The Perfect Weapon

  THE PERFECT

  WEAPON

  __________

  A LANCE PRIEST NOVEL

  CHRISTOPHER METCALF

  TT Tree Tunnel Publishing

  Copyright © 2012 by Christopher Metcalf

  Published by

  Tree Tunnel Publishing, LLC

  Tulsa, Oklahoma

  Cover artwork and photos courtesy Wikimedia Commons (public domain).

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-0-9837447-7-1

  www.treetunnelpublishing.com

  For Ann

  (a few lucky people call her Mom)

  We can easily forgive a child who is afraid of the dark; the real tragedy of life is when men are afraid of the light.

  — Plato or Socrates

  or some other dead Greek philosopher

  Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned

  Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned

  — W. Congreve

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Again, too many to thank. Diana is accepting of faults, many, many faults. Kids grow but remain cherished, always. Cathy made me look at words differently. Wendy remains an inspiration. Stephenie's take on forever love influenced these words. Google Maps® is a portal unto the far reaches of the world. Looking down on outdoor basketball courts in Ürümqi, China right now. Did you know that Han (Chinese) is the world's largest ethnic group? Did the author mention faults?

  Friday, February 26, 1993

  The billowing smoke was evidence of what could have been. The buildings still stood. Was it luck? Did they not put enough explosives in the truck? Whatever the reason, they had completed their mission. Their ultimate goal may not have been realized, but they had succeeded in declaring war on the United States.

  Prologue

  Lonely was the killer.

  Taking a life with the precise slash of a razor sharp blade is a lonesome practice. Solitary. A select few know the feeling, the sensation of holding a writhing body as it gives up its last breaths. Gives up its life.

  Looking the subject square in the eyes is a must in those last moments. The killer must accept the responsibility. The severity of the crimes committed by the subject matters not during these final seconds. Hatred, revulsion and loathing must be tamed. Set aside. The professional takes over.

  This target had done despicable acts. He earned this death a hundred times over, maybe a thousand. In his lust for power, he had elevated cruelty to unparalleled levels. He'd stolen, blackmailed, threatened, stripped others of their tenuous hold on humanity. He had nearly achieved his malevolent goals. Nearly. The killer was summoned to rid the world of this menace and protect those in immediate danger. But not until negotiations failed. The target was bargained with, pleaded with and had been begged to reconsider his plans. All to no avail. A line had been crossed and there was no recourse. No options. This was a pre-emptive, preventative action. Eliminate one to save the lives of many.

  The killer was new to this life, but had all requisite skills. This assignment would be a success because failure was unacceptable. In time, this kill would take its place next to others -- many, many others. But for now, execution was called for.

  Silently, the killer followed the target through the frozen night. The destination was clear. He was headed to the abandoned warehouse he considered his secret lair. It was the heart of his evil kingdom. His throne was a crate turned on its side. His loyal subjects were rats and other vermin scurrying into corners. The target would observe their black eyes and find them comforting as he smoked stolen cigarettes while seated on his throne.

  The killer stayed 60 feet behind and across the deserted late evening street as the subject trudged through knee-deep, and sometimes waist-deep, snow. The shimmering, yet smothering, blanket of white made the night even quieter. The killer expertly kept close to the houses and apartments on the other side of the street, moving from shadow to shadow. It wasn’t much farther now.

  The low clouds in the night sky reflected the lights of the dismal inner city. The diffused light from this reflection provided more than enough illumination for the killer to see the rise and fall of the subject’s boots; the hunched shoulders and bobbing hooded head. The target was oblivious to his watcher, his hunter. His confidence was evident in the blasé pattern and cadence of his walk. Even struggling through snow this deep, his arrogance was evident.

  As expected, the subject turned on the street that led to his castle just a quarter mile ahead. In that quarter mile, the buildings thinned out. Houses were left behind and thick growths of trees with branches reached out on either side of the road, creating a tunnel of sorts, even in the depths of winter. The killer assumed the target fantasized about walking triumphantly across the drawbridge and through the gates of his fantasy walled city. The killer had come to know this subject intimately through days of observation. In actuality, this target was not a stranger. The killer knew more about him than others would, or even could.

  The warehouse had been abandoned nearly three decades earlier. Its brick façade had crumbled in many places. Any windows that remained were broken. The floor was dirt, reminiscent of its pre-1900 construction. Sagging metal girders were rusted but still strong enough to support the structure after hundreds of winters and thousands of feet of snow piled on top throughout its history.

  Once inside, a match dimly lit the subject’s face as he bent to sit on the crate in the center of the empty carcass of a building. A cigarette's orange pinpoint glow followed the match. The expanse of the open space was dark otherwise. The killer stood amid deep shadows just inside the door. Less than 50 feet separated hunter and prey. After 30 seconds, the killer’s eyes adjusted to the dark. Death was only moments away.

  The killer removed a glove. A bare right hand reached into the right pocket of the thick winter coat. Inside, the knife waited. The pocket kept it warm. It was much easier to handle, more pliable to the grip. The serrated blade measured seven inches in length. During its life, it had cleaned fish, deer, moose and even bear. It was a simple, timeless tool that had been maintained in a respectful manner. A hunter knows to keep the blade sharp at all times.

  A silent exhale of frozen breath cleared the killer's mind. Like a ghost, the killer moved toward the kill, circling around behind to come at an angle. The strike could be from above, from a position lateral to the target’s neck or from below, rising up through the diaphragm into the chest. With the killer two steps away, the target removed the cigarette from his mouth and brought his right hand down to his knee. The entire target zone was now open. The killer chose the lateral entry.

  The blade sliced through the dark of night and into the right side of the target’s neck. It was a vicious, violent blow. The entire blade entered the target’s throat severing arteries, tendons and esophagus. The blow carried the target backward, off the crate to the dirt floor. The killer placed a gloved left hand over the target’s mouth and a knee in his chest.

  The deed was done. There would be no recovery from this mortal wound. Just inches separated their two faces. Darkness had taken everything now. The subject sputtered. Blood flowed freely as the killer kept the knife in place, inside the subject’s throat. A few moments of life remained. The killer tore the blade free from the ruined neck and rose to a standing position.

  The next action was necessary for satisfaction’s sake. The killer removed the glove fro
m the left hand and reached into another pocket to retrieve a small flashlight. The bulb lit and the spray of light illuminated the killer’s face. The nearly deceased target looked up through death to see his killer. If he had more strength left, he would have raged and roared. But he could only move his mouth to form a scream than would not come, would never come. He recognized his killer instantly. He had seen the face before, but never like this. Never this calm, this confident, this peaceful. A moment later, his eyes lost their weak focus as death consumed him.

  The killer pulled a rag from a back pocket and wiped the blade, then moved the beam of light to survey the area around the kill. The footprints around the body were all made by the same size and make of boots. The killer had secured a pair exactly the same as those the deceased wore. The flashlight was extinguished. The killer turned for the open door where the silent night and shimmering snow waited.

  Chapter 1

  Wednesday, April 9, 1991 — Hamburg, Germany

  It was an ant.

  In the midst of controlled chaos chasing a terrorist bomb maker named Amir Shafiq through the streets of Hamburg, Lance Priest adjusted his footfall to avoid the ant. A single solitary little black one. It was nothing, literally nothing. But it was also something.

  In 24 years, he’d stepped on thousands, maybe millions of ants, spiders, roaches, beetles. All variety of frantically scurrying insects had died beneath his feet. He could not recall a single instance in which he avoided stepping on one of these seemingly endless vermin. Killing them was nothing. So why had he just adjusted the descent of his right foot to steer clear of this particular fella? Why?

  He knew the answer, but he didn’t want to think about it, or her. Yes, it was her.

  He’d been changed. No matter how minuscule the transformation, he was different. He’d found compassion, if only a modicum. A microscopic sliver of empathy could now be found alongside his general disdain. And he didn’t really like it. It felt unnatural to care. He smiled to himself and shook his head.

  So here, with Shafiq only 25 feet ahead of him barreling through narrow and ancient city streets and a Bruce Springsteen song pounding in his head, Lance noticed an ant. Great. What next, call out to the terrorist and ask him to hold up so he could rescue a kitten from a tree? Should he ask the Pakistani bomb maker to stop traffic and help an elderly woman cross the street? Of course, this was just a phase, right? These new thoughts with their soft, beveled edge of empathy and compassion were a temporary state, right?

  No time to think about it now. Shafiq swept to the left around a corner and disappeared for a second. The terrorist knocked a lady to the ground as he rounded the turn onto an even tighter ancient street with bricks and stones beneath their feet laid centuries ago. Lance was around the same corner a moment later. He hurdled the woman sprawled out on the street. Helping her up was out of the question right now.

  “Es tut mir leid,” he called back to her, apologizing in German. He examined his bodily output and reserves. His lungs were fine, heart rate up but not much, legs fine, not taxed at all. No pain at all in his leg or hip where the bullets fired by Saddam Hussein's personal security guards had ripped through back in Baghdad nearly three months ago. This little impromptu chase was three minutes and 14 seconds old. He knew this because of the permanent clock in his head tuned by years of running. Lance could go like this for another half-hour. He was pretty sure the terrorist didn’t have that in him. But he was not underestimating the man. The guy had kept up an impressive pace so far. Springsteen sang and the E Street Band played in his head.

  The foot chase started just over three-quarters of a mile to the southeast. Two fellow terrorists from the Hamburg cell were being arrested by police on the street outside a coffee shop when Shafiq rounded a corner four minutes earlier. He was late for their meeting. Lucky dude.

  It probably would have been just fine for the Pakistani if he hadn’t stopped in his tracks and wheeled around in the opposite direction from the arrest scene. His abrupt movement caught the attention of a certain young CIA operative standing 150 yards to the east. Lance was leaning against a wall taking in the thorough arrest procedure from a safe distance. He had been involved in monitoring the terrorist cell for two weeks with his Hamburg counterparts. The cell had come close to achieving their goal of blowing up the Hamburg Hauptbahnhof, the city's central train station. Lance loved that German word – bahnhof. It sounded much cooler than the English "train station."

  It was a four-man cell. The leader and his right-hand man were being arrested without incident. A third was currently being detained at a library three blocks over. The German authorities were expecting Shafiq to be in the coffee shop with the other two. Intel had fallen short yet again. Someone should have had eyes on him every moment this morning.

  When Shafiq did his little sidewalk pirouette, he caught Lance’s eye. He immediately recognized the bomb maker and started walking casually in Shafiq’s direction until the Pakistani turned the corner, at which point Lance took off after him. As Lance expected, Shafiq was in full sprint and already a block ahead as he rounded the corner. The chase was on. Cue the music. It had always been like this. When Lance starts running, whether out for an early morning jog or rounding the corners of the track back in high school, his personal jukebox kicks in. He never knew what song was going to play.

  Now, nearly four minutes later, Lance was within five paces of Shafiq. If it had been just a short sprint, the lean Pakistani might have made it. He was obviously in excellent shape and seemed to know the Hamburg urban terrain well. But a chase of any distance gave Lance an advantage over most humans. He excelled at chasing down other runners from behind and crushing their spirits in the last 100 yards or so of a race. He’d done it dozens of times back in junior and high school in Oklahoma. He had sometimes let it string out until the very last few strides before he leaned to take the finish line first. It was nothing personal.

  Shafiq slowed for a few paces and then suddenly burst to the right. Lance was within feet of him as he pivoted off his left foot to make the turn onto another street. This avenue was wider, less ancient that the previous street. Several cars were traveling at medium speed. The Pakistani veered left into traffic. A driver slammed on brakes and the car fishtailed into a parked van with a loud crash. Two pedestrians screamed and dove for cover. That did it. This was getting a little ridiculous.

  Lance had been watching Shafiq and his motions, his fluid movement, to see if there was a pattern beneath his actions. He was hoping the terrorist was leading him closer to a safe house or perhaps a location the cell had determined to meet at in the case of discovery. But this was not to be. Lance could see that his target’s actions were not thought out, there was no predetermination. He was merely fleeing.

  As he had in the first minute of the chase, Lance went out of body, up to 2,000 feet to observe the scene below. His natural ability to elevate from his current earthly location to look down on the world around him allowed him to see this small neighborhood of Hamburg. He could see streets and alleyways stretching out in all directions like arteries emanating from an urban heart. This particular view of Hamburg, Germany at longitude 53 33 N and latitude 9 59 E came to him via satellite imagery he had reviewed in the days before coming to this northern German city.

  Lance never thought much about having a photographic memory. He didn’t really agree with others who said he did. For him, the images he sees on maps and photos come alive. Streets, highways, alleys, parking lots, all have features, characteristics he is able to see in 3-D so that when he is actually in a location he has seen on a map, he can 'see' in all directions. The yellow, red and blue lines on maps come alive to show him which direction to take, which shortcut to trust. Satellite images brought this innate ability to new levels of clarity after he joined the CIA three years ago.

  He'll never forget the first time he was escorted into a secure room where satellite imagery was beamed for use by CIA intel operators. The feeling was nothing short
of orgasmic. He actually blushed a little. For a kid who devoured maps, with their stagnant images that may have been printed years or decades earlier, seeing satellite images that encompassed entire cities and allowed visual drill-down to individual streets with addresses, license plates, even leaves on trees, was awesome. He said just that - “awesome” standing there in that high tech room with television monitors filled with images captured by satellites just minutes earlier. It was truly kid in a candy store stuff.

  Lance looked down briefly from above as Shafiq completed his illegal crossing of the street in front of moving vehicles. In his mind’s eye, he could see the intersection up ahead and the heavier traffic crowding the busy thoroughfare. And on the northeast corner of that intersection was a school. Lance couldn’t allow children to be placed in danger. Decision made.

  It was always in moments like this, with pressure and action and violence expected in the moments ahead, that Lance changed. It was not a conscious act. But he became someone else. He became Preacher, an alter ego given the name by other boys making fun of his last name -- Priest. Since a boy first uttered the name almost 15 years ago, Preacher had simply become part of him. One thing Lance knew that others did not, Preacher is not nice.

  Preacher put on a sudden burst of speed on the opposite side of the street from Shafiq. In four seconds, he was even with him and then ahead. The terrorist looked to his right and saw his pursuer across the street and did just what Preacher had hoped. The Pakistani suddenly turned left at the last alley before the busy intersection.