Dark Savior

“Haven’t had the pleasure yet,” Bolan replied. “But I’ve got news he needs to hear.”

It was the monk’s turn to consider his options. Finally, he said, “I take the rifle and you walk ahead of me.”

It was a gamble, but the other choices ran against the grain. “Okay.”

“Unsling it, hold it by the telescopic with your left hand and pass it over to me. Any fancy moves, you get to sample my Paul Bunyan imitation.”

“With a shovel?”

“You’d be surprised how sharp it is, from all those years of scraping ice.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” He passed the Steyr over, and the monk received it with respect and confidence. “You know your weapons,” Bolan said.

“Used to, but I still recall enough. This way.” He gestured with the Steyr’s muzzle and Bolan preceded him across the courtyard to a path partially cleared of snow. The monk set down his shovel there, leaving both hands free for the AUG.

Two minutes later, they were standing at a massive, ironbound wooden door. “Go on,” the brother said. “It isn’t locked.”

Bolan opened the door and passed into the lobby of a stone-and-mortar building. The floor under his dripping boots was gray tile. In front of them a broad staircase ascended to the second floor.

“Upstairs,” the monk directed. “Then the first door to your right.”

Bolan began to climb the stairs. A younger brother met them halfway up and hurried on his way after he saw the gun. When Bolan reached the second floor, he turned right, stopped and waited for the monk’s next move.

He knocked, keeping his eyes on Bolan the whole time. A deep voice on the other side said, “Enter!”

“Go ahead,” the monk said.

Bolan stepped into an office with a simple desk and wooden chairs, cheap filing cabinets against one wall. The setup seemed out of place beneath a twelve-foot ceiling. Multicolored light came through a stained glass window set in stone behind the desk. Christ in a garden of olive trees. Even without a clear sky behind it, the window was impressive, ancient-looking, wrought with care.

A tall man in a drab brown habit rose from where he had been seated at the desk, examining the new arrivals through a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. “What on earth is this?” he asked the brother holding Bolan’s AUG.

“He came over the wall, Father,” the monk replied. “With this.”

“A firearm.”

“Yes, Father.”

The abbot turned to Bolan. “Who are you?”

Rather than debate it, Bolan used the name printed on the ID he’d left with Jack Grimaldi. “Matthew Cooper.”

“Named for a disciple?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Brother Thomas,” said the abbot, “I’ll relieve you of your burden.”

“Father—”

“Please. And wait outside.”

It was the monk’s turn to obey, passing the Steyr to his boss, shooting a warning glance at Bolan as he left and closed the door.

Brother Jerome studied the rifle for a moment, placed it on his desk and said, “I won’t ask why you’ve come. It’s sadly obvious.”

“Or maybe not,” Bolan replied.

Brother Jerome cocked one gray eyebrow at him, clearly skeptical. “We have a visitor among us, claiming sanctuary. He desires to be a postulant. Intruders from his old life seek to take him from us. You are one of them.”

“You’re half-right,” Bolan granted. “But I’m not the only one who’s coming, and I’m on your side.”

“We don’t need men with guns to help us do the Lord’s work, Mr. Cooper.”

“There are others coming,” Bolan said again. “They’ve killed already, would’ve taken your visitor long before he got here if they hadn’t missed him. He got away once. Between your setup and the storm, I can’t imagine he’ll be lucky twice.”

“Who do you represent?” Brother Jerome demanded.

“No one who’ll acknowledge me,” Bolan replied. “We’re off the record here.”

“I see. Perhaps I should inform you that I’ve spoken to the FBI, the U.S. Marshals Service, and someone claiming to be a deputy attorney general. I have told them all the same thing. Sanctuary is a sacred principle that I am not prepared to violate.”

“That’s why I’m here, and not a SWAT team,” Bolan said. “Nobody’s looking for another Waco, but the men tracking your guest are only paid to do one thing—and I can promise you they don’t leave any witnesses.”

Brother Jerome stood silent for a moment, fingertips pinning the Steyr to his desktop. Finally, he said, “The choice cannot be mine. Brother Thomas!”

In a second flat, the monk who had delivered Bolan stood beside him. “Father?”

“Please fetch Brother Andrew and the postulant at once. I need to speak with both of them.”

4 (#ulink_9d6f57c5-e0ef-505a-84c0-7ad97508cd6a)

Modesto, California

The storm chased Jack Grimaldi back to town, whipping his rented Cessna 207 all the way. He landed none the worse for wear and set about refueling before he tied the aircraft down. The blizzard’s trailing edge was rattling shrubbery around the airport terminal, but snow was limited to tiny flakes, like dandruff, which vanished on contact with the pavement.

The guy who’d checked Grimaldi’s license and his rental paperwork came out to meet him, flicking nervous glances at the clouds. “Did she treat you all right?”

“Sweet as candy,” Grimaldi replied.”

“Think you’ll be going up again?”

Grimaldi deflected with a question of his own. “I’ve got it through tomorrow, right?”

“Right, right. I only wondered, with the storm and all—”

“I’m waiting on a call,” Grimaldi said. “It comes, I go. Till then, she’s battened down.”

“Yessir. Okay.”