The Perfect Candidate: A Lance Priest / Preacher Thriller (No. 1) (2 page)
Read The Perfect Candidate: A Lance Priest / Preacher Thriller (No. 1) Online
Authors: Christopher Metcalf
“Are you sure you didn’t know we had been in your apartment?” Seibel’s look was telling.
“I knew someone had. You knocked the red koozee off the armrest of my plastic deck chair.”
Seibel furrowed his brow. “That sounds like some kind of code. But regardless, your instincts were right as I expected.” Seibel paused to gather himself, and for effect. He was something of a showman.
“Mr. Priest, you have been under surveillance for nearly two months. Your every action has been captured or documented in some manner. Quite an investment has been made in you already. But of course we expect a great return on our investment.
“We have followed you to school, to work, out on the town with your very few friends and back home again. We followed your early morning or late night runs, which never, and I mean never, follow the same path. A team followed your drive from Tulsa to Dallas yesterday and was quite impressed with your recon of the area surrounding this building last evening. We were in the room next to your motel room last night and beside your vehicle on the drive in this morning.”
“For what? Why?” The smile was gone from Lance’s face.
“Please let me finish,” Seibel raised a hand. “We have indeed looked into a great many aspects of your life, from your childhood in Florida and then Texas, right through high school and now college in Tulsa. We have interviewed people in your distant past you have forgotten. We have collected sufficient data to tell your life story. I have mounds of paperwork detailing the family history, education, health and finances of Lance Porter Priest.” During this last part, Seibel leaned forward for further effect. His face was within 18 inches of Lance’s blank stare.
But Lance’s mind wasn’t blank. It was working, collecting, cataloging. Processing.
Lance sees people the same way he views, or better, devours maps. People are maps of their life. The decisions made, hardships endured, lies told and hidden are like roads and topography and landmarks all there on and below the skin. And like maps, Lance can memorize every detail.
His knowledge of human anatomy had been memorized from a number of reference books on the subject. Looking at Seibel, he watched his favorite of the 20 facial muscles -- the procerus -- do its thing. Located right there on the bridge of each human’s nose between the eyes, this small muscle helps people flare their nostrils or furrow their eyebrows to look angry. A great little muscle.
He took in every feature, every facet of Seibel’s visage in a flash of a moment. He was 56, maybe 58. Six-feet tall and a solid 195 pounds. Blue-grey eyes, broken but distinctive nose, light scars on left cheek, below left ear and left side of his neck. Good-lookin’ guy, but hard, tough, smart. Kind of guy you’d see on cigarette billboards.
A drill sergeant with a Harvard MBA.
Seibel broke a slight grin and placed his hands flat on the table, again for effect. “But, here’s the thing. I don’t think we’ve uncovered even a quarter of who you really are Mr. Priest. Your ability to both create and maintain stories, identities and advantageous relationships is…” he searched for the correct word, “extraordinary. I think that best captures it. Your capacity to lie, to create intricate fabrications, is nothing short of remarkable. You are very, and I mean very, talented. So, after all this time and investment in man hours and surveillance technology and psychoanalysis we have come to the conclusion that you make an excellent candidate.”
“For what?” Lance was damn sure it wasn’t Foreign Service Officer.
“Please let me finish,” Seibel lifted a finger this time. “You are an excellent candidate to help us do great things in the service of your country and the cause of freedom around the world.”
Lance just looked at him and waited for more. “Are you done? Can I interrupt now?”
“Excellent. You really are extremely adept. You picked up my cadence. You read my body language and decided it best to play stupid or dumb, of which you are neither.”
“You lost me.”
“I highly doubt that. Mr. Priest, you are indeed very impressive, especially for a 21-year-old who should be more interested in sports and girls and partying than getting yourself into this situation. But for some reason, you have chosen in your life to play a series of roles and characters that require you to live a number of well-constructed and intricate lies. You are a student, a salesman, but most of all a chameleon. You are adept at change and flexibility and creativity. And that makes you something and someone we can use.”
“We?”
“Not just yet Preacher.” Seibel let the word, his in-depth knowledge of Lance’s life, including his ironic nickname, hang in the air. He leaned back a few inches and gestured toward the gun. “I am guessing you know how to use that weapon.”
“I have shot it a few times.” Lance told the truth. He didn’t tell Seibel that he was a lousy shot, really bad. Broad side of the barn bad.
“Good. You will want to take it with you.”
“Where?”
“That is entirely up to you. Where you go and what you do can keep you alive.”
“Alive?” Lance whispered. His procerus muscle pulled his eyebrows together.
Seibel reached back down into the leather bag and pulled out a manila file folder. He moved the gun to the side and laid the folder on the table. He spun it with a flourish and opened it. Paper-clipped to each side of the folder were a sheet of paper and a photo of a man. They both looked tough, weathered and mean. I was obvious they weren’t Americans.
“These two men are veterans of many challenging incidents, primarily in eastern Europe, although they know the United States well from several assignments. They are possibly the best hunters of men to come out of Europe in the last two decades. They have been extremely useful for both sides. Hired guns if you will, mercenaries. They are an excellent team.”
“And?” Lance waited for more. This thing had moved from interesting to a little scary.
“And, can you disappear Mr. Priest?”
“Disappear? From where, here?” Lance tilted his head.
“Where is not the question. The real question is when, and when for you is right now.” Seibel replied.
“What do you mean?”
Seibel paused for a moment, a dramatic pause. The smile faded from his chiseled face. “I will tell you this, all of this, only once. Listen carefully. These men are here, in this building in fact on another floor.” He stopped and looked at his watch. “In six minutes and 24 seconds they are to be handed a file like this one that contains your photo, name, address, driver’s license number, social security number and last known whereabouts. Which of course, is right here in this room.”
“And?” Lance was spinning, but didn’t miss a beat. His foot still tapping in rhythm.
Seibel couldn’t help but smile at this kid, this consummate liar. “They will be given the assignment to find and apprehend a wanted package -- you. They are very good, very capable. Our preferred method of capture is alive and unharmed, but they will be given sufficient leeway to complete their assignment since they are apprehending an armed individual.” The words hung in the air like a flashing neon sign.
“Leeway?” Lance, still cool, smiled back at Seibel. This was now definitely scary.
“They will be authorized to use any and all means, including deadly force.”
“Jesus.” Lance sat back in the chair and ran his hands through his hair.
“He won’t be able to help you, unless he knows a good hiding place or is armed to the teeth. And after reading through your life story, I don’t think you’d call upon him anyway.”
“Why? Why me?”
Seibel continued in his formal manner. “Mr. Priest, you are apparently a gift sent to us by someone or something that wants you to contribute to the betterment of mankind, at least American mankind. I can tell from my short time with you and my hours and hours of examination of video, audio and dead trees that Lance Priest is a patriot. You have a deep respect for your country. You came close to joining the military out of high school but couldn’t handle the structure. You are truly a very promising candidate. Maybe one of a kind. But you will be of no use to your country or anyone for that matter unless you can survive the next 72 hours.”
Maybe he should already be running for his life. Elton’s song was only halfway through. It was making it a bit hard to concentrate on what Seibel was saying.
Chapter 2
He should be scared. Scared to death. Maybe convulsing, bending over to hurl his lunch. He should be sweating bullets -- another bad pun, but still.
But he wasn’t. He wasn’t scared or nauseous or sweating. If anything, Lance was excited, like those eager moments before the starting gun fired prior to the 400-meter race at the Oklahoma high school state track meet. Right now, in this moment, Lance was more alert than he’d been in years, maybe ever.
Lance could feel every joint in his body, every surface or fabric touching his skin. Even with the song playing in his head, he was able to concentrate on his senses. He was about to go out of body, could feel it coming on.
He couldn’t see them, but Lance could sense the layers of reality comprising the situation he now found himself in. Like sitting across the desk from the school principal in 9
th
grade telling a lie-filled epic tale with dozens of moving parts, he knew there were multiple agendas in play here. Seibel was much more than a well-dressed bureaucrat. Each word spoken by the man carried numerous meanings.
“Seventy-two hours. Three days?” Lance shook his head as he said this. He also pushed his chair back a few inches, readying himself.
“Three days,” Seibel pulled a business card from his suit jacket and set it on the table next to Lance’s gun and looked at his watch again. “Here is a number that you are to call at precisely 2:17 p.m. three days from now. The number will be active for only 10 minutes and only I can answer it.” With that, Seibel sat back in his chair. “I hope to hear from you then.”
“That’s it? I just leave now?”
“You have 5 minutes and 20 seconds head start. I would use it.” Seibel was relaxed.
Lance corrected him without looking at his own watch or the clock on the wall. His internal clock was keeping time like it does when he runs. “It’s 5 minutes 11 seconds. Again, why are you doing this?”
“Now is not the time to ask why. Now is the time to fly. Good luck Preacher.” Seibel was done with his performance. He had just told a 21-year-old kid that two killers were about to hunt him down, but at least he did it with a smile.
Lance’s next few moves were sudden and surprisingly confident despite the desperate situation. Seibel watched every infinitesimal detail of Lance’s actions. Assessing everything.
First, Lance stood, scooting the chair back as he did so. He grabbed the gun with his right hand. Even though he hadn’t held it in a year or fired it in two years, he pressed the clip release and popped the magazine out the bottom of the handle. It was fully loaded and had been oiled. He shoved the clip back in and swiped the card from the table with his left hand, shoving it into his right breast jacket pocket. Seibel remained completely passive.
And then Lance reached for the file folder. This changed things.
Seibel smacked his left hand flat on the manila folder. It was a loud slap. Definitive in its intent and effect.
“I’m afraid I’ll need to keep this.” Seibel smiled up at him.
Simultaneous to stretching out to the folder with his left hand, Seibel did a deceptively fast thing with his right. The motion was swift and smooth and utterly natural as he reached his right hand to lift his suit jacket and grab the handle of a gun resting in a holster midway between his armpit and waist. He didn’t pull the gun, but was ready to. His eyes never left Lance’s.
Preacher watched Seibel’s right hand movement with his peripheral vision but kept his eyes locked on Seibel’s. The gun in his own right hand was currently down at his side. This was suddenly an old west showdown. No doubts now, this was really happening. Lance was closer to death than he’d ever been, but felt more alive than ever.
Damn
.
With his eyes locked on Seibel, Preacher’s mind slowed the world around him to stop-motion. He went out of body, above the fray for a clearer picture. In his mind’s eye, he looked down on the scene from a vantage point near the ceiling. His ability to see the world below like examining a map had simply always been a part of him. Preacher couldn’t actually see anything more than he could from behind his hazel eyes, but the visual acuity process taking place in his unique mind gave him another, more detailed view of the world around him. Preacher sees things others don’t.
From above, he saw himself leaning over the table with a hand on the file folder. He saw Seibel sitting with his left hand on the same folder, his right hand hidden under his jacket gripping the handle of a gun.
Preacher looked for details, for the clue he needed. He saw it. The folder. A flash bulb went off and lit up the room with a burst that showed Lance his next move, his next series of moves. His plan was formulated and ready for execution. Two whole seconds had passed.
Back inside his head, Preacher executed the next three motions naturally with lightning speed and no forethought. He lifted his left hand from the folder while slightly lowering his shoulders -- a microsecond of resignation. Seibel’s reaction was to relax his own left shoulder just a fraction.
Still locked on Seibel’s eyes, Preacher saw the shoulder ease in his peripherals. This was his cue. He suddenly grabbed Seibel’s forearm and violently slid it to his left, to Seibel’s right. The secret to this move was the folder. Seibel was strong and tried to resist the movement, but the manila folder’s paper cardstock made it slick as all hell sitting there on the printed vinyl wood grain of the tabletop.
The effect of Seibel’s left arm being jammed to the right was a twisting, a wrenching of his body, made even more so because he was seated. It pinned Seibel down for the tiniest moment. A moment was all Preacher needed.
Now, if Preacher had only grabbed the arm and shoved it sideways, he might have just pissed Seibel off. But simultaneous to the arm slide, he swung the gun from beside his right hip up to where the Beretta’s barrel met Seibel’s graying temple. The entire sequence of motions, from the slight fade upon releasing the file to gun barrel pressing against flesh, took less than a second and a half. Funny how life can change in a second or two. It makes 10 minutes seem a lifetime.
Seibel kept his eyes locked on Preacher. When his arm had been suddenly gripped and shoved across his body, he squeezed the handle of his Glock 17 but didn’t get it out of the holster before the younger, faster and stronger man had a cold barrel pressed against his temple.
Damn
.
The older man’s reaction was another surprise. He smiled. He friggin smiled.
The smile broadened and became quiet laughter. “Excellent,” he whispered, giggled really.
Lance wasn’t sure of his next move. He had no idea his manila folder forearm-slide plan would work so well. Standing with a gun pointed at a man’s head, he needed to think. Elton was thankfully into the song’s final chorus and musical crescendo. His foot still tapped the beat.
Lance couldn’t help his next action. He leaned in close to Seibel’s ear. But before he spoke, he did a strange thing. He winked at the clock on the wall, particularly the small round hole where the 12 should be. From the angle, Seibel couldn’t see the wink.
“I should pull the trigger,” Lance lied. He had no intention of making a mess like that. “I don’t know who you are, but you are one messed up dude for doing this. Let me get this straight, you watch me for two months, invest hundreds of man hours, record my movements, follow me down here to Dallas and then decide to sick two killers on me to bring me back in a body bag. Seems like a waste.” He smiled at the clock, “I think I might be doing folks a favor by putting one in your brain.”
Seibel was not shaking, not nervous. “You need to be challenged right? Well this little test will challenge you. Especially your survival skills.”
Lance leaned back to look Seibel in the eye. “You can stop this. Pick up a phone and make a call. Stop it.” Lance raised his voice well beyond a whisper.
“No stopping. Operation is live,” Seibel removed the smile from his face for this last part. “You need to think through your next actions. You need to be gone, now. These men are not known for their mercy.”
Lance’s next action was decided for him by something and someplace deep inside. He didn’t know its source. But this unpredictability, this embrace of chaos, this need for instability, was a vital and driving force in his life. Always had been. Lance thrived in unsettled situations.
He moved the gun five inches from Seibel’s temple and squeezed the trigger. The clock took a direct hit. A pretty good shot for him. The explosion in the small room was deafening. Seibel’s eardrum took the brunt of it. He cringed but took no aggressive action.
Preacher also got the proof he needed. The gun was indeed loaded with real bullets.
Lance stood up while keeping the gun leveled at Seibel’s head. He gestured to the clock with a nod. “No witnesses now. I should do it.”
“Go ahead. No one’s stopping you.” Seibel was serious. “You can surely make up a beautiful lie about shooting in self-defense. I have no doubt.”
Lance smiled down at Geoffrey Seibel, super spy. Top secret and classified CIA legend in his own time. Master of his own universe. “Bang. You’re dead Geoffrey. Enjoy your time in hell. I’m sure I’ll be joining you soon.” Lance smiled for another reason as well. The song was finally over.
Seibel could only shake his head. He was the sole witness to the birth of something special, something truly unique. Something he would have to harness and train and release into the world. But something he knew he could never control, never break.
Lance grabbed the folder from under Seibel’s hand and stepped back from the table. He shook his head and jammed the gun into his pocket. The expected footsteps ran down the hall. Who ever it was, took a position just outside the conference room. Lance stepped sideways and raised his hands. The door smashed open and the man playing the role of Grisham expertly entered the room by rolling to his right. He rose with both hands holding a gun pointed directly between Lance’s eyes. He didn’t look much like a State Department trainer.
“Stand down,” Seibel held out the palm of his left hand. Grisham looked from Lance to Seibel and back.
“Where is the gun?” he demanded. A strange accent accompanied the question. Sounded a little like German.
Seibel spoke in a voice irrationally calm for the situation. “There’s no time for that now. He needs to be out of here in four minutes. His clock has started. He is active as of now.” Grisham lowered his gun a few inches. Lance somewhat brazenly walked directly at him, stopping just an inch from the gun.
“What the hell did I get myself into?” He asked. Grisham only looked over Lance’s shoulder at Seibel. Lance leaned his head to the left to block Grisham’s view and continued, “I came down here for the Foreign Service Officer oral assessment and now I’ve got four minutes head start on a couple of European killers.”
Recognition flashed in Grisham’s eyes and he lowered his gun. “Krachovs?” he asked Seibel.
“Yes.” Seibel nodded. “No time for chit chat.”
Grisham stepped out of the way and holstered his gun. Lance noted that he had missed the bulge of the gun during the day. How did he fail to spot that on both of these guys? What else had he missed? No time now to be ticked off by this oversight; but he told himself it wouldn’t happen again.
Grisham motioned to the door. “Then you’d better run kid and don’t stop. Get out of this building and out of town. Stay low, keep running. They never stop tracking once they have a scent and they don’t have the word quit in their vocabulary.”
“Great, friggin great. Thanks a bunch, assholes,” he pushed Grisham aside with enough force to nearly knock him to the floor. He turned back to Seibel from the doorway to give him a middle-finger salute. He was a 21-year-old kid after all. “Just be by the phone Geoffrey.”
“Three minutes 20 seconds,” Seibel tapped his watch.
Lance took off down the hall like a bat out of hell. People stood in doorways and at the front reception desk. Everyone on the floor had undoubtedly heard the gunshot. He saw someone else with a gun and was even more pissed at himself for missing all the hardware. He hated missing details.