The Perfect Angel, page 1
part #3 of Lance Priest-Preacher Series
THE PERFECT
ANGEL
__________
A LANCE PRIEST NOVEL
CHRISTOPHER METCALF
TT Tree Tunnel Publishing
Copyright © 2012 by Christopher Metcalf
Kindle Version
Published by
Tree Tunnel Publishing, LLC
Tulsa, Oklahoma
Cover photo courtesy Wikimedia Commons: Artist Vassil Sépulcre Arc-en-Barrois 111008 12.jpg. Back cover artwork courtesy Wikimedia Commons (public domain).
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-0-9886016-0-4
www.treetunnelpublishing.com
For angels mine
The world is flat.
Don't believe it?
Ask someone who fell off the edge.
— Anonymous
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Too many to thank. It all starts with Diana, my Marta, my everything. Kids keep growing and changing and inspiring their dad. Need to thank many for feedback and encouragement, including Jim, Jay, John, Susan, Josh and Rick. Cathy did another excellent job correcting and improving my words. Want to thank all who contact the author and provide reviews and thoughts. Writing is a lonely endeavor. And again, I must extend appreciation to Google Maps® for allowing a domesticated, land-locked writer to travel the world.
CIA Mission Statement
We are the nation’s first line of defense. We accomplish what others cannot accomplish and go where others cannot go. We carry out our mission by:
· Collecting information that reveals the plans, intentions and capabilities of our adversaries and provides the basis for decision and action.
· Producing timely analysis that provides insight, warning and opportunity to the President and decision makers charged with protecting and advancing America’s interests.
· Conducting covert action at the direction of the President to preempt threats or achieve US policy objectives.
Message 1 - 11:49 p.m. March17... (Russian, translated)
"Hello baby, darling. My love... I know.
"Did you see the moon earlier? So big, so bright...
"It was Vienna... and that night at the top of that mountain in Colorado.
"Do you remember?"
Message 2 - 9:07 p.m. May 11... (English)
"Is this it? (indistinguishable noise)
"Is this where I say goodbye? How I'm supposed to do it?
"I tried. Just yesterday I tried again."
Message 3 - 7:12 p.m. July 28... (Russian children's song, translated)
"Once there was a grandma who had two merry geese
."
"One was grey and the other was white. Two very merry geese."
"One was grey and the other was white. Two very merry geese."
Message 4 - 5:28 p.m. October 11... (Russian, translated)
"I'm sorry. I just...
"It was never supposed to be this way. Me here, you gone. Never.
"Can I... can I tell you how I am, where I am? Can you tell me?
(indistinguishable noise) "I'm sorry. I miss you..."
Message 5 - 4:02 a.m. April 17 ... (Turkish, translated)
"I love you. I need you. Get ready. Call the doctor, now. Be prepared."
Prologue
Relentless was the killer.
Endless was his energy. Limitless was the extent to which he was willing to push, to exceed. He championed a lost cause, a lost love. This made him dangerous, deadly. It also made him perfect. But alas, perfection is a curse.
For once perfection is achieved, it can never be so again. And once perfection is lost, it can never be repaired, never be perfect again.
----------
Something had to be done.
The leaks started four years ago. Someone without Seibel's unique view of the world, his world, would have missed them. The leaking of vital information affiliated with his Special Activities Division unit within the CIA didn't show up in any evidence admissible in court. It was subtle.
The first was an echo of sorts. He detected fragments of precise information about top-secret activities in Baghdad in 1991 relayed by FSB (formerly the KGB) field agents in Istanbul. It was nothing more than rumor.
A second round of leaks discovered in documents found in a mob safe house in Moscow contained details about his two deepest of deep-cover operatives. Only four people on the planet possessed knowledge tying the two of them together.
The final compilation of aggregated data assembled from various sources detailed ultra specific elements that again, only four humans, knew.
Something had to be done.
The leaks were indications of a deadly infection. He could not allow it to fester, to spread to other organs. The Master knew what he had to do.
The price for playing this game would be loss. He would lose at least one of his confidants -- his key field agent, his brilliant psychologist or his unsurpassed information gatherer. One of them had betrayed him.
When the third Black Angel list appeared 14 months ago, he knew the stars had aligned. Seibel unleashed hell and suffering and pain and misery. Lance and Marta, his most dangerous weapons, would be the collateral damage in this violent game of hide and seek.
Take a deep breath.
Chapter 1
Sarajevo, Former Yugoslavia, June 17...
Blazing, flying, hurtling he came. The Black Angel.
Death lay in his wake. Moving, ever moving. To stop was to consider the previous moment and that led to consideration of prior minutes, hours, days, months. Instead, he hunted. He killed. Slaughtered perhaps a more appropriate word. Yes, slaughter. That described his actions.
Down from the mountainside he drifted, danced, dealt death. And then more death. The Black Angel was more than myth. He was real, too real for many.
But there was no time to reflect on the name, the myth. He ran. His breathing almost silent. His footfall eerily quiet as he approached them. The small troupe was on their way back up the mountain after inflicting pain and misery and rape and shame, so much shame on the unfortunate residents of Sarajevo. His approach brought him to within feet of the soldier on point. A blade sliced through black night into a waiting throat. One killer down, four to go. He stepped sideways to bring the blood-covered blade into the chest of the next in line. The young man gasped and began to scream. That meant the three remaining in the five-man squad would die within moments. And they did.
A silenced Sig Sauer handgun ignited in the black. Six shots, six violent whispers. Six holes in three heads. Five down. Five more killers dead. The Serb forces sent out dozens, hundreds of five-man squads to attack and kill and then run.
The Black Angel turned away and burst into a sprint, through trees on the rock-strewn hillside. “Killside is more like it,” he whispered between breaths. The words exhaled in Russian. He’d not spoken English in weeks, or was it months now? He ran on. To stop was to allow thought, and thinking led to pondering and pondering never led to anything good. Not anymore. He wanted only black and the mission. The list.
Every action, each and every movement, was strategic. He tracked down, followed, investigated and then intervened in the lives of those on the memorized list of nine. Some lived; others didn't.
He came to a ravine and dipped down into it then up the other side. The night’s chill had settled in, but did not settle on him. His action, constant, rhythmic and deadly, created heat. It burned up the store of fuel inside. And that fuel was hatred.
He stopped for just a moment. Calculation of step-count told him he’d covered four miles. But since a good bit of it was vertical, he’d only come two and a half miles into this steep valley. He listened. They were just ahead. It was a larger group. He ran toward them. No hesitation. No fear, for what was fear? "What is fear?" he whispered to no one. "Fear is wanting. Fear is only found in those with hope." The words whispered as he slowed to a silent jog. The troupe was 70 meters ahead and below. He stepped left, uphill several paces. And stopped only long enough to place the gun in his gloved hand against a tree. He focused on what he knew he’d find. It was the glow of several cigarettes. Knowing when to fire was easy. The Black Angel just had to wait for the glow to be brought up to a mouth where the pinpoint of orange brightened as smoke from the cancer stick was sucked into lungs.
He fired seven shots at three glowing ends of cigarettes. He slid to the right, moving down the incline. The remaining members of the squad fired in the general direction of where he’d been a few moments earlier. But he was gone. Three members of the troupe would not make it home. The Black Angel raced on, moving down deeper into the valley. He could tell he was near the bottom. How could he tell? Because he had memorized the topography of this small mountain range. Satellite imagery and maps combined in his head to create a 3-D map that he could see anytime, anywhere.
He reached the valley floor and jumped across the gentle babbling of a brook. No time to stop and enjoy this most peaceful sound. He kept on. Moving, running through black and night. He didn’t look behind him, seldom did anymore. He corrected his course and moved up a hillside. He counted step number 8,000 since starting this excursion 58 minutes ago. If he w
Black Angel ducked under a branch, sidestepped a dead pine tree and stumbled over another rock. It was not Mr. Smooth tonight. Nope. It was clumsy killer. He chuckled as he began to strain from the ascent up the steep terrain. But up he went. The indiscriminate firing from the troupe of Serbian soldiers behind him ended. Quite a racket. Up he climbed; breathing with mouth open. Lungs nearing max capacity and output, pulse above 170. He turned to the left to follow a line that provided a slightly easier route.
It was a little over a half mile to the tiny village perched atop the crest of a mountaintop. Between him and the village there was another group of soldiers. He did not know if this squad had been down into the city yesterday to do their dirty ethnic cleansing business. He would find out shortly. He pressed on, up the hill toward them. Undoubtedly, they were on alert after the shots fired by the small band of killers he had left 10 minutes ago. On he went. Forward. Heart pounding out a rhythm he tried to match on a four-beat quickstep.
He listened to the thumping of his heart, super aware of the sensations occurring inside. He focused on his internal anatomy and physiological processes consuming huge amounts of calories. He felt muscles. He sensed the adrenaline secreting and now pulsing through his bloodstream. Nerves twitched at the ends of his gloved fingers and the ends of his toes. He slowed his climb and turned his head. He closed his eyes.
In only three weeks, the Black Angel had become a skilled mountain tracker. He was already a killer, but he’d elevated his game there as well. He breathed in the smells of the forest, the moss, the leaves, the decay. He heard movement. Behind him, maybe 60 meters. Black Angel rolled to the left. He came back up on his feet a few paces from where he had been. He squatted on his haunches and peered into the dark below. Footsteps. Moving quickly, but not toward him. They were progressing sideways on the hill below. Sounded like three sets of footsteps. Why had they separated from the others? That was easy. They were converging on the area. Good. Perhaps one of these soldiers would have the information he needed. Maybe they knew where his target, where number five on his list of nine was hiding.
Black Angel burst down the hill diagonally. He made no attempt to silence his approach. The three men who had passed moments earlier stopped. They heard the noise, the pounding of feet on rocks and dirt and grass. They each spun toward the sound of approach. Too late. He was on them with slashing blade and driving elbows and knees. Two fell before they could lever the triggers of their AK-47s. A neck broken; another neck nearly severed. Two down meant a third cornered, scared. The third soldier ran from death behind him. He sprinted down the hill in uncontrolled steps. Gravity hastened his descent. The runner screamed. His words blurted out in Serbian, his dialect from the north. He pleaded for help, for mercy. Above on the hillside, other soldiers fired down into the black that shrouded everything in the lower depths of the valley.
Like a lion hunting, stalking, Black Angel separated his prey from others in the herd. The frightened man ran like a bat out of hell, tripping and falling often. He continued down the hillside screaming back over his shoulder. Then, the soldier stopped and ducked behind a tree where he turned and fired his AK-47 into the darkness behind him. He screamed as he fired in a scatter pattern. “Die you bastard. Go back to hell!”
Black Angel watched from below as the man shot without aiming up the hill. The Angel had raced even and then ahead of the lone soldier soon after the chase began. He stepped behind a tree and whispered in Serbian, “You will soon enjoy the comforts of hell my friend.” The soldier, still heaving in deep breaths, turned toward the whisper and fired the remaining rounds in his gun. The Angel laughed quietly in the darkness. It was a disturbing sound of pure joy. And it unnerved the Serb soldier even more. The poor fellow relieved his bladder into his pants and took off laterally along the hillside. His legs too weak to carry him back up.
Between rasping breaths, he shouted out to the surrounding trees, “Help me. For god’s sake, help me.” After just over four minutes, the Serb turned to descend the hill again. In the distance, the glimmer of lights could be seen through the smothering trees. A farmhouse maybe. Salvation potentially.
He raced down the hill and then out into the gentle sweeping slope of a meadow. The farmhouse now only a quarter of a mile ahead, the soldier picked up his pace. He was going to make it.
But alas, salvation is not so easily achieved. The Black Angel had anticipated this move nine minutes ago when this chase began. He guessed the soldier would not choose to climb the hill to the mountaintop village. The lone farmhouse was the next obvious destination. It was situated in a beautiful meadow on the east side of the valley with a delightful stream flowing on the west side.
The soldier thought he could make it to the structure and put a closed door between himself and the angel of death haunting him. It was a natural assumption. It was what a human would do – seek safety within four walls and the barricade of a door.
Just 250 meters from the house, the man tripped over something in the tall grass. He sprawled out, tumbled and rolled to a stop, heaving, crying. He was so close, but far from safety. He had tripped over a foot stretched out before him. The foot was attached to the leg and body of the Black Angel, who had lain in wait a whole 30 seconds for the man; adjusting his position a few feet to the right to be sure he was in the soldier’s path. He stepped over to the man, looked down on him. The moon, obscured by a blanket of clouds, provided only the faintest glow. If the moon could send its reflected sunlight down upon this meadow, the pale light would show the Serb soldier that his tormentor, his killer, was no demon. Just a man. A man with black, lifeless eyes.
“Get up,” Black Angel switched to Russian. “Move.” He kicked the crying, sputtering soldier.
“No. Leave me demon. Go to hell.”
“I will, undoubtedly,” Black Angel replied. “Hopefully not too long from now. Maybe tonight. Get up; move.”
He pulled the man to his feet and delivered a painful blow to the soldier’s kidney area. Then he kicked him in the rear and shoved him forward. On they went; away from the farmhouse, into the trees. He drove the soldier on, up hills, down into ravines. Kicking him when he fell. Poking him in the center of his back with the point of his bloody knife blade.
They continued on like this for two hours. Up and down hills. Hearts pumping, lungs heaving. The pace tortuous. The soldier gave up pleading after an hour. He held a glimmer of hope that maybe he would survive this. Live to tell about his brush with death. “Where are we going?” He pleaded for the hundredth time but got no reply. “How much longer?” Nothing.
On and on they went. They came near several villages, but not close enough for the soldier to attempt escape. When they neared a squad of Serb soldiers, the angel increased the pressure of the knife in the man’s back to keep him moving, and keep him silent.
And then they stopped. They were there. Creeping morning light was inching into the eastern sky above the mountains. The soldier looked around. It was a clearing. A hundred meters to the south, a huge manmade pile of earth stood. A hole beside the pile waited. Realization came to the Serb soldier. He shook his head and then dropped to his knees. He wasn’t going to survive after all. This was not a welcoming clearing, a place of peace. This was a graveyard. The man had not been here before, but had heard of it, of them. Mass graves. Fields like this where holes were being dug and corpses dumped into them. Hundreds, thousands of corpses.
“Please.” He pleaded from his knees.
“Don’t beg. Be a man in your last moments,” was the reply he received.
