The Handler by Roger Weston

Author:Roger Weston [Weston, Roger]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Weston Publishing Enterprises
Published: 2014-07-19T22:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 13

Coast of Costa Brava

After Chuck left the bar, he headed to the beach and cast his eyes out to sea. The dark waters off Costa Brava were calm, but the smooth surface of the sea masked the eternal warfare that had gone on under its cobalt surface since the beginning of time. Fish swim along, minding their own business, then—WHAM! They are attacked and eaten. Predators know that they have to kill to survive, and men do the same. Just ask Werther.

Chuck knew that it wouldn’t be long before a faint spark of light would creep over the horizon, bringing day with it. He needed to get back to the stone house and back to Maria before dawn reared its ugly head. He scanned the shore and saw a dozen rowboats lining the beach. He walked to a dark blue boat that was near the shore and pushed it into the ocean, jumping in as the small vessel glided over the dark liquid. Grasping its wooden oars with strong hands, he put out to sea. He dug the sticks into the ocean over and over again. While he could hear waves slapping and washing along the sides of the little rowboat, he could not see the water around him. It was pitch dark. Not even the moon or stars filled the sky. He could see light along the shoreline, though. The only other light came from one of the mega-yachts that was anchored a mile north of town, a quarter mile offshore.

As he rowed northward along the coastline towards the stone home where Maria was waiting for him, the face of the ambassador flew in and out of his mind. He had been a good man, a man trying to protect America, a man downed and doomed by the enemies of freedom, including his own people. Chuck hacked at the water. He half rowed and half beat the surface like a swordfish does as it is brutally reeled into a deep-sea fishing vessel. Chuck continued to row along the coastline parallel to the lights of the yacht, which was half-a-mile away, when a speed boat rushed past. All he could see in the darkness were the running lights and the outlines of several burly men. Camouflaged by the night and the dark color of the rowboat’s hull, the men on the shore boat didn’t even see him. He watched as the craft turned and ran straight to the big yacht offshore. As it turned, he saw T/T Volga emblazoned on the stern of the little boat. It was the tender to the Volga. The Volga. That was the yacht that the old man had been talking about at the bar. The one with the Russian Mafia onboard.

Chuck heaved on the oars. He thought of Maria, of her brown hair and her brown eyes. He remembered her sleeping just as he’d left her. His oars plunged into the broth and rose again, dripping salt water back into the sea.

His adrenaline was flying.

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