The Perfect Candidate: A Lance Priest / Preacher Thriller (No. 1) Read Online Free
Author: Christopher Metcalf
of high school but couldn’t handle the structure. You are truly a very promising candidate. Maybe one of a kind. But you will be of no use to your country or anyone for that matter unless you can survive the next 72 hours.”
Maybe he should already be running for his life. Elton’s song was only halfway through. It was making it a bit hard to concentrate on what Seibel was saying.
Chapter 2
He should be scared. Scared to death. Maybe convulsing, bending over to hurl his lunch. He should be sweating bullets -- another bad pun, but still.
But he wasn’t. He wasn’t scared or nauseous or sweating. If anything, Lance was excited, like those eager moments before the starting gun fired prior to the 400-meter race at the Oklahoma high school state track meet. Right now, in this moment, Lance was more alert than he’d been in years, maybe ever.
Lance could feel every joint in his body, every surface or fabric touching his skin. Even with the song playing in his head, he was able to concentrate on his senses. He was about to go out of body, could feel it coming on.
He couldn’t see them, but Lance could sense the layers of reality comprising the situation he now found himself in. Like sitting across the desk from the school principal in 9 th grade telling a lie-filled epic tale with dozens of moving parts, he knew there were multiple agendas in play here. Seibel was much more than a well-dressed bureaucrat. Each word spoken by the man carried numerous meanings.
“Seventy-two hours. Three days?” Lance shook his head as he said this. He also pushed his chair back a few inches, readying himself.
“Three days,” Seibel pulled a business card from his suit jacket and set it on the table next to Lance’s gun and looked at his watch again. “Here is a number that you are to call at precisely 2:17 p.m. three days from now. The number will be active for only 10 minutes and only I can answer it.” With that, Seibel sat back in his chair. “I hope to hear from you then.”
“That’s it? I just leave now?”
“You have 5 minutes and 20 seconds head start. I would use it.” Seibel was relaxed.
Lance corrected him without looking at his own watch or the clock on the wall. His internal clock was keeping time like it does when he runs. “It’s 5 minutes 11 seconds. Again, why are you doing this?”
“Now is not the time to ask why. Now is the time to fly. Good luck Preacher.” Seibel was done with his performance. He had just told a 21-year-old kid that two killers were about to hunt him down, but at least he did it with a smile.
Lance’s next few moves were sudden and surprisingly confident despite the desperate situation. Seibel watched every infinitesimal detail of Lance’s actions. Assessing everything.
First, Lance stood, scooting the chair back as he did so. He grabbed the gun with his right hand. Even though he hadn’t held it in a year or fired it in two years, he pressed the clip release and popped the magazine out the bottom of the handle. It was fully loaded and had been oiled. He shoved the clip back in and swiped the card from the table with his left hand, shoving it into his right breast jacket pocket. Seibel remained completely passive.
And then Lance reached for the file folder. This changed things.
Seibel smacked his left hand flat on the manila folder. It was a loud slap. Definitive in its intent and effect.
“I’m afraid I’ll need to keep this.” Seibel smiled up at him.
Simultaneous to stretching out to the folder with his left hand, Seibel did a deceptively fast thing with his right. The motion was swift and smooth and utterly natural as he reached his right hand to lift his suit jacket and grab the handle of a gun resting in a holster midway between his armpit and waist. He didn’t pull the gun, but was ready to. His eyes never left Lance’s.
Preacher watched Seibel’s right hand movement with his peripheral vision but kept his eyes locked on Seibel’s. The gun in
Maybe he should already be running for his life. Elton’s song was only halfway through. It was making it a bit hard to concentrate on what Seibel was saying.
Chapter 2
He should be scared. Scared to death. Maybe convulsing, bending over to hurl his lunch. He should be sweating bullets -- another bad pun, but still.
But he wasn’t. He wasn’t scared or nauseous or sweating. If anything, Lance was excited, like those eager moments before the starting gun fired prior to the 400-meter race at the Oklahoma high school state track meet. Right now, in this moment, Lance was more alert than he’d been in years, maybe ever.
Lance could feel every joint in his body, every surface or fabric touching his skin. Even with the song playing in his head, he was able to concentrate on his senses. He was about to go out of body, could feel it coming on.
He couldn’t see them, but Lance could sense the layers of reality comprising the situation he now found himself in. Like sitting across the desk from the school principal in 9 th grade telling a lie-filled epic tale with dozens of moving parts, he knew there were multiple agendas in play here. Seibel was much more than a well-dressed bureaucrat. Each word spoken by the man carried numerous meanings.
“Seventy-two hours. Three days?” Lance shook his head as he said this. He also pushed his chair back a few inches, readying himself.
“Three days,” Seibel pulled a business card from his suit jacket and set it on the table next to Lance’s gun and looked at his watch again. “Here is a number that you are to call at precisely 2:17 p.m. three days from now. The number will be active for only 10 minutes and only I can answer it.” With that, Seibel sat back in his chair. “I hope to hear from you then.”
“That’s it? I just leave now?”
“You have 5 minutes and 20 seconds head start. I would use it.” Seibel was relaxed.
Lance corrected him without looking at his own watch or the clock on the wall. His internal clock was keeping time like it does when he runs. “It’s 5 minutes 11 seconds. Again, why are you doing this?”
“Now is not the time to ask why. Now is the time to fly. Good luck Preacher.” Seibel was done with his performance. He had just told a 21-year-old kid that two killers were about to hunt him down, but at least he did it with a smile.
Lance’s next few moves were sudden and surprisingly confident despite the desperate situation. Seibel watched every infinitesimal detail of Lance’s actions. Assessing everything.
First, Lance stood, scooting the chair back as he did so. He grabbed the gun with his right hand. Even though he hadn’t held it in a year or fired it in two years, he pressed the clip release and popped the magazine out the bottom of the handle. It was fully loaded and had been oiled. He shoved the clip back in and swiped the card from the table with his left hand, shoving it into his right breast jacket pocket. Seibel remained completely passive.
And then Lance reached for the file folder. This changed things.
Seibel smacked his left hand flat on the manila folder. It was a loud slap. Definitive in its intent and effect.
“I’m afraid I’ll need to keep this.” Seibel smiled up at him.
Simultaneous to stretching out to the folder with his left hand, Seibel did a deceptively fast thing with his right. The motion was swift and smooth and utterly natural as he reached his right hand to lift his suit jacket and grab the handle of a gun resting in a holster midway between his armpit and waist. He didn’t pull the gun, but was ready to. His eyes never left Lance’s.
Preacher watched Seibel’s right hand movement with his peripheral vision but kept his eyes locked on Seibel’s. The gun in
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