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

by Sean M O'Connell

  Bishop was distracted, mesmerized by the sight before them both.

  “True Father, but this one is different. This is the Archangel. He was the first to appear.”

  “The first to appear? When?”

  Bishop fixed his obsidian eyes on the priest and answered.

  “The Priests say in the year 33 A.D.”

  The blood sang in Rafael Cruz’s veins as he heard this. Somehow, he knew it was true.

  Anno Domini trenta tres…

  “He was there when it all began Father. If he is with us, we cannot fail“

  “But the halo? His death is coming, no?”

  “No Father.… Listen…” Bishop’s eyes lit up as the Archangel opened his mouth to speak.

  The words that came forth rumbled like thunder and sang like trumpets. It was not the voice of a man, Cruz thought, or even of one of these mortal Angels.

  All over his body gooseflesh pricked, and his wings came forth of their own volition, as if called by the Archangel. All around the room the same thing happened to the others. Great white feathers flecked with every color spread to gather the morning light and stir the Monks from their stupor.

  “My friends.” The Archangel boomed with unforced authority, halo shining brightly. “I have waited many years for this time to come. Your Pope is correct. No more can we turn away from the suffering the Army of the Fallen creates. No more maintaining the balance. We must eradicate the servants of evil.” A few shouts of agreement -thick with approval and maybe a little bloodlust- rose from the crowd.

  “Come. Let us do the work intended for us.”

  That was all.

  Even his Halo was different, casting the entire hangar and crowd in pure, almost-solid light.

  The Archangel walked off the edge of the dais and out onto the tarmac, following the brass of the Knights to a waiting Blackhawk.

  Why doesn’t he fly with us?

  The Archangel looked back once, to meet the thousand pairs of eyes fixed on him.

  Almost casually, he beckoned, pointing toward Babel and the destiny that awaited all of them there.

  Cruz wanted more explanation, more information on this Archangel and who he was.

  Where had he come from? Why didn’t he fly with the rest of them? Would he fight the forces of Babel alongside the others?

  His whirring brain was silenced by his pounding heart. Time to act, not to think. Time to follow this Angel.

  To do the work intended for me. For us.

  The anger Father Cruz harbored for Bishop and his colleagues over bringing him here against his will evaporated as the desert breeze caught underneath his wings and he joined the cloud of Angels wheeling above Nellis’ runways. He climbed up, high up, until the vehicles and buildings below him were once again only dark specks against a bland landscape.

  The low Spring Mountains fell away to reveal a black spire in the distance, glowering over the blistering city. Babel.

  Where they waited. Where He waited.

  Thin oxygen pumped in and out of Father Rafael Cruz’s body as he glared against the rising sun toward the place where the only enemy he had ever known ruled. Tears of rage and something much more burst forth as he allowed himself to feel what he hadn’t felt in many, many years. This time, he didn’t even ask God for forgiveness.

  Looking down, he saw the shadows on the tarmac start to shift. Choppers lifting off.

  Cruz dove to join the battalion he’d been assigned to. Hot wind tugged at him as he fell through the morning.

  All around, hundreds of Angels filled the sky. Like him, they had been just people months before. Each with a job, a family, a whole story to tell. For today at least, none of that mattered. There was only the tower, and the enemy. And the battle to be won.

  Las Vegas, Nevada

  “Where will this spit us out?” Aaron asked. He didn’t even wave the gun threateningly in the Brazilian’s face this time. After a considerable amount of time walking down the long corridor, the routine was familiar to them both.

  Brown’s lazy eye twitched as he gestured.

  “We are well clear of the tower. This tunnel is meant for electrical carts. Spits out at the first hole of the golf course. The farthest edge of the resort.”

  The three of them stood together staring at a broad white door, just the right size for a motorized cart

  “How many guards are going to be waiting for us when we open the door?”

  Brown shrugged, explaining in accented English.

  “I am not sure. Somewhere between four and twenty.”

  “Heaters or civilians?”

  Another shrug.

  “Guns?”

  “Of course.”

  Aaron turned to Peni, whose gaze kept shifting between Brown and the door, as though he was trying to decide which to break down first. Aaron raised an eyebrow.

  “So do we send the Brazilian out first or do we slice the pie?”

  The Samoan’s dark eyes settled on Brown’s half-collapsed face.

  “Can’t trust him, cousin. For me it seems like a bad idea to let him get outside at all.”

  Brown addressed them both.

  “Don’t be stupid. These are likely to be simple militia standing guard. Even if there are wings out there, they’ll do whatever I tell them to do. You can save yourself the trouble of killing people who just didn’t know what they were getting themselves into.”

  Aaron pressed the gun into the Brazilian’s liver again, irritated that such a blatantly evil man was trying to appeal to their sense of compassion.

  “Nobody is asking you.” He threatened. Then turning his attention back to Peni, Aaron asked again.

  “What do you want to do with him?”

  “I guess it doesn’t really matter now.” Peni wore a resigned expression. Serious and slightly sad.

  Brown had backed up as far as he could go, pressed against the door through which they would soon exit. Aaron read no hint of fear on the Brazilian’s ruined face, but his breathing had quickened. Peni must have noticed too. Perhaps he could even hear the other man’s heart beating faster. He slapped Brown away from the door with his hand. Left hand, which now resembled a broad brown paddle with abbreviated digits like a walrus flipper.

  “Back up.” he warned.

  Brown hissed in protest, but didn’t make a move.

  “Listen.” he pleaded in an accent thickened by desperation. “I can show you where Valdez keeps the money, the guns, the drugs, all of it. With my help you can cut off his supply lines, maybe convince some of the others to surrender.”

  Aaron let his mind drift back through the memories of this most recent war he’d been called to wage. Back through the months of guerilla encounters with these Demons. Street fights and convoy raids. He tried to recall one time, even one, where they had surrendered.

  Not a single instance came to mind.

  It didn’t happen. These were not battles for territory or political power or wealth. This was some sort of conflict with divine connotation. The enemy was just that.

  The enemy.

  No alternative resolution. No switching sides. Brown was not surrendering. He had a plan, and was buying himself time by pleading with his captors.

  The realization dawned just as the Brazilian finished his sentence.

  “I can help you.”

  Wasting time.

  With finality, Aaron spoke.

  “No. You can‘t.”

  He pressed the gun into the Brazilian’s temple and pulled the trigger.

  In the close space, the gun’s report was shockingly loud.

  Whoever waited on the other side of the door would certainly have heard.

  Brown’s body slumped awkwardly between the two of them, spilling fluids from entry and exit wounds on either side of his head. Aaron fought the urge to retch. Red ghosts jumped behind his eyes as he clamped them shut and gagged subtly.

  What had to be done was done, but point-blank executions were not his favorite thing.
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br />   He spat contemptuously onto the bodyguard’s chest, where the pink silk tie still lay straight. Turning away from Peni, he trained the gun on the door and switched the firing mode from semi to fully automatic.

  Alternating wafts of gunpowder and blood scent stirred the air of the hall.

  For several breaths the pair of them stood stock-still, soldier and Angel. Aaron let himself count heartbeats as he inspected the door handle for even the slightest twitch. Nothing.

  No chance we’re that lucky.

  He chanced an inquisitive glance at Peni, wondering what the Angel thought of him for killing Brown while he was defenseless. If the Hawaiian had any qualms, he concealed them well. Now the Angel stood with head cocked, half-gone ears trying to catch any telltale sound from the other side of the door.

  Nothing.

  Aaron held his breath in order to give the larger man full silence in which to concentrate.

  Still nothing.

  Finally Peni reached for the door handle.

  “Wait.” Aaron hissed. “The gun goes first, in case they are spread out.”

  In this case, he half expected an argument.

  If indeed there were guards outside with guns trained on the door, Peni was much better suited to expose himself to the danger because he could heal quickly. One bullet wasn’t likely to kill the huge Angel. On the other hand, he couldn’t mount any sort of offensive from the cramped doorway if they were outside in the open. He was unarmed.

  Aaron decided to remedy that. He pulled one of the two .40 caliber sidearms taken from the Bruja’s dead guards and offered it to Peni, butt first. Regarding the firearm with some distaste, the Hawaiian reached out his good hand and took it. The heavy metal looked toy-like in his grip. He frowned thoughtfully.

  “I can hear something out there, but it’s faint. Like far away. Can’t tell what it is.” Again he reached for the handle. “Just let me go first. I been shot before anyways.”

  You’re not the only one.

  “Me too.” Aaron replied drolly. He absently wondered how many people were around that still hadn’t been shot at. This drew a genuine smile from Peni, who was appropriately gap-toothed.

  “Not the time for stories bradah. You’ll have to tell me about that when this is all over.”

  “No problem.” Aaron replied.

  Peni tested the handle on the exit door.

  “Locked.”

  Aaron reached down and quickly rifled the pockets of Brown’s still-warm body.

  “No keys.”

  “No worries.” Peni grunted and tore the door handle clean off. When it still wouldn’t open, he opted for kicking the door off of its frame. Before moving out into the open, he regarded the unmoving corpse that had moments ago been Brown, looked again to Aaron, and back to the Brazilian.

  “You’re a Monk?” he guessed.

  “Sort of.” Aaron answered. “But like you said, not the time for stories.”

  The larger man smiled again and pushed through the doorway.

  Aaron found himself squinting into the rising sun. Instinctively, he pulled Peni back against the concrete wall and dropped into a crouch. It was a bad position to be in, simultaneously blinded and exposed. Seconds passed slowly as his eyes adjusted to the natural light.

  In the middle distance he could hear the sounds of a battle going on. Sporadic gunfire and muffled shouts chattering against the characteristic thrum of helicopter engines.

  Aaron was confused.

  He had expected gunfire maybe. Shouting certainly.

  What drifted toward them were the sounds of war.

  He scanned the immediate surroundings, finding only perfectly manicured fairways and tee boxes. Their too-green grass stood in mockery to the parched desert rough.

  No sinister guards waited to murder the pair of them on sight.

  That was a surprise.

  The exit doorway was set into the lee of a small raised hill of green, which Aaron carefully moved around in order to take in their surroundings and better locate the source of the commotion.

  Skirting the low rise and its flowery garden crown, Aaron saw the tower looming in the distance. Babel made it hard to judge just how far away they were, because the sheer mass of the structure confused perspective. Judging by the size of the trees bordering the fairways, he guessed they were only about a mile from the main structure. Dark shapes tumbled into view from overhead, meeting the turf with wet whump sounds.

  What the hell?

  A half-second of confusion stretched before Aaron realized what he was seeing, and where the sound was coming from.

  He looked up.

  High above where they stood, the beginnings of a dogfight unfolded. Not between fighter-planes, but airborne men and women.

  Angels and Demons.

  There were hundreds of them. Thousands maybe. The largest gathering Aaron had ever seen of either, of both.

  Did they come for me? No.

  For whatever reason, there they were.

  The Angels –and more importantly the Sleepless Knights- were finally mounting their attack on Babel. He tried to pick out individuals, to find Scott or Serena or even June, some Angel that he knew, to no avail. They were too high above him and moving too quickly.

  Watching the fast-flying Angels meet the Heaters was akin to seeing a foamy wave crash onto dark sand, or seeing thunderheads meet, almost dreamlike.

  The din of thumping rotor blades grew closer. Knights in their support choppers catching up to their Angels.

  Aaron looked to where he’d left Peni, but the mammoth Angel was gone, moving fast toward the brawl in the sky. The white and brown wings bore strange patterns, almost geometric shapes. Even from this distance, Aaron was sure he saw the large man smiling.

  Out here, far from the tower, the Possessed that occupied the skies were mere skeleton crews, scouting patrols.

  They had no chance.

  Some turned and fled, only to be overtaken and shattered by marauding Angels. Those with enough reckless courage to fight against such odds threw themselves into the furious blizzard with kamikaze abandon.

  Either way, the results were the same.

  Babel’s first line of defense dissolved easily.

  The Angels came by the hundreds, flashing wings of white, smallish highlights of color mingled in the mass of feathers to give the tableau an almost soft, artistic touch. Were it not for the insistent racket of gunfire, and the bodies of Fallen crashing like meteors to the earth - if not for the creeping red light- Aaron might have forgotten just what he was witnessing.

  War.

  Las Vegas, Nevada

  Scott Fitzpatrick kept his eyes locked on the mismatched wings of June as they cut through the desert air in a throng of Angels.

  She knew that he was watching, but made no effort to separate herself from him in the pileup of wings and bodies.

  She and Serena dipped and drove through small gaps in the crowd, trying to keep up with the Swans.

  Scott didn’t bother.

  Not even all Angels were created equal.

  He kept pace by flying above the rest of them. Those at the front of the pack had surged forward upon seeing the few Fallen that patrolled Babel’s outskirts. Now they slowed to let the rest catch up. The largest force of Angels ever collected fought the deep-seated urge to abandon the well-laid plans of the Clergy and wing forward to meet what awaited them at Hunter Valdez’s decadent resort.

  They resisted.

  At least for now.

  Below, the green grass and blue water hazards of a golf course clung to their lie of normalcy. Ducks and gulls nesting on the false lakes moved to join the Angels, drawn by the same magnetism that all animals seemed to be. Their wings, formerly so common, now looked comically small.

  Ahead of the golf course would be the pool complexes. If the reconnaissance of the Priests was accurate, that is where the fun would begin.

  In their briefings, Angels and Knights had been told that most of the pools were d
rained to serve as makeshift foxholes, and that a few of the cabanas even housed batteries of air-to-ground missiles and mortar cannons.

  Where Hunter Valdez had managed to attain such weaponry was anyone’s guess.

  What mattered was that these gunner nests be eliminated before the helicopters came into range. The Monk in the briefing told them that they would have less than thirty seconds to engage and disable the weapons.

  Scott bet that it would take less than ten.

  The Angels that had gathered at Nellis were high strung and ready for action.

  While Scott, Serena, June and the others had been exhausting themselves in the attempt to rescue Aaron, most of them had been gathering and waiting. Pacing back and forth through the base’s sterile hallways and asking over and over again ‘when?’ and ‘where?’.

  They and their Clergy handlers had grown restless, resentful of their proximity to the enemy without being able to act.

  When the Archangel had finally said the word and released them to do their worst, the relief was palpable.

  Even Scott, who had just returned from battle, found himself eager to follow the strange and glorious creature against Babel and the militia gathered there. There was something about the shine of his halo that told Scott he was different.

  Not quite the same as the rest of them. Not even the Swans. A bit better somehow.

  The Archangel was somewhere behind, with the Chiefs of the Sleepless Knights.

  Ahead, Scott could see Bluejean, Mark, and the others.

  Put your best foot forward.

  -------

  Bishop sat aboard one of a hundred modified Blackhawks and prayed along with Pope, whose voice echoed eerily through the headset. His own mumbling recitation was distracted, pulled sideways by the chaos all around.

  The helicopter had been retrofitted with advanced weaponry and an experimental new alloy armor touted for its ability to repel even metal-boring rounds. The whole fleet had.

  Such improvements mattered little to Bishop.

  For some reason he was not able to shake the creeping sense of foreboding that had been inching under his flak jacket for the past few days. These long months since the Sleepless Knights had de-classified their operations and taken control of virtually every aspect of America’s military had stretched the organization too thin. Worse, they’d been forced to drop their standards of enlistment. Many of the Monks operating around the world hadn’t even undergone proper faith training.