The kid didn't know this universal fact. He only knew that he was the master, or at least, supposed to be the master of his domain. The world is his alone for the taking. That belief was evident in his eyes as he took a second step toward Preacher.
"You are good kid. Really good." Preacher shortened the distance between them with a step of his own. "I see why you are here, why you are in this situation. I don't agree with it because of your age and inexperience, but I can see your raw talent."
"Screw talent and screw what you think." The kid spat poisonous venom in each word. "You are going to die."
Preacher chuckled and then he tucked the silenced Berretta in the back of his belt under his jacket. The movement was painful. The kid had beaten the holy hell out of him.
"I am. You are. We are all born to die. But I am not dying today, not here." He stepped forward, toward the extended blade. "You have to decide right now, not in five seconds or 10, if you want to die here, now. Attack or put that away."
The kid chose attack. Fine.
Knife fighting is more art than science. The kid had likely been shown a couple of styles or methods. Preacher had studied 43. Add to that his understanding of physiological and mechanical workings of the human infrastructure and the result is knowledge possessed by maybe a dozen individuals.
But knowledge is useless without application and execution.
Preacher applied his knowledge in a most violent manner as the blade sliced the cool early morning air in an arcing path toward his chest. It was a slashing approach.
The key to countering such a method is an understanding of the apex of a pendulum. Each movement from a static point or pivot results in a definite end and then a resulting swing back in the opposite direction. But it is still controlled by the isolated point of the pivot.
In the instance of the kid thrusting and slashing a knife at Preacher, the end or apex of the pendulum motion of the punk's extended arm brought all motion to a momentary freeze. This apex, or the end of the reach and swing of the knife with the kid's shoulder at the pivot point, provided Preacher with his next move.
And as he had done years ago to an Arab assassin with a blade in hand, Preacher shot out his right hand to grasp wrist and exert internal force to bring the wrist close to his body while he extended a cocked and descending left elbow. The connection of these opposing forces upon the kid's forearm was violent, painful and terminal in its resulting fracture of bone. Instead of permanently annihilating the elbow joint, as he had done to that Arab assassin, he showed a microscopic amount of mercy by only breaking the kid's radius and ulna bones in his forearm.
The knife dropped, the bleeding and broken kid screamed while sinking to his knees, grasping the shattered right arm in his left hand and holding it to his torso. He was done.
Preacher could have ended the kid's life here, maybe saving him from some of the pain and detachment life as a spy had brought him. But instead, he knelt down beside the kid. It was almost intimate.
"Did they tell you Braden was a mole, a spy?"
The kid whimpered and grimaced, "Who?"
"The doctor, the psychiatrist you met along the way. Glasses, pleasant face, perfect teeth."
The kid nodded after a couple of seconds. "Oh, yah. What do you mean a mole? Who is he?"
The sirens were in the street just on the other side of the house. Tires squealed to a halt, doors opened and slammed, humans yelled to each other. Preacher turned back to the kid and smiled. "He is the reason why you are here. For whatever reason, Braden selected you. But it turned out that he was a Chinese spy the whole time, for years, decades."
"Braden? What's that got to do with me?"
Preacher just looked at him. "That's what I'd like to know kid. What's your name, your real name?"
"Felix." It was a lie. Preacher smiled.
"See you Felix." And with that, Lance, Preacher, the Black Angel, delivered a ferocious and concussive strike to the side of the kid's head with his right elbow. The blow dropped the younger operative to the ground in a bloody and bruised collapsed heap.
The voices around the front of house came closer. A voice resounded above others. It sounded familiar, but no time.
Preacher was up, bolting across the back yard to the cinderblock wall. He bound up and over into the next yard and then the next and into the back yard of a house on the next street and then across that street, into another back yard and then another before sliding into an alley and then into nowhere, where he disappeared in the gathering morning. He looked back several times, but no one followed, no one tracked him. Strange.
Chapter 10
He pushed open the door and knew it was wrong. Something was amiss.
He was at the warehouse he had stashed gear three days earlier, where he and Meadows had changed and cleaned up yesterday. Dawn was breaking; shadows gave way to detail as morning light filtered in from the east.
He pulled out the silenced Beretta and stepped to the wall. His eyes adjusted to the dark of the space; his ears to the sounds of the structure. He ducked, squatted down and began moving along the wall away from the door of the abandoned building.
As he reached the end of the wall, he heard it. That voice.
"Jesus Lance, what a mess." The words spoken in Russian.
He stood up and stepped around the corner. He couldn't see her in the dark.
"Just a little one." He replied.
He flipped his flashlight on and found her over in the corner sitting cross-legged. Marta didn't look very comfortable and seemed even less pleased. He walked over and sat beside her with his back against the wall. He brought his knees up to rest his forearms.
"Surprised to see me darling?" She asked.
Preacher could only laugh. He was pretty much beaten up, tired and pissed. But she was her usual. Special, unique, magical. The simple fact that she was here, in Juarez, but more importantly in this abandoned warehouse, spoke to her indisputable tracking skills.
"Yes, and no, babe. Being surprised by you and what you do is merely modus operandi." He didn't have to ask how she did it or why she was here.
A flash of images paraded through his photographic mind. He could hear the call she made to Wyrick probably the day after he and Meadows left Colorado. He could imagine the follow-up call she made to Fuchs. And the calls she got back in her efforts to track Meadows. She probably reached the pilot yesterday and swore him to secrecy about their conversation, just as she had with Wyrick. Preacher should be even more pissed at Wyrick not mentioning that he had spoken with Marta and likely told her everything. But he couldn't be mad it her. She was simply too good.
He could see her arranging travel from Telluride to El Paso and then into Juarez, all under false identity. Marta still had financial resources, stored identities, stashed weapons and a network of contacts that she hadn't shared with Preacher.
It was foolish to think he could step away for a couple of days on a "boys' trip" with Meadows and not get her going. She had told him it was fine to go. But her actions and the fact she was here told the truth behind her eyes. She wasn't about to sit idly by while her partner dug himself into a mess and a half. Or worse, got himself killed on a stupid, useless mission enabled by false pretenses.
"So, did you get the kid?" She asked as she reached out her hand to rub his right forearm. He loved that she loved to touch him as much as he did her.
"Who is he, really? Did you find out from Wyrick?"
"You didn't ask him." She stated, instead of asking.
"No. Found him. Witnessed him kill five people with an Uzi, pointblank. He got away."
"Got away? Didn't you chase him and catch him?" Her words were hard. Icy.
"Yes, I chased him. Got close to him and then had to abandon the trail. I extricated myself from a serious mess and ended up back here." Preacher's tone wasn't nice either.
"That's all?" She asked.
"That's all." He replied.
She reached and quickly snagged his flashlight
, turned it on and shined it on his face.
She shook her head. "Liar. You did more than catch him. Looks like he put up quite a fight."
"Yes. Sorry. We can talk about it later. I was just hoping you found out more about him from Wyrick."
"He's a kid we are going to have to deal with. Right?"
"That's fine. I can do that. We can do that. But who is he? Did Wyrick tell you or not?" Preacher leaned his head back against the wall. "Tell me, please."
"I should make Wyrick tell you, but I don't think you'll wait for that."
"No I won't." He interjected.
Marta chuckled and then sighed. "These people. These damn fools who think they can change the world, control the world with their little games and projects and secret weapons."
"Do tell."
"I don't have all the details yet, but from what I gathered, the kid is you. Or at least a reasonable facsimile thereof." That made him smile.
"Me." A statement, not a question.
"You. At least the parts that make you most desirable to people like Seibel."
Preacher's turn to chuckle. "So, the kid is a liar, a chameleon, a killer."
"Don't forget ruthless, very ruthless." She added with over the top sarcasm and a smile.
"How could I forget that? It's among my best qualities." They smiled together. Preacher asked, "So where did he come from? How did he get here?"
"How do you think? How did you end up here?"
"They found me. That friggin' questionnaire back at TU."
Marta moved her hand from his forearm up to his shoulder. "Ah, but is that truly where they found you?"
In the dark, she couldn't see him squinch up his forehead as he thought. It took a few seconds, but he got there. "You're talking about when I was a kid. My mom's jerk of a boyfriend."
"And what happened to him?" She already knew. They had very few secrets.
"He was killed. I killed him, shot him." Matter of fact statement.
"Bingo."
"So, you're saying this kid is a killer that they found."
"Yep."
"But he's only nineteen. Too young to be recruited and trained."
"Yet here he is in beautiful Juarez. A functioning operative."
"At 19?"
"19."
"How long have they had him?"
"How long ago were you recruited?"
"Going on seven years." Preacher stopped and looked through it all again. "Braden. This is Braden, isn't it?"
She patted his shoulder in a congratulatory manner. "Wyrick hasn't confirmed it, but that is my best guess as well. Had to be him who started this."
"Friggin' Braden. He went out and sold Seibel on the idea of looking for individuals with character traits like mine and working to integrate them into operations."
"Not individuals, kids. He sought out kids who had killed."
"But how did they work with them, train them? They couldn't have them join the Army at 14 or 15. Where did they do this?"
Marta leaned her head onto Preacher's shoulder. It had an immediate affect and relaxed him. "That is what we will need to find out. But initial word I am hearing is that the kid, Felix, is at the heart of all of it. He went off the reservation months ago. It wasn't discovered until a few weeks back but they couldn't track him down. Wyrick circled the wagons. That's why he sent Meadows, with his bag of lies about a longtime friend killed and a son kidnapped, to rope you into this mess."
Preacher leaned his cheek on Marta's head. He loved to hear her say such American colloquialisms like 'circling the wagons' and 'rope you in' with her Russian accent. She was born in the U.S., but a Russian grandmother living with them influenced her English from the beginning. This apparent happenstance gave her an advantage and made her a perfect candidate to be a spy.
The fact that Marta too had killed as a teenager created yet one more inseparable bond between she and Preacher. They were mates for life.
"Wyrick said this was a test for the kid. Like my 72-hour survival test back in Dallas when I met Seibel."
"Yes. This test was supposed to be a week, but the kid turned it into months." She whispered.
"Executing those people was part of his mission, part of his test. And I helped make that happen."
"People get killed around you honey." She lifted her lips and kissed him.
The phone in Marta's jacket pocket rang. She pulled it out and answered.
"Yes." The voice at the other end spoke quickly, emotionless. "How is he? What shape is he in?"
The male voice spoke a few more sentences.
"Okay and yes, he's here. We'll see you in 30 minutes." She hung up.
Preacher's head was still resting against the wall. "Sounds like Meadows is not up in New Mexico like he told me."
"Nope. He's across town at a hospital."
"Is he okay?" Preacher asked.
"He's fine. He's working it out with the police and U.S. Embassy staff. The kid is in pretty bad shape. Someone beat the hell out of him. Sounds like he has a badly broken arm."
Preacher just shook his head. Here he thought he was ahead of the game and learns he's three steps behind. Marta in this instance was playing the role of Seibel, who usually had all the details.
"Christ. I can't believe I missed all this."
"Honey, you were busy. Ooh..." Marta stopped mid-sentence.
"What, what is it?" Preacher opened his eyes and sat up, ready to rise, explode, protect.
"Calm down, it's nothing. He, or she, just kicked me really good." Marta opened her jacket to expose the large bulge under her shirt. She moved her hand to the right side of her big tummy.
Preacher laughed. "Can I?"
She took his hand and moved it along her protruding round belly until stopping. She held his hand in the spot and looked into his eyes. A few seconds later, the little fella or honey inside scored another goal with a great kick.
"Damn. That's strong." He beamed and all the pain and weariness and violence and killing fell away.
She reached up her left hand and moved her fingers down his face, from his swollen eyebrow to the bloody lip. "Talk about a mess. I think you told me you'd be back in a couple of days and nothing screwy would go on?"
He pressed his face into her hand and closed his eyes. All was better now. "Sorry babe, I should have had my eyes open."
"B.S. You were bored up there on the mountain, plain and simple. You wanted a little fun and Meadows offered it with his 'you owe me a favor' crap." She pulled her hand away and slapped him lightly. "Stuff like this isn't going to fly any more; not in a couple more months."
"I said I'm sorry."
"Don't say that again. I don't want to hear it. Just do what is right, right by me and right by your baby. No more of this." And then she smiled and shook her head.
"What?" He asked.
"As if you could really ever stop doing this. There is no one else like you; they'll never truly let you get out. If they have to offer millions of dollars and have the president call you directly to beg for your help."
"You're forgetting that there is someone better at this stuff -- you." He started to say more but she put a finger across his lips.
"No, I'm done. I told you, I told them. I'm out. They know that." Marta leaned to the right and started to get up. Preacher took her by the arm and helped her. "And besides, I'm going to be a stay-at-home mom in a couple of months. I'll have babies to take care of and worry about. Who cares about all this spy crap? The world is just going to spin anyway."
They both laughed and then kissed when she was fully upright.
"You said babies." Preacher smiled.
"I did. I want babies. Lots. You are going to be busy. And I want my children, our children, to grow up in a normal family and neighborhood with friends and school and birthday parties and soccer. You won't have time for all these ridiculous spy games. You need to get this out of your system."
They gathered up Preacher's gear and shoved it in his backpack and head
ed for the door. Before they walked out to the stairwell, Preacher stopped her.
"Tell me the truth. When did you get here?"
"To Juarez?" She answered.
"Yes. Ciudad Juarez."
"I got here late yesterday evening."
"Okay. Was Meadows with you?" Preacher asked.
"No, he was already here. I met up with him last night, just before midnight."
Preacher worked through the past eight or nine hours and came back around. "So, if I had to guess, I would say you somehow tracked the kid to the border crossing and that was Meadows' fancy shooting back near the pedestrian bridge when I was pinned down by that shooter on the roof. You arranged for him to be there with his rifle to help if I needed it."
Marta smiled. She lifted up on her tippy toes and kissed him. Her belly pressed up against his. "Nope. I wouldn't ask him for any favors that I would need to repay in the future. That was me, silly."
Chapter 11
No answers. There are none, not to the big questions.
The first of two vehicles pulled up to the Ysleta Bridge border inspection station at 7:10 a.m. The driver of the first sedan handed documents to the attendant. Their conversation lasted a minute or so, with the officer gesturing to the next car and asking the driver of the first a few questions. The driver held out a badge and ID. The border crossing officer looked at it and nodded.
He waved the first car through.
The second sedan pulled up. The driver handed his U.S. Navy ID to the attendant and smiled. The officer bent down and looked past the driver to the pregnant woman sitting beside him and then at the two men in the backseat. They both looked beat up. The younger one had his right arm in an orthopedic sling.
The officer stepped back and waved the car through without speaking to them.
Seventy-four minutes later, a private plane took off from Horizon Airport 15 miles southeast of El Paso. The pilot provided a flight plan with a destination of Meacham Airport in Fort Worth. Two passengers were aboard.
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