The Perfect Patriot Read online

  THE PERFECT PATRIOT

  ------------------

  A LANCE PRIEST / PREACHER THRILLER

  CHRISTOPHER METCALF

  TT Tree Tunnel Publishing

  Copyright © 2016 by Christopher Metcalf

  Kindle Version

  Published by

  Tree Tunnel Publishing, LLC

  Tulsa, Oklahoma

  Cover photos courtesy Wikimedia Commons:

  U.S. Capitol Photo by DAVID ILIFF. License: CC-BY-SA 3.0

  U.S. Flag Photo by TIMO KOHLENBURG. License: CC-BY-SA 2.0

  Alfred P. Murrah Building public domain by FEMA

  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: 978-0-9886016-3-5

  www.treetunnelpublishing.com

  www.christophermetcalf.com

  www.spiesandlies.wordpress.com

  For Quincy & Major

  Born 1995

  9:02 a.m.

  Chapter 1

  Speechless was the killer.

  She was unbelievably beautiful and glistening and morning and night and forever. He looked from this new angel to his living dream, his life's partner. She was spent but smiling. She squeezed his hand. He broke from her weak smile to look again at his latest reason for living and being.

  A nurse wiped her clean, suctioned her tiny mouth out and crimped off her cord. She was brought back over and handed to him. Feathers and bright light and brilliance and his and hers. He bent to place her into Marta's waiting arms. She held the angel against her chest and touched her nose to that tiny nose and shook her head ever so slightly, brushing their noses together.

  Lance reached out and grasped an impossibly small foot under the swaddling blanket. He knew the name and purpose of every bone, every muscle, every joint, every organ in her tiny body. But for only the second time in his adult life, he could not see the pieces that make up the whole.

  Like that very first time in Baghdad when he witnessed human perfection in Marta, he could only see the tiny girl between them. He didn't care that her ultra tiny procerus muscle was working hard to pull her eyebrows together in this impossibly bright room after being indoors in the dark for nine months or so.

  He moved his hand from this delicate foot to Marta's delicate arm and then shoulder. She was just barely strong enough to peel her eyes from their joint angel to look up at Lance. He'd seen her smile, but never like this. No, this was a new one. He captured this smile and catalogued it in his photographic memory under utter joy.

  This moment, this timeless glimpse of all and everything, was perfect. And then it wasn't.

  The masked nurse who walked into the room did so with a hesitant gait. She shuffled and sagged and shook her head. Lance looked from this shaken woman to others with similar characteristics outside the glass doors.

  A man and woman stood talking, shaking their lowered heads as they did so.

  He turned back to Marta and the perfection in her arms. His smile had changed and she saw it. Lance could fool the world with his variety of chameleon smiles, but not Marta. She looked to the other nurse in the room who had seen the pain in the other nurse's face as she entered.

  "What is it?" Marta asked. "What has happened? Is something wrong?"

  Their nurse, Steph, and then their obstetrician Dr. Morse, turned to the woman who had entered. "Patty, what is it?" Nurse Steph asked her fellow nurse.

  Patty just stood there for a few moments looking down at the floor, shaking her head. She lifted her face and sighed. "A bomb, in Oklahoma City. It's all over the news. They are saying more than a hundred might be dead. A daycare was in the building."

  Lance looked from Nurse Patty to Marta and then to the clock on the wall. He didn't need to. The perfect timepiece inside his brain new it was 10:09 am. Still, he looked at the clock, and then to the right. On a white board, the date was written in erasable marker, with several last names scribbled below each other. He focused on the date. It was April 19, 1995.

  Chapter 2

  Special Agent Ray Orozco could have been named an assistant director, maybe even deputy director, of the Drug Enforcement Agency years ago. He turned the promotions down. It would have meant leaving the field, leaving El Paso and EPIC - the DEA's El Paso Information Center he helped create. He didn't officially run the place, but anyone who knows anything knew he was in charge. Twenty-two years at the DEA. He had been with the agency since it was founded in 1973.

  And the following year, he was one of the founding officers when EPIC was established here on the Mexican border, across the Rio Grande from Ciudad Juarez. This place is home. His heritage is mixed Mexican and Irish and German and who knows. He was born here, grew up here, married and raised his own kids here in this desert borderland.

  He'd spent his entire adult life fighting the drug war. And he is often the first to tell others the good guys are losing this thing.

  It's not for lack of effort. It is just the simple fact that millions of Americans love their drugs. Weed, coke, smack, rock, scripts, whatever; an addicted and strung out America can't get enough. And a healthy majority of the drug traffic feeding this voracious vice-driven appetite moves across the nation's southern border.

  Always been this way. Always going to be this way. "We can slow it down, but we ain't never going to stop it." He'd said that a few thousand times as well.

  Orozco looked across the table at the man who'd invited him to the quaint little Juarez cantina for lunch. He'd fought battle after battle of the endless drug war against him for two decades. Juan Horacio Martinez had a wickedly pockmarked face that resembled the scared surface of the moon. Faded and worn tattooed letters on his eight fingers indicated he'd spent a few good years in prison during his younger years. Perfect training for a murderous drug runner.

  Martinez, who always wore a long leather jacket even at the height of summer, worked his way up to the rank of captain in the Juarez Cartel through good old-fashioned hard work and the occasional murder. He had evidently assumed an even higher rank three months ago, after a wave of mass murder swept through Juarez and removed most of his bosses. That week, a shadowy team of pros ran wild through Juarez wiping out the Cartel’s leadership and a good number of foot soldiers. Blood had literally run in the streets from the edge of the harsh desert south of town, where several deadly explosions killed dozens, right up to the border crossing where a running gun battle filled hospitals and put more Cartel soldiers in the grave. It was a five-day choreographed ballet of chaos. And then it was over. Poof.

  Orozco knew most of the gory details. He had in fact co-authored what had become known throughout the halls of government in recent weeks as "The Juarez Report." It compiled police reports and analysis from both sides of the international border, news articles and interviews from hundreds of individuals throughout Juarez who witnessed the killings or were victims of the violence in some capacity. All told, 46 people died in and around Juarez. Another 32 were left injured. The fact that the dead outnumbered the injured indicated the professionalism of the killers. They were good. The events of that week shook the Mexican Cartels to their calcetines - their socks.

  "I read your report," Martinez said after jamming a spoonful of rice and beans into his mouth and pushing it down with a swig of Corona. "Good work. I got a copy from contacts inside the Juarez police department."

  Orozco nodded. "Of course you did. Glad you liked it." He left it hanging the
re. Didn't need to go into the obvious, like who the hell in the corrupt police department provided a captain in the Juarez Cartel a copy of a top secret DEA document? It never changed in Juarez.

  "But a report doesn't change anything. It doesn't stop actions already underway." Martinez stared at him. "By the police, or by us."

  "If you read the report, you know that it wasn't us. It wasn't DEA. You know that."

  Martinez let a brief smile grace his lips. A little gold on his teeth glinted. "No, it wasn't DEA. You really think it was CIA Ramon? Why, what do they want with our business. We're not spies."

  "The key was the kid, Felix. He wasn't what you thought he was. I believe he was CIA." Orozco nodded his authority on the matter.

  Martinez shook his head. "A kid? He was a child. He didn't do this."

  "No, he didn't do it. But the whole thing, the entire incident revolved around him. The team that came here was looking for him, hunting him. When they found him, the killings stopped." Orozco put his hands on the table. "You need to believe me. And you need to stop this killing Juan."

  And that was it; the reason Orozco went against orders and better judgment and came to this meeting. Since the "Juarez Incident" three months earlier, nine DEA agents had been killed along the southern border. War had been declared on the US, but only a few people knew. Orozco was one of them.

  Martinez sat back against the torn naugahyde fake leather of the booth. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded piece of thick paper. He set it on the table and slid it across. Orozco picked it up and unfolded it.

  It was a photo. The image was blurry, but you could make out the features, somewhat.

  "What or who is this?" Orozco asked.

  "That is your CIA. That is who did it all, killed our men, killed three leaders of three cartels and the general."

  Orozco looked at the photo and then back to Martinez. "One man?"

  "Your report says it all. Almost everyone you interviewed pointed to only one man, two at the most. You were mistaken in your assessment in assuming it was a team of eight to ten. One man came down here, wiped out a decade of our work, killed dozens of our people. And yes, the kid Felix was involved, but he was not the source. We have confirmed that. It was this man." Martinez pointed to the photo in Orozco's hand. "And you, my friend, my enemy, you have one job, one thing you can do to end this. Bring him to us. Alive."

  Orozco shook his head and looked out the window onto the dirty Juarez street. "How the hell am I supposed to do that? Even if you're remotely close to being right and if he does exist, how am I supposed to find him? And if I do find him, how am I supposed to bring him here to you?"

  Martinez smiled, but it was not a pleasant smile. No joy. "That is your problem Ramon." The drug runner took another swig of cerveza and leaned forward. "Will you do it?"

  Orozco didn't take a second to answer. "No way, no friggin' way."

  Martinez' face dropped the smile. He raised his eyebrows and turned toward the guy leaning on the counter near the front door next to a beat up cash register and a box of candies available for purchase for only ten cents each. Martinez nodded and the guy pulled out a phone, dialed and spoke a couple of whispered words.

  Outside on the street just 90-feet away, a Chevy Suburban sat idling. Inside were two experienced DEA agents who escorted Orozco to this unapproved meeting. They were paying close attention to their surroundings for this dangerous meeting. But unfortunately, they were facing the restaurant and had a blind spot behind and to the left. They didn't see the Nissan truck pull up 60-feet behind their vehicle. And because they couldn't see the vehicle, they didn't see the man get out of the passenger side door and reach into the truck bed to pull out an RPG launcher.

  This man spread his legs, bent his knees and put the weapon on his shoulder. He took aim through the side-mounted site, centered the front half of the Suburban in the crosshairs and pulled the RPG's trigger. It took less than a second for the rocket-propelled grenade to reach and impact against the side of the SUV. The explosion was massive and violent and sent the vehicle into the air and to the right. It landed on its passenger side.

  Inside the restaurant, Orozco leapt to his feet, raced to the door and ripped it open to run outside onto the sidewalk. The raging fired within the flaming husk of the ruined vehicle sent a funnel of swirling flame and black smoke dancing into the sky. Through the shattered windshield, he witnessed the burning dead bodies of two men, two close friends he'd hired, trained and worked side-by-side with in this endless war for years. He reached for the Beretta in his shoulder holster and began to spin back toward the door.

  But he had no gun and no holster. He'd left them behind, in the Chevy as he'd agreed when he took this meeting. Martinez stood in the restaurant doorway nonchalantly looking on at the death in the vehicle, and a few innocent murdered Juarez citizens lying in the street. Orozco was out of control and burst toward his enemy in a rising rage. The other guy from inside, obviously a skilled bodyguard, stepped in front to intercept a swinging right fist thrown by the DEA man. The guy moved like a boxer and knew his stuff, pivoting Orozco to the right and throwing him up against the neon orange painted brick wall of the structure. The henchman pinned Orozco's right arm to the wall and kept his other hand gripped around the frantic DEA man's throat. Orozco's eyes were wild as he fought against his assailant, but was no match.

  Martinez stepped out and looked from the twisted and charred metal of the burning vehicle back to Orozco. He chewed on a toothpick as he stepped up to Orozco and held the photo up to his face. "Find this CIA ghost and bring him here to us or we will be forced to take this war to a level you will not be able to contain. You will lose many more friends Ramon. You have two weeks, no more." He folded the photo, shoved it into Orozco's shirt pocket and turned to get into a Jeep Cherokee that had raced up to the curb moments earlier.

  The guy pinning Orozco to the wall released him and stepped around to the other side of the vehicle to jump in. Orozco bent and put his hands to his knees with his back still pressed against the building. He shook his head but didn't turn away from the blasting incinerator of the burning Chevy just 40-feet away.

  Chapter 3

  The other end of the phone line answered on the third ring. A quick series of four beeps sounded.

  "Two C. Twenty-six, 27 YOM. Army. Desert Storm. Midwest, south, either. Tomorrow." The voice was quiet, calm.

  The phone line severed.

  Chapter 4

  Lance could see it. He could see it all from this vantage point on high. It was like looking down from the top of his Colorado Rocky Mountain retreat from the world with rocks and trees and a valley spreading out below. But now it was destruction and debris and shattered glass and mangled vehicles. And death.

  He had walked the perimeter and watched for two days. He moved among stunned, silent, pointing and praying humans gathered outside the cordoned-off blocks surrounding the blast site. Flowers and candles and hand-written prayers and messages were attached to the fence or piled up against it. In the thousands of faces he examined, he saw pain, sorrow, dismay, unspeakable loss.

  But in some faces he saw something else. It was something different. Not glee or joy, but something akin to satisfaction. He saw through human masks to the muscles and tendons below skin. He catalogued all of this, these humans. These people were why he was here.

  Three days after the horrific explosion, it still looked fresh. The gaping wound oozed. It smoldered. Bodies were still coming out day and night. Some of those bodies were tiny.

  He waited for the right moment. Two police officers manning a checkpoint turned their attention to an aggressive news crew from a national network. The journalist was recognizable from his reporting at violent hot spots around the world. It looked as though he felt his reputation as a war correspondent granted him certain unalienable journalistic rights and access beyond other mere mortal TV reporters. The OKC police officers stationed at the gate were in no mood. And their intent to show the
cocky reporter an extreme lack of cooperation provided Lance the opportunity to slip over a hastily erected fence line and slink through the 1:00 a.m. darkness to the empty apartment tower with hundreds of blown out windows.

  The building had been hurriedly evacuated in the moments after the explosion three, now four mornings ago. Like other buildings to the north of the Alfred P. Murrah federal building, the apartment tower had suffered significant, even structural damage from the massive blast. Lance made it up to the side of the building and then around to the garage entrance where he descended to find a stairwell. Once inside, he eventually found an unlocked stairwell door and climbed the 24 flights of stairs to the top floor. Up there, he walked down an abandoned hallway to find a unit with a view to the southeast. He broke open the door with a kick.

  Down on his haunches looking over the scene lit up by an array of temporary floodlights brought in originally by search and rescue, he surveyed all directions. From the blast crater in the littered street to the shattered hull of a federal building to the structures in the immediate vicinity. He catalogued the destruction.

  He closed his eyes and felt the concussive blast, the shockwave that precedes the incinerating heat and explosive mass and debris. The deafening and echoing cacophony of the bomb's explosion rattled through his ears. Stone and glass, bent and torn metal, dirt and finally dust fell from the sky. When the bomb's echoes died, the screaming, the running started. He opened his eyes and shook his head.

  Another friggin' bomber. Seemed he couldn't get these out of his system.

  Two-plus years earlier, his time spent learning the way of the bomb and tracking one of the world's pre-eminent terrorist bombers provided Lance with in-depth knowledge of devastation that few attain. He had soaked it in, ingested it, devoured the minutia associated with bombs and explosives and blast radius and shockwave and payload. Like a forensic pathologist combing through the microscopic intricacies of life and death, he knew the details, the evidence to look for in the aftermath.