenge. It didn’t matter. Someone had threatened Maria’s life, and he wasn’t about to let that happen again. He would find out who sent a killer to Texas and make sure they were neutralized.
Chuck exited the airport and waited for the Marriot shuttle at the pickup curb with a group of travelers. After a few minutes the shuttle arrived. As he entered the black van, he quickly scanned the other riders out of the corner of his eye. There was a family with young children and another with teenagers. A couple of business types were in the back of the van. An airline pilot sat behind the driver and conversed quietly with a man who spoke with a Kenyan accent. After a short ride, the van pulled up in front of the Marriot. Chuck smiled at the riders who were disembarking. From there, the shuttle whisked him to the nearest Metro station. He hopped off the van and entered the underground. While waiting for the next train, he wandered up and down the tiled tunnel and observed those who waited with him.
A voice on the speaker system repeatedly droned out directions for the travelers. The screech of an approaching train’s brakes filled the air, and Chuck boarded the silver bullet. After stopping at Pentagon City, the train left the underground and swung over the Potomac Bridge, past the Jefferson Memorial, which Chuck studied as they passed by. A few more minutes and he was leaving the train car at L ’Efant Plaza. From there he caught a taxi back to the Jefferson Memorial. Of course, he could have just caught a cab from the airport, but that was a risky proposition for a man like himself. This was Washington D.C., home to more scoundrels and turncoats than anywhere else in America. He had only lived this long because he took precautions.
The taxi driver claimed he was over eighty-seven years old, but Chuck thought he didn’t look a year over sixty-five. The man claimed he’d spent the last sixty years driving the streets of Washington D.C. and still enjoyed it. As they cruised around the Tidal Basin, the man gestured towards the pond that was surrounded by a ring of trees in full bloom. He said. “I never get tired of those pretty cherry trees the Japs gave us.”
Chuck nodded. “They are beauties.” As the taxi rounded the bend, he instructed the man to drop him off at the base of the Jefferson Memorial. He wished the old man well, then climbed the steps of the mighty memorial. He walked inside the dome and read a quote that had been chiseled on a strip of marble under the dome. It read, “I have sworn upon the altar of God eternal hostility against every form of tyranny over the mind of man.” Whenever Chuck came to Washington D.C., the first thing he did was come here to read these words. He stayed ten minutes longer and reflected on these words from Thomas Jefferson.
Then he caught a city bus to the Korean War Memorial, which was on the mall and nestled on the side between the Lincoln Memorial and the Washington Monument. As he wandered through the memorial of a platoon of life sized steel soldiers on patrol, he marveled at how real they seemed as the statues appeared to hike through rows of heather bushes. Finally, he wandered over to the Freedom Wall where he read the words, “Freedom isn’t free.” He stood there for several minutes of reflection. He had been here many times and always took this same route when he visited. It was one of the few times in his life that he followed a predictable pattern.
An hour later, after visiting a second-hand store, Chuck blended into the street scene of D.C.’s Chinatown. The smell of coffee from the nearest Starbucks filled the air. Commercial interests had taken over. There were no Chinese in sight, but many people strolled along the sidewalks. It looked similar to any other commercial district in D.C.
Wearing his sunglasses and black suit, Chuck was leaning against a solid-looking, red-brick building and strumming a used guitar he’d picked up. The guitar’s headstock swayed in front of the window he stood next to, the reflection of the headstock showing on the glass. An endless throng of pedestrians walked past, some tossing coins into the guitar-case at Chuck’s feet. He strummed the guitar, playing Aerosmith’s Stairway to Heaven.
A man in a wheelchair and a Vietnam veteran’s hat stopped in front of him, his eyes hungrily drifting to the guitar case on the ground by Chuck’s feet. Dollar bills covered the bottom of the open guitar case.
Now Chuck stopped playing. “Thank you for your service, brother.”
He nodded. “You play good.”
Chuck smiled. He noticed the man’s threadbare clothes. He was obviously homeless.
From his guitar case, Chuck took handfuls of dollar bills and handed them to the man, who froze. He looked frightened, as if he could not believe what was happening.
Chuck stuffed money into the man’s coat pockets—probably close to a hundred dollars, mostly donated by passersby.
Tears streamed down homeless man’s face.
“Thank you, man. Thank you.”
The man sat there shaking. He backed away, but stopped and said, “Can you play Hotel California?”
Chuck nodded and played it. A crowd gathered around.
People flipped coins into Chuck’s guitar case. As the song ended, one guy kneeled down added a $20 bill. He was tall and lanky with dark hair and a grave expression. He was a dead-ringer for Abe Lincoln, except his beard was longer.
“You’re good,” he said, leaning forward on his cane.
“I’m thinking of getting a real job,” Chuck said.
“There’s some money,” the Lincoln clone said. “I’ll buy you lunch, too, if you want.” The man took off his sports jacket and folded it over his arm.
“Thanks, man, but these people want to hear me play.”
“No,” the vet said, turning his wheelchair to leave. “You go with him. You already made my day.”
“Well, alright then.”
The crowd of pedestrians thinned out. Several crossed the street. Chuck put away his guitar and slung the case over his shoulder. When he looked up, the vet with the wheelchair was gone, but the Lincoln clone remained.
“Which way?” Chuck said.
“Down there.” The tall, lanky man began to walk, and Chuck went with him. This was no stranger. His name was Lawrence Robertson. Chuck had known him for a long time. Years ago, Chuck had gone to Khartoum, Sudan on a mission to eliminate a man who had murdered hundreds of innocent people in Africa and was planning a major attack in Paris that would doom hundreds more. It had been determined that there was no way to take the man alive, so Chuck had been brought in as a deniable protector. To protect hundreds of innocent lives, he had to take out this diabolical mass killer. Lawrence had been his contact man in-country, providing him with weapons and up-to-the-minute intel. Against orders, Chuck had tried to take the terrorist alive, but he couldn’t pull it off. Before putting an en
d to the Paris attack, Chuck had carried out a rapid, high-impact interrogation. He had not only learned the names of three conspirators, he’d found out that Lawrence had been targeted for death. They were already making a move to kill him.
Chuck had intervened, but it was too late, Lawrence had already been shot in the back. To this day, Lawrence walked with a limp and it always reminded Chuck of his failure…if he had just gotten to Lawrence one minute earlier…
Nevertheless, when a man saves a life, a bond is created that never goes away, even if you never see them again. Chuck had saved hundreds of lives over the years, but most of the beneficiaries never even knew who he was. Many did not know the price that had been paid for freedom—and even life. That’s how it had to be, but Lawrence’s situation was different. Chuck had literally saved him at the last minute when the man already thought he was doomed, and Chuck had taken him to Sawakin in the dead of night. They were extracted from the country by boat. All of that was years ago, but the memory was always fresh.
“Why do you look so somber?” Lawrence said.
Chuck shifted his guitar case from one hand to the other. “Coming from you, that’s quite a statement.”
“Yeah, well, you’re wearing a black suit, black shoes, black tie, black sunglasses. I’ve never seen you dressed like that.”
“Maybe I should more often. Every day we’re losing twenty-five vets to suicide. Good men that should still be here. We’re losing soldiers in foreign wars most people don’t even hear about. The homeless are dying in back alleys, and nobody even notices. I’m wearing black for them.”
Lawrence worked his can on the sidewalk. “Alright, Chuck, I hear you.”
They walked in silence for a while.
“It’s a long flight out here from Seattle,” Lawrence said. “This must be important.”
Chuck nodded. “I have word that Lazar is alive.”
Lawrence stopped walking. “But you said you threw him off that cliff into the river. You said nobody could survive that fall.”
“That’s what I thought, but I never did recover his body. I ran out of time.”
