The Perfect Candidate: A Lance Priest / Preacher Thriller (No. 1) (19 page)

“Danka, Herr Baron.” Lance responded to Fuchs over the radio. Their brief conversations now were all either in code or in a variety of languages not likely to be recognized by anyone scanning radio frequencies in Jeddah. The verbal code in place for the operation was a compilation of aviation terminology commonly used by Australian bush pilots. Not a lot of them around in Jeddah.

“No joy. Block RNC.” Tarwanah chimed in to silence Fuchs and Lance before their German greetings were expounded upon. Tarwanah sat in the rear cargo area of a white van parked 800 yards southeast of the al-Ghamdi compound main gate. Event escalation was only minutes away.

For all the technology, surveillance, intercepts and dogged espionage employed in the weeks and months leading up to this morning, the basics of the plan about to be executed were a classic smash and grab. Al-Ghamdi’s convoy would be three cars. Just as it had been each of the last 11 times he had left the compound during the previous two weeks. The caravan would be made up of three Mercedes sedans all featuring super powerful engines and bulletproof glass. Al-Bakr would accompany al-Ghamdi in the middle vehicle. The head of security usually rides in the front passenger seat.

The plan had been played out several times in exercises at Harvey Point, most successful, some not. Lance silently laughed to himself again seeing the whole exercise laid out from beginning to end. He had practiced this exact scenario well over a dozen times but had not picked up that it would be applied to al-Ghamdi and al-Bakr. Seibel had worked his obfuscation masterfully. In fact, young Lance had been brought into the situation with the assumption that al-Bakr would be taken while either in or en-route to Amman, Jordan at the end of the month. He thought it a bit funny that it was all a ruse; all subterfuge to keep his mind loose during the three-vehicle smash and grab exercises. Seibel was indeed a master of deception.

Through his telephoto lens, Preacher watched al-Bakr emerge from the guardhouse just as al-Ghamdi walked out the door on the west side of the home. “VFR maverick.” Lance’s words were all that was needed to put the other team members on final alert for their target’s departure. He put the Nikon and lens back in the slots of the camera case and nonchalantly walked back across the rooftop of the three-story warehouse he had chosen because of its unique view of the Red Sea coastline just a half-mile away. From this vantage point, he could also see the water reaching its apex after being shot up more than 900 feet by King Fahd’s fountain. He stopped briefly and took in the expanse of the marvelous site again. For some reason, the song that started playing in his head was an 80s hit by a Scottish rock band singing about the highlands. The song didn’t have anything to do with this desert by the sea he found himself in. He turned toward the door leading from the rooftop singing the tune.

He whistled the rest of the song as he made his way down the narrow stone stairs of the abandoned building. At the first floor, he grabbed a duffle stashed behind a low bench. Preacher quickly pulled out a thawb and keffiyeh and put them on. He placed his camera bag inside and retrieved his two weapons, an Uzi and SIG Sauer P226 handgun.

“Confirmation VFR maverick.” Fuchs’ muted voice on the radio confirmed al-Ghamdi and al-Bakr were both in the middle Mercedes.

Lance exited the warehouse, walked around the corner of the building and could have just as easily been at Harvey Point. The scene was not only very similar to that practiced by the group, it was nearly exactly as planned. Three target vehicles moved slowly out of the gate and picked up speed three quarters of a mile away. Low buildings lined the street on both sides. In some stretches, walls replaced buildings. The scene made for something of a shooting gallery, which made it all the more surprising that al-Bakr would guide his employer’s caravan in this direction upon leaving the compound. He evidently placed great confidence in the armor plating and bulletproof windows of the vehicles. Either that, or he had gotten lazy, which was highly unlikely.

Tarwanah had parked the white cargo van about 200 feet ahead of Lance. Jamaani stood 75 feet or so past the van dressed in ragtag attire and pushing a peddler’s cart. A goat, struggling at the end of a frayed thin rope, was tied to the cart for effect. A hundred yards past Jamaani, Fuchs, decked out in local attire, walked toward the Jordanian on the same side of the street with a canvas bag slung over his shoulder.

The target vehicles were now within a quarter mile of the escalation point and picking up speed. Lance walked toward the location on the opposite side of the street from the other three team members. He surveyed the entire scene as best he could then went up to about 1,000 feet to take it all in. Just as sketched out by Seibel during planning and training sessions, a few pedestrians and other vehicles dotted the area. Innocent casualties were unfortunately expected.

Go.

As planned, with the vehicles 100 yards away and moving at about 30 miles per hour, Jamaani began pushing his cart across the street. His stooped demeanor and outstretched hand begged the forgiveness of the approaching Mercedes convoy, which had to come to a stop. In a flash of a microsecond, Jamaani dove to the ground with a cylinder a foot tall and approximately 8 inches in diameter in his left hand. He placed the device under the engine of the lead car and rolled to the left a few feet. At this same moment, Fuchs approached the Mercedes bringing up the rear of the convoy and placed a similar device under the rear of the car. Just as quickly he moved 15 feet behind the vehicle. When he made eye contact with Jamaani they each pressed a detonator button for their respective devices. The result was more of an intense flare than an explosion, but instantly, each of the vehicles were engulfed in flames as the devices continued to emit what looked for all intents and purposes to be a welding torch.

Within three seconds, each vehicle was immobilized. The front vehicle’s forward axle had been completely severed by the fury of the intense flame. The Mercedes at the rear had no back tires, only melted rubber and twisted metal. Fuchs and Jamaani stepped back approximately 30 feet to the sides of the front and the rear Mercedes. Each pulled out an Uzi prepared to annihilate anyone emerging from the flaming vehicles. The driver of the first car had apparently been knocked out by the concussion of the rapid flame and smoke. His passenger, with hands raised, looked at Jamaani from behind the protective glass. He knew his fate should he open the door. Smoke was filling the vehicles’ interiors. It would just be a matter of seconds.

Fuchs got action immediately as driver of the rear vehicle burst from the smoke-filled insides with gun blazing. Before he could breath fresh air into his lungs, Fuchs filled his flesh with dozens of bullets from the Uzi. With a short step to his right, he executed the rear Mercedes’ passenger, a guard fumbling for his gun. From his position, he also kept one eye on the Mercedes in the center.

Twelve seconds had now passed.

Tarwanah backed the cargo van onto the sidewalk on the left to within 30 feet of the first Mercedes. With the van in park, he leapt out of his driver-side door with a shoulder rocket grenade launcher. He pointed the Russian-made RPG-7 at the Mercedes in the center of the now disabled convoy. The driver’s eyes bulged upon seeing the weapon. Bulletproof glass would not protect him from a rocket propelled grenade. Seventeen seconds now passed.

Simultaneously, Preacher emerged from his position directly to the side of the middle Mercedes with al-Ghamdi and al-Bakr inside. From the training, he knew he had to trust Fuchs and Jamaani to take out anyone getting out of the front and rear vehicles as he carried out his assignment. From his duffle, Preacher pulled a third and fourth Flasher -- flare cylinder. He placed one under the front and another under the rear. He then stepped back and pulled out the ignition switch for the super flares and held it up for all in the vehicle to see as he stepped back. Twenty two seconds gone by.

Time slowed to still frames in moments of extreme danger and violence like this. Preacher had barely glanced over at the rear vehicle a moment ago as Fuchs unloaded more than 40 shots into its driver and passenger. Their screams were muted, not really human and not registering in his focused and taught mind. Jamaani had not fired on the front vehicle because no one had tried to exit. With the detonation button under his right forefinger, Preacher surveyed the men inside the middle vehicle a dozen feet in front of him. He looked first to al-Bakr in the front passenger seat now closest to him. The driver continued to look in the direction of Tarwanah and his RPG with his hands raised in surrender. Al-Ghamdi and a bodyguard shared the back seat. Both men appeared truly terrified.

Looking back to al-Bakr, it was obvious from his expression the head of security was not terrified in the least. In fact, a distinct, yet toothless smile danced on his lips. He looked directly at Preacher. No blinking. No fear. Preacher took two more steps back onto the sidewalk on the right side of the road and raised his left hand even with his raised right. He kept his gaze square on al-Bakr and pointed with his left index finger at the detonator device in his right and then opened his hand to show all five fingers. He then mouthed the number 5 in Arabic –
khamsa
. He closed his thumb and counted 4 –
arba’a
. Then three fingers and
thalatha
. At
ithnan
, or 2, al-Bakr did something that should have been totally unexpected except for the prediction of the very act by Seibel.

Al-Bakr pulled out an Uzi of his own from behind bulletproof glass and without any hesitation spun around and killed the other three men in the car; including his employer al-Ghamdi. There went one of the targets.
Damn
.

Blood from the close-range executions splattered the windows at the rear and left side of the car. The bulletproof glass kept the bullets from exiting the vehicle. Al-Bakr turned back to Preacher with the exact same expressionless look on his face and dropped the gun between his legs to raise his hands.

Preacher still had both hands raised and closed his left ring finger to signal one and mouthed the word in Arabic -
wahid
. He nodded his head at the door while keeping his eyes glued to al-Bakr’s. The Arab did as signaled and reached for the door handle. Preacher took the opportunity to reach into his belt under the thawb and pull out his Sig handgun. Al-Bakr tossed his Uzi out and pushed the door fully open. Perfect timing, a Rolling Stones tune started the moment al-Bakr’s foot hit the ground. Preacher shook his head and his foot began to tap in rhythm.

Jamaani circled to his left behind Preacher to provide additional cover. Thirty-two seconds gone.

The security expert and renowned killer raised his hands. But Preacher noted they weren’t raised any higher than his shoulders.

“Get down.” Preacher ordered.

Al-Bakr only smiled and stared back at him.

“Down.” He repeated and raised his gun. No reply and no reaction. Preacher knew instantly what al-Bakr wanted. He wanted to draw Preacher to him. There could be an explosive device strapped to his waist, but that was unlikely.

In the blink of an eye, Lance saw the scene from above. He looked down on Preacher standing 14 feet from the Arab killer. The distance was too far for al-Bakr to attack him but too close if he had a little explosive device under his off-white thawb. Lance just couldn’t see that happening. Al-Bakr was too vain for suicide. This was going to be hand-to-hand. The older killer wanted it that way. He needed to get closer. In the next blink of an eye, Preacher was back in front of al-Bakr and ready to have a little fun. Maybe dance a two-step. He took a step toward his deadly dance partner.

Preacher didn’t like that the plan would soon fall behind schedule if al-Bakr continued to delay. He processed the situation again and without hesitation lowered his gun’s aim and put a bullet in the Saudi’s right knee.

Al-Bakr should have gone down but he only swayed to his right, then left. The smile left his face for a fraction of a second then came back after a wince. Thirty-nine seconds gone and Lance’s internal clock forced him into his next action. He stepped forward within four feet of al-Bakr.

The next sequence of actions was a ballet of movement taking place in microseconds. A blade flashed into al-Bakr’s right hand and with his good left leg, the Arab assassin lunged at Preacher with the dagger pointed directly at the center of the young American’s chest.

The already slow as molasses scene playing out before him now turned to stop-action photography for Preacher. Kind of like a strobe light in one of those haunted houses he ventured into as a kid. He knew, absolutely knew, that al-Bakr would attempt some type of offensive action and he was ready. Whether a knife, a gun, a chop of the edge of his hand; it was undoubtedly going to happen. The blade appeared from nowhere and slashed toward him, but Preacher remained unnaturally calm.