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

by Sean M O'Connell

  Fewer still had been ‘baptized’ in the KC tradition.

  The Knights had grown. But they had grown wrong. An organization such as theirs needed proper cultivation.

  Worldwide, sleeper cells were all but eradicated. Victims of inferior numbers and poor reinforcement protocols .

  Bishop was one of the few who took time to speak with the Priests, and what they had told him was not encouraging.

  “We are the last ones.” a blonde middle-aged Priest had told him. “The Order has been eradicated. Somehow they are sniffing us out. The Priests you see in this hangar are the last. Maybe a handful left around the globe. We are all that is left.”

  No Priests meant no spies. No spies meant no recon. No recon equated to blindness.

  Priestly duties in the KC were far too intricate and dangerous to entrust to untempered emergency recruits.

  For months, they and the Angels had been fighting a losing battle. Slipping backward against the rising tide of Fallen and the sinners who supported them in the interest of survival or greed.

  The Knights of the Clergy were in dire trouble.

  Pope and his subordinates had meticulously strategized the assault on Babel using intelligence gathered by the Priests, hard-learned lessons from the previous failed attempts, and centuries of sporadic conflict with the Fallen.

  These past few months had seen many Haloes and claimed massive Clergy casualties, primarily amongst the low-ranking Monks and high-risk Priests. It was part of the reason that Bishop himself sat locked and loaded as the forced air from the rotors pushed and pulled at his clothes and bristly beard. Even Pope and the Cardinales were armed and ready for battle, bringing up the rear in what they all hoped was not to be the KC’s final gasp against the rising tide of Fallen Angels and their mercenary allies.

  Even the legendary Archangel had been pulled out of seclusion.

  To Bishop, today’s excursion bore disturbing resemblance to a last stand.

  He himself had last seen combat many years ago. Now the weight of a rifle made him nostalgic. Perhaps if current events had unfolded back then, when he was young and invincible, he wouldn’t feel the hanging sense of doom or burning desire to change the status quo.

  Perhaps.

  “Amen”

  The prayer concluded, drawing Bishop back from his remembrance.

  Constant chatter resumed over the radio frequencies. Not panicked or disorganized, but busy, filling in the static gaps with detailed re-iterations of the plan.

  He clicked to the localized frequency of his own sub-command and re-iterated orders one last time.

  The fleet of helicopters roared over the golf courses. Within moments, the Angels up ahead would be engaging the heavy munitions at the pool complex and on the courtyards.

  “Genesis Group at the ready!” he shouted into his shoulder mic. “Primary targets are munitions, secondary Flyers, tertiary militia! Do not, repeat, do not lose visual on your Angels!”

  Genesis Group had been assigned to come in low and hot, on the straight path to Babel’s eastern side and ‘city side‘ where most of the ground defense was located. The division of manpower had seen Bishop take partial command of roughly forty percent of the Sleepless Knights involved in today’s assault. Their primary responsibility was to engage and neutralize the heavy weaponry.

  Leviticus Group was in charge of the rear range, mostly courtyards and desert.

  Solomon Group had been assigned the western parking complexes and mid-levels where the mass of Possessed flitted in and out of Babel’s balconies like mad, roosting crows.

  Exodus Group had been assigned to the highest portions of the tower. Their goal was to find Hunter Valdez and either kill him or take him into custody.

  Sacramental Priority.

  Their second objective was to locate and neutralize certain key personalities identified by unoriginal call-signs, including ‘Wicked’, ‘Brown’, ‘The Red Crows’ ‘Beowulf’ and several others of the Fallen who were identified as special threats by the recon of the Priests.

  Bishop and some of his peers had successfully campaigned with their superiors to have the bulk of the Swans assigned to Genesis group. They were to be allotted lesser numbers of the flying warriors than the other groups, so it made sense that they be given the best of them.

  Pope and the Cardinales conceded at the behest of the Archangel, only because Serena and Rafael Cruz had volunteered to be assigned to Exodus Group.

  They were the only two with any previous contact with Valdez worth mentioning.

  The Priests believed that Father Cruz would be the one best suited to eliminating him completely. Their logic was complicated and hard-won, but as far as Bishop understood it, this Brazilian priest had survived their first life-or-death encounter, which made him something special.

  Moreover, he’d manifested directly at the site of the Cristo, which seemed an unlikely coincidence when one considered the fact that the largest community of refugee faithful in Brazil formed at the Savior’s feet and spilled down the Corcovado.

  Bishop hoped against hope that today would turn the tide.

  His position in the Clergy afforded him access to Monk’s logs and histories, statistics that many never saw.

  None of the recent data was encouraging.

  What was encouraging was the presence of the Archangel.

  If nothing else, he boosted morale to an almost fanatic level.

  Long-embraced KC lore told of his arrival at Golgotha shortly after Christ’s crucifixion.

  These same legends maintained that his story had been deliberately omitted from the Bible, even from secular texts.

  Bishop, as much as the others, was awestruck by his ancient eyes and the halo that never left his head, by the stories of his cloaked involvement at each turning point of mankind’s history.

  Amongst the Priests there was argument as to whether or not the Archangel was Gabriel himself. Opposition within the ranks contended that it was not Gabriel, but Michael. God’s messenger or his lieutenant sent to guide the hands and minds of men in times of great need.

  Now was such a time.

  The Knights and their Angels needed a miracle. Perhaps the Archangel could pull one from his hooded cloak.

  Now was a time for faith. If faith was not enough, then action.

  “I’m coming with you!” June yelled to Serena as the two of them weaved in and out of the angelic traffic. They were flying high, above the battle that had started over the swimming complexes. The Angels were moving quickly, concentrating hard on the heavy guns, clearing the way for the Monks and their helicopters in accordance with the plan.

  “No! Stick to the plan!” Serena called back, over the sounds of rushing wind, gunfire below, and chopper blades behind.

  “Screw the plan!” June was not happy with the role she’d been given. She’d been assigned to Exodus Group, just like Serena was, along with Scott and most of the other core Angels that had come to Vegas in hopes of rescuing Aaron.

  June’s ’Sacramental Priority’ was much different though. She was to join Scott in finding Brown.

  Their pairing infuriated the young Angel, who took it as an insult. Confirmation in her mind that the Monks were also suspicious of her, and had thus assigned Scott Fitzpatrick -their trusted captain Angel- to keep an eye on her.

  Serena swung closer, until their wingtips almost touched.

  “June don’t start!” she shouted over the rush of wind “We’re outnumbered badly. You heard Pope’s speech. Strategy is important today. Trust me, Brown is evil, always has been. You need to help Scott find him and kill him.”

  As always, June’s hair was unfettered, lashing freely at her face. She glanced up and back, toward where they both knew Scott was following.

  “He doesn’t want my help.” She spat. “He doesn’t trust me anyway.”

  Serena shrugged, as much as she could shrug while flying.

  “Then make him trust you. Prove to him you can stick to the plan.”
>
  June frowned, but Serena saw that her logic had hit home.

  Below them, a massive explosion ripped through the air, scattering Angels and bodies in all directions. Glowing haloes everywhere.

  Scalding upwash lashed at their feathers as the two women shielded their eyes. Chattering machine guns claimed more lives on both sides as the Monks aboard their choppers came in low and fast. It was enough to punctuate the gravity of their situation.

  Life or death.

  For each of them. For Scott. For Aaron.

  “Please June!” Serena offered conclusively.

  Then she rolled on her side and peeled away.

  Her straw-colored hair was pulled back in a ponytail to keep it out of her eyes, but for some reason she had an urge to let it free so the morning wind could take it. She pumped her wings, pulling away from the main force in a path that would take her on an arc toward the highest part of the tower, toward Hunter Valdez’s offices and suite of rooms.

  Serena was joined by Father Rafael Cruz, the Brazilian priest that Bluejean and the Swans had brought back from Rio.

  He was handsome, perhaps in his mid or late thirties, with dark eyes that looked much older than that. From what she had gathered, he was important for many reasons.

  Cruz shared a history with Valdez, much further back than even her connection.

  According to the Monks, they’d even faced one another in violence before, though Serena doubted the validity of this account after hearing of Father Cruz’s career as a Vatican plague doctor.

  Apparently this priest had also spent the days since his Manifestation defending one of the world’s largest refugee camps from the marauding Fallen.

  Serena was shown images from the Cristo and the shanty town around it, spilling into the jungle and down the steep hillside.

  Whoever Rafael Cruz was, he had saved many lives since becoming an Angel.

  Today, he was her partner.

  Pope himself had taken the time to speak with the two of them and drive home the importance of their mission.

  “Both of you know this man.” The General reminded them. “More importantly, he knows you. For this reason, he will do anything to kill you. That includes putting himself in danger.”

  The same line of thinking had birthed their official plan.

  Serena and Father Cruz would get as close as possible and engage Valdez. Though his bodyguards, especially Brown, were hard and dangerous men, Serena was fairly sure Valdez himself never got his hands dirty. In a fight, he would not be too much to handle.

  She hoped.

  Of course Pope had insisted on providing insurance. Two support Blackhawks each for Father Cruz and Serena. Manned with only the most trusted Monks and Deacons. That and a contingent of highly disciplined Angels who would help Serena and the Cruz isolate and kill Valdez. Information from the Priest spies indicated that he was the brains of the entire operation, that virtually every mercenary and Heater answered ultimately to him.

  Codename Prince.

  As in, Prince of Darkness.

  Hunter Valdez was the leader of the Possessed. The Devil.

  Serena and Father Cruz were being used as bait.

  Babel

  “How many more of these chickens do you have ready?” Hunter Valdez asked his lead chef as he wolfed down a crispy piece of dark meat. “I am rather fond of them, and I’m sure you can guess that I’ll be working up quite an appetite.”

  The portly kitchener shifted from one foot to the other.

  “Err… These are actually the last of them sir. Tonight we had planned on a salmon bru…”

  “Tonight.” Hunger Valdez interrupted. “Babel will be celebrating a victory over these irritating soldier boys and their Angel friends.” He took another bite of drumstick from the newly-stocked buffet. “Tonight, I would like to have more of these chickens.”

  The chef was having trouble focusing. His watery eyes shifted repeatedly to the window, watching the unfolding battle, still at the periphery of the resort.

  “But, sir..”

  “You needn’t worry.” Valdez cajoled mockingly. “The big bad men aren’t going to hurt you.”

  “But the kitchen…”

  “The kitchen is state-of-the-art, fully-staffed, and awaiting your attention.” Valdez cajoled menacingly.

  “More…” chomp. “…chicken.” He inhaled the last of the drumstick for emphasis.

  “But sir..”

  One too many ‘buts’.

  Instantaneously the charming mask melted away and his face screwed up into an infuriated grimace.

  Finally, realizing the futility and stupidity of his argument, the chef stammered.

  “I, I.. I’ll…” Too late.

  Hunter Valdez whispered some words the Bruja had taught him and lashed out, cramming his fingers into the fat man’s mouth. The chef gasped and screamed, eyes stretching wide. Immediately, the moist flesh inside and around his mouth began to turn black, like frostbitten toes. The scream rapidly deteriorated to a gurgle, then a wet wheezing. Valdez let the man fall as his insides ate themselves. The chef didn’t even try to defend himself.

  Pathetic.

  Valdez wiped the putrid spittle covering his hand on the chef’s smock and moved once again to the window. From her perch, the Bruja tittered at him.

  “You really like those fried chickens all that much?”

  He sneered disdainfully.

  “Of course not. But I’m no barbarian, I wouldn’t just kill a man without reason.”

  This time her giggle grew into a full belly laugh.

  “You have a perfectly good reason. Taking his life after a simple leach spell means you get some of his energy for yourself. Seems like reason enough to me.” The witch, Hunter knew, was pleased with how apt a pupil he proved to be.

  In some respects, his powers surpassed the Bruja’s own. A surprise to them both.

  She continued laughing and traced greasy letters onto the windows. Not her typical arcana. Names.

  Jeremiah.

  Noah.

  Travis.

  Men’s names, backlit by a battle in the Las Vegas morning.

  “What are you doing now, Witch?

  Embarrassed by his attention to her daydreaming, she wiped the writing out with her forearm, smudging the grease and setting it smoking.

  The acrid stink overpowered the aromas of the buffet table.

  Despite her progress in the area of respect, the Bruja still hadn’t managed to do anything about her stench. Not that she tried.

  Valdez turned his attention away from her to assess the damage, peering through binoculars.

  The pools and cabanas were falling quickly, as he had known they would.

  At least the explosive booby-traps Koontz had engineered were taking a nice toll on the Angels. Already Hunter Valdez could see several of the black helicopters smoking on Babel’s lawns and gardens.

  Of course, many more of his mercenaries were being killed or maimed in the process.

  No matter. Fewer salaries to pay and fewer mouths to feed.

  It might have taken much more than money to convince those units to stay in place had they known about the massive caches of C4 and Napalm2 that Koontz and his lieutenants had rigged beneath the pool tiles and in the sheds of full of chlorine and epoxy…

  As expected, the Monks let the Angels lead the charge.

  Even with wings outstretched, Angels were harder for the relatively untrained militia to hit. The choppers followed after, toting heavy firepower and steely-eyed troopers.

  The Sleepless Knights had learned from past mistakes.

  Hunter Valdez could respect them for that much at least.

  The Angels, valiant as they were, were slower learners. They just couldn’t help playing hero. Even when they knew it would likely get them killed.

  Today, he smiled to himself, it will certainly kill them..

  The Bruja’s persistent presence unsettled him, ruined his mood as usual.

  “It
’s almost time, woman. Remember, no freelancing today.” He’d made it clear that her improvisations would not be tolerated when it came to this fight.

  Luckily, the witch was motivated by the knowledge that Serena Dayne was among the invaders. Her chance for revenge. She would follow the rules for once.

  She laughed at him in her customary way, affecting an even more childish tone.

  “Whatever you say Daddy.”

  Hunter had long tired of her games and sarcasms. Now that she’d taught him to use his talent, she served less and less purpose as the days went on.

  If the Bruja survived the battle today, he would likely have to kill her.

  Better that than to risk her insolence becoming a real problem.

  Still skeptical of the Bruja’s commitment to the plan, Valdez moved to a keypad on the wall. With a chicken-greased thumb, he pressed the all-call on Babel’s intercom.

  “Attention Babel staff.” He cooed into the small microphone. “As you are likely aware, the fun is about to begin. I encourage each and every person among you to take these last few moments and reflect on what you stand to lose should these Angels and boy scouts be allowed to survive.”

  Earlier, he’d paid visits -along with Koontz- to the courtyards and balconies where mercenaries hunkered behind sandbags and gun plates. Their eyes had told him enough.

  Many would desert once things got difficult.

  No matter.

  The Possessed would remain loyal. It was their new biological imperative.

  The Angels and Monks had no chance. Babel’s numbers were too great.

  Moreover, Hunter was eager to test himself against the Angels, having learned so much. Surely most of them were still stronger than him physically, and their healing would be faster. None of that mattered now. It was the… unconventional methods he had learned that he banked on to carry him through.

  For a moment he only breathed into the P.A. system, projecting casual intimidation through the entire massive tower and resort.