In Argentina, every setting was new and different. But he must have driven this stretch of road at least twenty times in his life. Probably more.
The Chinese Buffet on the corner had been open since he was a boy. He’d eaten there. Now it was a burnt-out shell…
Even his comrades in that far away combat had been less than friends. Brothers yes, but brothers-at-arms, bonds forged of necessity more than choice.
Could he be the same warrior when he actually had to care?
Like they always did for him in combat, the seconds unraveled every tiny detail in high fidelity. Aaron Dayne missed nothing.
The first woman appeared on the rooftop, alighting for a moment and shouting down over her shoulder to where the others undoubtedly trailed behind her. Her message was cut short when a high-caliber round tore most of her head away. The mist of brain and blood hadn’t yet fallen when another grim face appeared, this one a bearded black man. He too fell to a round from the sniper.
Nice shooting.
If Aaron had to guess, he would bet that the healing factor Scott possessed didn’t cover decapitation. He wasn’t sure if these bad guys had the same ability at all.
He swung the barrel of his own rifle back toward the corner, aiming higher this time. A pair of them appeared, “the Fallen” his KC superiors called them. They also used terms like ‘Possessed’ or ‘Heaters’. Aaron didn’t care much for labels.
He started pouring bursts into the first.
Crack crack crack.
Breathe.
Crack crack crack
Breathe
Crack crack crack
Resight, breathe
Crack crack crack.
The gun shuddered rather than kicked. The man fell, robbed of his coordination by the hot 7.62 caliber rounds. The other yelped and dove back the way he had come.
Aaron was able to put one bullet in a trailing leg before it disappeared behind the brick wall of the corner market.
He kept his sights trained on that exact spot and let his eyes dart up to take in the rest of the scene.
Scott was airborne, pummeling a Possessed man over and over with his huge fists. Even with ears ringing, Aaron could hear the impacts like more gunshots. Bones breaking.
It was impossible to get used to seeing his old friend with wings.
They shined, even in the dim evening, almost as if they gave off their own light. Feathers flexed and fanned artfully, somehow looking utterly natural. At the very tip of each wing was a faint gold streak, a perfect match to the color of Scott’s hair.
How could you not be called an Angel?
The expression on Scott’s face could only be read as righteous fury, and it did not change even as he let the crumpled form of his foe collapse into a heap on the street below. He stole quick glances at Aaron and the sniper before diving toward where Marx and the axe-wielder tussled in the gutter. Without landing, Scott gripped the demonic attacker by his wings and rose up into the night sky. They went fast, impossibly fast. Gripping fistfuls of feather and bone, Scott swung the other man up and over his own head in a sledgehammer motion and hurled him with incredible violence onto the edge of the nearest building, where wall met rooftop. Mortar and flesh gave way in unison and the Heater fell into a shattered pile at the base of the wall.
Aaron sat awestruck.
Scott rose and dove again, terrible speed and grace and power incarnate. Disappearing around the corner to reappear a heartbeat later, he flashed faster than his bulk should allow. This time he held onto the arm and head of yet another attacker. It was the man Aaron had just wounded, evidenced by the blood soaking his pant leg. His face twisted into a grimace of combined terror and hate. One free arm swung awkwardly at Scott. Some small knife or shard of glass in his fist opened ugly cuts on the Angel’s shoulder and tore his shirt. With an annoyed hiss, Scott chucked his attacker sidelong into a telephone pole. The weather-worn wood splintered loudly. Or was that the sound of ribs yielding? A mask of hatred became one of agony as the Demon ricocheted down onto the sidewalk.
Through red-tinged vision, Aaron put three bullets into the man’s chest and watched as he slumped into death, looking almost relieved.
Three more shots rang out from the sniper rifle and two more bodies thudded hard onto the dirty street. …
…That was all.
As fast as it began, the battle was over. The whole drama played out in less than a minute. Aaron sniffed at the trail of hot smoke emanating from his gun barrel. The biting sulphur was almost like a smelling salt, drawing him back to reality.
He cast tired blue eyes around the tableau of their combat. The sniper was already up, his bipod folded and packed. He prodded at the nearest corpse, speaking into a shoulder radio as he did.
“KC niner-alpha-niner to command, we have multiple bodies at our present location. Initial count is seven, repeat, seven bogies and one friendly. Non-flyer. Repeat non-flyer friendly casualty. Request immediate cleanup.”
One friendly?
The sharpshooter wasn’t done talking, he read off accurate coordinates to their location, in longitude and latitude, rather than the simpler street address.
Aaron took stock of the damage, swiveling his head this way and that to find the dead or wounded.
Then he saw Marx.
Scott was already there, crouched next to the former cop and gingerly reaching a hand out to shut the much smaller man’s eyes. Aaron joined them, noting as he did the deep shadows gathering on his friend’s face as he took in this casualty of their war. Marx lay on his back with one arm trapped beneath him. Scott rolled him gently and pulled it free, crossing his wrists over his blood-soaked chest. The wiry officer was split across his collar bones. A gruesome injury that could only have come from the axe. Aaron reached through the blood to find dog tags, then remembered that this type of top-secret outfit couldn’t afford its members even that much identification. There were no words to be said.
Scott Fitzpatrick found the offending weapon a few feet away. It was covered in blood and the blade was dented deeply. He snapped the handle and tossed both halves far over the street. Aaron marveled at how his friend broke the axe. Not over a knee. Just bent it between his hands until it exploded. A man couldn’t do that. Scott was no longer just a man.
The somber sniper joined their sad little trio.
“Time to go.” He still sounded bored. “The hearse crew is on its way to collect these bodies and take them back to the base. Bishop thinks we’ll be able to get some good intel from the enemy corpses. Autopsy results usually tell us a decent bit about what we can expect.”
His droopy appearance certainly didn’t fit with the sharpness in which he conducted himself in combat.
“What you can expect.” Scott said, fanning a huge arm out to encompass the whole of their isolated city battlefield, “Is a lot more of this. Dying.”
The nameless sniper met his eyes and shrugged.
“I don’t have a problem with that. Do you?”
Serena Dayne heard the gunshots and breathed her relief.
It gave her a plan. If she could draw Brown to where the apparent firefight was taking place, she could hopefully at least get him caught up in a crossfire. He was too much for her to handle by herself, and she wouldn’t risk returning to home, or to her ex-husband’s house. That would only draw the monster closer to her son.
It was a dangerous idea, because of course she had no way of knowing who was shooting at whom, or for what reason. The lawlessness of the larger city was certainly going to be at its worst out here on the most neglected part of the map.
Her imagination ran through a hundred different scenarios as to why someone might be shooting, from gang wars to a botched arrest.
She would find out very soon.
If she had to sacrifice herself in order to eliminate the bodyguard, so be it. He was evil even before the changes. Clearly he’d grown exponentially worse.
Brown needed to be stopped before anyone else died.
Oh Lord.. My parents..
Glancing again over her shoulder to make sure the Brazilian still pursued, Serena veered south, to the epicenter of the gunfight. She hoped her new sense of hearing wasn’t playing tricks on her.
Brown was still behind her, lagging at a comfortable distance. Occasionally he would let loose a string of curses in his native language. The verbal tantrums were somewhat puzzling, because she had known this man -or at least been a business associate of his- for a long time.
He had always been frighteningly stoic. Silent. Creepy.
His mouth was a characteristic hard line, hardly ever breaking into a smile or even a real frown. The old Brown was a blank. This new incarnation was anything but.
Serena squinted tightly as she sailed through a column of smoke. On the other side, down on the street and about a mile off, three bright flashes reflected off the bland wall of a ThriftMart. Little camera strobes accompanied by thunder. She dove in the direction of the gunfire. No more shots rang out, but she was within sight of her destination. Serena prayed that she would make it.
Behind, the Brazilian realized where she was headed. He shouted at her in Portuguese, sounding amused. Then he switched to English.
“Those little toy guns will not save you Ms. Dayne!”
She had already assessed the risk of the situation. It was just as likely that those guns would be trained on her when she found the bearers. Maybe they would both be killed. Maybe neither of them would. But she had no other options. He was too strong for her alone.
“Why don’t you face me woman?! Why are you afraid?!”
In truth, Serena had always been afraid of Brown. The fact that he didn’t bother to meet her eyes when speaking, combined with his hardened frown, had always unsettled her.
Now, she did not fear him so much, even if she did realize that she would be unable to better him in combat. His sickly laughter chased after her in the cold night.
She wished that Brown feared her for once.
Her breath began to labor, just slightly. Finally, the effort was taking its toll and she slowed down. Almost without realizing it, she had covered miles of ground. Faster than driving a car.
Almost there.
Down below and ahead of her, where the sounds of gunfire had just faded, Serena could hear muted voices. They carried up and battled the wind for her attention. Something in that far off conversation gave her pause. A hint of familiarity battered around by the air until it was just less than recognizable. She wondered at it. And again flew faster.
-----------------------------------------
“How long until they get here?” Scott was referring to their backup, the hearse van that would collect the dead.
The lanky sniper crackled into his handset once more and listened for the call back.
“ETA is six minutes.”
The Monk went back to his little nest in the middle of the road to collect the shells that his bullets had left scattered around the taco cart. It was a habit more than a necessity. Bishop had told them all that the ‘Sleepless Knights’ would soon be exposed to the panicked public. Their membership, purpose and operations declassified. But not yet. So the sniper covered his tracks, as he always had. No footprint, no shell casing, no fiber or telltale muzzle burn.
A walking, breathing ghost.
The role suited the quiet man, Aaron thought.
Scott bent once again over the body of Marx and muttered quietly in a tone Aaron had never heard before, like a benediction. Scott had never been religious, so Aaron wasn’t sure where it came from, but it seemed appropriate.
Scott jerked upright suddenly and turned his head up to the dark sky. He had heard something. Aaron followed his gaze up and over the rooftops. For the hundredth time, he wished for the same senses that warned Scott of whatever impending danger came their way. For now he would just follow his friend’s lead.
“How many more Scott?”
Scott dismissed the question with a wave of his hand.
Something else then.
Aaron trained his barrell absently toward the sparse clouds. Nothing showed itself.
They waited.
He trusted his friend. He trusted his trigger finger even more.
Finally, movement in the eastern sky caught his attention. Higher up than he would have thought.
Have to get used to this airborne stuff.
His finger tightened almost imperceptibly. Ready to loose another trio of hot bullets.
“Wait, Aaron. You don’t want to shoot her.”
Her? He can tell that from here?
With that, Scott was gone. He leapt up into the air, immense white wings shining behind him in rhythmic flexion. The way his passage stirred the street debris reminded Aaron of helicopter’s liftoff. Scott’s broad back, now made exponentially broader with the spread of plumage, blocked Dayne’s shot.
The Angel rose into the night like a pale missile, climbing in an instant above the traffic lights and billboards on a path directly for the other white spot in the sky.
There was another shape too, in pursuit of the first. Dark against the darkness. As Scott crested the buildings and other obscuring structures, the angel-woman changed course, and cut toward him. Her pursuer followed suit.
Suddenly -as if he or she or it noticed Scott rising through the chill night- the dark shape abruptly pulled up short. The avenging white streak that was Scott Fitzpatrick didn’t deviate to his left or his right. Aaron saw him go, growing smaller and smaller all the way, his glorious whiteness graying with the distance.
Fitzpatrick plowed into the cool wind with furious speed and unlikely grace. His massive frame cut through the air with a smoothness that belied bulk. The grim set of his mouth and brow carried the same focused energy he’d relied on his whole life to be the best at what he did. School. Sports. Fighting fires.
He beat his new wings and rocketed upward in mockery to the supposed constancy of gravity.
It struck him as somewhat odd that such an energetic motion could be carried out in relative silence. No roaring engine or pounding feet to accompany the speed at which he traveled. These and a hundred smaller thoughts scattered like butterflies in the face of his larger concern.
He could entertain no other concentrations.
Another of the Fallen, the demon people -he was still unsure how to title them- was in front of him. This one was a vicious looking brown-skinned man, and he chased after another of Scott’s own.
Definitely one of the bad guys.
This wasn’t just any Angel either. The woman being pursued was not just anybody.
He knew her. He had doubted that he would ever see her again after she and Aaron divorced. But there she was, a scant few yards away in the darkness and breeze. Fallen out of the sky. Literally.
Still, Scott couldn’t concentrate on Serena, his long lost friend. Instead he let his surprise at her unexpected appearance register and then give way to the all-consuming vengeful rage he couldn’t help but feel.
He was ready to hurt first and ask questions later. From his rising vantage, he could see that Serena was worried and a little winded. She veered toward him, crying out in combined relief and confusion. Like an old friend seeing another old friend unexpectedly. This of course was exactly the case.
“Scott Fitzpatrick!?”
They pulled up just short of colliding, both of them riding the shifting breezes with ease.
“Serena, what are you doing here!?”
He didn’t wait for her response. No amount of curiosity or surprise could keep his attention at the moment. She looked exhausted up close. Absently, he wondered how far she had come and how she had found them. The answers to those questions would have to wait.
Scott gritted his teeth and wheeled away toward her pursuer. The dark man cursed and turned away immediately. He cut left and dove toward the streets. The air rippled with his heat and passing. Scott saw where he headed. A long-abandoned glass factory. The windows at street lev
el had been boarded up, but some of the higher portals yawned black against the brownish gray cinderblocks.
Inside of the decrepit building was only darkness.
Serena’s erstwhile pursuer tucked his dark wings and disappeared through one of the high windows. Sounds of shattering glass and banging metal erupted from the darkness.
Then, only silence.
Scott moved to pursue, pulling up just short of the same window his quarry had passed through. Straining to make out movement, a flash of dark feathers, anything. Only blank, undetailed blackness greeted him.
Hard lessons from the past weeks had taught him enough to know that it was unwise to underestimate the cunning of these enemies.
He had done so before, mistaken their zombie-like focus for undead intelligence. It had cost him, led him right into an ambush. He wouldn’t make the same mistake again.
Conceding the small victory of survival to his enemy irked Scott, but he had questions, so he turned back the way he had come.
There, on the street that had minutes before been a battleground, Serena was just now alighting with the grace only women seemed to possess. Scott looked to Aaron, and with eyes enhanced by a miracle, saw his best friend’s jaw drop open in shock.
Decrypted Archival File 0218-005
KC Marcus Rossborough Monk. Zion Province USA
Entry 1: First inclusion of Emergency Enlist Clergy Aaron Dayne Monk and Travis Marx Monk. Scott Fitzpatrick Angel patrol.
Entry 2: Contact with Fallen in Northwest City Grid {40.7500° N, 111.8843° W}:
Casualties. Hearse unit request granted- KC Brian Hin Bishop.
Entry 3: KC Travis Marx Monk (emergency enlistee) confirmed deceased K.I.A
Entry 4: Contact; Serena Dayne Angel (non-confirmed)
Entry 5: Pursuit of additional Fallen target unsuccessful.
Entry 6: Hearse Crew collection of Fallen specimens for evaluation. succesful
To Light Us, To Guard Us (The Angel War Book 1) Page 31