The Perfect Weapon

by Christopher Metcalf

  Lance sat up. He noticed Seibel and Fuchs did not. They heard the same alarm and message, yet they were unmoved by it. His first thought was that the bombs in the Empire State Building had gone off. But then he stood and looked to the south. A pillar of smoke rose from the World Trade Center a mile and a half away. It was too dark to be steam, definitely smoke.

  He turned back to them. “You said she has never failed. But she failed badly in Baghdad when I nearly killed her. And she was almost killed last night. She’s barely alive in there. I’d say those were two very definite failures.” Lance looked back at the World Trade Center.

  Seibel sighed, “Lance, that is what I meant when I said ‘nothing is ever what it seems.’ You see Marta nearly being killed by you and then again early this morning as failures. I see a true professional at work. She is a marvel when it comes to succeeding in her missions.”

  “Missions?”

  “Yes Lance. You were her mission. She was to fall in love with you, but most of all, make you fall in love with her. She succeeded in ways I never expected.” Lance didn't want to believe it. But both he and Preacher always felt Marta was too good to be true. She was simply too special for him. His time with her, the love they shared, might have been a dream, a perfect dream. Maybe it wasn't real. Damn.

  No. Seibel was lying. His words hurt, whether or not they were lies. But, Lance always expected such treatment from life, from a cruel universe.

  “So, what about this morning in Jersey City and the bomb that nearly killed her? How was that a success? She went there to stop Yousef. He got away, right?”

  And Lance suddenly felt really dense. He had not put two and two together to make five. He spun back around and looked at the smoke from the twin towers. “Jesus, they bombed the towers. They bombed the World Trade Center didn’t they?” He stepped to the window. Seibel sat forward in his seat and rubbed his face. Fuchs remained back in his.

  And it hit him, right between the eyes, like a bullet from her gun. She never missed. “You're going to tell me that she didn’t fail, aren't you?”

  Seibel dropped the hands from his face to look at him. “No, she didn’t fail.”

  “I'm supposed to believe she made sure Yousef got away. Made sure he delivered his bomb.” He turned from the window and looked up at the corner of the room expecting to see himself floating there. But no one was there. It was just him, stuck in his head with no Preacher, and now, no Marta. It really sucked.

  He turned to face Seibel and Fuchs again. But instead of being seated, they both stood. Fuchs had a strange gun pointed at him. And in the doorway, three agents held the same guns. He was pissed, really pissed and ready to explode.

  “You knew he was going to bomb the World Trade Center. You let him do it.” His voice was measured, but his body was tense, like a leopard ready to leap at its prey. Ready to rip it to pieces.

  “Lance. Don't be absurd. I would never allow a bomb to kill innocent people. But we can't stop every attack.”

  Lance exploded before the last syllable was spoken. Fuchs, and the three agents, fired at the same time. Lance was hit by four tranquilizer darts. The sedative was fast acting, but not fast enough to stop Preacher from jumping the row of chairs between him and Seibel and landing a swinging blow to Seibel’s neck that nearly separated the man’s head from the rest of his body. He was delivering a knee to his boss’s sternum when he was viciously kicked in the head. It was Fuchs, and it should have knocked him out, but it didn’t. Lance was unstoppable in this mission. He grabbed Seibel’s throat with the intention of ripping out trachea and arteries and veins and tendons and the old man’s life. But the problem was his hand. It wouldn’t grip, wouldn’t squeeze like it needed to. It wouldn’t respond. Another blow caught him in the head and then another tranquilizer hit him in the neck.

  Then there were bodies on him. Blows rained down. He kept fighting, struggling, but his arms wouldn’t move. His legs wouldn’t kick or run. Peter Gabriel sang the last lines of that favorite song. Marta's face was all he could see, all he ever wanted to see.

  And then he was under. He was gone. Lance Priest was gone.

  Epilogue

  Frank Wyrick seldom failed in his assignments. Geoffrey Seibel had entrusted the surveillance expert with dozens, hundreds of assignments in 25-plus years.

  It was Wyrick who first looked into a 12-year-old boy named Lance Porter Priest in Fort Worth, Texas. And it was Wyrick who arrived in Tulsa, Oklahoma in 1987 to again delve into a 21-year old candidate.

  Wyrick was an expert at gathering information. He used audio, video and was more than adept at examining files and paperwork to ferret out details others missed. He was a gifted spy, even though he didn't officially work for the CIA.

  But this assignment, the mission just completed as he walked out the doors of the Central Intelligence Agency headquarters in Langley, Virginia, was different. Seibel tasked Wyrick with something he had never done before. And Frank Wyrick seldom failed.

  For this mission, he was not gathering information. Instead, the surveillance pro had been asked, ordered really, to eliminate information. His job this time was to erase, eradicate, wipe out and destroy evidence. Wyrick had done just that.

  In the preceding eleven months, Wyrick had traveled thousands of miles, visited hundreds of locations, watched thousands, literally thousands of hours of video, listened to endless audio and read millions of words. Instead of keeping videotape, audiocassettes and reams of paper and storing the data in a secure facility only he and Seibel knew about, Wyrick destroyed each and every piece of evidence. Everything.

  Walking out of CIA headquarters just now, Wyrick looked back for a moment before moving on. Behind him, he had pulled up the very last piece of computer data containing information about the subject. He deleted it, and erased the hard drive of the huge computer.

  All evidence was gone. CIA operative Lance Porter Priest was gone. Nothing remained. No proof that Lance had ever been associated with, evaluated by, recruited or hired by the CIA remained. Seibel kept most of it off the books the past five years, and before that. But small fragments existed. File entries, security video, telephone recordings and notes provided by a staff psychologist named Braden, had made their way into official CIA records.

  But now, eleven months later, Wyrick had completed his mission. It was all gone. Everything. Nothing remained. Lance joined Marta in the black hole that was a unique creation of a genius, evil or otherwise. Seibel required complete control of his universe. And now he had it. He had Lance and his life and future in his hand.

  Less than 10 humans knew about his identity as a CIA resource. And Seibel held complete control over these people. He had plans to eliminate many of them. Not just erasing information they possessed, but erasing their lives, their existence in his universe. He had big plans for his ghost agent.

  She lived a waking dream. Something scarcely more than dead, but less than alive. She had no will.

  Her creator, the one who functioned as a ruthless god in her world, had held her hand when she came to after days, maybe years. He told her the news after she pleaded. Her love, her life was gone. He had tracked and followed Yousef to his destination that morning. He was there when the truck exploded in the underground garage of the World Trade Center.

  Lance tried to stop the explosion. He was right next to the truck, when it blew. He was gone. Seibel said the words with pain in his voice and tears in his eyes. He was a liar without peer. Almost.

  The nurse's name was Jenni, with an "i." Her mom did that to her. When relatives started shortening her baby daughter's name from Jennifer to Jenni, she insisted it be spelled like that. Not "ie" or "y." Nurse Jenni didn't think about that as she checked patient vitals at 2:30 a.m. in a secret medical facility.

  She knew only this patient's first name, per protocol. The woman was Patient Susan, and she was beat to all hell. This patient was brought in yesterday from an undisclosed location. Jenni and the select team at the facility knew from
lots of experience not to ask questions. But it was obvious this poor woman had been in a terrible accident. Looked like an explosion of some sort because of the burn marks and array of injuries.

  Nurse Jenni noted Patient Susan's heartbeat, blood pressure, oxygen saturation and pulse. None of the numbers were great, but they were stable. She added her 2:30 a.m. data collection to the patient's medical chart hanging at the end of the bed. She flipped a few more pages into the chart to take a look at lab results. The hospital name and information where the lab work was initially done had been redacted, as usual.

  Jenni leafed through and found what she was looking for. She might be a trusted, ethical and confidential employee of a classified government medical facility, but Jenni was also a mother. She had two little ones at home. She was trained and excelled at not becoming emotionally involved with patients. But a mother can't help it. Jenni pursed her lips and shook her head when she read the information an ultrasound had confirmed. Too bad. The injuries were too severe.

  She looked up from the chart to the sleeping face of Patient Susan. "I'm sorry honey. I'm sure that little angel who was inside you is in heaven now. God bless."

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  So, here is where you read interesting information about Christopher Metcalf. The basics – he’s married to the beautiful Diana and they have five, yes five, kids. The family lives in Oklahoma. You can learn more about the author or contact Chris by visiting www.christophermetcalf.com.

  Chris really appreciates your time and hopes you enjoyed reading The Perfect Weapon. If you haven't read it, The Perfect Candidate is the first book in the Lance Priest series. The Perfect Angel, the third installment, will be published in late 2012. Preacher has to overcome significant challenges. But no one ever said life, or death, is fair.

  THE PERFECT ANGEL

  Coming Soon

  Lance Priest is dead.

  He wouldn't use those exact words. No, Geoffrey Seibel was more delicate, more eloquent. Seated opposite Janet Loomis and her husband Rich, Seibel perfected the image of remorse; his head bowed at the appropriate angle, his eyes smiling, yet glistening with sorrow for their loss.

  He had sat here before, in this very room. Seibel had lied to these two people before, one a mother, the other a stepfather. He sat and spoke with them about their son’s great achievements as an Army recruit. Their son Lance had earned distinction and honor in Iraq. He was injured, but would be fine. He was a fighter and a soldier. Seibel left out the part about Lance being in Baghdad with a team of CIA operatives and Delta Force specialists to intercept nuclear weapons and try to assassinate Saddam. And he neglected to tell Lance’s mother that her son was a spy, a spook, a CIA operative trained to hunt, destroy and kill. And he was the best Seibel had ever seen.

  Then, as now, he wore the uniform of a major in the U.S. Army. The uniform was only a partial lie. He was, at one point in his distant past, a distinguished officer in the nation’s armed forces. It was a long time ago. Wearing the uniform now was a cover he assumed several times a year. He used the uniform like he did most everything else in life. It was there to help him achieve a goal. It was a prop. Nothing more.

  He traveled to Tulsa, Oklahoma this time to personally deliver terrible news to the parents of one of the country’s brave soldiers. He could tell by the way they sat holding hands on the sofa across the coffee table from him that they knew he had not come for pleasantries. So he got right to it.

  “You both know how proud of Lance the Army and our government are,” Seibel nodded his head as he said the words.

  “Yes, we all are,” Rich spoke for both of them.

  “And you know that because of his impressive work in Iraq and other assignments, Lance had been given additional responsibilities.” Seibel looked each of them in the eye.

  “We don’t really know what Lance has been doing the last couple years. He only told us it was a special assignment that required him to travel a lot,” Rich squeezed Janet’s hand. She sighed; it was painful for Seibel to watch.

  “Major Seibel, do you have something to tell us? We are pleased to see you, but why are you here?” Lance’s mother had the gift of directness. Seibel liked that.

  The CIA legend nodded and sat forward to put his forearms on his thighs. The uniform was a little snugger than it had been the last time he was here two years ago, right after Desert Storm. “Yes Mrs. Loomis, I have something to tell you, to tell you both. For the last two years, Lance was assigned to an anti-terrorism taskforce operated jointly with the FBI. He was tracking several terrorist cells. His gift with foreign languages, especially Arabic, was extremely useful.” And with that, he let it slip, gently. He used “was” instead of “is.” The past tense of the word had a physical effect on the mother. She inhaled sharply but kept her eyes on Seibel.

  “Lance was working with the team tracking the cell responsible for the World Trade Center bombing last week.” Seibel paused.

  “Go on sir,” Rich urged him on and put a hand onto his wife’s shoulder.

  “Lance was very close, extremely close. He was there, in the building. He was in the parking garage where the explosion took place.” Seibel looked down at the hat in his hands. He didn’t need to say more. They knew why he was here.

  Janet dropped her head and put a closed fist to her mouth. “Is he gone?” She whispered the words.

  “Yes ma’am. He was killed in the explosion, along with several others. He served his country well, a hero.” Seibel raised his eyes to meet Rich’s. Janet could only look at the floor. She had just learned her oldest son was dead. She shook her head slightly as a tear began its journey down her cheek.

  “Did you bring him home? Did you bring his body?”

  “Yes. I escorted his remains and casket.” Seibel nodded. And with that, Janet broke down. Rich took her into his arms. She buried her face in his shoulder. She sobbed. The two men let her.

  Minutes later, Janet and Rich stood to thank Major Seibel for coming in person to deliver the news. Rich shook the Major’s hand. Janet gave a wet hug. Seibel stood outside the home signaling a white van parked down the street to pull up to the curb. There were plans to make, a funeral to arrange for a fallen hero. Lance had always expressed his desire to be cremated.

  Seibel stood beside the van where four uniformed Army personnel stepped out of the vehicle and stood at attention. He turned back to look at the house. He knew a woman stood behind the closed front door. Maybe she had fallen to the floor. Such a terrible blow. To have your child die before you.

  Seibel knew that pain as well. But he didn’t think about that standing there in front of the grieving home. His face showed nothing but remorse and sorrow. Behind his eyes, there were other feelings. Like always.

  Light and dark blurred. Time fell in on itself. Movement, jarring movement, bookended by endless immobilization. Pain was measured in degrees, but not really. There wasn’t really any feeling. Not really. There was always something insulating. Something smothering everything else. One thing kept it all from collapsing into blackness. It was Neil Sedaka. Damn.