To Light Us, To Guard Us (The Angel War Book 1)

by Sean M O'Connell

  The incomplete tower was already booked as home to a handful of uber-successful business offices and a fair share of spoiled heirs and trust-fund brats.

  Finally, the high speed elevator slowed to a smooth stop, granting its passengers a heady vertical rush. Doors hissed open with a soft pung.

  This time, Julani stepped forward first, his frame filling a large portion of the double-wide door. He swung his leonine head first left, then right. He went through the motions absent-mindedly, knowing full well how unlikely it was that anybody unauthorized would make it this far into the heart of the tower. Satisfied, he shuffled a to one side, allowing Brown, then Hunter Valdez himself to step out of the elevator and into the modern chic antechamber of Babel’s executive offices.

  “Good morning gentlemen.”

  Even the stoic Brown reacted to the disarmingly cheerful source of the greeting, though it was hardly more than a flicker of recognition across his gargoyle features.

  Perched on a high stool behind a half-moon desk of mod-era brushed aluminum and charcoal enamel, sat Serena Dayne, Valdez’s assistant. Her eyes and fingers danced over recesses on the desk where an array of monitors blinked back and forth between the status reports of the tower’s myriad revenue centers. The flush of scrolling numbers and nonsense icons made little sense to the two bodyguards, but their employer’s attention fixed on the bank of screens, taking brief mental notes.

  “Good morning Ms. Dayne.” Hunter’s eyes ticked nonchalantly up and down his assistant’s figure. He noted with satisfaction that she had attired herself in a tastefully sexy skirt-suit. Straw hair pulled back as usual, drawing attention to the peacock feather earrings she chose to offset the creamy ensemble.

  She was a very beautiful woman. Athletically built, soft featured, with delicate skin and slightly plump lips. In her mid-twenties, she was much too old for his personal tastes, but he could at least understand why the men who came to his offices reacted so favorably to her. The salary she earned was well above what most ’executive assistants’ made, but she could earn much higher wages here if she would simply abandon her archaic morals.

  She smiled at him, displaying pearly teeth, handing over a slim palm-pad with a touch screen.

  “This morning’s numbers, sir. Progress reports on the art and fossil acquisition projects are downloading now, and I’ve been informed that the sign placement was completed just a few minutes ago.”

  “And the permits?” he was pleased with her efficiency, but never expressed as much.

  “Alcohol and prostitution were submitted already. The narcotics permit application is awaiting your signature, and will pop up automatically on your desk in….. Serena glanced at her elegant mother-of-pearl wrist watch. “…Eight minutes.”

  Hunter raised his own wrist, noting the current time on his own ostrich-banded Breitling Thermocron.

  “Thank you, I’ll have an egg white omelet and dark toast with grapefruit juice.”

  Serena’s delicate fingers danced over a keyboard to her left, submitting the order to the staff kitchen.

  “On the way, sir, and your coffee is waiting on your desk.”

  Her voice was singsong, very pleasant to the ear. In fact, Hunter had wanted her to do the voiceover greetings for the resort, but she had politely declined, not wanting to have her voice intoning some of the more lewd messages that would be broadcast on the various floors of the hotel. Serena did her job well enough, even if she couldn’t be counted on for some of the dirty work that might come along with it.

  “Julani, would you kindly assist Ms. Dayne in moving that vase away from the window? The patina is over a thousand years old. I don’t want this desert sun to destroy it.”

  Valdez indicated the gigantic urn in question, a relic from the court of some Persian noble.

  Of course the windows would tint automatically in accordance with the intensity of the sun, and all four of them knew it. The point was not raised. No argument made. Not ever.

  As usual, Julani could only shrug his acknowledgement and stride over to the window.

  Valdez nodded and disappeared down the hallway, replete with marble floor and leather walls, toward his office suite.

  The Brazilian bodyguard followed, overtaking his boss halfway down the hall and leading the rest of the way to yet another immense door. Inside the office, Brown checked casually for anything out of the ordinary, even walking over to the desk and sniffing at the steaming mug of coffee waiting there. The heavy doors shut behind them, multiple locks chunking into place like muffled gunshots.

  With the closing of the doors, Serena and Julani both relaxed visibly.

  The large man spread his feet slightly wider and let go of the tension through his shoulders and neck. The petite secretary slumped momentarily and, with a loud sigh, hopped down off of her high chair to join her gargantuan counterpart in staring at the antique vase. They both knew the task of moving the artifact was not in either of their job descriptions, and was more likely designed to allow Brown and Valdez an excuse to discuss some less-than-savory business transaction in private.

  The odd pair was content being left out, preferring to ignore certain aspects of their boss’s personal life.

  “Where does he want this thing?” Julani’s voice was surprisingly soft rising out of his barrel chest.

  “I don’t think it matters, just be careful, it probably cost more than either of us make in a year.” She answered.

  “You ain’t kiddin’.” he chuckled as he bent down, gripping the lip of the ancient baked porcelain in one oversized paw and sliding the other beneath its base.

  With a strained huff, he lifted the awkward cylinder, clutching it sideways against his broad chest. He walked stiffly under its weight to the far corner of the office, stooping again to set the urn gingerly on the floor. His knees and back made little hollow popping sounds when he straightened back to his full height.

  Serena just stared, her mouth fixed in a surprised oval.

  She had been present when the antique was first placed. The two movers assigned to the piece had used a hand truck to shift its weight. When they did finally place it on the floor, further movement had required quite a bit of blustering and sweating from both of them, and yet the bodyguard had just plucked it from the floor like a bag of potatoes. Her surprise turned to a suppressed giggle as she shook her head and smiled for the man.

  “J, How did you do that?”

  “What?” He responded, truly puzzled.

  “That thing must weigh three-hundred pounds.”

  “Oh.” He regarded the urn more thoughtfully, as if considering its immense size for the first time. “ummm. No, it wuh’nt that bad.”

  “Well I’m calling you for help the next time I move.”

  She glided across the space between them to attack him with a friendly hug. Her slender arms barely reached half-way around the tremendous girth.

  The peculiarity of the scene was not lost on Julani.

  The small sweet suburban blonde hugging a scarred inner city giant like a child gripping a teddy bear. Amused and slightly uncomfortable with the affection, he leaned away from the hug rather than into it. Some concepts were just a bit too alien to appreciate.

  “And I’m not going to pay you either,” Serena teased, punching him in the middle of his substantial torso.

  Julani could only grunt and laugh, holding his mock attacker at arms’ length with no effort.

  “You crazy Serena.” Her energy and unabashed fun offered welcome respite from time spent silently brooding beside Valdez and Brown.

  “When are you going to ask out that vet?” She asked, grinning mischievously

  Julani’s already-dark face flushed.

  “Whuh?.... No… What’re you talking about?”

  “I can watch pretty much everything that goes on in this whole place on those three screens, and you have no idea how boring it is here in the afternoons when Mr. Valdez has meetings.” She explained.

  Another grin crack
ed his face into a thousand rugged lines.

  “We were just feeding the elephants.”

  “Feeding the elephants? You maybe looked at the elephants twice you fat liar. Come on… Dish.”

  “S’nothing. She’s alright… I like animals… Anyway, she’s a doctor.” He puffed up at the unpleasant thought of their disparate social status.

  Sure, he made great money protecting a rich man, but he had no education, and no schedule of his own. His life was dictated by the whims of his employer.

  And she’s white.

  He didn’t have to say it out loud. Everybody knew that society had been re-segregating since the rioting had started. It was just easier for folks to stick to their own kind, people they could understand.

  Serena wasn’t so willing to accept the separation as given.

  “So what? She’s not better than anybody else, and I know she thinks you are cute.”

  “Stop Serena. My own grandmomma never even called me cute.”

  “I’m serious! She picks up Danny from daycare for me sometimes…”

  She bubbled on for another few minutes about the kid and the cost of daycare, Julani couldn’t quite follow it all, but she eventually got back to her point, “and anyway, she mentioned some big black guy with dreads, which can only be you. She specifically said she thought you were cute. And that you weren’t very good at focusing on the elephants…”

  Another giggle accompanied this last jab.

  He blushed again, feeling strange that this tiny little thing could embarrass him so thoroughly. His feelings evidenced by the tight-lipped frown he couldn’t help from pulling.

  Unfazed, Serena slapped him again on the shoulder and winked.

  “Relax J. I won’t tell anybody.”

  He could only blink at her, the frown melting away into a confused half smile.

  Any further teasing was cut short by the opening of the office door. Brown’s unsettling eyes fell on the pair, still standing unusually close after Serena’s chumming.

  Julani’s nostrils flared in irritation as he eased himself away from her.

  Drifting toward the spot where he had just placed the urn, he resented himself for letting his guard down, even momentarily.

  Brown’s looks had a way of making him feel scolded even at times when he’d done nothing wrong. The Brazilian stalked down the hall toward them. Pausing beside Serena’s desk, he stared at Julani while addressing the secretary.

  “Mr. Valdez needs you in his office, Ms. Dayne.”

  Serena’s face offered no hint of the grin she wore only moments before. She darted efficiently to her desk and plucked her own organizer from a concealed drawer. She shot a private smirk at Julani, who didn’t notice. He was back to business, returning Brown’s gaze with equally dead eyes.

  Serena, despite her cutesy disposition, was far from stupid. She knew that this room was no longer a place she wanted to be. She shuffled past Brown, barely able to suppress a shudder as she walked down the hall, knowing that he was likely watching her.

  She knocked on the office door and was admitted with a familiar chime. As she entered, a few words of grim reprimand in Brown’s subdued tones, and the echo of a gruff rebuke from Julani chased her.

  Then the door closed behind her.

  In the office lobby, the conditioned air crackled with tension between the two bodyguards. Brown felt it his place to ensure that the younger man take his job seriously, while Julani answered to one boss only. The two worked well together, but the connection did not extend beyond professionalism.

  Both were extremely hard men, forged by similarly challenging backgrounds, yet they were fundamentally very different.

  With nothing to talk about, the pair settled onto separate couches in the small lobby. Each man drifted into himself, lost in thought.

  Julani’s mind turned to the good Dr. Peel, mentally replaying their interaction that day he’d fed the elephants, and the conversation with Serena.

  Brown, the mysterious Brazilian, stared at the textured wall. His own thoughts rewound through the discussion he had just finished with Valdez. After a moment, he fixed his eyes on the distracted Julani. Stroking the stub of his finger, he turned his thoughts to nothing.

  Nothing at all.

  Salt Lake City, Utah

  Another work day done, Aaron Dayne stepped once again out of the shop and into the valley air. The asphalt of the parking lot was still damp from the showers pattering down at intervals throughout the day. He’d spent the afternoon alone, installing a new set of handlebars on a customer’s motorcycle.

  Crazy Dave had gone off on some financial errand.

  With another build nearly complete, it seemed prudent to knock off early and pay a special visit to the most interesting person he knew. A lifetime of memories glued Aaron to the man.

  Maybe the company of old friends would help him shake the troublesome thoughts that kept returning at night and in quiet moments.

  Maybe.

  Aaron made his way around to the rear of the shop where his own motorcycle was parked. Shooing away a stray cat with his boot, he carefully pulled away the vinyl cover.

  This particular machine was his first build. One that would likely never be fully finished.

  Shortly after his return from Argentina, his young wife had suggested that he build the motorcycle rather than purchase one because it would allow him to focus his energies on something positive. Naturally, she’d been right. About that and a lot of other things.

  An interest in tinkering had blossomed into a passion, and eventually, into business opportunity. Most builders started personal collections, accumulating several bikes and loading them with the newest and best parts. Aaron took the alternative route, simply modifying his original build to accommodate his evolving taste. To date, the bike had been re-chromed and re-painted twice. The rear suspension seemed in a constant state of evolution, having been swapped out countless times. The current manifestation, and his favorite thus far, was slightly unconventional, but certainly impressive. The paint -likely to be replaced soon with a Greatwater job- was a combination of matte and glossy black. Intricate pin striping crisscrossed the front fender, half of the headlight casing, and most of the tank. Subtle charcoal text within the pinstripes displayed quotes from Aaron’s favorite movies, bygone classics from his parents’ age like Braveheart, Gladiator, and even a little something from Yoda, out of the original Star Wars trilogy, all set against a glossy black. The back tire was a spokeless masterpiece he had salvaged from an old custom made by Amen Choppers, an eastern shop well known in its day for revolutionary designs. The slug-timed 110 inch shovelhead motor belched a plop, plop, roar through the mouth of Dayne’s favorite and most personal touch. The pipes, cut and fit by his own hand, were wrapped in an etched copper chrome that shined like the edge of the flawless pennies his grandmother used to give him, crowing that someday they would be worth something. Of course, one-cent coins made little sense and hadn’t been minted since Obama‘s second term in the White House. The handlebars, forks, rims, and transmission case had all been copper-chromed to match. Beautiful. A perfect marriage of utility and art. At least Aaron thought so.

  He reached into the pocket of his torn and oil-stained jeans and pulled out a simple black key chain with two buttons. A work-blackened thumb touched one button and immediately the engine roared to life with a heavy growl. The bike sat straight, resting on the bottom of its own frame rather than a traditional kickstand. Swinging a muscular leg over the top, he settled his pockets onto the buffalo leather saddle and flicked the hidden switch under the tank that engaged the air-ride suspension.

  The machine rose with a metallic hiss.

  Sitting on the bike as it came to life under him reminded Dayne of riding a horse. Barely-controlled power commanded by nothing more than a flick of the wrist. He peeled his shirt away and stuffed it under the seat before stomping into first gear and rocketing off between the garages, storage houses and freight offices of the shop
complex.

  Aaron accelerated smoothly through the gears, opening the engine up and cruising through sparse midday traffic. The motorcycle voiced its approval, sucking in huge gulps of spring air to be exploded out the pipes, each of the infinite booms as heavy as underwater bombs. Goose flesh spread across his shoulders and down the backs of his arms. The cool breeze, combined with the pure pleasure of screaming through the open air was almost too much to take. He shuddered with a sort of ecstatic cold.

  In the time that had passed since the shooting on Capitol Hill, the man responsible had been arrested and hastily tried. He had turned out to be a Professor of Humanities at the University of Utah. Unmarried, crazed and drug-addicted.

  No doubt his defense attorneys would attempt to explain away his behavior as a symptom of a sick society or some similar garbage.

  The funeral of the bodyguard had been presided over by the Mormon prophet himself. Sadly, more protestors had gathered outside the church on that day, seemingly for no better reason than to harass the family of a man who had died needlessly. Daytime talk shows had a field day with the story. Aaron and his new wife Allie had abandoned watching television altogether because such stories were just too sad and frustrating for her to handle.

  Cool wind on his skin brought him back to now, and Aaron’s thoughts jumped to more pleasant affairs.

  The past week or so had been better. His long-time best friend Scott Fitzpatrick had returned to town for a visit. The big man would be joining him on this much-anticipated errand.

  Wild West’s financial troubles had been temporarily waylaid by another of Crazy Dave’s adept moves. A local tattoo shop had paid a considerable sum in order to use the shop and its creations in an advertising campaign. It was a simple matter of letting a few tattooed models hang around the shop and be photographed for a day. The partnership had cost them no money, little time, and was actually fun. Crazy Dave had certainly occupied himself with the young models and attractive photographer.