The Perfect Candidate: A Lance Priest / Preacher Thriller (No. 1) (20 page)

Al-Bakr knew he was the real prize of this exercise and fully expected to take a pound or two of flesh in exchange for his capture or death. But what he didn’t know was just how much the very young American approaching him knew.

For instance, Preacher knew that al-Bakr had killed at least four men with a knife; one of them an experienced Israeli intelligence officer. He also knew that this particular Arab had trained with the finest martial arts instructors in Indonesia. And that al-Bakr was actually left-handed but hid this from almost everyone. In the Middle East, this alone made him deadly.

Al-Bakr also didn’t know what this young American had been doing for the last three years. There are assuredly people out there, people such as distance runners who have put in more miles running than Lance during the past three years. But not many.

Likewise, there are weightlifters who have put in countless hours in the gym. But few had pushed themselves to build stronger, leaner muscles than Lance. And undoubtedly there were academics who studied their particular field hour upon hour for years. But few had read more words and memorized more information than Lance over the past 34 months.

He did not know what awaited him in the days, weeks and now years since he got into the car with Seibel in DC. But he never failed to excel, to overachieve, to impress. He was never satisfied with his performance. Never will be.

The result of three years, a lifetime really, of this pushing, pressing, bleeding was a rock-hard body with coiled muscles that brought equal amounts of speed and strength when flexed. Preacher was both lion and cheetah. And maybe worst of all, he was indifferent toward his opponent; completely lacking in empathy where pain and misery were concerned. Years or decades of training could not instill the one thing he came by naturally – a killer’s instincts.

Hours, days and months in martial arts instruction with killers and those who train killers exposed him to real pain at the hands of men. This training also taught him the power that exists in each person’s toes. And it was there that Lance first responded to the flash of al-Bakr’s knife. He knew from anatomy encyclopedias that the principal muscle flexing the primary phalanx, or big toe, the flexor hallucis longus muscle, was actually in his calf. But no time to discuss this with al-Bakr right now.

With his toes, he pushed ever so slightly into the soles of his boots to gain a millisecond of momentum, to leverage his weight to the left and turn his body away from the approaching blade. The knife, aimed directly at his sternum a quarter second ago, was now headed for Preacher’s upper right arm. Al-Bakr was deadly and fast and he surely expected to inflict a lethal wound with this particular lunge. However, with the lean and twist to the left, only a few strands of fabric were penetrated. As the razor sharp blade made contact with Preacher’s upper right sleeve, it was already too late for al-Bakr to prepare to bring the knife back for another attack.

From his left-leaning position, Preacher lifted his right hand from underneath to grab al-Bakr’s right wrist. And with speed that surprised both he and his opponent, Preacher used the toes in his left foot to reverse his lean and throw his momentum back to the right. The stop-motion photography of the moment immediately showed him his opponent’s vulnerable spot –
the elbow
.

Preacher brought his left arm up cocked and he drove his own elbow into al-Bakr’s outstretched arm. Because Preacher held the man’s wrist in such a vice, the Arab assassin’s elbow exploded in the wrong direction under the fierce blow. Cartilage and bone snapped as the elbow broke and bent in the exact opposite direction is was designed to operate. The pain instantly removed the smile from al-Bakr’s face. It was replaced with a look of surprise and a primal scream of pain. The knife was released from al-Bakr’s right hand and began its slow motion fall to the street.

Preacher could have been done with this battle with this excellent move. But something inside, something almost evil, made him pivot off of his right foot, release the wrist and reverse all movement and momentum back to the left while spinning. He glanced at al-Bakr’s head position for reference, began raising his right arm while bending it and then completed a reverse spin. The result of this unexpected, unplanned move was an elbow traveling at a radical speed making contact with al-Bakr’s spine at the base of his skull. A sickening thud caused the Arab’s head to whiplash back and then fall to the ground with the rest of his limp body.

Preacher should have really been done with this latest move. But again, momentum, creativity and utter ambivalence guided his next action. He glanced back at Jamaani, rolled over al-Bakr’s body and reached under the Mercedes to pull out the flash cylinder he had placed under the front right wheel. With lightening speed, he retrieved the heavy canister and set it on the ground beside al-Bakr. Preacher rolled the Saudi assassin over onto his back and grabbed the broken right arm to place the assassin’s hand directly on top of the cylinder. Jamaani saw what Preacher was planning and took a step toward him. Preacher shot him a look and shook his head to stop the Jordanian in his tracks. He then moved to his right but still with a strong grip on al-Bakr’s right arm he reached into his pocket and pulled out the dual ignition device. Preacher turned his head to the right to avoid the heat and pressed the small button.

A thick, searing, white-hot pillar of flame shot 13 feet into the air. The heat was intense, so intense it took with it the flesh and then bone below al-Bakr’s wrist. The jolt of extreme pain awoke al-Bakr from his concussion with a howl that could almost be heard over the intense flame. Foam leaped from the corners of his mouth and he gnashed his teeth but could not move because of Preacher’s superior strength holding him in place. Preacher pressed the button again and the flame died. To quiet al-Bakr’s screams he put a knee in the assassin’s diaphragm and a hand to his throat. Preacher looked into al-Bakr’s eyes and gave him the same smile that only 20 seconds earlier the assassin had given him as he tried to plunge a knife into his heart.

Tarwanah backed the white cargo van a few feet from them and the back doors flung open. Preacher stood up, picked up al-Bakr and tossed the assassin’s broken body into the back of the waiting van. Al-Bakr screamed again when his dangling and shattered right arm made contact with the metal floor. The cauterized wound at his wrist where a hand had been moments earlier slammed into the floor and he screamed again. Preacher turned to Jamaani who was not pleased.

“You’re actions have cost us valuable time.” The Jordanian said.

“And if he had stabbed me with that knife, that wouldn’t have cost us any time?”

“Far outside the mission.” Jamaani was angry but needed to be brief.

Fuchs, who had moved up to take the RPG from Tarwanah to allow him to get back in and drive the van now walked up to Preacher and Jamaani at the rear of the plan.

“We will talk about particulars later. Fifty-two seconds and a second detail is just now leaving the compound. Gather the unused Flicker and be ready to move in 15.” He turned from them and walked deliberately back past the rear Mercedes now engulfed in flames. Another white Mercedes was speeding up the road toward the scene. Fuchs let it get within 150 yards and fired the RPG. The explosion was deafening. Debris shot well into the sky and the flaming husk of the vehicle continued forward, but now only at a crawl. It’s bulletproof glass no match for the rocket fired grenade.

Lance had stepped back over to the alley to gather his camera case. Fuchs came rushing back to the van as Lance jumped in the passenger door. Jamaani closed the rear door behind Fuchs and Tarwanah floored it.

Lance looked at his watch and then at Tarwanah who refused to look his way. He turned back to Fuchs who kneeled in the back beside al-Bakr.

“One minute 18 seconds,” he called out over the roar of the engine. “Four seconds faster than our best time at the Point.”

Fuchs finished putting tape on al-Bakr’s wrists and ankles as Jamaani put a strip over their captive’s mouth. “I imagine we could have saved eight seconds without that little flamethrower bit.” Fuchs was not agitated like Jamaani, but then again he had not looked into Preacher’s eyes during the brief tussle.

Lance turned back to look out the windshield. Tarwanah had slowed as they moved onto other city streets. “An eye for an eye. A hand for a hand.” Lance said to no one in particular.

“You were reckless.” Jamaani piped in.

“I guess I should have just shot him a couple of more times.”

“Yes.” Jamaani was always brief.

Fuchs laughed. “That would have been too easy for you. You wanted to get in closer to the action. I think you wanted to look death in the eyes. Maybe feel it. But you put the rest of us in danger with that shit.” Lance didn’t comment, but he found it interesting that Fuchs had completely lost his Berliner accent in the van and in the moments just before leaving the scene.

“Next time, just shoot the asshole in both knees and cut off the hand instead of incinerating it. That was somewhat gruesome.” Fuchs smiled as he said this last bit. He turned to Jamaani who was also smiling. Between them they shared a look that belied their years of field service. Each would have liked to have just done what their young teammate had accomplished. Tarwanah looked in the rearview mirror to share their smiles. They had their man. And they had their own assassin.