Angels of War (Angels of War Trilogy Book 1)

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  PROLOGUE

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  55

  56

  57

  58

  59

  60

  61

  62

  63

  64

  65

  66

  67

  68

  69

  70

  71

  72

  EPILOGUE

  Angels of War

  Andre L. Roberts

  Copyright © 2015, Andre L. Roberts

  All rights reserved.

  To my Mom and Dad, Josephine and Herman.

  PROLOGUE

  Joan’s muscles bunched in her shoulders. A slow ache traveled from her spine and up her neck. A scream clogged her throat. The family vacation at Disney World Florida unfolded like an enjoyable play, until now.

  Joan’s bosses called her with the good news. Her multi-million dollar advertising deal with Devicorp made the investors happy. She needed to arrive in Atlanta and sign the paperwork. Yet, to her dismay a storm threatened her private flight home.

  Joan inhaled the warm Miami air, the sky above shown bright and clear. Her family’s bags sat on a large cart, packed with clothes and gifts for friends and family in Atlanta.

  Charles approached his wife. Their five-year-old son, William, held in his father’s big arms, planted a kiss on the man’s cheek. The baggage loader stood near the G-7 private jet with narrowed eyes and folded arms.

  “What’s the problem, honey?” Charles’s six-foot frame towered over Joan. William began to play with his father’s beard and mustache.

  Joan gave her husband a short glance and returned to the skinny man dressed in an oversized blue jumpsuit. “The bags can fit. I want them on the jet.”

  “Ma’am, with the storm coming, the bags will make the weight too dangerous for the pilot to fly the plane.”

  Joan jammed a finger towards the west. “No storm clouds are in the sky? Also, you’re not a weatherman or a pilot. So get to work or you will be jobless by tonight.”

  The man unfolded his arms and gave the stacked bags a long stare. He hunched his shoulders and ambled over to the G-7 luggage compartment. He unlocked and swung the luggage door up and started to load the bags.

  Joan faced Charles. “Get in the jet, Charles.”

  Charles held up a large hand. “Hold up, man. Listen, baby, we can always find another flight to take the remaining luggage to Atlanta. No big deal.”

  Joan gritted her teeth, a headache throbbed above her eyes. “Those bags and the gifts inside them are expensive, Charles.” She glanced at the baggage handler. “Keep loading.”

  Charles shook his head and carried William up the air stair. “I refuse to argue and spoil our good weekend.”

  Joan climbed up the short stairs behind her husband and entered the G-7’s cool innards. She sat on a leather seat near a window closest to the luggage compartment. The loader readjusted the bags and stuffed the leftovers in amongst the rest. The jet rocked as he packed the bags with force to make them fit. He closed the compartment door hard enough to make Joan wince.

  Charles slid into the seat next to his wife. “What’s wrong, Joan?”

  Joan turned to Charles. “I need to sign a business contract within the next six hours. These guys are taking their time, and some ape who slings bags for a living is going to try and tell me about the weather.”

  “He’s seen this before, honey.”

  “Charles, this is a multi-million dollar deal. I will become a partner in the firm. Nothing is going to stop me, not even you. I hope you understand?”

  Charles’s brown face darkened. He nodded and abandoned Joan to sit beside William. “Understood, and I’ll enjoy my flight over here with better company.”

  Joan gazed at her family. William pulled out his toy soldier set from a small bag on his lap. He arranged the green plastic men in a row on the seat armrest. A vein pulsed along Charles’s neck. “You will never understand why I work so hard to meet my deadlines.”

  Charles lifted both hands in a resigned response and closed his eyes.

  Outside the window the baggage handler stood with the two pilots. Deep wrinkles rolled on the baggage loader’s forehead as he talked. The captain nodded his head in agreement with their conversation. She tapped a purple lacquered nail on the Perspex glass to draw their attention.

  The pilots boarded the plane. The captain worked his way back to the passenger seats. He rested his hands on the two aisle seats and leaned towards Joan. “Mrs. Cedricks, I pilot this plane. If Rufus says we are putting on too much weight, I listen to him. If not, we may crash. And I don’t want to crash.”

  Joan blinked, heat rushed up her face. “Captain Ackerman, within six hours I need to be in Atlanta to make a deal. The skies are clear from where I’m sitting. As a reminder I will soon be your boss.”

  Captain Ackerman’s thin mouth twitched. He nodded and headed for the G-7 cockpit. “Okay, Mrs. Cedricks, your decision stands.”

  “My decisions always do,” Joan said.

  William’s light voice, along with Charles’s deep and sexy baritone, brought her comfort. Once they arrived to Atlanta, and after the deal, she planned to take the family out to eat. A little money spent might make things better. She decided to take an hour nap and refresh herself.

  A high whine rose in her ears. As if a mosquito prepared to set on flesh and plunge its beak into skin to gorge on blood. The irritable noise did not wake her. The sudden drop in her stomach forced her awake. Anger roiled inside her. Charles allowed her to sleep until they reached the Atlanta airport.

  Joan wanted to call the board members and give them an estimated time for her arrival. Her throat constricted to let out a scream. She took a breath and leaned over the aisle.

  “Charles, why did you let me sleep so late,” Joan said.

  She leaned further out her seat when silence greeted her. Charles sat rigid in his chair, his eyes wide. William sat next to his father, his tiny hand and nose pressed against the cool Perspex window. Her son’s rapid breath fogged the window with white condensation.

  Joan unbuckled the safety strap and stood. The jet bounced. A heavy bump, dull and telltale emerged from within the baggage compartment beneath them. “Charles, what’s wrong with you?”

  Charles glared up at Joan. “The plane hit turbulence, baby,” he said. “Been like this once we got into the air. Like the storm waited for us.”

  Joan turned on her heels and charged to the cockpit. The fligh
t attendant sat in her chair, buckled in. Her large eyes loomed up to Joan. Her skin, a once pretty pink, turned dead white.

  Joan knocked on the cockpit door. The G-7 took another hit from turbulence and bounced Joan into the front seats. Her head careened off a soft headrest. She fell to the floor between seats. She stood and knocked harder on the door.

  “Captain Ackerman.”

  The door swung open. The co-pilot peeked out. “Ma’am, take your seat please.”

  Joan breathed in cool air. Her gaze locked on the cockpit window obscured by gray rain clouds. The plane jolted again. “Captain Ackerman, can you make the flight?”

  “Yes we can.”

  Joan nodded as her eyes remained on the thick gray clouds. Within seconds the weather cleared, rainwater streaked the glass like tears. Yellow sunlight poured into the cabin. Fear pulled away from her.

  “Thank you, Captain Ackerman.”

  Captain Ackerman shook his head. “Don’t thank me yet. I can’t get her up. The luggage shifted too much in the back and we are too low. Now go sit down.”

  Joan froze. The sky above remained clear and rainwater no longer obscured the window. Outside the jet, low water, green with weeds stretched out to the horizon.

  She stepped back and slammed the door closed. The engine turbines filled her ears with its high scream. She stumbled back to her family who sat strapped in their seats.

  Charles gave Joan a glare packed with anger and fear. His dismal continence broke her heart as sunlight from the open window poured its golden rays across his face. William turned to his mother and smiled.

  “Momma, water. Are we going to stop and pet the snakes and alligators? Can I take a baby alligator home?”

  Charles’s Adam’s apple bobbed. Tears streamed from his eyes. His thick lips trembled as his fingers gripped the leather armrest. “You.”

  The plane tilted portside. She slid away from her two loves. Her stomach fluttered and the engines went from a scream to an incredible roar. Steel and glass crashed as if a thousand green dumpsters filled with trash slammed to the ground. A terrible rip surrounded her.

  She caught William’s face as his eyes went through several changes, joy, confusion, and ended with fear. Heat and flames swallowed her world in red pain.

  Joan closed her eyes. Screams from both metal and mortals ruptured the air like a million speakers turned up to ten. Her body twirled and spun, hard objects struck her. She tightened her eyes, and waited for her life to end.

  A boom rolled into her ears, a clear rival to Napoleon’s cannons. The explosive rumble came deep and strong, her bones trembled from its rise. A violent force tried to tear her to pieces. She opened her arms wide to accept her death.

  She waited for the end and the terrible heat to consumer her. Instead, a wet coldness enveloped her as if she dove into a pool. A green and moldy stench filled her nostrils. Brackish water drove into her mouth, throat, and lungs.

  Pain burned in her chest. Her eyes snapped open to face an olive tinted world. Light spilled down in muted shafts mixed with red and gold. A black cloud filled the watery world around her.

  Joan discovered she still owned her arms and legs and swam towards the red and green light. She broke the water’s surface. Her feet met soft earth. Her stomach lurched and she vomited up foul swamp water. She inhaled harsh smoke, heat from a powerful fire baked against her brown skin.

  Joan’s stomach tightened. She turned her head to what burned behind her.

  The G-7 jet lay in pieces, consumed by fire and thick black smoke. Its contents scattered across the swamp. Her expensive bags, scorched seats, a white thigh charred at the toes, a wing jutted up from the brackish swamp, remnants from a metallic beast blown from the sky. She glimpsed a small, green, plastic object on the ground. Her legs carried her forward until she stopped before the tiny item.

  Her naked toes dug into the cool muck. She lost her shoes in the crash. Slow motion filled her world as she reached down and grasped the toy soldier with her fingers. The toy soldier’s plastic rifle melted into a twisted glob from the heat. She stood unscathed.

  Not a bone broken or a limb ripped from her body. The thought overwhelmed her and made her dizzy. Joan stared at the wreckage, fell to her knees and slipped into her biggest fear.

  Blackness.

  1

  Joan hated God.

  Her rage went beyond a mere childish tantrum, the emotion flourished within her like a pandemic.

  Joan stood at her office window to stare at the morning skies bruised purple and orange. Her plush office, located in the Roaner Building, sat on the thirtieth floor and overlooked the beautiful downtown Atlanta scenery.

  Joan turned on her heels from the window and approached her huge oak desk. She pulled open the large middle drawer and stared at what sat inside. She brushed a small hand across her oval face and removed her dead mother’s wooden cross. Charles’s Glock automatic pistol sat in the drawer like a coiled cobra.

  Joan slid the drawer close. With cross in hand, she trailed a finger along the smooth oak finish. She no longer wanted salvation from God, or His so called love.

  Joan dropped the cross to her side, her thumb pressed hard against the wood. Tears streamed from her brown eyes. Pain throbbed deep inside her, both physical and mental, far worse than a toothache. She flopped down on her soft leather chair. Her mind screamed for relief from the pain stirred up by regret. The medication she popped dulled the pain, like a heavy blanket thrown over a hungry lion. The beast remained, yellow-eyed and ravenous.

  The pills made her thoughts thick and heavy. Each day became a labor for her. To wake up, to wash, and to brush her teeth required more strength every day.

  Joan’s pastor told her how God meant for her to survive the plane crash. She placed a small hand over her face. Silent tears continued to seep from her eyes. She came close to telling her pastor to go to Hell. Charles and her son William died because of her selfishness.

  Joan stared at the cross in her right hand and tightened her fingers around the polished wood. The wood remained sturdy, unbreakable, like the emptiness and self-pity so close to her.

  For four long and lonesome months she endured. She filled each day with menial activities to keep her busy. Her work at the office became superficial and the indomitable drive she once harnessed evaporated. She spent four months alone in the house with the ghosts. Faint scents would drift by her nose from some errant breeze and remind her about their deaths.

  Charles’s cologne and William’s sweet baby powder aroma would float by her nostrils like brief whispers. When those moments occurred, she would curl up on the couch and cry her day away.

  Joan closed her eyes and despite her efforts, the G-7 crash replayed in her memory with cruel clarity. In the end, a green toy soldier lay on its back upon the wet brush and mud.

  Joan, with cross in both hands, twisted at the wood. Her heartbeat thrummed faster in her chest. The cross, a symbol of love and faith, became mere wood in her eyes. Her faith died along with her family in the Florida swamps.

  The purposelessness of her life clung to her brown skin like old oil. Bitter bile crested her throat. Why kneel to some invisible being who denied her happiness, love, and peace?

  Joan longed to inhale the perfumed baby oil she rubbed against her William’s soft brown skin. She missed Charles’s morning breath with his hardness inside her.

  Her fingers tightened, a hairline split slid up the wooden cross’s longest part.

  “And do you think you will meet them in death?” A man’s voice said next to her.

  Joan bolted from her seat, her hands fast as she snapped the Glock from her drawer and aimed the dark barrel at the man at her desk. Brilliant blue lightening lashed over the city from a cloudless sky. Thunder rolled from beyond the bright flash. The hairs along her slender arms bristled.

  He stood five-foot eleven with long arms hung loose at his sides. He wore a light blue shirt and faded blue jeans. His brown eyes studied her with a fierce
intensity.

  The stranger stepped forward and placed both hands on the desktop. “Joan,” he said. “I asked you, do you expect to experience those things in death?”

  Joan held the gun on the muscled intruder. She locked the office door earlier and checked the knob twice. “Who are you, how did you get in here?”

  The man reached forward and removed the gun from her tiny hand. He studied the Glock for a moment, shook his head and tossed the weapon behind him like a useless toy. Her gun struck the carpeted floor and went off with a pop. “I guess your piece still works.”

  Joan’s mouth dried. She backed away from the desk. Her eyes glanced left and right for an escape route. “Who are you? How did you get in here?”

  “You don’t fear denying God, but you fear me? Where did you think you would go, Joan?”

  Joan walked backwards until the cool window stopped her. Fresh sunrays filtered into the office and threw its warm light on the stranger’s face. She did not understand how this man read the terrible thoughts in her mind.

  “I miss them, I want my family. They completed me. Besides, God doesn’t exist.”

  The man stood straight, his eyes narrowed. “Destroying the cross…” He lifted his right finger and pointed at the cross. “…is not the path to your family.”

  He swept around the desk with urgency, reached forward, and grabbed her arms with both hands.

  Once his hands touched her, a warm calmness invaded her body. All the pain and mental anguish inside her fractured like hardened ice underneath his formidable gaze. A tingle rippled through her as if this man owned the ability to touch her soul. She wanted to resist his grip.

  Joan released her fear and anger for the moment. She dropped her head against his broad chest and cried for a good five minutes. His love rose with a power she never experienced. Not a love from selfish wants, but pure love. She cried at the raw emotions he drew from her.

  “Who are you,” she said between heavy sobs. Her tiny shoulders convulsed as she let herself go and allowed him to hold her in his huge arms. “Who are you to love me like this?”

  “I am the archangel Michael and we need you and your sword, Joan. And this is not how your soul will end.”