The Perfect Weapon

by Christopher Metcalf

  Preacher was pissed because he had planned to follow Isaac on foot to a drop location and then follow the person who picked it up from there. A motorcycle changed things. As the driver revved the bike’s engine while stopped at an intersection, Preacher had to think quickly. He looked around and saw his best, but still lousy, option. He hopped onto the bicycle propped up between two buildings and rode after the motorbike. Luckily traffic was heavy, which kept the man on the motorcycle from taking it up to speed.

  Preacher stayed back 40 to 50 feet behind the bike. He didn’t look too conspicuous on the bicycle. Many others were traveling in the same manner. At an intersection, the motorcycle turned onto a street with less traffic and accelerated. Preacher followed and pushed his legs hard to keep the motorbike in sight, hoping this didn’t last too long, He was mostly healed from the wounds received in the Philippines, but his right leg was still raw and weak. And three weeks resting in paradise had not increased his stamina much. He was sadly out of shape and his lungs complained about it.

  The courier on the motorcycle turned left at another intersection about 100 yards ahead. Preacher pounded on the pedals. His right leg screamed at the punishment. He rounded the corner and was glad to see that traffic was a little heavier. But the cycle was nowhere in sight. He pedaled furiously, looking right and left down each alley. Just before he reached the next intersection, he saw the driver getting off the cycle down a tight alley to the right. Preacher skidded to a stop and dropped the bike on the side of the road, walking on weak, shaky legs.

  The rider stepped behind the motorbike and into a doorway. Lance looked in all directions and sprinted gingerly down the alley to the doorway. He peeked around and could see that the door led into a small lobby and up a set of stairs. He had no time to plan next moves, just react. He entered the building and snuck up the stairs. When he reached the step fourth from the top, he could see the motorcycle driver at the end of a hallway about 70 feet away. The man knocked on a door, reached into his bag and handed over the items Isaac hand given him.

  No words were spoken. The courier then turned and walked toward Preacher. He stepped back down the stairs as quietly as his weak legs allowed. He stepped outside the screen door and into the alley.

  Fifteen seconds later, the bike’s driver emerged and walked over to his bike where Preacher was waiting for him.

  The courier automatically grabbed his bag, protecting it. The bag, or any weapon or any defensive skills he possessed offered him little protection. Preacher had no patience for conversation.

  “I know you are just a courier, but you have gotten yourself into something that you will likely not survive.” He spoke Arabic, the accent from the desert Bedouins he encountered and lived among in Saudi Arabia.

  “What? Excuse me?”

  “I have no time for your lies or excuses. Tell me exactly what you know about this job, this courier circuit. Now.” Preacher took a threatening step forward. Four feet separated them.

  “I don’t know- I just pick up things from one place and deliver them to another.” The courier inched back.

  “Who pays you?”

  “I don’t know. It is cash in an envelope handed to me through a slot in a door.”

  “Turn around. You forgot to give them something.” Preacher didn’t want to hurt him, but time was short. He needed to be back up the stairs and in that room now.

  “No, please. I...” the courier pleaded.

  Preacher cut him off. “This is simple. What is your name?”

  “Kamil.”

  “This is simple Kamil. You will come with me back up stairs, or I will kill you now and put your jacket on and go back up the stairs. Decide now.” Preacher took another step closer. It was menacing. His legs were almost back to normal from the bike ride.

  “Please, I have a family, children.” Kamil pleaded.

  “So did I before they were killed by people you associate with.” Preacher lied convincingly, as usual. “Now Kamil, I have no time.” He took the last step and reached to grab Kamil’s jacket lapel.

  “Okay. I will go.”

  “Good. Now.” He spun the courier and shoved him toward the door and reached into his thawb to pull out the gun he had shipped to himself at the Cairo Airport Sheraton. They walked back into the building and up the stairs. Kamil required a couple of pokes in the back to carry on. “Knock and tell them you forgot to give them something. Be convincing brother.” Preacher put the gun’s barrel to Kamil’s neck to help him get this job done.

  He knocked. Preacher stepped to the right of the door out of view of the peephole. Footsteps across the floor inside were slow, a heavy person. Someone leaned against the door to get a look.

  “What do you want?” A man’s voice muffled somewhat by the heavy door.

  “I, I forgot something. I have it here for you.”

  “What is it?”

  “A piece of paper. I forgot to give it to you. I am sorry.” Kamil was convincing.

  Locks on the door turned. The door cracked open a few inches. Preacher shoved Kamil to the side and exploded into the door. It connected with the man’s head with a violent crush, a thud. He dropped as the door flew open. Preacher was three steps into the room in a flash. A man sat at a table smoking. Another was watching TV. Preacher was about to take a step toward a hallway to the right when the guy on the couch looked from him to the doorway. It was wrong.

  Preacher dove to his left and rolled to look back at the door as Kamil came through with a gun leveled at him. They both fired. One of Preacher’s two shots hit Kamil in the left shoulder. Kamil’s shots were high, not compensating for Preacher’s dive. The bullets struck the couch and the neck of the poor guy sitting there. He was a goner. Kamil stumbled back into the hallway and turned to run back down to the street. Damn. Preacher had read that one wrong. He was more than a courier, probably much more.

  Preacher was back on a knee a moment later pointing his gun at the gentleman who had been smoking at the table. The guy was now up and reaching for a gun on the kitchen counter. Preacher had him clearly in his sights, but the hallway and what lay down it were a concern. He took a quick look around in that split second as the guy grasped the gun and began to turn towards him. Newspapers, computer, guns, a vest over a chair – he’d stumbled into a terrorist safe house. He’d been in half a dozen in Jerusalem, Germany and England. They all looked the same.

  He made a split second decision. He needed Kamil more than these guys. He rose to his feet as the smoker began arcing the gun towards him. Thirteen feet separated them. Preacher wouldn’t miss from this distance, he hoped. And he didn’t, putting three successive bullets in the guy’s chest, neck and chin. He too was a goner. Preacher stepped over to the heavy man knocked out on the floor and shot him in both knees. That would sting a little when he came to. He turned to the apartment’s hallway and however many terrorists that might be cowering in other rooms. “I’m going back out to join the units surrounding this building. They have shoot to kill orders. Do yourself and this fool a favor and put bullets in your heads before we get you in a special room and find out where your families live.”

  He raced down the hall after Kamil. He could hear the sound of a key turning and a kick-start pedal. Preacher knew the bike wouldn’t start. He had ripped off the ignition line in the seconds before Kamil came out. As he reached the stairs, he heard the cycle fall over. Kamil was taking off on foot. Good, well good on most days. We’ll see here in a few minutes.

  As the terrorist courier approached the end of the alley, he turned and pointed his gun at Preacher just coming out the door. It was about 110 feet. He’d have to be really good to make this shot. Still, Preacher plastered himself to the wall. The four shots were not even close. He thought, “this guy might be as bad as me.”

  Chase on. Preacher took off after Kamil. As expected, a song started in his head. He recognized the infectious drum beat immediately. The bass line came next. It was that song about addiction and love. Strange choice, bu
t the DJ in his head was anything but predictable. He reached the street seven seconds later and turned in the direction Kamil had gone. He could see him up ahead elbowing his way through pedestrians and street vendors. At an intersection, Kamil stepped into the street and crossed right in front of a van that screeched to a swerving halt. Preacher took the opportunity to cross the street as well.

  Doing so, he paid close attention to his right leg. It felt fine, but stiff. There was local pain at the wound sustained in the Philippines, but nothing serious for now. His shoulder felt fine as well. He increased his output and closed the distance. Kamil raced down an alley to the right. It looked dark down there.

  Preacher reached the alley’s opening and peeked around the corner. Right on cue, three shots were fired at his head as he pulled it back. People passing by dove to the ground. Ladies wearing scarves and burqas screamed. Preacher took in all their faces, or at least the eyes of the women. He smiled to reassure them. After waiting six seconds, he shot around the corner into the alley, zigging across the opening prepared to roll. No shots came. Kamil had moved on.

  Preacher peered down the alley as the second verse of the song started. Lance looked down from 2,000 feet at the map of streets and alleys and ancient chaos below. It was basically a beehive. Kamil could go in seventeen, make that eighteen, directions. Which was best? Which one would he choose?

  Preacher burst toward the far end of the alley, but stopped suddenly because Lance told him to. Kamil didn’t run out the other end of the alley, he’d gone in one of the three doorways up on the right. He was likely crossing through a building to the next street over. Preacher smiled up at the empty sky as he spun on his heel and took off back up the alley to the street and then hung a left and then another. He was on a secondary street looking at the fronts of stores and a dentist's office. He slowed and hugged the building front.

  Nine seconds later, Kamil came walking out of a record store about 65 feet in front of Preacher. The chase was back on as the terrorist swung his head to the right and spied his pursuer. Kamil raced to the end of this street and crossed the next intersection, running inside an old warehouse that had been converted to an indoor bazaar. It was going to be crowded in there.

  Preacher made the door five seconds after his rabbit. Up ahead, he saw a table being flipped over and knew which direction to go – the other way, of course. He planned to overtake Kamil on the other side of the building as they raced in the general direction of the far end. Preacher came into an open area at the center of the building and knew before his first step that this was where Kamil had hoped to lead him. Sightlines were clear. There was good light from the open atrium. So Preacher dove to the ground and rolled to the right. He counted five shots hitting the wall above him.

  Now, if the motorcycle driver/terrorist courier had a Sig Sauer like Preacher thought from the brief flash of black metal, then he had one more bullet in the chamber, unless he had another clip on him. Possible, but not likely in this scenario. Either way, Robert Palmer just kept on singing, telling whomever would listen that they might as well face it. People in the bazaar screamed and ran and screamed some more.

  Preacher came up to his haunches behind a thick pillar and stuck his head around to see where the bullets came from. The place had gone apeshit crazy. Running, screaming, trampling, crashing, the place had it all. Preacher turned away from the direction he was expected to run and hightailed it out a door on the east side of the warehouse, along with dozens of shoppers. He raced to the north end of the building. As he rounded the corner onto a loading dock area, he slowed to a stroll and then watched moments later as Kamil ran out one of the bays and jumped to the street below. It was a very athletic move, especially for a guy with a bullet in his shoulder. Problem was, Preacher was now only 20-feet behind as they raced up the street to the next intersection.

  From this close, he thought he could hit the guy in the leg with a bullet. But he was running, moving, jostling. No guarantee he’d hit his target. Kamil hung a right at the next alley. He was slowing down, getting tired. Preacher was there a moment later and closing the gap to 15 feet. A delivery truck blocked the way ahead. Kamil dove under it and scooted out the other side. Preacher chose to jump up on the front bumper and climb over. When he jumped down, he was only a few feet behind Kamil. Race over.

  Like he’d done to Shafiq in Hamburg a year earlier, Preacher reached out and shoved the guy’s shoulder. Except this time, the poor fella had bullet hole and blood soaking the shoulder. Kamil tumbled to the ground. Preacher stopped a few feet ahead and turned back to see something he didn’t want to. Kamil had his gun out, but instead of pointing it at Preacher, he was moving it to his own open mouth. Clearly, he wouldn’t be taken alive.

  Options. Preacher could dive on top of the terrorist to rip the gun away. Probably wouldn’t get there quick enough. He could shout out something provocative. Something like, ‘I’m a friend of Anwar’s’ or maybe, ‘I’m al Qaeda.’ Decent options. But he chose a third. He already had his gun out, so before Kamil could get the barrel into his mouth, Preacher aimed and fired into Kamil’s right hand holding the gun. The bullet exploded through skin and bone and tendon, releasing the gun by reflex. Pretty good shot, even though it was only nine feet away.

  Kamil screamed in pain and then rolled to get on his feet. He was ticked, seriously pissed. He looked bad, but still came forward. His left shoulder and right hand were useless. So that basically left his legs. And Preacher was very impressed with the sweeping leg move Kamil attempted. But funny thing, it was the exact same move Shafiq tried in the alley in Hamburg. The similarities were striking and therefore not coincidental. They had trained together, or been trained by the same person. Damn. What kind of luck this was. Preacher shook that thought and put a straight arm down to deflect the kick. Kamil threw his good shoulder into Preacher’s abdomen. Again, a good move. Preacher pivoted and lifted the wounded man off his feet and spun him onto his back with a painful thud. Kamil’s injuries were simply too serious for him to mount a threat. After getting his breath back, he attempted to get back up.

  Preacher didn’t want to extend this little episode any longer, so he stepped in to deliver a kick to Kamil’s sternum that blew him off his feet. He then bent and punched the man in the injured shoulder. It was a mean, merciless even. The excruciating pain in the man’s eyes was really something, so naturally, Preacher punched him there again. Kamil nearly passed out from the pain. That was fine.

  Preacher leaned in to whisper in his new friend’s ear, “Kamil, or whoever you are, stay with me for just a moment.” He slapped his face gently. “Listen to me. You and me, we are going to be good friends. We are going to spend some quality time together and then you are going to tell me all about your friends and their friends and then about your family. And then I am going to kill all of them, every one. You took your chances back in the apartment and missed me. I don’t hold that against you. But you have chosen the wrong life, the wrong side; to kill and maim and destroy others. You made the wrong choice brother. And now you are going to pay.”

  Preacher used the palm of his hand to deliver a vicious strike to the man’s temple. Combined with his head striking the brick street below, the blow rendered the terrorist courier unconscious. Up above, Lance approved. First things first, he and Preacher needed to find a phone. They needed to call in transportation for two from Cairo to an undisclosed location. This is war.

  Chapter 27

  This might be insanity. Maybe just some remnants of his near-death experience. Either way, it was crazy.

  The Gulfstream, piloted again by Lt. Meadows, cruised at 32,000 feet. But up there on top of the jet, riding along like he was straddling a horse, was Lance. He was transparent, like a ghost rider. The winds at 600 miles per hour just whipped right through him. Every once in while, he whooped and a hollered, like that guy in that crazy 1960's movie riding that missile.

  Meanwhile, Preacher rode comfortably inside the aircraft sitting beside a shackl
ed and bandaged terrorist. He would divulge more information about himself, his family, his friends and especially one Anwar Mohamed. Preacher didn’t much care about the guy’s background; he just wanted to know about Anwar’s operations, his methods, his processes.

  Preacher was probably freaking Kamil out just a bit with the conversation he was carrying on with Lance. The other two agents, sitting two rows back, didn’t know what to think of it either. All they knew was this kid had clearance from the top for this trip, the very top.

  Preacher closed his eyes and drifted back to Yap. He had done an excellent job keeping his new permanent out-of-body situation from Marta. She looked past his eccentricities, chalking them up to his brush with death.

  It wasn’t that, of course. Nearly being killed had changed him almost as much as she had. Granted, it did give him a new perspective on life – an overhead perspective that was always turned on. But it was not the new outlook on life others refer to after a near-death experience. He didn’t find religion or a sense of living in the now. His near-death experience flipped a switch and turned something on in his subconscious. He had two views of the world at all times. Kind of like funky 3-D vision.

  It was jarring at first, when he woke up in the hospital bed in Hawaii. The first thing he saw was Lance floating up there and simultaneously Preacher lying in bed. Before, it was one or the other. Seeing both was incongruent. But after several days, he got used to it, came to appreciate it. It was super cool.

  The part about actually seeing Lance up there was a bit strange. He didn’t know why it wasn’t Preacher hovering overhead instead of Lance. The conversations, both verbal and non-verbal, between the two had become normal now seven weeks after nearing the pearly gates. He smiled at his personal insanity and turned to Kamil, who was looking at him from the corner of his eye with a quizzical look. Preacher hunched his shoulder and nudged his terrorist companion. It must have hurt, because Kamil cringed away.