The Perfect Weapon

by Christopher Metcalf

  Preacher leapt into traffic to follow the terrorist. A van grazed him and he bounced off into an oncoming Peugeot. He slid across the hood as the car squealed to a stop. He was back on his feet in a flash and increased his pace, tearing down the tight alley at full sprint. Shafiq looked back over his shoulder, which cost him a fraction of his own pace. By the time the terrorist turned his head forward, Preacher was upon him. Game over.

  In the next second, Preacher reached out and gave the bomb maker's right shoulder a shove with his left hand. The move knocked Shafiq off balance. The bomber stumbled and then tumbled. Preacher shoved him down to the ground while running past. Shafiq rolled several times on the bricks. Preacher was stopped and waiting for him as Shafiq rolled back onto his feet. They were only a step apart.

  The next few seconds would tell Preacher all he needed to know about his opponent. If Shafiq reached for a weapon, Preacher would explode at him and see where the cards and body parts landed. But for the moment he watched and waited. He made it a point to never underestimate his competition. It started back in junior high at a track meet in Bixby, Oklahoma just south of Tulsa. That day, Lance’s coach had him run in the 100 and 200-yard dashes, not his strongest races. He lined up next to a somewhat chubby redheaded dude who looked like he couldn’t do 50, let alone the 100. Young Lance knew he had the chubster beat and started evaluating the other racers. So he was more than a little surprised when chubby proceeded to blow away everyone else in the race. It wasn’t even close at the finish line.

  He learned two valuable life lessons in those 12 seconds. First, big boys with big bellies can have big muscles underneath. Second, the book under the cover can definitely be something other than what you expect. Since then, he could count on one hand the times he had underestimated someone. He regretted each.

  Two seconds passed as he and Shafiq surveyed each other. Lance was watching the Pakistani’s ability to take in details. It was in his eyes. And they didn’t leave his. No H2T – head to toe optical vertical sweep; no recognizable cognition of the strengths and weakness of his opponent; no shift to a defensive stance. Lance would need to make the first move.

  He did so in Arabic, which surprised the hell out of Shafiq, since Lance's hair was bleached blonde and blue contacts covered his hazel eyes. He was the picture of the Teutonic man, Nordic and white. “My brother, why do you run from me?”

  Shafiq, taken back, responded in fluent Arabic, not his native Punjabi. “Why do you chase me?” He heaved and drew in a huge breath.

  “Because you ran my brother.” Lance smiled.

  “I am not your brother.” Shafiq did not smile.

  “We are all brothers in Allah’s eyes. All believers, that is.” Lance's smile widened and his wait was over.

  Shafiq shifted weight to his right foot and threw a right punch. It was telegraphed by the shift of body weight, clenching of fingers on the right hand and slight gyration of Shafiq's right shoulder. Lance saw the parts of the Pakistani's anatomy at work and recognized the action before the human delivering the punch knew it himself. He knew what was happening under the terrorist's clothing, below his skin. He knew the nerve impulses sent form brain to the gastrocnemius, the major calf muscle, would cause it to contract which flexed toes and brought the man up onto the ball of his right foot. Lance knew the man stood just a hair under 5 feet, 11 inches which allowed him to reach a total of 7 feet, 9 inches when fully extended from toe to outstretched finger. Knowing this allowed Lance to lean back slightly and watch the entire series of motions from 8 feet away.

  Preacher moved his head to the left and deflected the blow to the side with an extended open left palm. Shafiq pulled back and launched a left rising punch toward Preacher’s throat. Preacher shifted his weight to the right and the shot grazed his shoulder. With the move, Preacher knew what he needed to know about Shafiq’s training. He knew the bomb maker had been to training camps in Libya. He knew what type of martial arts training he had been provided. The two opening moves and the recovery stance following the initial punch were karate. His choice of the moves let Preacher know the next two or three moves based upon Shafiq’s “kata” or model of moves.

  Indeed, Shafiq’s offensive barrage included a combination of moves Preacher had seen a number of times. They were delivered with speed and strength, but not nearly as fast or as strong as those delivered by Master Jun at Harvey Point, the CIA training facility Preacher had called home for most of three years. Preacher had initially been beaten and bruised by the brutality of his Master’s training, but eventually improved to inflict substantial pain on the martial arts master. Shafiq was good, but he was simply no match for Preacher, who along with karate, had mastered seven other forms of martial art under intensive, painful, inhuman training. He had speed, strength and knowledge on his side. But he still maintained respect for the element of surprise.

  Their battle kept them in close contact in the narrow alley. Shafiq attempted multiple punches and added elbow blows along the way. A couple of them made contact with Preacher's arms and one smacked his cheek pretty good. It stung and served to put resolve in Preacher's intentions. In response to Shafiq’s sixth thrust, a double-punch and left kick, Preacher countered with a duck, contraction of his own right gastrocnemius muscle which put pressure on the ball of his right foot for leverage followed by a vicious right-handed open-palm blow to the Pakistani’s mid section. Had Shafiq’s stomach and other organs below his diaphragm not been in the way, the blow may well have broken the terrorist’s spine. Shafiq gasped, groaned and collapsed to one knee. Lance could have finished it, but wanted to see how his opponent responded to such a nasty blow. After two seconds, Shafiq rose and faced Lance. His eyes showed determination as he struggled to bring oxygen into his lungs. He then dipped to attempt a sweeping right leg kick. It was an offensive move born of desperation.

  Now, the natural reaction to this move is to step back, jump or bend your knee sideways to absorb the blow. Instead, Preacher pivoted in the direction of the coming kick and dipped down to bring his right knee into the path of Shafiq’s swinging shin. The crack was audible. The Pakistani’s tibia was broken as moving force met immovable object.

  The fight was over. Shafiq fell to the ground and brought his leg up and wrapped his hands around his shattered right leg bone. He moaned for a moment before biting his lip. He might have gotten up and soldiered on, but that was a hopeless endeavor. He would have just been punished more. Instead he looked up at Preacher.

  “So you caught me, what now?” He blurted the words through his pain.

  Lance looked at him for a few moments. He took in the whole picture from head to toe. What he saw did not surprise him by any means. His brief review of Shafiq’s file, along with the other individuals in this Hamburg cell, gave him the basics he needed to know about the Pakistani. He could see those attributes now. Attractive, well educated, well groomed, from a high socio-economic status family. Not a foot soldier of the jihad. Most of all, Lance could see intelligence. This guy was smart, deadly smart. The bombs he had produced were smart as well. They had killed hundreds.

  Another thing shot through Lance’s head as he looked down as his captive terrorist. He wondered for the briefest moment what she would do now. How would she gather information? How long would she let this cold-blooded killer continue to breath before she put a bullet between his eyes? Or, would she torture him, make him suffer and even beg for death? That sounded more like her.

  Those thoughts were fleeting, but they were there. And they pissed Lance off. He shouldn’t be thinking about her. Shouldn’t care how she would handle this situation. But damn, here he was doing it again. He’d need to get control of this, quick-like.

  He smiled and spoke again in Arabic. “Now we pray.”

  “What?”

  “It is time, almost noon. Time for dhuhr.” Lance held up his wrist and tapped the watch. It was nearly time for the mid-day prayer. “Will you pray with me brother to remember Allah and seek guidance?” />
  Shafiq looked at his own watch with his hands still hugging his broken leg. “Don’t you need to radio other police and let them know you have me?”

  “There’s time for that. I know the pillars of law enforcement just as I do the pillars of our faith. And right now, we are called to prayer. Will you join me?” With that, Lance stepped back and reached into a holster underneath his jacket to pull out his standard Hamburg police handgun. He held up the gun to show he did not have a finger on the trigger. Shafiq looked at the gun and shook his head, obviously wondering why this crazy German policeman hadn’t pulled the gun before and just shot him. Lance knelt and adjusted his orientation to face southeast toward the Kaaba in Mecca. He then placed the gun on the ground beside him. He looked over his shoulder to the man on the ground, “I’m sorry we don’t have water for cleansing or rugs to kneel upon, but we must make do.”

  Lance waited with his hands on his knees a few feet from Shafiq who was definitely surprised by this turn of events. Slowly, the Pakistani rolled over from his rear end to get on his knees. The movement was clearly painful with his broken leg and all. He also couldn’t believe this policeman had turned his back on him. The two men prayed in silence, mouthing the words of the salat, or prayer. Both bowing heads and falling to the ground in supplication to Allah. If the Pakistani thought about attacking, he never acted upon it.

  When finished, Lance stayed on his knees but turned to Shafiq to talk at his level. “Thank you for joining me brother. No matter our differences, we must follow the laws of God. Peace be with you.”

  “I agree. Peace be with you,” Shafiq adjusted his weight to his left to take pressure off his right leg. “What do we do now?”

  “Can I ask what guidance you prayed for just now?” Lance smiled again.

  “Certainly. I prayed for strength for what I will surely face. I prayed that Allah would give me the strength to remain at peace during the coming days. I thanked him for choosing me to fight for his righteousness. For blessing me with truth and wisdom.”

  “Very good. Do you want to know what I prayed for?”

  “Yes, please share with me.” Lance’s peaceful demeanor had calmed Shafiq.

  “I also prayed for strength. I asked for the strength not to kill you now.” Lance kept the smile on his face. He was gentle, subdued. His body implied no threat.

  “Kill me?” Shafiq was perplexed. “You plan to arrest me and take me in for questioning don’t you?”

  Lance did not reply, only smiled. A few moments later he answered, “Do you want to know what guidance I prayed for this morning before dawn?”

  Shafiq didn’t answer this time. He only stared.

  “I’ll tell you. I prayed for the strength and wisdom to find you and your friends. I prayed for his help to stop you from betraying everything Islam stands for with your murderous actions, your bombs that kill indiscriminately.” Lance smiled wider, but his smile was not really for Shafiq.

  He would have burst out laughing if it wouldn’t have spoiled the moment. He was so totally full of shit. He had basically become a Muslim over the past year leading up to and after the brief Gulf War. But his prayers were anything but pleas for help from Allah. He didn’t ask for help this morning or a few minutes ago. Instead, he uses the five-times-a-day prayer to remember song lyrics. Just a minute ago, he tried like hell to recall the second refrain of another Springsteen song he hadn't heard in forever. He couldn’t remember the verse and it was killing him. Shafiq didn’t need to know this little tidbit. Something like that might make Lance sound crazy. Anyway, Lance was on a roll with the whopper he was telling.

  “I don’t know what you are talking about. I am not a murderer.” Shafiq gave himself away too easily. He was going to plead innocent and profess guilt only by association. Lance was a little disappointed. It was not a good lie, no effort behind it. But he assumed it was part of their terrorist training. Funny how they were so committed to their goal of killing and maiming Western and Jewish infidels, but not man enough to stand up and admit their crimes. They hid behind terror and claimed God was on their side when they killed the innocent. Many even believed what they were saying. A perfect lie.

  “Of course not. You don’t know anything about assembling bombs or placing them in locations where they can kill innocent people. Or about detonating them remotely from a safe distance but still close enough to admire your work. None of that, correct?” Lance said this last part in English and it did exactly what he’d hoped it would. It shook Shafiq.

  Shafiq could only look at Lance. He had no answer.

  Lance switched to German. “You wouldn’t know anything about growing up on manicured streets in Lahore while others suffered in poverty. You wouldn’t know what it’s like to get a new bike on your birthday and ride up and down streets lined with pretty houses while others endure poverty-stricken lives, dreaming about one day living a life of privilege and excess. You wouldn’t know what it’s like to be able to afford a Western education in England and have sex with British girlfriends and enjoy the freedoms of an open society while slowly being sucked into a lie that festers among the supposed righteous. You wouldn’t know about that would you, Amir.”

  Lance had made it all up on the spot, like normal. Shafiq was dumbfounded. He had started this day like he had every other in Hamburg. Sure of the fact that he was doing Allah’s work. Certain that he was a vital part of the jihad against the evils of the West. But he was also secure in his anonymity. Lance had just blown that away. The gig was up.

  “I see you processing,” Lance was back to Arabic. “You are wondering what is happening? Who am I?” Lance closed his eyes. He was cracking up inside, but he did have a job to do. Seibel, his CIA mentor, sent him here to work with the Hamburg police and local CIA operatives to gather whatever information he could about this cell and its connections to al Qaeda, the silent spreading menace. The fact that he had lucked into spotting, chasing and catching the chief bomb maker for the most wanted Hamburg cell was pure chance. But life just worked that way for Lance. He opened his eyes. The smile was gone. “God has spoken to me.”

  The next seconds were a blur. Preacher was on his feet and then on top of Shafiq. He shoved the terrorist on his stomach and pressed the man's face to the bricks that paved the alley. He reached back to grab Shafiq’s right foot below the fractured tibia. He wrenched and twisted the foot. The pain must be excruciating and Shafiq should be screaming. But Preacher dug his knee into the bomb maker’s back, which forced out all breath, not allowing him to shriek in pain. After wrenching the foot a second time, Preacher released it and spoke quietly into the weeping man’s ear. He chose English for this part.

  “Yes Amir, God speaks to the chosen. I am one. It was not by chance that I followed you today. I have been with you for weeks. Watching you and your friends as you blaspheme Islam and Allah with your bombs and terror and murder. I have been told that you are to speak with me now, man-to-man, brother-to-brother. You are to tell me everything. You do not have a choice in the matter, brother. And then, after you tell me your secrets and betray your confidants, I will give you my gun so you can put it in your mouth and end the pain this life has brought you. I’ll help you pull the trigger. I understand Amir, it will be difficult for you.

  “You will not go to paradise and your virgins like you were hoping, but you will be doing God’s will, for he has spoken to me. I am your fire, your flame. I am your welcome mat to hell and oblivion.” Because Shafiq was face down on the bricks he couldn’t see Preacher’s face. If he could, he would see that it was blank. This was nothing. Shafiq was nothing. Preacher saw him as less than the ant he had avoided killing minutes earlier. He wasn’t going to kill this terrorist today. He was much more valuable than a single alleyway confession.

  It didn’t take much more. Shafiq was broken. Turned out, he was not as committed to his cause as Preacher was to his. And Preacher was convincing, always is. Lying there on top of a Pakistani bomb maker on centuries old bricks just bl
ocks from the Elbe River in Hamburg, Germany, Lance Priest was nothing less than the hand and voice of a vindictive god. He was the gifted liar, the lethal, ruthless weapon his government needed to fight a new enemy that had declared war on the United States.

  Chapter 2

  “Drop your pants.”

  Marta Illena Sidorova’s words were a command. The gun in her hand backed up the words. Lance did as he was told.

  He undid his belt and let the pants fall to his boots right there on the freezing front porch of a beautiful and secluded mountain villa with snow on the ground, in the trees and in the air. He also hooked his thumb in the waist of his underwear to pull them down a couple of inches and lifted up his shirt to expose his hip.

  It was only the second time he had seen her. He didn’t take his eyes from hers. She moved hers from his to look at his right leg and hip. The two new scars were there. Still red and inflamed but significantly healed since the bullets had struck him three weeks and two days ago in Baghdad. She held the gun in her right hand because her more dominant left hand was still wrapped. Healing from the bullet Lance had sent through it three weeks and two days ago. If she were to lower her pants, the bullet wound on her right thigh would also be red and inflamed, but healing nicely after field surgery was performed in the apartment overlooking death and destruction below in Baghdad. Lance had also fired that bullet.

  She looked up from his wounds to meet his eyes. “So it is true. You did not come out of your mission unscathed.” Her voice was calm, subdued. Lance had expected her to be angry. He expected the gun as well.

  “Others weren’t as lucky. Some didn’t make it home. Two bullets are nothing.” His words were honest, but they also carried a code. He should have killed her that day, but didn’t. Or, more accurately, he couldn’t.

  “There are casualties in most missions. We all must die sometime, right?” Her English was perfect. No Russian accent. “It probably should have been my time, I think.”