The Perfect Candidate: A Lance Priest / Preacher Thriller (No. 1) Page 2

  Outside in the hall with the door closed, the two stood only inches apart. They had obviously been in tight spaces together. Seibel pulled a tiny recorder from his jacket pocket and whispered.

  “Seibel, Geoffrey, NCS-SAD number 347 dash 9. Braden, Stuart NCS-SAD psych ops, number 4561 dash 7. November 10, 1987. Do I have approval to proceed with candidate number 1 dash 713, Priest, Lance P. age 21, Tulsa, Oklahoma?” The question was steeped in formality as if it were spoken for documentation purposes. And obviously it was.

  Braden’s reply was just as dry and formal; it too wrapped in government bureaucratic legalese. “Braden, Stuart 4561 dash 7. Candidate Priest meets or exceeds all position and agency NDC requirements under Directive 718H. You are approved to proceed.”

  Seibel snapped off the recorder, shoved it into his pocket and turned to re-enter the room. The door closed behind him louder than it should have, but the effect was nice. He moved back to his seat and after sitting, reached down beside him to pull something out of a small leather bag on the floor. It was a gun and Seibel put it on the table right in front of Lance.

  “What is that for?” Lance kept his eyes locked on Seibel’s pale blue eyes. He also managed to keep his cool. He was annoyed at the moment. Not by Seibel or the gun. A classic Elton John song had started playing in his head while Seibel was out of the room. His personal mental soundtrack picked a lousy time to kick in. But there was no stopping a song once it started. It had always been like this.

  “For shooting.” Seibel replied.

  “Why is it on the table?” Lance nodded. His foot tapped to the beat of the song playing in his head.

  “Do you recognize this weapon?”

  Lance leaned down to get a closer look. “It looks like mine.”

  “It is yours. Beretta 9 mm model 92 chambered for the classic Parabellum bullet with a 13-round magazine. A little light, but still a nice gun. Given to you by your stepfather three years ago and given to him by his uncle who lives in Fort Smith, Arkansas.”

  “How did you get it?” Lance’s face showed nothing, but he had been knocked slightly off kilter by the gun appearing first of all. Seibel’s accurate telling of the gun’s life story was a gut blow. What the hell?

  “Does seeing this gun now really surprise you?” Seibel was the ultimate in cool.

  “Yes. How the hell did you get it?” Lance squinted and played the role of an angry young man. His foot tapped away. He fought the urge to go out of body.

  “How do you think?” Seibel raised his hands slightly with the question.

  “Obviously from of my bedroom closet.”

  “Precisely. Off the shelf above your hanging suits, which were grey, blue, blue and seersucker. Your navy blue sports coat is missing a gold button from the left sleeve.” Seibel said this last line with concern, like he really cared about that missing button.

  Lance tilted his head and squinted his eyes. “What the hell is going on? Who are you?”

  “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 9th 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 pas
sed.

  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.