“But you said before that you know what I can do, that we can help each other. That means you need me.”
In his first display of any emotion, Deacon lifted an eyebrow in half-amusement. “Yes. We need your help.” Flat, matter-of-fact. It was an admission.
From under his seat, he produced a thick dossier and passed it over to Peni.
“These are fresh intelligence files gathered from various agencies. Please understand that this is sensitive information.” Deacon’s glance shifted quickly to the other black-clad soldiers aboard the helicopter. Habit, Peni thought. Soldiers didn’t like sharing secrets with civilians.
“The photos are of people we consider threats. Basically, your opposites. They too have manifested certain unnatural abilities. It appears that the transformation affects them differently in some very important ways. The enhanced strength and speed you talk about is subtle in comparison to your own, replaced by a minor bio-thermal reactionary process and an apparent immunity to pain.” He re-adjusted the headset again, earnestly making sure that Peni could hear every word.
“Something goes wrong with metabolism and these people -the Possessed- end up with a constant need to eat and a serious anger-management problem. It’s also clear that you and your kind are what make them angry.” He pointed a finger toward Peni.
“I guess that explains why my own neighbors were trying to kill me.”
Leafing through the packet, Peni marveled at how much information had been gathered so quickly.
Wonder if they have a file on me.
Deacon raised another eyebrow and went on.
“We are on our way to intercept one of these people. Page thirty-seven if you are inclined.”
Peni flipped through until he found the page.
The thump thump thump of the chopper blades receded to afterthought as soon as he saw the face smiling out of the picture. He demanded reassurance.
“You mean we are on our way to find him?”
“Yes, and our orders are clear. He is public enemy number one, so to speak.”
Peni looked out the open bay door in time to see six more helicopters join them in their eastward flight. Aboard the nearest in the group, he saw two more of the black-clothed soldiers and another civilian in beach wear. Strange company.
Salt Lake City, Utah
E.T. had made his phone calls, and despite his reluctance, Aaron had to respect the immediate response.
They sat around a table in a room underneath the munitions compound at Fort Douglas.
E.T. Scott, and Aaron on one side, a man in black uniform on the other.
The three friends had waited nearly three hours for this man.
He wore a Castro cap, also black, and sported a well-trimmed beard, which was of course black, with a frosting of premature gray. Even his eyes were black.
Even seated, this man looked dangerous. Aaron remembered his time in Argentina, when the grunts and everyday soldiers would be clean-shaven, strict to regs. Men in the specialized units were allowed to dismiss the menial requirements of a daily shave and dressing a bunk. They would ghost in and out of base camps, bearded or shaggy-haired, stripped of regulation uniform. Nobody would try to correct them.
In the military, small freedoms like a beard were status symbols.
This man in front of them didn’t answer to many.
On his chest, the name tag read only ‘Bishop’. No ribbons. No stars. Nothing to denote rank.
Strange.
He spoke. “Given the circumstances, Mr. Tyson, I’m extremely glad you contacted us. The ‘Knights are overextended to say the least at the current time.”
Ever solemn, E.T. responded with a simple curt nod.
On the table were several thick file folders. Aaron noted that one bore his own name.
The man known as Bishop slid the bulkiest of folders toward the trio, while he himself pulled Aaron’s rap sheet close and let it fall open.
“I’ve been given orders to enlist the help of qualified individuals for our cause. And while I am reluctant to dip into the civilian pool; you, Mr. Dayne might be an exception I’m willing to make.”
Aaron raised an eyebrow. Might?
Bishop turned his attention to Scott, who frowned in disturbed brooding. Aaron knew it was killing him to be sitting still. For some time now, his friend had spent the days crisscrossing the valley sky quelling uprisings and rescuing the hapless and helpless. At night, he would return to Aaron’s quaint home and eat hearty meals prepared by Collie. Then he would collapse onto the couch in immediate slumber and be gone by the time Aaron and the others woke in the small hours. Each night, the fresh wounds of the day would seal themselves up and he would be renewed, fresh. Perfect.
“I was told you have already received a preliminary briefing regarding what we expect from you Mr. Fitzpatrick.”
“Indeed I have.” Scott’s frown didn’t fade. “What you are asking is no different than what I’ve been doing.”
“Ah, but it is. You have been freelancing, stumbling blindly, going where the wind takes you.. Literally. All noble work, but the unfortunate reality is that those are losing battles. The enemy is establishing a hierarchy, organizing, and very soon you are going to need us as much as we need you.”
Scott nodded, but Aaron read the doubt that registered. The huge man –if he was still only that- pushed away from the table. The sigh he heaved was full of impatience. He walked to the door where another black-clad guard stood, speaking over his shoulder as he went.
“I will let you know when I need you. Until then, I’m going to get some work done.”
The guard didn’t move to stop Scott. Bishop spoke for him.
“Please sit down Mr. Fitzpatrick, I have important information I would like to share with you.”
Normally patient, Scott waved off the request, simultaneously gesturing to Aaron and his companion.
“They can tell me about it tonight. I need to get out of here. No disrespect intended Mr. Bishop, but if I had to guess, I’d say that I am more familiar with the situation than even you are.”
Bishop, visibly displeased, swallowed and held a hand toward the seat Scott had vacated.
“I must insist that you sit back down for this. I will take up as little of your time as possible.”
Aaron puzzled over the way that his man -clearly a hardened soldier and an officer accustomed to being listened to- spoke to Scott so deferentially. Apparently becoming an Angel carried a lot of weight, even with Uncle Sam.
“I am going to have to decline Mr. Bishop.”
With that, Scott turned his broad back on the room and disappeared through the door.
Bishop watched him go, letting his jaw clench once. Enough to show his frustration.
Quickly, he returned his attention to Aaron’s dossier. Black eyes ticked over page after page. Aaron had a good idea what those pages read, and some of the images that might be included in black and white photography.
He pushed those visions away before the red started creeping.
Beside him, E.T. pored over the folder he’d been given, mumbling to himself.
The awkward silence was unexpected.
Aaron occupied himself by taking in the files designated for him. Military jargon carried with it a comfortable weight. His mind sponged up the content, locations, names, faces, and other less pleasant details. Familiar statistics.
Like riding a bike.
For the next several minutes nobody spoke.
It was Bishop who finally broke the stillness.
“Alright, here it is.” Both Aaron and E.T. gave him undivided attention.
“Both of you have distinguished records of service in high risk and highly specialized units. God’s Will has brought you to us.”
What was that? God’s will?
Aaron didn’t have time to dwell on the peculiar semantics, because Bishop kept talking.
“Emmanuel “E.T” Tyson is a name that’s been circling through black-ops lore for a long
time. Now here you sit. And you, Mr. Dayne, as a decorated member of the infamous Redmen, are no stranger to what we are about.”
“Sorry Mr. Bishop, but I have to tell you that I am a complete stranger to what you are about. I have no idea who you are or what you represent.” Aaron contradicted.
“The simplest way to put it, Mr. Dayne, is to say that we are a highly specialized paramilitary unit. Just like your Redmen.”
“Except we didn’t hide, it wasn’t all cloak and dagger classified stuff. The Redmen were a publicly-recognized team under the umbrella of U.S. SOCOM forces made up of Marines, SEALS, Rangers, and USAF Combat Rescue jumpers. We were blasted on the cover of TIME magazine as a bullshit propaganda piece.” Aaron retorted.
Bishop curled a lip and spit into the corner of the room.
“Classified doesn’t even really begin to describe the sort of work we do Mr. Dayne. Most civilians have never even heard of us. We are not top-secret the way that say.. Area 51 is top-secret. Everybody knows that place exists and that its purpose is somewhat dubious. In actuality, the government and military allow that sort of attention in order to serve as distraction from more important missions and truly covert groups or facilities. The vast majority of people in our country -in our world even- are totally unprepared to deal with the sort of things the KC encounters on a fairly routine basis.”
“So what exactly does it stand for, Bishop? KC.?”
A bit of sparkle flashed in those black eyes at the question. Aaron recognized it. Pride.
“Ah… You will hear a pair of different achronyms from the few men informed enough to talk about is at all. KC is an abbreviation of our official title, the Knights of the Clergy. The unit has been called that since the First World War. Coined as such by a man named Keenan Siver. Our ‘nickname’- and the tag most frequently leaked to lesser informed circles is abbreviated as ‘SK’. Short for Sleepless Knights. Siver was one of the first operatives to make a serious breakthrough in documenting and establishing contact with our mutual enemy. The reference to sleeplessness comes from the nature of his work. Countless hours of investigation into black masses, witchcraft, grave robbing, most which took place in the dead of night. The Fallen, and the Devil behind them, rule the night. The defenders must be ever-watchful. Sleepless. Sleepless Knights.”
“The Fallen?” E.T. inquired.
“Yes, Mr. Tyson. The enemy. And they have gone by many other names, just as we have. Historically, our origins lie with the Knights of Malta, Templars, and something called the Angelicum in the time of the Crusades. Three of the Knights broke away, to create another group, one you’ve certainly never heard of. But those are lessons for another day. For now, what you need to know is that our specialized operations are more crucial than ever.”
His dark eyes ticked back and forth between the two men, making sure they paid close attention.
“At this point it is a numbers game. There are exponentially more active cases of Angelic or Demonic manifestation than we have seen in the sum total of history. This means there are more of them than there are of us for the first time. The KC normally recruits twelve to fifteen of the finest soldiers in the world every year. No more. Men like us- like you- are in limited supply. There is no other job or duty, military or otherwise- that requires more of a man than our mission does. It is not enough to be smart, to be tough, or to be trained.”
The way this man spoke made Aaron feel slightly inferior. It was a rare occurrence.
What else does it take then?
“You are obviously in a unique situation, being grandfathered in this way. I myself think it ill-advised to de-classify our existence and enlist outside help. But, as you both know, orders are orders.”
His condescension was irritating, especially to men who had walked in an operator’s boots.
The silent and gray presence of E.T. sitting beside Aaron tried turning the tables.
“So how come nobody has ever heard of you?”
Bishop didn’t even blink.
“The Joint Chiefs recognize that the content of much of our work is… sensitive in public opinion. Even within military channels. Of course all of that is about to change. This manifestation event is too large-scale for us to stay completely hidden any longer. We are finally going above board.”
Aaron thought he detected a hint of melancholy in this man’s eyes as he revealed that small truth. He was the type of man who took great satisfaction in the fact that his mission was so important that most people couldn’t even handle knowing about it.
Bishop continued.
“As you both well know, sometimes change is necessary.”
His eyes lost a bit of their hard glint as he entered lecture mode.
“The modern KC didn’t really have much of a budget until Hitler’s Thule Society began searching out ways to weaponize the occult and arcane. At that time the presidency recognized the risk and chartered a more influential position for our branch in order to combat the rising threat. My superiors expect that recent events will likely provide similar impetus and that the Knights will be granted full autonomy. We do not fall under the traditional envelope of military or even judicial branch like the CIA or FBI. What you know about the rules of clandestine operations don’t apply either. My superiors consult directly with President Bauer, The Secretary of Defense, and a select few religious officials and Heads of State around the world. They take orders from none of them.”
Again, a slight puffing of pride as he said this.
“The Sleepless Knights answer to a Higher Authority. The UN doesn’t know we exist, but we have cells in every single country and territory on the planet. Our traditional political allies and enemies are totally unaware of our purpose and operation. In terms of what we do, borders don’t even matter. We identify target personalities, investigate manisfestations, protect Angels, destroy Demons, and clean up the mess afterward to avoid panic and pandemonium. Our fight is not for territory or political power. We ensure the survival of mankind, the balance between good and evil.”
Again, language that did not register on the normal martial spectrum. There was a puzzling element of religiosity to this discussion. Aaron expected the reasons for such would reveal themselves in time.
Bishop paused for a breath and stared hard into Emmanuel Tyson’s face.
“We are ghosts.”
He shifted the steely gaze to Aaron.
“And now, so are you.”
Dayne absorbed the information as he always did.
“Not my first time Mr. Bishop.”
The other man actually smiled.
Decrypted archival file 0010-008
KC Brian Hin Bishop, Zion Province, USA
.
Entry 1: Contact- U.S. Marine Corps Captain Emmanuel Tyson Ret. Contact Scott Fitzpatrick Angel (manifestation Confirmed)
Entry 2: Commencement of Emergency Enlistment: KC Aaron Dayne (former target personality) Monk granted special Clergy status, including command dispensation. Confirmed: KC Robert Servatius Cardinale.
Entry 3: KC Adam Ironday Pope issues Re-Organization Manifest Vatican3B (attached)
Salt Lake City, Utah
“I tol’ you Mr. Brown. They ain’t here. They never was.”
Nails on a chalkboard.
The bounty-hunter’s voice was even more annoying in person than over the phone.
In person, Brown had to watch that ugly mouth work its way around a substantial plug of chewing tobacco. Chapping lips and jaundiced stubble did little to enhance the experience.
Barely-contained fury bubbled beneath his scalp.
“You are sure of that?”
“Pos’tive. I know a thing or two about askin’ questions, and gettin’ the truth.” The redneck bounty hunter tapped the hilt of his bowie knife for emphasis. “Sure’nuff, they wasn’t here.”
Brown wished that he had arrived sooner, before the Oklahoman had killed their only leads to the whereabouts of Dr. Peel and Serena Dayne.
Of cou
rse, he would have had to kill them himself after the interrogation, but that was inconsequential.
The two men stood in the kitchen of an expensive home on Salt Lake City’s upper east bench. On the other side of the tightly shut blinds, a beautiful morning sun bounced its way around the aspens and evergreens manicuring the front yard. The homeowners -Serena Dayne’s parents- lay on a tarp on the dining room floor, each wearing a neat bullet hole in the forehead. The smell of their blood and brains only added to Brown’s foul mood.
“From what they said, the two of ‘em was stranded for a while in some town called Scipio down south. They ain’t heard from their daughter since they got back here.”
Brown contemplated, still as a bronze statue in the small light.
“She must be coming here. She has nowhere else to go.” He could not hide his frustration.
“I reckon you’s probably right. She’s bound t’show up sometime.” The bounty hunter’s tone was indulgent, patronizing.
Brown contemplated killing him where he stood.
“Don’t y’all fret though Mr. Brown. I’m a patient man. I’ll wait here for ‘em and take care’a things like I always do. You can tell Mr. Val-dez he’ll have his prize in a few short days at the most.”
He smiled, revealing a set of tobacco-yellowed teeth.
“I guarantee, or your money back!” His own joke set him into a wheezy laugh that sounded more like a dry cough.
The humor was lost on Brown, as most humor was.
Staring at the bounty hunter, he decided to go ahead and kill him now.
Brown stalked over to where the murdered old couple lay wrapped in their blue plastic funeral shroud.
“Help me move the bodies. If a neighbor comes snooping around the front door I don’t want anything to be seen.”
“C’mon now Mr. Brown. I’m more professional than that. I’d never hide bodies in plain sight.” The redneck hitched his pants and jangled his way toward the other end of the tarp. His path took him past the Brazilian, within arms’ reach.
Too close.
To Light Us, To Guard Us (The Angel War Book 1) Page 28