Uniform Justice

UNIFORM JUSTICE A Storm DeVries Legal Thriller KJ SutherlandGreylord Press UNIFORM JUSTICE Copyright © 2023 by KJ SUTHERLAND All rights reserved.No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher or author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This is a work of fiction, Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental. https://www.kjsutherlandbooks.comLaunch Date: April 2023 Contents 1. CHAPTER 1 2. CHAPTER 2 3. CHAPTER 3 4. CHAPTER 4 5. CHAPTER 5 6. CHAPTER 6 7. CHAPTER 7 8. CHAPTER 8 9. CHAPTER 9 10. CHAPTER 10 11. CHAPTER 11 12. CHAPTER 12 13. CHAPTER 13 14. CHAPTER 14 15. CHAPTER 15 16. CHAPTER 16 17. CHAPTER 17 18. CHAPTER 18 19. CHAPTER 19 20. CHAPTER 20 21. CHAPTER 21 22. CHAPTER 22 23. CHAPTER 23 24. CHAPTER 24 25. CHAPTER 25 26. CHAPTER 26 27. CHAPTER 27 28. CHAPTER 28 29. CHAPTER 29 30. CHAPTER 30 31. CHAPTER 31 32. CHAPTER 32 33. CHAPTER 33 34. CHAPTER 34 35. CHAPTER 35 36. CHAPTER 36 37. CHAPTER 37 38. CHAPTER 38 39. CHAPTER 39 40. CHAPTER 40 41. CHAPTER 41 42. CHAPTER 42 43. CHAPTER 43 44. CHAPTER 44 45. CHAPTER 45 46. CHAPTER 46 47. CHAPTER 47 48. CHAPTER 48 49. CHAPTER 49 50. CHAPTER 50 51. CHAPTER 51 52. CHAPTER 52 53. CHAPTER 53 54. CHAPTER 54 55. CHAPTER 55 56. CHAPTER 56 57. CHAPTER 57 58. CHAPTER 58 59. CHAPTER 59 60. CHAPTER 60 61. CHAPTER 61 62. CHAPTER 62 63. CHAPTER 63 REVIEW THIS BOOK YOU MIGHT ALSO ENJOY ABOUT THE AUTHOR 1It wasn’t the flaming aircraft that had aroused the monk’s interest that morning. It was the man who was running away from it. With a backpack slung over his arm, the man ran frantically, looking over his shoulder every few steps, as if someone were chasing him. Brother Simon had been on the West Terrace of the abbey when he heard what sounded like a train speeding through a tunnel, followed by a bomb exploding, and then the crackling echoes of a fireworks display. From two hundred feet above, Simon had watched the tail separate from the fuselage as the rest of the aircraft skidded fast and furious down the causeway toward the curtain wall of Mont Saint-Michel.At first, he thought it was one of those crash landings where passengers and crew would live to tell the tale. If that had happened, his brothers and sisters in the abbey would be eager to claim it as a miracle. But Simon didn’t believe in miracles. And so it didn’t surprise him when what followed was an explosion over the wing. It had burst into a blaze so brilliant it cast an amber glow over the island’s circumference. It had even illuminated St. Michael, the golden archangel on top of the cathedral, standing five hundred feet above sea level.Instinctively, Simon groped for his mobile phone, which was buried deep in the pocket of his cream-colored robe. But just as he was about to punch in the number for emergency services, another instinct kicked in. His call would not only summon the fire brigade and the medical vehicles, but it would also elicit a response from the police and the press. And if he were the one to make the call, he would be the first person they’d want to interview. They’d ask for his name and phone number, and his face would end up on every newspaper and news channel across France and beyond.No, he decided, he’d let someone else make the call. One of his brethren in the abbey, or a resident in the village, or perhaps the sheep farmer across the way. Simon had spotted the old guy this morning, just before sunrise; he’d emerged from his barn and, with the help of his mangy dog, prepared to herd the pre-sale sheep into the pasture. But with that flaming wreckage nearby, no sheep would be grazing in the salty marshes today.If Simon hadn’t been late for Laudes this morning, he wouldn’t have seen the crash or the running man. Usually, he and the other monks slept in the abbey, in the rooms just across the way from where the prayer service was held. But a few days ago, Simon had started to spend most of his time, including his nights, in a building he’d been asked to renovate. Located at the rear of the mount, it required him to get up ten minutes earlier for the morning prayer. But to reach the abbey, he’d had to climb the hundreds of steps of the Grand Degré. And this morning, as he slogged up the dark path, he’d had to lean on the railing rope for balance. For a man of thirty-five, Simon was in decent shape, but he’d taken several bottles of Bordeaux from the refectory the previous afternoon, and the indulgence of that fine wine had left him with an excruciating migraine. And, as if that wasn’t bad enough, the ringing of the resonant, baritone bells in the tower, signaling the call for prayer, stung every nerve in his body.He’d envisioned Brother John poised to ring the bell for the call to prayer. His short stubby fingers would be wrapped around the fat, heavily braided rope extending from the church’s nave to the bell tower above. His brothers and sisters would be standing before the altar with their heads bowed. The elderly monk would use every ounce of his being to spring upward, his leathery sandals flapping hard against the limestone floor upon his descent.The sirens were sounding in the distance now, and the village lights were flickering on. Suddenly, something stirred in the direction of the abbey. Simon dashed along the rampart and into