The Perfect Candidate: A Lance Priest / Preacher Thriller (No. 1) Page 5

  “Hold on, hold on, what the hell are you doing here?” A stoutly built boy of approximately 20 turned and puffed up his chest to Lance.

  “Got bored with the party downstairs and heard they were still kickin it up here,” Lance replied with a warm and trusting smile as he twisted the cap off the bottle.

  “No way, no friggin way we let a dang Sooner up here.” Another young man stepped over beside the stout gent. The girls in the group giggled. They had been bored a few moments earlier and now this looked like it might be interesting.

  Lance looked down at his shirt and then back at the two fellas standing in front of him and did a completely unexpected thing. He handed the beer to a boy and pulled the shirt off to reveal a burnt orange shirt with a large UT and longhorn pictured on the front.

  “Sorry about that. It was an OU crowd downstairs and I didn’t want anyone to be uncomfortable.” He kept the smile on as he took the bottle back from the boy.

  “Wait a minute. You don’t just change colors and say everything’s okay. Either you’re all for Texas or your against.” The guy slurred the word “against” so it sounded like “ahginn.” The beers and tequila and whatever else his daddy’s money had paid for showed up in his speech and wild eyes.

  “You see, that’s the beauty of it. I am truly not for either one,” Lance looked from the big boy to the other and the three more standing behind. His survey of the group told him they all came from money and had known nothing but privilege in their soft, short lives.

  They knew nothing about living in apartments with their divorced mother and annoying younger brother. They had never eaten a bowl of cereal sitting on the floor using a cardboard box as a table. They couldn’t know that one bowl was the single favorite meal that one would ever eat because it was born of freedom. The constant fighting and violence of the relationship between mom and dad had taken so much away from him that a mere bowl of Cheerios eaten while kneeling on the floor amid moving boxes had left an impression that would never be replaced by filet mignon or poached salmon.

  Yet none of that flashed across Lance’s face as he looked from face to face in the group in front of him and smiled. “I’m just here for the party mates.”

  “Where do you go to school?” A particularly cute young lady standing to the left and behind the puffed up boys asked and bit her lower lip.

  “Notre Dame.” Lance perused a mental database in the flash of a moment to select a school about which he knew several key facts learned from movies and books.

  “What the hell are you doing here then?” The boys demanded.

  “To party with some of my friends.”

  “Just to party? You came all the way to Dallas to party?”

  “Where the hell else would a professional partier be? This is it man. I’ve been coming down here since I was a kid.”

  “Where are you from?” The girl asked and inched closer.

  “Wichita.” He extracted another element from his limitless database of facts and smiled back at her.

  “Wichita sucks.” Stouty blurted out.

  “Damn right there. That’s why I got the hell out and went to Notre Dame.” Lance’s smile was brilliant. He’d already won this one.

  This particular conversation lasted another few minutes but Lance had altered the mood of the crowd and turned it into a monologue he delivered in perfect pitch. Lance was required to tell them a few more particulars about Notre Dame, Wichita, his major and other “shit.” He passed the test and moved into the middle of the crowd to share their beer, shoot their tequila and sneak off with the cute girl who had to give Stouty the slip.

  At about 4:15 a.m., Lance pried himself apart from the sleeping young lady and left the room. He grabbed some rich kid’s navy blue sports coat flung over a chair to be sure he looked the part. For the next hour, he wandered the Adolphus picking the best hiding spots, just as if it were the old block on Monmouth Way. On the 6th floor, he found the door to 614 standing wide open and not a soul inside. There were suitcases and clothes on the bed, but no one home. He stepped in and inspected the room. It looked like a couple had started the evening together and then either left or split up during the night and found other quarters to shack up. He spent just over a minute in the room to catalog details and then stepped back out into the hall.

  As Lance stepped into the same hall three years later, he surveyed both ends of the corridor for any activity. Nothing. It was about 4 a.m. again and he wanted to investigate the premises for anything that should make him worry. This time, however, he had a gun in his pocket. “Come on trouble,” he snickered to himself.

  In the lobby, he smiled at the female attendant behind the opulent front desk. A fast scan of the space showed it to be empty as it should be at this early hour. He kept his hand in his front suit jacket pocket gripping the handle of his gun as he crossed the room to look out a front window at Commerce Street. Nothing.

  Lance smiled at the front desk gal and again fought off the urge to go tell her a series of intricate lies all aimed at learning any and everything she knew. He wound his way back to the private staircase and privileged elevator and back up to room 614. He passed out quickly after laying his clothes out on the chair.

  He awoke later that morning and stepped out the door to welcome room service for three ordered the night before. Over the next several hours, he wrote down everything that had happened the previous day. Every detail he could recall.

  Two things stood out. First, he had been handed a loaded gun and just minutes later he held the gun to Seibel’s head. But Seibel’s response was approval; not fear or anger or panic. Strange.

  Second, everything he had been through yesterday was more than likely an act, a play, a charade put on for his benefit. Not all the players were in on it. Seibel was the director giving the other actors directions. Lance wanted to walk down the block and back into the building to see if there would even be anyone there. Had it all been fake? Who were these people? CIA? FBI? KGB? Some big scam? Certainly not State Department or Foreign Service.

  Right about now is when most people would call or at least think of calling the police. Not Lance. It never crossed his mind. He was going to figure this one out on his own.

  In reviewing his notes, another prominent question came into focus. Where did this start? How did they learn about him? Seibel said several months of surveillance. When did it start? He wrote the question and circled it.

  It had to be either during the written exam or just before. Marsco, or whatever his name was, had given himself away there. Was he in Tulsa during the exam only to watch Lance or was he picking others as well? What did they really want from him? He didn’t have much money and most of what he did have he owed to the University of Tulsa.

  He took a break and stood up to stretch his back, then took a shower and put his clothes back on. He considered walking over to his car parked just a few blocks away to retrieve his stuff, but thought it unwise. He’d already missed his morning class back in Tulsa and luckily wasn’t scheduled to work at the dealership until Thursday afternoon. He picked up the phone and asked the operator to connect him with the concierge.

  Six minutes later, there was a knock at the door. Lance grabbed the file folder from the desk and opened the door only inches to step out. Philip greeted him with a new North America road atlas. Lance thanked him with a high five.

  Lance learned Philip hailed from Montreal and chose to relocate to Dallas for the climate and the women. Lance agreed with him about the women, but Texas was even hotter than Oklahoma and there were plenty of days over 100 in Tulsa. That was hot enough.

  “How are your meetings progressing? I hope your party is finding our accommodations acceptable. I hope the private entrance is working for those not staying with us.” Philip said.

  Lance liked that. Philip obviously knew that four people, especially executives, were not staying in the room together. “Everything is moving at a good pace. No real breakthroughs, but lots of positive dialogue tha
t required face-to-face conversations. The accommodations are perfect and the private entrance is indeed working well.” Lance replied in a tone that reflected complete confidence in Philip. “I trust our presence here has gone undetected by anyone other than yourself?”

  “Room 614 is registered to Mr. Buckner as you requested. No one has inquired about the room or its guests to my knowledge.”

  “Excellent. I am going to have to ask you for an additional favor.” He looked directly into Philip’s left eye. He’d learned from his time at the dealership to look into only one eye so his own eyes did not shift from side to side. No one likes, let alone trusts, someone who is shifty-eyed. And automobile sales requires a modicum of trust as its foundation.

  “Anything,” Philip replied without hesitation.

  “I would ask that you please take a look at these two photos.” He held up the file folder and opened it to show Philip the two mug shots of the men hunting him. “These two individuals have presented a significant challenge for my employer in recent months. They have disrupted several transactions and made it difficult to complete our business. If you should happen to see either of these men, I would ask that you first call the police and then call me.”

  “The police? Are these two dangerous?”

  “They have committed crimes in several countries, including some very violent acts. In fact, one of their more spectacular incidents took place in Montreal several years ago.” Lance added another layer of detail to cement the story. The Canada connection was sure to hit home with Philip.

  “I see.” The concierge reacted differently hearing his hometown mentioned.

  “I don’t want you to be afraid. I just want you to be aware of the situation. I am sure you and your security staff have dealt with similar circumstances. We would have brought additional security ourselves, but didn’t want to upset the delicate balance of the negotiations. Both parties agreed to this stipulation.”

  “I understand,” Philip took another look at the photos to memorize each face. “Do you have reason to believe that these two are in the area?”

  “They were spotted at DFW three days ago and just a few blocks from here yesterday.”

  “Thank you for bringing this to my attention. I feel with this information, I will be required to extend my shift each day for the duration of your visit.” Philip nodded to assure Lance. And with that, Preacher succeeded in bringing a resource into his sphere of influence. He had just employed one of the oldest tricks of the trade by placing confidence in another; thereby gaining trust and loyalty.

  Before Philip shook Lance’s hand and turned for the elevator, they discussed the current occupancy level, expected activities over the next couple of days and of course, the weather. Lance got the concierge to talk about his car, a BMW 3i that cornered like an animal. Car talk is always good for male bonding.

  Lance didn’t leave the room the rest of the day. He enjoyed sampling four different lunch items. Because he was holed up in the room, he jogged barefoot in place for 30 minutes and did his usual 200 pushups and sit-ups. He also devoured the road atlas Philip brought. In honor of his new Canadian friend, he memorized the arterial streets in Montreal.

  He paused a few moments at 2:17 pm to mark 24 hours completed in his 72-hour survival assignment. No reason to celebrate. When evening arrived, he enjoyed most of a porterhouse steak, a medium rare filet mignon, chicken picatta and only one bite of the veal.

  At 4 a.m. the next morning, he followed the same routine from the previous day. The same attendant was at the front desk. No one else stirred in the stately hotel. On this excursion he stopped and read several pages of a coffee table book about the hotel. He learned of its rich history spanning 70 years and was surprised he hadn’t put two and two together about the hotel’s name. Lance was a big fan and had been for a number of years a regular drinker of Anheuser Busch beer. The hotel was built by Adolphus Busch, founder of the beer conglomerate. There weren’t many people named Adolphus around. He’d raise a cold one in honor of the old fella if he made it through this. Lance returned to room 614 and began the third day of his exile.

  The man with one eye darker blue than the other fell to his knees in slow motion. His left hand kept him from falling all the way to the ground. His right hand clutched at his chest. The cut, a deep, slicing gash gushed blood. He had only minutes.

  The chase had lasted nearly an hour and the man never caught his breath. He never would. His chaser was too fast, too relentless. The chaser bent down on one knee to get closer now, to look into a dying man’s eyes and share these last moments.

  Lance had never looked into a man’s eyes as he took his last breaths. He’d chased this stranger through the deep dark of endless night and caught him. Without a moment’s hesitation, he’d thrust his cold blade into the man’s chest. His eyes opened and looked about. The world was dark. The hotel room unchanged. He waited for the remorse. None came.

  Chapter 6

  5,859 miles to the east and north.

  It wasn’t quite the firefights they’d been in during their time in that hell on earth known as Afghanistan, but this was good. These were real bullets flying around them, creating little explosions in walls and leaving craters behind. They nearly had them cornered now.

  Soon to be former KGB agents Evgany Korovin and Nikolai Kusnetsov were in their element tonight. They hadn’t forced this violence, but were ready to end it. Instead of the streets of Kabul or frozen high mountain passes, this little battle was taking place on their home turf in dark alleys and abandoned apartment buildings in Kiev.

  The 2 a.m. meeting was scheduled to facilitate a transfer of Israeli-made weapons in exchange for a significant amount of opium. Korovin and Kusnetsov, often referred to by the catchy acronym K&K, brought the opium to the party. Their access to large quantities of the narcotic was a remnant of their time in the heart of opium country.

  Their objective in this particular transaction was twofold. They wanted to obtain the weapons, of course. But they also wanted to exploit a black market source. They’d been hunting this channel for six months and had maneuvered their way into a number of nefarious dealings to reach this point.

  Rewind seven minutes. Korovin drove the car to the designated location. It was a secluded street in an empty, dilapidated district. They knew it well from their childhood. Although they both grew up in Kiev, K&K didn’t meet until they were each recruited into the KGB from the Red Army in the early 70s. They had both been to this very location as children three decades ago. One with his father to visit a black market source for salmon. The other with a gang of street toughs pursuing another gang.

  Tonight, the neighborhood was silent. There were no gangs, no fathers, no sons. The other vehicle waited as Korovin approached with headlights extinguished. Kusnetsov was 70 yards to the west in a darkened doorway; a radio held close to his mouth. Korovin held another radio just like it. At three other locations surrounding the site, men held similar radios. They also all held guns. Their sightlines triangulated to create a nexus of death at the center should they begin firing.

  As expected, just over 45 seconds after the transaction commenced, one of the longhaired gentlemen who had emerged from the other vehicle pulled a weapon. The KGB veteran had his radio in his right coat pocket. He simply said the words “Okay then,” in Ukrainian. The weapons dealer lost a good bit of brain matter when three bullets entered his forehead and exited out the back. As shots were fired from four separate locations, Korovin took this opportunity to dive and roll to the rear of his vehicle. The guy standing next to the first to die then took four bullets to his head, neck and chest. Neither Korovin nor Kusnetsov were thrilled with this development. It meant they would likely be killing people instead of gathering information on their network and connections. But maybe if they were lucky, they’d capture one of these guys and keep him alive long enough to mine him for usable data.

  The rolling gun battle moved to the next block and then the next. At the beginning, the
re were six of them against the five K&K brought. Moving from doorway to doorway to alley, the other side’s numbers dwindled to two. K&K had with them veterans of the Afghan war who had fought and killed hundreds. The other side fired randomly with little effect. None of their bullets reached their intended targets. The only thing keeping the remaining two alive was the pitch-black night as they hid, huddled really, in whatever alcove they could find. It was only a matter of time.

  One of the two took off to the east in an all out sprint. K&K radioed to the others to stay with the runner. Korovin called to Kusnetsov over the radio with his next move. He really didn’t need to though. They knew each other’s tendencies like they knew their own. K&K were elite among the league of killers populating the ranks of the KGB. Their skills and reputations were unsurpassed. The black market weapons dealer they were chasing along a deserted street this early morning had no idea who he and his team were dealing with.

  The weapons dealers did not know they were dead the moment they were contacted by men acting as conduits for K&K. This job and maybe one more would be the last K&K would complete as salaried employees of the KGB. They had built up their network, established multiple spheres of influence and stashed millions in accounts throughout Eastern Europe, the Middle East and Southeast Asia. Running now like they were was exhilarating, refreshing. They hadn’t been in a firefight since Afghanistan. They had participated in shootings. Mostly the two of them killing others quickly with no shots fired back.

  This was actually kind of fun. K&K came together against a wall. The man being chased had stopped up ahead and lay flat on the downward slope of a loading dock. He fired 25 or 30 rounds in seconds. The bullets exploded on the wall above Korovin and Kusnetsov. They looked at each other and couldn’t help but smile. They could hear the man get to his feet and take off running again. K&K silently signaled each other their plans. One went directly after the man, the other peeled off to approach from the north.