Again, Cruz failed to read anything other than sincerity from the man, but trust was too much to ask. Still, dwelling on details would not get him home any sooner.
“Perhaps, Mr. Bishop, you would like to inform me just what you and your people are expecting from me.”
“Very soon Father, I promise you that. We will have the official debriefing as soon as the Archbishops arrive from St. Paul.”
Cruz prayed harder to the Holy Spirit for wisdom and calm.
“For now” Bishop continued, “let me officially introduce you to your silent companions.” He gestured to the shorter of the pair, the one who’d pulled Cruz up from the brink of disaster. “This is Eugene Moss, unofficial leader of our Swans.” Eugene just nodded, his piercing eyes fixed on Cruz’s own with an almost unnatural attentiveness.
Swans?
“And on your right is Mark Huntsman.” The copper-headed stranger did exactly as his friend did, as if the two of them together were reading the priest’s mind. Apparently the introduction was all the pair had been waiting for. As soon as Bishop finished they turned and walked away silently.
“See how all of the Monks watch them go Father?”
Indeed, most of the busy soldiers looked up from what they were doing and trailed the two Angels with their hard eyes. Some of them even crossed themselves as the duo passed.
“What makes these mute Angels so special?” he asked.
Bishop’s voice dropped into a sort of reverent hush. “They’re the best of you. Faster, stronger, able to heal from more grievous wounds. Nearly invincible.”
“You called them Swans?” Rafael Cruz was still annoyed, but curiosity won him over. He immediately regretted it when he saw the minuscule tightening of the skin at the corner of Bishop’s eyes. Pleased with himself.
“Yes Father, all of the Angels we sent to assist you at the Cristo were at one time men and women with severe handicaps.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Hard to believe, I know, given their current form. But it’s true. Eugene Moss was a fat young man with profound Down’s Syndrome. Mark Huntsman was a low-functioning autistic.”
Rafael Cruz marveled inwardly.
The Lord’s work. And the last shall be first….
However drastic the change may be, it somehow made sense. Perhaps his silent young friend Paolo had been one of these.
“Very interesting, but you’ll have to forgive me. I still don’t quite understand why you call them ’Swans’.”
“Ah! Forgive me. It comes from an American children’s story. The Ugly Duckling. Sort of a moral tale about how some things that start off ugly turn out beautiful… I suppose it doesn’t make much sense if you’ve never heard the story.” The last bit trailed off.
Father Cruz took some small pleasure in seeing this sort of hardened man fumble over his simple explanation.
“Danish.” Cruz replied
“I’m sorry?”
“The fable you describe was written by Hans Christian Andersen. A Danish poet. So it is a European children’s story.”
Bishop opened his mouth to answer, but thought better of it and frowned instead.
Any further conversation would have to wait though.
From the southern end of the base a small commotion arose. Cruz’s hyper-attuned ears picked up snippets of the shouted conversation reacting to the appearance of shapes on the horizon. Bishop craned his neck in the direction of the buzz, but said nothing. Feeling charitable, Father Rafael filled him in on the little that his angelic senses could tell them.
“Some Angels, Mr. Bishop.” That much at least was obvious, their distinctive shape against the smoke-smudged blue of the sky was easy to pick out. The fact that they hadn’t yet been gunned down meant they were Angels, rather than Fallen.
Bishop raised a dark eyebrow. Waiting for more information.
“Someone named Scott? And Selena?”
“Serena.” Bishop corrected. “Serena Dayne. Father Cruz, these are some of our finest Angels. Did you happen to pick out the name June?”
“Sorry Mr. Bishop, but that far-off conversation is being drowned out by the sound of the helicopters.”
Bishop regarded the empty sky with some puzzlement.
“What helicopters?”
Cruz pointed to the north, opposite of where the Angels had arrived mere moments ago. After some time, the drone of rotors grew louder, loud enough even for Bishop.
The serious man actually smiled. Shaking his head and winking at the priest.
“I should be used to that by now I suppose.”
Rafael wasn’t sure if he meant he should be accustomed to the special abilities of the Angels, or the unexpected arrival of heavily-armed military equipment.
Bishop started off at a swift march toward the spot where four Blackhawks were settling onto the tarmac. He called back over his shoulder as he went.
“Come, Father. I’ll introduce you to my superior officers. And the Pope.”
The doctor-priest fell into step beside the him.
“You forget, Mr. Bishop, as the Vatican epidemiologist I worked in Rome for several years. I’ve already met the Pope.”
Foul-smelling rotor wash stirred the hair on Bishop’s chin as he smiled wider and shouted.
“Not this one you haven’t!”
Las Vegas, Nevada
“How long has he been following us?” Aaron asked his new friend.
“Long time. Almost since we started.” Peni answered back.
“What do you think he’s waiting for?”
The Samoan’s huge shoulders rolled upward in one of his trademark shrugs.
“Not so sure. I guess he knows that you got the guns.” he flexed the stumps of his fingers. “Maybe he figures I’m pissed about my hand.”
Aaron made sure the huge man couldn’t see him smile. They were still in trouble, having walked for what seemed like hours through the basement levels of the massive hotel structure. Aaron was growing impatient.
The Hawaiian stayed true to his roots and took their trouble in stride, despite his mangled hand and ears.
Elevators were offline, and the stairwells weren’t much of an option because wherever they led, there would surely be unmanageable numbers of enemies to deal with. Aaron figured that there had to be some sort of access tunnel or conduit that could take them further from the main tower and spit them out on one of Babel’s peripheral courtyards or parking structures. The complex was massive, and its creator, Hunter Valdez, was renowned for efficiency. It only made perfect sense that such systems would be in place.
So far, the pair had no luck finding their yellow brick road.
Aaron had finally noticed the telltale smell of one of the Heaters when they backtracked to double check a schematic display on the wall. Peni of course had been aware of the tail much sooner, with his more acute senses.
“I thought they were all dead.” Aaron said.
“Me too.” Peni was none too pleased at the prospect of having to deal with the same problem twice.
“He works here right? Maybe we should ask him the best way to get out.”
Peni nodded his agreement. “This one is some kinda big shot on the staff here. Sometimes he would come around with Valdez and the witch. Those two don’t have many friends, you know?”
Aaron didn’t dispute the large man’s conclusion. From what little he’d heard from Serena, Valdez was very meticulous about the company he kept.
“This guy is dangerous, cousin. You stay behind me alright?”
Aaron cocked back the slide of the submachine gun he had commandeered. Two .40 caliber handguns nestled in the waistband of his borrowed pants. The other weapons he’d disassembled to hide the pieces in a massive laundry room.
He knew how to handle himself fine, but didn’t mind letting the Angel take point in this case.
“Whatever you say.”
The two of them started stalking back the way they had come. Peni spread his wings, though the corridor
was much too small for him to fly in. His patterned feathers made a soft hissing noise as they dragged against the concrete walls.
They found Brown quickly, using Peni’s nose and ears as guides. The Brazilian didn’t fight, though from the twitching of his cheeks and grating teeth it was clear that he wanted to. He scowled at Peni and cursed under his breath when Aaron poked the gun into the small of his back, but there was nothing he could do.
The huge Angel had proven too much for Brown once already, and Aaron’s stolen weapon was insurance enough.
One side of the man’s sinister face was badly disfigured. Blood had run and crusted on his hot skin, the eye gone lazy, looking at nothing while the other stared balefully at the Angel and the press-ganged Monk.
Aaron was mildly surprised at the Demon’s self-control. He’d encountered enough Fallen to know that they experienced violent, irresistible rage in the presence of the Angels. Brown, as he was called, showed restraint.
“You won’t make it out of here alive.” he warned them without drama in his voice. The lifeless tone indicated no threat, only calm observation.
Aaron pointed the uncaring eye of the machine gun at Brown’s disfigured face.
“Neither will you unless you get us out of here. We’re not talking about the main exit either.”
The Brazilian was unimpressed, having stared down the barrel of a gun many times before, often just for fun.
Brass balls. Different approach then.
“In a few minutes the entire basement complex will be filled with Babel mercenaries and the Gargoyles, our most ‘talented’ wings. You should have just let the Bruja kill you both.” The Brazilian’s damaged face curled into the rough approximation of a sneer. “When she gets her hands on you again she’ll make it much worse. Slow this time.” His good eye danced between his captors and the long, empty halls around him. Nowhere to run.
Peni spoke.
“We’ll just have to see what happens friend.” His pidgin accent was thick in anger.
“Now start walking.” He waved his mangled hand in front of the mangled face. “You owe me one favor.”
Bitterly, Brown spat on the floor and turned away.
“This way.” He grumbled.
Aaron didn’t trust him, but so far they’d made little progress on their own, and time was wasting.
Wasting time.
They walked quietly, with Peni making sure he stayed close to the Brazilian at all times.
Aaron began to grow embarrassed by the Angel’s protectiveness. Weird echoes of their footfalls and Brown’s irregular breathing through a ruined nose bounced off of the blank walls. They followed him along a narrow hall and through a room full of long shelves stocked with chemical cleaners. Peni made the former bodyguard put his hands on the back of his head as they squeezed between the shelves. The bleaches and concentrates could blind Aaron easily, and would no doubt at least slow even Peni down if Brown was allowed to get his hands on a jug or bottle.
Their captive grumbled in Portuguese, which drew a rough backhand from Peni.
“English only, asshole.”
Las Vegas, Nevada
Scott Fitzpatrick was not happy.
Serena expected him to be thrilled. By their narrow escape, by the arrival of reinforcements. There was even encouraging news gathered from one of the Sleepless Knights’ mysterious Priest operatives. Rumor amongst Babel’s civilian mercenary was that the infamous Bruja had let two prisoners escape.
A spy-soldier wearing the Priest tag had told them this shortly after their arrival at Nellis.
To Serena, it meant that Aaron was at least still alive. It seemed impossible that an escaped prisoner could be anyone but Aaron James Dayne.
Scott hardly paid the news any attention. For some reason he’d been glaring hard at June since their escape. June noticed too.
Now, Serena sat between the two of them as a tired-looking Bishop -not the one they knew from Salt Lake City- detailed schematics of Babel to a room full of Angels in preparation for tomorrow‘s assault.
Serena had seen the diagrams before, in her days as an employee. So many times in fact that she could probably do a better job of describing certain details than the officer could. Her focus was instead drawn to the silent tension between Scott and June.
Both of them stood, rather than sitting, backs against the wall. Or rather, wings against the wall because neither had yet seen it fit to relax and let their wings tuck. Scott cracked his knuckles over and over, casting sidelong frowns at the contrarian Angel and at Serena, who sat stock-still in the chair between them.
June was much less concerned with decorum, and she made no attempt to humor the soldiers into thinking she was paying attention to their lesson on the infiltration plan. She stood with arms and wingtips folded, her goldish-brown eyes boring holes into the side of Scott’s pale head. Every time he glanced her way, June would raise her eyebrows and pull an annoyed face, trying to incite Scott to say something. It should have been funny, the tiny Angel trying to pick a fight with the behemoth.
At this moment, Serena could find no humor in it.
The briefings had been dragging on for a full half-day now. Some of the Angels volunteered for sentry patrols just so they wouldn’t have to sit through any more of the meetings conducted by burly young men and thick with military jargon.
Despite their best efforts at organization, the Monks sometimes forgot that most of their Angel counterparts were not soldiers by trade, unfamiliar with the technical terms and vernacular of war. When the time came, the Angels would fight valiantly, guided by instincts most of them never knew they possessed. That is what mattered.
What else can we do?
Serena’s attention piqued momentarily at the mention of the Swans’ return from Brazil, meaning Bluejean was back.
Even Scott perked up slightly at that news.
There was also brief mention of the Swan mission being a success.
Scott mumbled something about a Brazilian Angel that the Swans had been sent to find and then returned to his glowering.
At the head of the room, the schematic image of Babel was replaced by a studio backdrop of the Stars and Stripes.
The Monks were finished. But it appeared something else had been prepared.
“If all of you would kindly re-focus your attention on the screen please.” At least the Bishop held no illusions as to how captive his audience was, “our Commander in Chief has prepared a short message for us.”
True enough, there he was, smiling thinly in front of the American flag on screen. President Bauer.
Serena hoped that history would not know him by his latest nickname. The ‘Ghost President’- so dubbed because he’d been sequestered now for many months. Security protocols dictated by the Joint Chiefs had tarnished a grand reputation. It was presumed that he was at Camp David, the longstanding Presidential hideout.
Now only the Knights knew where he was.
They’d been given full control of the military.
Serena didn’t doubt that they controlled the President’s movements as well. It was actually encouraging to see his face on screen, because at least superficially it meant that democracy was still alive and that the martial law declared months ago was still only a temporary situation.
“Fine Americans,” he began.
“Oh Hell.” June cursed sarcastically. “Why does he have to start every speech that way?”
Immediately Scott shushed her. Which is exactly what June wanted. A reason to pick her fight.
“Don’t shoosh me ‘your highness’!” she bit back.
“Don’t open your mouth while the rest of us are trying to hear what the President has to say!”
Here we go.
Heads turned as the two of them began bickering, louder and louder.
Scott’s wings thwacked against the wall behind him for emphasis as he chewed out the younger Angel.
Their argument rapidly devolved from the superficial quarrel over June’s
lack of respect for the beloved President to reveal the true issue Scott had been stewing over.
“If you are not totally on board with this, why don’t you do all of us a favor and go home?!”
A moment of awkward silence followed. June was incredulous.
“What the hell does that mean? ‘If I’m not ‘on board?!’ I am one of the few who decided to come down with you to save Aaron, remember? You have no right to question my commitment! No damned right!” her mouth hung open in an expression of pure frustration.
Chairs slid noisily on the concrete floors as the others cleared the space, ignoring for now the President and his message of encouragement. The Monks, for once, looked unsure of what to do. Scott was a defacto leader amongst the Angels, but there was no official ranking system. No clear delineation of rank or hierarchy to follow and determine which side the soldiers should take.
“Yeah, you volunteered right away to come along and ‘help’.” Scott retorted. “Although I have been wracking my brain and I can’t remember actually seeing you take out any of the Demons. Somehow you always managed to avoid being seriously hurt too, which I find a bit odd considering what we were up against.”
Serena’s mouth dropped open in shock. These were bold accusations.
“Are you serious?! You are suspicious of me?! Because I kept myself out of trouble? What an idiot!” June looked to Serena for support, her wild dark hair coiled around her neck like snake.
“Not all of us are built like big white tanks! I can’t just go barreling into every situation the same way you do! Admit it! Your methods aren’t exactly genius, even for someone of your size and strength. You blast your way right into the middle of everything and let them fight you six on one, seven on one. You don’t even think!” She drilled a fingertip against her own temple to emphasize the point.
Her observations weren’t far from the truth, though it was hard to argue with the results yielded in battle. Still, Scott wouldn’t give ground.
To Light Us, To Guard Us (The Angel War Book 1) Page 48