Angels of War Battle of Archangels (Book 3) (Angels of War Trilogy) Read online

  Marcus paused with mouth open. A high whistle filled his ears, pain exploded in red up his left side. He turned towards the control room. The whistle turned into a muffled quaver as if he floated underwater. Vertigo tilted the hall, his legs jellied and staggered.

  He forced himself not to fall while so close to the most hated men in the world. The rifle weighed down his hands. Pain pushed up to his lungs. Each breath became labored, his vision blurring. He stumbled ahead towards a light. Dark figures moved before his eyes. Pain spread into his chest. He lifted the rifle and pulled the trigger.

  50

  David Brown hated gunfire. Once the first staccato bursts ripped into the command center he dove to the floor. Armand landed next to him, eyes wide in fear. He turned to where the shots came from. Soldiers sprinted to the scene, their boots drumming against the linoleum floor. More gunfire erupted followed by a hard silence.

  “Wait,” David said to Armand.

  Armand’s eyes shifted to where the soldiers gathered, their rifles still pointed. After a few minutes the soldiers lowered their weapons.

  “All clear,” a voice shouted.

  David got to his feet and helped Armand up. The two headed to the hallway entrance and joined the group gathered around a prostrate body dressed in a black robe. “Who attacked us?”

  Armand licked his lips. “Is that my head priest?”

  “No, master. I’m alive,” the priest said and limped forward with a soldier’s help. “Marcus betrayed us.”

  David gazed at the head priest. He brushed by the battered man and knelt next to the one stretched out on the floor amongst the dead guards. He pulled back the hood. Red hair blazed out at him. “Shit,” he said and patted the man’s body. His hands found the sacrificial knife and cellphone.

  He stood with the items in hand, gave the priest his knife and turned on the phone. “Why does he have a cellphone?”

  The priest looked at David. “I’m surprised he owned one.”

  David flicked his gaze to Armand. “This is dangerous. He tried to kill someone in here.”

  “He tried to kill us,” Armand said, his voice trembling. “Did he send any messages?”

  David thumbed around on the screen, poked at the Gorilla Glass with his other finger and within seconds found what he searched for. “Patricia Jones,” he said.

  Armand leaned towards the phone. “Why does her name sound familiar?”

  David swallowed a breath. “She worked for Raymond Wallace as presidential advisor. And she is planning to attack us.”

  Armand strode towards the communications desk and found the officer slumped in her chair. Bullet holes riddled the woman’s back and the equipment. Blue electricity greeted his nostrils with its unique scent. Blood from the dead officer pooled on the desk covered with radio components.

  David approached the desk, scratched his forehead. “This we can’t repair.”

  Armand snatched the phone from David and started to pound his finger on the keys. “Your boyfriend is dead. Come and get us, bitch,” he said to the cellphone and sent the text. “We will be ready.”

  The cellphone bleeped. “On the way.”

  Armand tossed the cellphone across the room. The thin phone shattered against a wall. “I must go to the command plane to communicate with my units, David. And I don’t want to go until those angels are dead.”

  David nodded. “I’ll go,” he said. “What do you want me to tell them?”

  “Head to D.C. Now,” Armand said.

  “Anything else, Armand?”

  “I don’t want your house nigger ass in this control center until Patricia is dead. Do I make myself clear, David?”

  David flinched, his fingers touched the three sixes burned into his forehead. Heat washed over his body and for a second he wanted to punch Armand. “I understand,” he said and headed out the control room. A few men started to follow the president.

  “You men stay with me. There are enough upstairs,” Armand said.

  David went up the hall alone. He paused at Marcus’s dead body and yanked the inverted cross from around the dead man’s neck. “I figure you’re not burning in Hell, but soon you will be.”

  David left the control room and went out into the White House. Patricia should not be alive. With each step he cursed himself for the oversight. A more heated thought came to him. She blocked his first nukes and shut the system down. Now she threatened to attack the White House with the information Marcus gave her.

  Marcus almost killed them both. Now Patricia knew they hid in the underground command center. He bit down on his tongue, pain flashed throughout his head waking him up.

  After repelling Patricia, attacking Israel would come next. Armand however, required an attitude adjustment. David refused to be disrespected in such a way. He decided Armand reached his term limit as Black Pope. The world demanded someone less snooty and David determined he qualified for the job.

  David stepped out on the White House front lawn. Underneath his feet the once green carpet turned brown from no sunlight and lack of water. To the south, buildings smoldered. Black Army troops strolled about on guard duty.

  Concrete jersey barriers bordered the White House outer lawns. Shadows flicked amongst the smoke covered streets like ghosts. Voices called out in the distance.

  David licked his cracked lips. All appeared normal. He thirsted for a strong drink and a dead Patricia Jones. He surmised the White House purge didn’t kill off all the Jesus freaks. She either hid out in the city or roamed amongst the thick Virginia pines. Fear poked at him, made his stomach sour and his spine tingle.

  David spotted a soldier nearby. “Soldier, tell your commander to come here.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said and vanished around the White House west side.

  David tapped his foot on the ground, hummed a tune his wife once hummed to their two boys. If he met her in the afterlife, he promised himself to beat her like a nuisance coon for killing his two boys.

  A captain trotted up to David and saluted with his left hand. “Sir?”

  David swept his eyes over the front lawn carpeted in dead grass. “Bring the men up. We are about to be attacked.”

  “Attacked, sir,” the captain said.

  “Where are the tanks, captain?”

  “The tanks ran out of fuel, sir.”

  David gritted his teeth. The plan worked for them a few days ago. Now their Ultimate Solution started to unravel in seconds. With their reinforcements stuck in battles around the globe, the Black Army in America faced strong resistance. He wanted to scream.

  “I refuse to believe Satan got us this far to leave us. Prepare the troops to fight, captain.” He snatched an AK-47 rifle from the soldier next to him. Armand would try and kill David if he returned to the command center without Patricia’s head.

  Like a worm, fear worked its way into David’s belly. Yellow vomit gurgled up his throat and splashed from his mouth. He doubled over and vomited again, his eyes blurring.

  David waited for two hours as the captain gathered his soldiers from throughout the city. They set themselves up along the lawn and Jersey barriers, waiting for the sun to rise, or try to. One hundred yards to his front several soldiers beat a man at a street corner for not having the triple sixes on his forehead.

  “Kill the motherfucker,” David said from the lawn.

  51

  Patricia walked the camp dotted with small fires, burning more for comfort’s sake than heat. The wounded from the hand-to-hand battle lay in one area, the dead in another. She stopped at a fighter who sat on a blanket. In her hands she held the American flag, her fingers busy as she mended holes and affixed the flag to a wooden pole.

  Patricia remained silent, her thoughts drifting back and forth from her duty as a government official sworn to defend her country and a human being concerned with the entire human race. She considered Jesus Christ her lord and savior and no other could replace Him.

  The battle in Los Angeles made God and Heaven more
real to her than the ground underneath her feet. Denying the Heavenly kingdom became akin to denying the existence of air and water. No scientist, no atheist, even Satanist were able to find a strong enough argument to refute the truth. But Satanists accepted God existed, they decided to serve Satan instead.

  Patricia went to her campfire and sat on the damp earth. Sam lay on the ground covered in an old army blanket. The fighters settled down, guards roamed the camp. She turned on her computer and called General Black.

  The computer played a jingle twice before Black’s face appeared on the screen. “Patricia,” he said. “Are you okay?”

  Patricia wrapped a thin blanket around her shoulders to fend off the chill. “I’m fine, Gerald. How are you guys doing in Texas?”

  “We’re training,” he said.

  “Gerald, I met some people here and we are going to attack Washington, D.C.”

  The general shook his head. “No, Patricia. Wait for some soldiers to show up.”

  Patricia stared at the dark humps on the ground, the armed guards who walked the perimeter. “I’m surrounded by soldiers, Gerald. Over two thousand soldiers.”

  “From where?”

  “Virginia militia,” she said.

  General Black shook his head again. “You might die.”

  “Gerald, we are dying. Marcus is dead.”

  The general lowered his head. He pressed his thumbs against his eyes and took a breath. “Father and son are both dead.”

  “Marcus told me Armand and David are in the White House. They took the command center and plan to attack Israel once the Black Army is gathered in D.C.”

  “The entire Black Army?”

  “Yes. Our plan is to attack them within the next few hours. If we wait we might lose the chance to find them together again.”

  General Black gazed off from the camera. He turned to Patricia. “I’m not going to agree with this, Patricia. But if you think this is right.”

  “This is right, Gerald. Who else, but us? Us humans who are meant to fight. I think this is what God wants us to do. Stop fighting each other and fight them.”

  General Black nodded. “Fight, Patricia. Fight your heart out.”

  “Take care, Gerald.”

  “You too, Patricia.”

  Patricia clicked off the screen and wrapped the blanket about her a little tighter. She estimated sunrise in two hours, or do its best through the heavy ash cover. Armand and David remained at the White House, over confident, not expecting resistance. She made a promise to herself the two human monsters would not escape.

  52

  Patricia Jones woke and shrugged off the thin blanket. Sam no longer lay on the ground. Voices echoed throughout the woods. She stood to find her campfire out and the gray sky lightened.

  She pulled on her backpack and picked up her rifle. A large crowd gathered before a solitary figure. His voice echoed and rolled over the gathered men and women. Sam delivered his speech before the fight.

  Patricia gathered her focus and hiked for the White House. She refused to wait any longer. Soon other foot falls padded on the soft grass and dead leaves behind her. Sam jogged up to her side, his breathe short.

  “The White House, Sam,” she said.

  The crowd halted amongst the thick woods, no breeze soughed through the pines, and the air lay still and close to death. The Capitol rose above dead cherry blossom trees. The Lincoln Memorial, halved from an explosion, sat like a broken stick in mud.

  Patricia spotted the pentagram flag raised atop the Capitol dome, she pointed. “I want that flag replaced.”

  The woman who mended the American flag hours ago tramped up to Patricia with the red, white, and blue attached to a pole.

  Patricia replayed in her mind how Jason Aries sacrificed himself for her. A person he didn’t know and met once. She discovered battle forged close relationships. And continuing the fight seemed the best way to honor those who died in the struggle against Satan.

  Patricia raised her rifle. In silence the two thousand fighters swarmed from the woods and entered the city. They hid amongst buildings not too far from the White House.

  With her fear shoved aside, Patricia stood in a street facing the battered White House perched beyond its wrought iron fence. The smoky haze kept her hidden. Anger heated her face, made her want to fight and exact revenge for everyone who died underneath the Black Army flag. She turned to Sam and nodded.

  The dragon missile whooshed from its tube, trailing white smoke to the target, blowing a Hummer into a fireball. Patricia placed the weapon Jason gave her on full automatic.

  The fighters, packed into buildings across from the White House, unleashed their furry upon the enemy. Unorganized, gripped by fear and surprise at the attack, the Black Army soldiers fell to their deaths. A few tried to return fire. Others ran into the White House for safety.

  Patricia lifted her rifle into the air. The fighters attacked. An American flag waved above their heads as they stormed over concrete Jersey barriers. Someone crashed a truck into the black White House fence, making a hole for the fighters to enter. Enemy soldiers continued to fall from gunfire. A few dropped their weapons, surrendering. The fighters gunned them down where they knelt.

  Patricia ran with the fighters. Her finger squeezed on the trigger. She killed several Black Army soldiers. The enemy died in droves, shocked at the blatant attack. One pointed a rifle at her. She shot him down and ran on. Patricia remained near the flag-bearer, a seventeen-year-old Marine.

  Sam waved at Patricia. He stood over a man dressed in black who wore brass captain bars. “Patricia,” he said above the shouts and gunfire.

  Patricia jogged over to him.

  Sam smiled and prodded the man with his rifle muzzle. “Tell her.”

  The captain gazed at the woman. “David Brown ran to the mother ship,” he said. “He’s going to call for help.”

  “Where’s this mother ship?”

  “At the Reagan International Airport. The plane is a fat black bitch, like your mother.”

  Patricia pulled a pistol from her holster and shot him.

  Sam stared at the dead body and looked up at Patricia. “We can snatch a few Hummers still intact. Shall we?”

  Patricia slapped a fresh magazine into her rifle. “We need a team, Sam.”

  Sam waved his hands, several fighter grouped around him. He counted off thirty. “The rest of you secure the White House, no one leaves.”

  Patricia, Sam, and the fighters boarded working Hummers. The entire group convoyed out to Ronald Reagan International airport. She took a breath laced with cordite. The stench permeated her black outfit. Calm washed over her and for a second she sensed Jason nearby, a whisper against her ear so slight she realized he encouraged her from wherever his soul resided.

  Patricia caught her breath once her eyes sighted the black AN-225 cargo plane. She never encountered a plane so huge in her life. “Jesus,” she said.

  Sam’s mouth fell open. “What in the world, Patricia?”

  “Antonov AN-225 Mriya,” she said. “Driver, pull up behind those buildings.” She pointed to a hangar not far from the Mother Ship. She spotted a few guards pour out the plane’s cargo area.

  Patricia dismounted the Hummer. Sam and the thirty fighters gathered behind the hangar and crouched low. “How do we take this thing, Sam?”

  “Split the team. I’ll divert the guys coming out that behemoth. You sweep around and enter through the rear cargo door.”

  “Ok,” Patricia said. She took fifteen fighters and headed off. Already Sam’s team engaged the enemy soldiers from his side.

  Patricia’s team swept around the large hangar low and fast. The Black Army soldiers returned fire while positioned near the AN-225 massive seven-wheel landing gear. Her team headed for another outbuilding not too far from the plane’s cockpit. Her eyes scanned the pilot windows far above them. No one peered at the team who rushed across the tarmac. Several explosions erupted. She turned to the blasts as smoke drifted up f
rom where Sam and his team fought. The enemy fired their grenade launcher equipped rifles.

  “No,” she said underneath her breath. She pushed on, keeping up the attack. Her team raced ahead to the front landing gear, four huge tires big enough to hide the team. Burnt rubber and oil came off the tire’s black skin and metal components in a foul odor.

  Patricia led the team towards the rear aft landing gear as the enemy continued firing on the other team. She whisked her group passed six huge tires and huddled next to the seventh big tire. Patricia peered around the tire’s curved edge.

  Above her the ramp sat open. A few yards ahead the Black Army soldiers hid behind the other landing gear and engaged Sam’s team. Someone handed her a grenade. With her thumb she flicked off the clip, and with her forefinger she yanked the pin. The metal spoon flipped away. She cooked off the grenade a second and lobbed the metallic ball overhand.

  Three grenades hurtled in the air and landed where the enemy gathered.

  Three heavy blasts erupted. Shrapnel tore into the landing gear thick tires, shredded rubber and blood plumed. Air escaped from four tires in a high whistle and the AN-225 listed starboard. Her ears rung and her nostrils filled with a sharp odor. The enemy gunfire fell silent.

  She checked around the tire again. Sam’s team charged ahead, their rifles in action, killing off the plane’s remaining security force.

  Patricia waved her hand to draw Sam’s team attention. She didn’t want any friendly fire. The fighters lowered their weapons and rushed to Patricia.

  “Where’s Sam,” said Patricia. A team member shook his head. She counted eight from the original fifteen.

  Patricia set her lips firm, another name to add to her list of people who died for her. They enabled her to continue on with the fight. Raymond Wallace, Marcus Wallace, Jason Aries, and now Sam, whose last name she never asked about. All names she wanted etched on her heart forever. She flicked her eyes up towards the slate colored skies and the open cargo bay. Tears started up but she forced them down and used the anger for fuel.