The Perfect Teacher Page 6

  When his target slowed to let a small group of Asian tourists go past before hanging a left and heading for the glass doors of a 17-story apartment building, Lance bolted across the street, swung the backpack around in front of him, pulled out a tweed blazer, ditched the backpack and put the jacket on. Instant transformation to hip advertising dude wearing the uniform of inspired cool.

  He reached the glass door before it closed and was right behind the other gentleman as they entered a small lobby. A security guard sat over to the right behind a small desk. He smiled and nodded at the two of them as they passed. Lance spun away slightly and kept a few feet between them as they waited for the elevator.

  When the elevator doors opened, the well-dressed man held his hand up in front of the door and nodded for Lance to enter. Very polite.

  Inside, social customs dictated they each step to their side of the small space. The guy in the suit pressed 15. Lance pressed 16. The doors closed and they both looked forward. No talking. The slow as molasses elevator shook and shimmied all the way up, a little artificial bell binging at every floor level.

  After 30 seconds, they reached the 15th floor. The well-dressed man of Middle Eastern descent stepped forward slightly, preparing for the doors to open. All normal stuff. Except.

  Lance noticed the ever so slight raising of the man's right hand. The movement was upward and across his torso. It was probably nothing. Probably just a guy getting close to home reaching to scratch an itch. Thing is, Preacher doesn't live in a world of probability. Every action is definite and strategic with a defined goal in mind. And Preacher does definitive with a side of malicious intent.

  As the elevator fully stopped and the doors began to slide open, Preacher applied pressure onto the ball of his left foot and shot his left arm up and forward with his hand open so the base of his palm struck the guy standing in front of him right between his shoulder blades. At the same time, he raised his right arm with his right hand open ready to grasp whatever it came in contact with.

  With the elevator doors ten inches open, the other gentleman in the small space suddenly shifted left and began to spin to his right. It started with his toes, as all moves do. During this motion, he pulled his right hand out from his left jacket lapel with a small handgun in his grip. It was fast. Really fast.

  Problem was Lance saw it all. He was watching the two of them below from up in the corner of the small elevator. He saw Preacher plant his toes and the ball of his left foot and begin the upward swing of his left arm. He also saw the other guy drive his toes into his nice leather shoes to begin his spinning rotation back to the right.

  The resulting action from one human planting and spinning backward while the other threw up and open-handed punch into the first guy's back was centrifugal force driving both humans forward, out of the small elevator and into the tight hallway. The shot to the suited guy's thoracic area of his back shoved him forward, caused his head to shoot back and threw off his spinning motion which he obviously planned to end with a pistol pointed and firing at the guy behind him in the elevator.

  Preacher was waiting for the gun and grabbed the guy's right wrist and straightened out his arm so the pistol couldn't come around at him.

  The continuing momentum of both men moving forward eventually brought them in contact with the wall across the five-foot wide hallway. By this time, the other fella had tucked his shoulder enough to allow it to crash into the wall, exploding into the sheetrock. He was already catching his balance and preparing to fire back off the wall. He could have done just that if it weren't for the vice grip Preacher had on his right wrist. Their eyes met for the briefest of moments. Preacher then followed the dude's eyes down to the gun and he immediate felt the tug, the pull as he attempted to bend the arm back toward his body.

  Lance couldn't let that happen. So, of course, he pulled the guy's extended right arm toward him as he brought his left knee up. From up above, a floating Lance winced a little as he watched Preacher blast through his opponent's right elbow, annihilating the joint. Bone broke, cartilage burst and tendons were shredded. It was bad.

  Instinctively, the poor fella's hand contracted, including his right index finger. The gun fired. Blowing a hole in the back of the elevator wall. The guy's scream was almost as loud as the firing of the gun in the enclosed space of the hallway. The man then burst up and out from the wall in a desperate explosion of adrenaline and pain and rage. Preacher released the wrist of the ruined arm and grabbed the barrel of the pistol as he pushed back. He twisted the gun out of the weak grip and stepped back as his opponent came off the wall with his left fist balled and firing right at his face.

  Another step back took him out of reach of the punch. He glanced up at a floating Lance and saw what the ghost saw below. Like a good counter-punching boxer, he spotted an opponent's vulnerability exposed when they attempt an attack.

  The wild roundhouse punch thrown with his left arm that didn't connect meant the other guy was pivoted too far. His centrifugal force and anchored pivot point, also known as his right foot, brought him well past center. His head, shoulder and waist were extended to Preacher's left. This exposed almost all his left flank, from head to toe. The guy was strong. Preacher felt his strength when he had hold of his arm. The guy's next move was going to be as aggressive as the punch that just barely missed. Best guess, he was going to exert great pressure down through his right leg and foot and toes and try to explode forward into Preacher with his left shoulder. He was down an arm and needed to use other parts of his body as weapons.

  Preacher smiled and nodded at Lance as the one down on the floor raised and lowered and swung the gun in his right hand at the back of the other guy's head. It made contact. It was a hard, sick thud. It definitely hurt the poor guy because he cringed and gasped. But, he didn't go down. So what does one do?

  How about a knee into exposed ribs. Then how about another and another and another until your opponent collapses to the carpeted floor gasping for air and coughing up the air that couldn't make it into seizing lungs. Preacher spun around and dropped his full weight onto the man's back through his knee. He spun the gun around in his hand and drove the barrel into the back of his beaten opponents head at the base of his skull. He pressed a little harder than he needed to, which forced the other guy's face into the carpeted floor. The gasping and intermittent coughing continued.

  Preacher then spoke in Arabic. "I'll give you a few moments to collect yourself and then we will go down the hall to your apartment. We need to talk." Yjb 'an natakalam.

  "You can go to hell." His broken and battered foe sputtered into the carpet.

  "Wa'ana 'aelam 'anani sawf." Preacher replied. I know I will.

  They were seated across from each other. Preacher in a side chair. Mahmoud al-Fayez on the couch. The Jordanian rested his damaged right arm across his midsection with this shattered elbow cupped in his left hand. Preacher held the gun on al-Fayez. It was in his right hand, which rested on his right knee.

  Resting on the coffee table between them was a manila folder with a couple dozen papers in it. Al-Fayez agreed a few minutes earlier to open the safe in the closet of his office. His agreeing to do this was at least partially related to the gun barrel jammed into the back of his head.

  They'd been talking spycraft and other cool stuff that killers and liars and fakers could only talk about. Al-Fayez claimed he made Preacher several blocks before they reached his building and he was using the confined space of the elevator to take him. Preacher didn't buy it. No way a pro would have let someone tailing them come into their home. The alert pro would have continued on and either lost his follower in a crowd or turned and attacked from the relative safety of an alley or doorway or dim lit parking garage.

  "Anyway, we can agree to disagree," Lance smiled and put a period on the pleasantries. "You have probably surmised that I am here with you now because I want something from you."

  "I noticed I'm not dead." Al-Fayez had a wry smile on his face. "I guess that
is a good thing. But I'll venture a guess that you are about to make me an offer I could only refuse if I want to forfeit my life."

  Funny thing really. This situation is anything but normal for Preacher or for Lance. His usual modus operandi is to leave opponents either dead or enslaved for the remainder of their life. He wasn't one to stick around and have a polite living room conversation with a vanquished foe. He smiled at this little dilemma. Al-Fayez misread the smile.

  "That bad, huh?" Al-Fayez shook his head. "I'm not really the martyr type, but I think I'll take my chances with a bullet or worse. Don't have any desire to live my life in debt to you or the CIA."

  Lance nodded. "I get it. Better to go out with your virtue intact. And of course you have retained that virtue over the years as you organized financing for terrorists."

  The Jordanian shook his head. "No idea what you are talking about."

  "Sure. Mahmoud, this is where I inform you that I'm not here to make you an offer you can't refuse or to ask you to betray your brothers in arms, betray the jihad. That would be an insult to a true believer like you."

  Al-Fayez just looked at him and waited.

  Lance was more than willing to wait him out. He wasn't the one sitting there wincing with every breath with a smashed elbow and battered ribs. No doubt the terrorist facilitator wanted to howl in pain.

  "What then?"

  Lance gave no reply. The moments turned to minutes. The suffering continued.

  "I think I get it. You are waiting for me to tell you something, to give you something. But you're not going to tell me what it is."

  After a few more minutes of silence al-Fayez showed signs of beginning to crack. He huffed a few times and leaned forward. Lance just looked down at the gun resting on his knee.

  "Come on. Tell me what you want."

  Lance shook his head. "Not all that virtuous, huh? Willing to talk?"

  "Depends on what you want to know." Al-Fayez nodded.

  "That's the thing, I don't want anything from you."

  "Then who does?"

  "Ah, that took a little while but you finally got there," Lance sat back a little. "You've been waiting for me to ask you something but you missed the obvious. I'm not here to talk to you. I'm just waiting with you."

  More head shaking from al-Fayez. The pain from the elbow was really getting to him. Kind of looked like he might have a broken rib or two on that left side. "Waiting for what? Or is it who?"

  Lance nodded to al-Fayez' left. The Jordanian turned and looked. The phone.

  "We're waiting for a phone call?"

  "Yep. Should be any moment now."

  Al-Fayez squeezed his busted elbow and winced. "Who? Who are we waiting on a call from?"

  "A friend. It will be a long-distance call." Preacher looked briefly away, out the window at the building across the way.

  "From where?" The Jordanian asked.

  "From Jordan."

  "From Jordan? Why?" Eyebrows narrowed; brow furrowed. Preacher watched his favorite of the facial muscles do its thing. "Why are we expecting a call from Jordan?"

  "I don't know, honestly. I do my job and my job was to follow you, to make sure you are here at this time and to expect a call." Preacher did an excellent job lying. Lance, floating up near a chandelier, smirked down at the scene. Preacher turned his left wrist over and looked at his watch. Talk about an act. One thing Lance or Preacher never needed was a timepiece.

  He already had what he came for with the contents of the folder on the coffee table. All the rest of this was a bit macabre.

  "Come on, who is going to call? And why from Jordan?"

  "I get it, I do. You're concerned about what may be happening in Jordan, in your hometown, in your father's home right now. I understand." Preacher stopped short, like he'd let too much slip out.

  "My father's home? What are you talking about?" Raised voice, sweat on forehead, rapid breathing.

  "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have-"

  "Shouldn't have what? Who the hell is going to call here?" al-Fayez sat forward on the couch. Looked like he was getting ready to spring.

  Preacher raised the gun and moved his aim to center chest. "This is undoubtedly difficult for you. It is not every day that someone loses," he stopped short.

  "Loses what?"

  "Everything." Preacher nodded. "When the phone rings in a matter of minutes, the caller will inform me that everything is done. Everyone is dead."

  "Who? What do you mean everything?" Frantic now. Ready to burst. "Who is everyone?"

  "Relax brother. The end comes for us all. Death comes for more than 140,000 humans every day. Yours, theirs', what does it matter, really?" Preacher leaned forward and set the gun down on the coffee table. He brought his elbows to rest them on his knees. "I'll give you a chance Mahmoud. What do you have left in you? Are you willing to fight to maybe put death off for another day?"

  Preacher turned away from the Jordanian. He looked back over his shoulder, up in the corner. Lance was floating up there, legs crossed and wrists resting on knees.

  "And what are we doing here?"

  "Whoa, we're talking again? Years since you did that?" Preacher turned back to al-Fayez to see the frantic look on the guy's face. Preacher just shook his head, stood and turned to Lance. "Now? Why now?"

  "You think I know what's going on?" Lance shook his head.

  Preacher sighed and dropped his head. He heard the springs decompress, the leather contract, the tug of fabric. Without thinking, he reacted like the cold-blooded and heartless killer he is. He spun to his left while dropping his shoulders and bending his knees. He reached out his right hand and grabbed the pistol.

  Al-Fayez was up on his feet off the couch but not yet out of his crouch. He too was reaching for the gun. Preacher exploded up with his left arm cocked, forearm a club he slammed into al-Fayez' neck and upper chest. The momentum of the blow sent the Jordanian back onto the couch. But this time, Preacher was right with him, on top of him.

  He brought his face within inches of al-Fayez, so close he could have given the guy a peck on the cheek. Instead, he winked and pulled back as he raised the pistol up and under the seated man's chin. He pressed the barrel into the skin there, the submaxillary triangle. Preacher made certain to angle the weapon slightly to the right of center.

  He pulled the trigger.

  Lance watched from above. He'd seen it all before. The bullet exploded, the slug blasting through skin and bone and brain matter and more bone and skin before blowing out the top. Stuff goes with it. Stuff like bits of bone and skin and brain. Droplets of blood spraying into the air.

  A good killer knows that spray of blood and tiny drops are the things to avoid. Move fast. Put the gun into the dead guy's left hand and let the hand and gun fall down the chest to rest on the gut. Step back to stay clear of the evidence. Step straight back the way you approached. Touch nothing. Don't stick around. Move.

  Preacher did all the right things. He only glanced up at Lance once as he was exiting the apartment. He walked down the hall, past the elevator to the stairwell. He took the stairs two at a time as he descended. Preacher didn't stop at the first floor. He went one more level down to a basement parking level. Just a few steps to the right of the stairwell was an unmarked door. He reached the door, pulled out the handgun, fired two shots just to the right of the handle. The bullets blew through wood and metal just like skin and bone, shattering the door's latch mechanism.

  He kicked the door open and burst inside the small room. It was a no larger than a closet. A small desk against the wall had a monitor on it. The monitor showed several views from security cameras installed throughout the building. A set of shelves above the desk held four tape machines. This particular setup recorded two days worth of video on four twelve-hour videotape machines. Preacher pushed the stop button on each of the machines and hit eject. The tape door for each one fell open exposing the high-density tapes.

  Preacher grabbed all four, stepped back to the door and pulled it
closed. It didn't stay shut very well. But he was already gone, out the door to the parking garage, over to and up a flight of stairs and out onto the busy sidewalk. His backpack was still next to the trashcan so he grabbed it and stuffed the tapes inside. He joined the workers and tourists and others making their way to destinations near and far in the big city.

  Chapter 12

  "You really want to do this? I mean really?" The presidentially appointed Inspector General of the Central Intelligence Agency wasn't kidding. This was serious stuff. "If you do this; if you open this box you won't be able to close it. You may not be able to shove the things you find back inside."

  The IG was seated across from Broley and Abbie at the small conference table in his office. He'd been in his appointed position for over a decade - a lifetime in Washington, D.C. circles. He couldn't recall ever having Broley in his office during his tenure.

  "This is certainly not a matter of want. We are only making this request because of need. It is strictly out of necessity." Broley was being extremely formal. Nearing retirement or not, he believed in honor and honoring the offices of leadership.

  The IG turned from Broley to Abbie. He recalled seeing her in a few meetings the past couple of years but hadn't spoken directly with her. He was aware of the fairly dramatic uptick in Broley's activity since Abbie joined the elder auditor as his understudy, but had no direct interaction with her. "Ms. Ross, you agree with Mr. Broley on this matter?"

  "Yes sir. We can only get at the truth by working through SAD records." Abbie, like Broley, was at the top of her game today for this special meeting and very special request of the Inspector General.

  SAD is the Special Activities Division. It is the black ops department for the CIA. Dark, creepy, illegal things are done by SAD operatives, all in the name of protecting the country. SAD is Wyrick's domain and Seibel's before him. A necessary evil pitted against the many evils of the world.