Archangels,
INC.: Armageddon Now
By
Mikaeel D. Shabazz
Prologue
“There are no vampires, werewolves, witches, or ghosts.
There are angels…they are extraordinary human beings.
There are devils, people whose evils are not confined to
themselves.
There is the War of Armageddon, and we are in it.”
– Michael “Eagle Eye” Beverly,
author of the book ‘Unrighteous Betrayal’
Bleeding profusely from the nose and mouth,
after being slapped and punched while restrained in a hardwood chair, all he
can think about at this moment is who would care if he died right now. His left
eye half closed and almost swollen shut from bruising, his throat is parched. Vision
in his right eye is blurry from tearing up, he thinks it was the punch to the
nose that caused that. He wonders if his assailants have enough decency to
allow him a drink of water. As he feels
another slap across his face, odd thing is, the slaps no longer sting. He
stopped counting how many blows he received after the ninth one and they still
haven’t asked him any questions yet. With
his head hung down he smelled the mildew air in a room that seemed it hadn’t been
cleaned for decades. Not sure of where he is, but knowing it can’t be any more
than an hour from the city. He gazes at his blood-soaked shirt through the
blurred vision of his teary right eye, while his left eye swelled shut.
His name is Michael Beverly, his Vietnam
buddies used to call him “Eagle-Eye.” He was once a sniper, now he is just
dazed, confused, and thirsty. The pain
doesn’t bother him, he has had plenty of pain in his 56 years to the point he
just accepts it as a part of life. The
thing that is bothers him most is not knowing what will come next. Will they disfigure him? Kill him? Offer him
a drink of water before he dies?
At that moment, the sound of a chair being
pulled up in front of him interrupts his thoughts. A lean, athletic-built
Caucasian man in his mid-40s straddles the chair, unbuttons the bottom button
of his dark grey suit-coat and seats himself.
“He isn’t the one that’s been working me over,” Michael thinks to
himself, “dressed too clean and breathing calm.” Though his left ear is still ringing from the
last slap to his head, he can discern the shuffling footsteps of two additional
persons in the room. Both elbows resting
on the back of the chair and with hands clasped, the suited individual, leaned
forward a little. He tilted his head down and glared at the beaten man with
contempt.
“You know, you have been a very, very busy
man Mr. Beverly. Or is it ‘Eagle Eye,’ or Sergeant Beverly that you still like
to go by nowadays?” the grey-suited man asks. “Kicking a very nasty heroin
addiction, writing a book, and…” In that instant, the grey-suited man in an abrupt
manner, switched gears in his train of thought then continued, “I enjoyed your
radio interview this morning. The problem isn’t that you talk too much,…no,
that’s not why you’re here. The problem is that you remember too much and
people are starting to listen to you talk.
There are important people who don’t care to have their personal
endeavors of the past recounted by some wanna-be-author junkie conspiracy
theorist. So, we’re going to help you out, do you somewhat of a favor. We’ll get
you hooked back on the ‘dust’ and then you can go back to being the bum we
became so accustomed to before you somehow decided to kick the habit.” Michael
Beverly attempts to retort but instead spews and drools a mouthful of blood, with
a slight cough as he mumbles something inaudible and incoherent. “I’m sorry,” the suited figure responds,
“Were you trying to tell me something?” He leans his head closer exposing his
ear to Michael’s lips, “con-spir…anlis,” Michael mumbles. “Come again?” the
suited figure asks, cutting his eyes at Michael. “Conspiracy….analyst…..not theorist,” Michael
strains to blurt out while chuckling a little through clinched teeth.
“Ohh, conspiracy
analyst,” the suited figure repeats as he raises up in his chair. “Such a wise
ass,…and I’ve got just the thing for you,” he reaches back and grabs an
unmarked vile along with a hypodermic needle from the table behind him. He prepped the needle with the solution and
continued, “I’m sure you’ve seen plenty of bad things in your life and
experienced much loss,… suffered much pain,… and having my colleague work you
over in the way he has is just our way of letting you know we don’t like you. If
you ever get the courage again to wake up from this next nightmarish ‘fix’ I’m
about to give you, there will be nothing but more suffering administered to
you. First, we will be beat you to within an inch of your life, and then we may
experiment on you with some of the latest, most lethal drugs we’ve been testing
in other countries. My advice to you
after this injection is just stay asleep, stay an addict, and stay down.”
Meanwhile, as the dark grey-suited man and
company dealt with Michael, a well-dressed, clean-shaven man of mixed-heritage (Moroccan
or Spanish), approached what appeared to be an abandoned building at an
undisclosed location somewhere outside of Langley, Virginia. The clean-shaven man sported a white silk tie
and carried a thin brief-case. He approached a door with a single tinted
window. He bypassed a key-card access
reader on the side of the door by waving a small metallic object over the
card-reader. A mysterious-looking,
volleyball-sized object with a light glow floats several yards away from his
head. He gives a nod to the object and
the glowing orb levitates to the top of the building as he goes through the
door and proceeds down a hallway. Halted by two men in dark suits posted at the
end of the hall who drew their service weapons and affixed their sights center
mass on the mysterious silk-tied man.
“Who the hell are you, state your business, and how the hell did you
gain access? This area is restricted!” the lead agent barks, with weapon drawn.
“I’m a special liaison from HQ, you have a person of interest in custody and I
need to see him, if you will allow me…,” the special liaison gestures as if to
seek permission to reach into his breast pocket. In a non-threatening manner, he reached into
his pocket and presented a light metallic business card-sized object and
presented it to the lead agent in a confident manner. The lead agent received the card with a
confused look on his face trying to discern what the card is made of and what
the printed material on the card means as if it is coded. Then he passed the card to his partner,
eyebrows raised in confusion, and his partner gave the same intriguing and
confused reaction. The special liaison retrieves his card back, with briefcase
still in his left hand, in a persuasive tone of voice the special liaison
continues, “Now gentlemen, step aside and allow me to continue with my business
here and I assure you I will be out of your hair in no time.” Both agents in
the hallway secured their service pistols and stood idle with bewildered looks
as though they were in a mental fog or victims to some hypnotic
suggestion.
Forty feet down a corridor past the
bewildered agents, the special liaison approached the door to the room which
held the beaten Michael Beverly. He
turned the doorknob and entered the room just as the dark grey-suited agent was
about to inject Michael with the substance from the unmarked vile. The two
other agents posted inside, flanking the door, startled when the special
liaison interrupted, each flipped back their suit jackets and reached for their
holstered firearms. The white silk-tied man placed his briefcase on the table behind
Michael Beverly and turned to his right and handed the grey-suited agent the
encrypted ‘business card’ from inside his breast pocket. “That won’t be
necessary Agent Willard,” said Sijil, waving his hand gesturing to the
grey-suited agent who halted with the injection, distracted as the special
liaison barged in the room.
Agent Tyson F. Willard, was once the lead
field agent of a special anti-gang unit in the earlier part of his FBI career
in southern California. Now, he is considered to be the right-hand man of
Guillermo “Guy” Del Toro Iglesia of San Monto Bio-Tech Development Corp. When
Agent Willard was hired as the Chief Risk Assessment Analyst, a fancy title for
‘executive henchman’ for Guy Iglesia, it was in part because of his sordid past
with Guy Iglesia’s uncle Juarez. The
other part and reason for his employment was because Agent Willard, known for
his decisiveness in the thick of heated situations, was a clutch-player of
sorts when good deals went sour. For
this reason, the befuddled look on his face as he gazed at the special
liaison’s strange-looking business card handed to him caused his two assistants
to hesitate. With their guns drawn on the intruder, who was cutting a confident
smile, both reluctant, they eased their fingers off of the triggers and
re-positioned them just inside of the trigger guard. Agent Willard, raising his hand toward his
companions gesturing to them not to fill the intruder full of bullets just yet,
seemed to shake off the slight vertigo sensation he felt while holding the
business card. “Who the hell are you and
what goddamned HQ are you talking about?!” he barked as if coming to his
senses. “Sijil.” The white silk-tied
intruder replied, “Says so on the card.” Agent Willard’s attention shifted back
to the business card which seemed to make it hard for him to draw his attention
away from its odd feel as he wondered in his mind of what type of material the
card was made of. It had no physical words
on it in spite of what Sijil suggested.
Yet his mind was seeing indistinct words fading in and out on the
surface of the card. For some reason he could not will himself to rise from his
chair.
“Gentlemen,”
Sijil continued, “I do not have much time to waste and I promised your cohorts
outside I would be out of your hair in no time.” As Sijil was speaking he had
already sized up the room and observed the trigger-man closest to him who had scrapes
on the knuckles of his trigger hand. He
recognized this individual as Michael Beverly’s brutal assailant as he
continued, “So, I’ll make this short by stating that this is an intervention.”
And with uncanny quickness, Sijil lunged forward towards the brute as if he was
a speed skater powering across the floor and closing the distance between them,
which was a few yards. Before the first gunman could respond by re-engaging his
finger on the trigger, Sijil had maneuvered inside the gunman’s raised shooting
hand which and extended pointing toward his torso, center mass. The brute’s eyes widened like a person being
shocked by a horrid sight as Sijil connected a palm strike to his sternum with
such precision and force it catches him mid-breath and causes his heart to
stop. Sijil’s opponent seemed frozen, motionless, stunned as Sijil then spun to
his right side and connected the heel of his right foot square on the chin of
the second gunman. He hit with such
blinding force, it caused the gunman’s neck to break. As the second gunman’s head snapped back, his
trigger hand and arm flinched upward and his last cognitive command from his
brain was pulling the trigger. The gun
goes off and the trajectory of the bullet from his Glock-17 flew into the
ceiling.
The sound of
the gun going off rang in Agent Willard’s ear and as he once again shook off
the slight hypnotic effects of holding the card, Sijil walked over to the table
behind Michael Beverly. Sijil could hear
the footsteps of the two men scrambling down the corridor towards the room in
response to the gunshot. He clutched the
handle of the briefcase with his right hand and pivoting to his left he swung
the metallic briefcase in an arch towards Agent Willard’s head as Willard was
attempting to rise to his feet from the chair.
The bottom edge of the briefcase struck the bridge of Agent Willard’s nose
breaking it. As Willard staggered and
flopped backwards hitting his head on the table behind him, Sijil grabbed the back
of the chair Willard was sitting in with his left hand. The door flung open and the first agent, with
pistol drawn, scanned the room, and in a heartbeat, zeroed in on Sijil who was
midstream in movement flinging the chair at his knees. Sijil then tapped a button under the handle
of the briefcase which opened it up and a light, metallic sheet unfolded from
within the case in a rapid fashion. As
the agent shot two rounds before the chair connected to his knees, the bullets
deflected off of the sheet-like shield which looked like dull aluminum foil.
The agent toppled forward as Sijil moved toward the door and then whipped a
palm-heel strike to the top and center of the agent’s head. His body collapsed prone
on the floor from the blow which broke his neck.
Sijil raised
the briefcase above his head while crouching and then vaulted forward at an
angle towards the right side of the door drawing the last gunman’s sights
toward him and away from Michael Beverly, who was still semi-conscious with his
head hung down tied to his chair. He flipped the briefcase handle inward caused
the metallic sheet to corkscrew and wrap around the last gunman’s wrist, Sijil
then yanked the briefcase back. He
pulled it at a downward angle causing the last gunman’s arm to jerk forward almost
pulling his shoulder out of socket. The
metallic material clinched his forearm which caused him to release his gun from
the excruciating pain. Sijil released
the handle of the briefcase, hopped over the prone victim who first entered the
room, and used the momentum from this movement to round kick the last standing
agent. The ball of Sijil’s right foot
struck the left side of the agent’s ribs and as the snapping sound of three
broken ribs could be heard like the staccato of a snare drum, the agent’s lung
collapsed and he wheezed for air in shock. Still in motion, Sijil followed the
kick with an elbow blow to the temple and the last gunman fell lifeless to the
floor next to his fallen comrade whom he had shared his last cup of coffee with
just a few hours earlier that morning.
Sijil then
walked over to Agent Willard, who was in a daze holding his swollen and
bleeding nose. He pulled Willard’s head
forward then slipping his fingers inside the collar behind Willard’s neck,
Sijil snatched him up and thrust him onto the table and observed the hypodermic
needle, filled with the opiate, laying in the small unfolded leathery
case. Taking up the needle, Sijil
grabbed and clinched a tuft of Willard’s brown hair and injected him through
the carotid vein with the addictive opiate before Willard could put up a
noteworthy struggle.
“I left you alive because you are going to
deliver a message to Mr. Iglesia,” Sijil spoke softly leaning forward while
still clutching Willard’s hair. “Michael Beverly is not to be harmed in any way
again or the Angel of Death will be visiting Mr. Iglesia and all of his family,
and I can assure you it would be horrific.” Sijil released his vice-grip on
Willard who was now writhing, until he rolled off the table to the floor,
struggling to gain some semblance of his equilibrium as the poisonous substance
coursed through his veins. He struggled
to focus his dazed vision up at Sijil, who was adjusting his white silk tie.
Numerous curses and swear-words balled up inside of his mouth but all he could
spit out was blood and an inaudible “Fuck you, bastard, I’ll kill you,” as his
mind could no longer fight the heroine-trip he was now on.
Sijil
retrieved his ‘business card’ from Willard’s hand and then turned toward
Michael. Gripping the card between his
thumb and forefinger he slashed and cut, with one stroke, the ties restraining
Michael’s legs to the chair. Sijil then
moved to the back of the chair and with one last slash, Michael’s hands were
free. But, he slumped a little with agony, then breathed a sigh of relief, as
he worked his arms rotating them forward in an attempt to stretch. “Do I know you?”
Michael asked, touching the side of his swollen jaw and eyes. “No sir, you do
not,” Sijil responded, “but I know you, and I apologize for the delay in my
intervention.” Sijil assisted Michael to his feet and led him to exit the room.
“Thanks, I’m fine, I can manage now,” Michael straightened his arm out
gesturing for Sijil to turn him loose, “If you could get me a glass of water
I’d be even better.”
As Sijil
retrieved his briefcase, he led Michael out of the room, both of them stepping
over the fallen bodies as they exited. They
continued down the corridor back towards the entrance where Sijil had bypassed
the security to the old building, once used for training CIA recruits. The neglect of the cleaning of the interior evidenced
by the mildew smell indicated that the facility had not had any regular
activity for some time. But the modern
security measures installed outside showed that perhaps the government was allocating
funds from its budget to use the building in the near future.
Sijil could
hear the pace of Michael’s footsteps over his shoulder starting to chop and
slow down as they exited the building.
The light of the noon day hit Michael’s face causing his one open eye to
wince as he struggled to glance up and take in his surroundings. The volleyball-sized orb that levitated up
toward the rooftop earlier when Sijil first entered the building descended back
down towards the pair. Michael’s head
felt light, his vision blurred as the two black, late model Chevy Suburbans
parked in the lot were the last thing he saw as he passed out. Sijil caught him, leaning into him and
catching his body just as he observed Michael’s legs giving out. A rush of thoughts hit Michael as everything
went black for him. He was unconscious,
teetering somewhere between dreaming of past events, recounting his recent
torture, and a feeling like his body being spirited away.
_______________________
His dreams and
thoughts interrupted by the annoying cackling of two nurses. He could hear faintly
as one of them changed the saline solution connected to his IV. He awoke, his
vision still blurry in his right eye, the left eye swollen shut. His throat felt like dry cotton and he
couldn’t muster enough strength to reach for the pitcher of water sitting on a
tray-cart beside his bed. His slight
groan caused one of the nurses, who was rather hefty for her short stature, to
look over at him as he turned his head towards the tray with the pitcher.
“Mr. Beverly do you know where you are?” the
second nurse asked, speaking to him as if he was deaf or retarded. The first nurse completed the change of the
saline solution IV bags, then bumped the tray-cart as she attempted to squeeze
her over-sized hips between the cart and the wall making her way to exit the
room. “Tsk, girl, I’ll finish tellin’
you about Monique latah, I’m bout’ta take my break,” she blurted to the second
nurse in her semi-southern like drawl.
“Aight Keisha,” the second nurse responded. She then turned her
attention back to Michael who was fading out of consciousness but could hear
the nurse telling him he was at Providence Hospital. He couldn’t finish the thought of how he got
all the way from his previous location outside of Langley, Virginia to Buchanan
Street in Northeast Washington, D.C., that thought interrupted by the thought
of how thirsty he was before he passed out again.
Meanwhile,
across town at the Mayflower Renaissance Hotel on Connecticut Avenue, a large
conference room is crowded with well-dressed business men. They are broken into numerous three and
four-man groups socializing, trading stories and sipping on coffee and other beverages
after their big meeting adjourned. Everyone seems to be familiar or somewhat
familiar with one another, omitting the need for name tags. Guillermo “Guy” Del
Toro Iglesia, Chief of Operations (COO) of San Monto Bio-Tech Development
Corporation, is leading around the one unfamiliar person to everyone and
introducing him to those persons in the room he deems significant. Guy Iglesia was fond of anything silver, and
his unique silver cufflinks and the one inch silver cross pin he sported on the
lapel of his $3,500, gray pin-striped suit were modest displays of his
collection of jewelry. The six-foot
tall, lean athletic-built gentleman whom Guy Iglesia was busy introducing to
other persons of interest gave assuring smiles that put everyone at ease whose
hands he shook as he greeted them. “This is Jabril,” Guy boasted to one
executive as if introducing a son he was proud of, “He’s from Egypt and will be
doing big things there for the humanitarian endeavor we are launching on behalf
of San Monto.” Jabril towered over Guy
Iglesia but his scholared look put people more at ease than Guy Iglesia who was
heavy into working out as he was approaching his forty-sixth birthday, and
seemed to walk around with his chest outward to boast his physique. “Ahlan wa sahlan,” Jabril replied to the
puzzled executive, known as Marty, as they shook hands. “I beg your pardon?” the puzzled man
queried. “Eh,…Pleased to meet you,” Jabril
restated as he translated his prior expression with his thick Egyptian
accent. “Don’t let him fool you,” Guy
chimed in, “Jabril has a remarkable grasp of the English language which I dare
say rivals my own.”
“And what, exactly,
is this humanitarian effort?” Marty inquired.
“We are calling it,…Archangel’s Gifts to Humanity…or
something like that,” retorted Guy Iglesia, “We haven’t quite locked on the
name but that’s neither here nor there at present.”
Marty nodded, approving, as he focused on Guy Iglesia
while trying to eye Jabril from his periphery.
“Is this that seed project you were telling me about?” asked Marty
“The very same, Marty,” Guy replied as he held up his
arm exposing the silver-banded Rolex watch he wore and looked at the time. “Gentleman, excuse me, Willard should’ve
gotten back by now, I’ve got a meeting in San Diego and I need to be making my
way to my jet. Marty, pleasure seeing you again, we’ll be in touch.” Guy turned
toward Jabril, “And Jabril, contact me as soon as you touch back down in
Cairo.” Jabril gave a slight nod as Guy made his way out of the conference
room, shaking hands and patting the arms of other executives who struggled to
get a word in with him. He proceeded back to his executive suite as he looked
at his cellular phone and made a few attempts to contact Agent Willard who was
not responding. Guy arrived at his room, and after leaving a stern message on
Agent Willard’s voicemail he then contacted his chauffeur to let him know he
was on his way down. Guy tipped the
doorman as he exited the main lobby while the bellman loaded his suitcases into
the trunk of the Mercedes sedan, he gave a stern look as he scanned up and down
Connecticut Avenue, adjusting his tie before getting into the backseat. “Dulles,”
he commanded the chauffeur as they drove with the doorman tipping his hat
behind them.
Reclined on a
lawn chair at the far end of the Brighton Memorial Wading Pool, Rev. Johnathan
Georgian relaxed with his sand-colored Bermuda shorts and Hawaiian
parrot-themed shirt he wore unbuttoned exposing his v-neck t-shirt. He loved Boston summers, and he loved sitting
pool-side watching the children when he occasionally took time from his duties
leading the parishioners of Our Lady of Grace, a Catholic church in the 1600
block of Washington Street. The Reverend
sported a short-brimmed straw hat and shades. While sipping from time to time
on a can of Country-Time Lemonade, his thoughts of the children laughing and
splashing brought a pleasant smile to his face for all who noticed to see. But the smile of the elder priest masked a
different kind of fondness and thoughts stirring within his head as he ogled
two pre-adolescent boys of about eleven years of age who were kicking and splashing
one another while they mimicked slow-motion kung-fu fighting in the waist deep
section of the pool. It was getting late
in the afternoon and Father Georgian, as his parishioners called him, sat up
and slipped on his Nike sandals as he gathered his towel and keys and made his
way to put the empty can in the garbage can.
He had much counseling to attend to at Our Lady of Grace that evening
for his “marriage/romance revival” course he was conducting and had to be on
his way before rush hour could delay him in his trek back to Washington Street
from Soldiers Field Road.
Unobserved by
Father Georgian, but catching the eye of many a gentleman near the pool area or
traversing Soldiers Field Road was a graceful figure who was moving around the
outside of the facility, eyes fixated on the priest. A smile came to her face as she had been
eyeing the children playing as well. But, that smile turned to a disdainful
expression as she zeroed in on Father Georgian as he was gathering himself
together. And now, like a prowling tigress,
she paced herself toward the exit where she anticipated Father Georgian would
appear and head toward his 94’ Buick LeSabre.
Father Georgian couldn’t help but notice her out of the right corner of
his eye as he made his way to his car, smiling. “What a lovely young lady,” he
thought to himself, “And so modestly dressed.” He tried to be as inconspicuous
as possible, even though he wore dark-tinted shades, but his head turned toward
her as he slowed his gait to his car a little. Hypnotized by the bright glow of
her skin which looked like an attractive shade of polished copper, his eyes drew
to her face which was the only part of her exposed as her light-colored tunic
hid the athletic physique underneath, her hair covered in such a way that
Father Georgian almost mistook her for a nun were it not for her
complexion.
“Do you believe in God?” She asked. Father Georgian felt
compelled to remove his shades to take in her almond-shaped eyes as he raised
his eyebrows in surprise at the question and the fact that this attractive
woman was speaking to him and would open up with such a question. “Why, of course,” he exclaimed in his heavy
Bostonian tone, chuckling. “Well, I should most certainly believe in the Heavenly
Father as I am a reverend myself young lady,” he boasted. “Pardon my leisurely appearance, but I’m
Father Johnathan Georgian of Our Lady of Grace.” Father Georgian shuffled his
towel and keys to his left hand as he extended his right attempting to shake
her hand. She just gave a slight nod,
“Ezra’el.” “I did a lot of traveling in my younger days, back during my time as
a G.I. in the second world war, but I don’t recognize your accent, or your
clothes,…and that is an attractive but modest outfit you are wearing.” Ezra’el
grinned. Father Georgian squinted a little as he eyed her garment, beige in
color and having a thick, silk-like quality to it but masked the high-quality
steel khopesh-styled sword sheathed in a case which contoured along the right
side of her thigh. Her split skirt-like trousers under her tunic revealed no
presence of her weapon, the steel of which was light and flexible and not
common to any known craftsman of bladed weapons, as she flowed in all of her
movements as though she were floating when walking. He continued, “And I know, perhaps I
shouldn’t say so, but you have to forgive an old man for saying that you are
quite an attractive young lady.” “You are flirting with Death,” Ezra’el
remarked with an almost sinister-like grin and a quiet snort she exhaled
through her nose. “You are not so old,
though,” she continued as she lifted her chin. “You have the eyes of an old
soul, and the beauty as of one touched by an angel,” Father Georgian stated in
a poetic fashion. “I’m sorry, but I really must be on my way,...but,…why did
you ask me if I believe in God young lady, are you troubled?”
“No, I’m not troubled, just a little puzzled,” Ezra’el
said, tilting her head a little to the left.
“Puzzled about what?” queried Father Georgian.
“Puzzled if you ever wondered what happened to the
belief of the one-hundred and thirty young men who you violated over time,”
Ezra’el retorted. The sting of her words
sent a delayed chill to Father Georgian’s heart. He snapped out of his stunned
posture and made his way to his car as he shouted over his shoulder, “I don’t
know what you’re talking about woman! And you don’t either!”
“The Archdiocese may have paid your restitution, but The Master of All now requires of you
retribution.” Ezra’el motioned towards the driver’s side of the Buick as Father
Georgian had fired up the engine and was moving to put it in reverse. “You’re obviously not from here and you’ve
got no business here,” Father Georgian admonished, “You stay away from me
woman!” He whipped his LeSabre in reverse maneuvering to the middle of the
parking lot, and then slid the gear-shifter into drive and raced off. Frantic, he glanced in his mirror several
times but could not see Ezra’el at all which spooked him and caused him to almost
clip another car as he pulled onto Soldiers Field Road and sped away. The northeast sky warned of an approaching
thunderstorm with its massive charcoal-colored clouds as Father Georgian made
his way through traffic towards the Our Lady of Grace cathedral, glancing at
his rear-view mirror the whole way.
_________________________________
Back in
Virginia, Agent Willard had been in a daze as he lay on the floor. The euphoric feeling which showered his mind
kept him from being aware of how many hours had passed while he was in a dreamy
state of consciousness. He felt no pain
as his nose had swollen from being broken by Sijil earlier, but now he was
coming down off of the heroine high. His
breathing felt constricted, like an anaconda was squeezing his lungs, allowing
him to breathe half of a breath. He
sniffed and then choked and coughed up the large blood clot that had clogged
his nostrils causing him to breathe through his mouth. His vision began to regain acuity as his eyes
began to lose the fixation on the dried blood and egg and cheese omelet he
wasn’t aware he vomited on his suit jacket and shirt. He began to rise to his knees, his body
feeling as though gravity had held him captive on the floor while every cell of
his body was starting to feel like they all ripped apart, like bark being
stripped from a tree by bear claws. As
he struggled to his feet, in pain, he fought back remorse over the four corpses
that lay prone and blocked the doorway.
“Sijil,” he muttered to himself with anger. He lifted his head up and through his shoulders
back trying to expand his chest as he fought through the constricted
respiration. Agent Willard looked back
down at his soiled shirt and suit coat, took off his coat and then removed his
tie, throwing both to the floor. Agent
Willard glanced over at the empty chair Michael Beverly sat in earlier as he
stripped off his dress shirt.
He felt
terrible, mustering his wits to take the phone from the inside pocket of his
suit coat, which was on the floor, he began dialing. He inhaled again, his breathing just a little
less restrained now as he hit the “send” button on his Nokia cell phone to make
the call. The line answered after a
couple of rings and a boisterous voice on the other end could be heard, “Yeah!”
being the salutation. “I need a clean-up crew for my back yard,” Agent Willard
stated in code, “And four scrap vehicles to be hauled and junked.” “Be there in
an hour,” the voice on the other end replied.
They both hung up with no further words exchanged. Agent Willard noticed the message icon on his
cell phone’s display screen which showed he had several missed calls and a few
messages awaiting him. He screened
through them, un-phased by the message left by Guy Iglesia, but his thoughts
ran through a number of replies he rehearsed in his head that he would give Guy
Iglesia. Agent Willard made his way pass
his fallen comrades and exited the building to enter the lead Suburban parked
outside. He checked himself out in the
rear-view mirror and observed the dried blood on his upper lip along with his
swollen nose, which was now a violet-colored hue along the bridge, he shook his
head in disgust of his appearance. Willard
started up the SUV and took off en route back to the Mayflower hotel. He peeked
at his cell phone, which he had thrown on the passenger seat, wrestling with
the thought to return Guy Iglesia’s call.
Just over six
hours had passed and Guy Iglesia had already landed at San Diego International
Airport, now being chauffeured in a blacked-out 1999 Lincoln Navigator from the
private tarmac with the same year Cessna V Ultra shrinking behind them in the
rear-view mirror. He was heading to La
Jolla for to meet with the founders of San Monto Biotech Corporation, Francis
and John King. A meeting he would not be
enthused about in the least bit. His
cell phone rang and as he retrieved it from the inside pocket of his suit coat
he gave a sneer as he answered after seeing Agent Willard’s number.
“Could you possibly take any fucking longer to return
my call?” Guy blasted.
“We have a problem,” Willard remarked.
“We do not have a problem because the word “we” in
this so-called problem implies something is wrong with you and something would
have to be wrong with me, and there is currently nothing wrong with me. “YOU”
are supposed to be the Chief Risk Analyst and “I” pay you a lot of money to
analyze, assess, and handle certain risks and whatever other business I deem
necessary. So if there IS a problem then why the fuck am I paying you?!? That
is the only problem I see, and it isn’t a “we” problem.” The crescendo of Guy
Iglesia’s voice along with the stinging sarcasm, caused Agent Willard to give a
heavy sigh on the other end of the phone as Guy, calm queried, “Now, what the
hell happened to you?”
“Some Billy-bad-ass,…called himself Sijil,…crashed the
party, stole the keg, and wrecked and totaled all of the vehicles….but, I’ve
got a clean-up crew en route to take care of that,” Willard explained in code.
“I’m meeting with the Kings, I will call you back when
I’m done so just stand the hell by,” commanded Guy before he hung up. He then
gathered his thoughts as he mocked Agent Willard by muttering to himself “We
have a problem.”
From San
Diego, a small, white, disc-shaped craft 25 feet in length, rockets across the
Mohave Desert at high altitude and tremendous speed, making no audible sound. It doesn’t register on any radar as it
traverses the sky at a speed surpassing 5,000 miles per hour. What would take the average traveler driving
along Interstate 15 northbound to Las Vegas, Nevada five hours or so, this
craft accomplishes in mere minutes. As
it stops with precision, without any indication of decelerating, 45,000 feet
below the craft is the corner of Sahara Blvd. and Las Vegas Blvd, otherwise known
as “The Strip.” It isn’t a hot day for Las Vegas, eighty-nine degrees, but a
lanky Bible-toting Caucasian man with a bullhorn is busy working up a sweat
pacing back and forth delivering a street corner sermon. He is ignored by almost everyone passing by
or who happens to have the ill luck of being stopped at the traffic light, with
the exception of the two wiry-framed young men who stand behind him, neatly
dressed in matching short-sleeved white shirts and ties, raising their hands
from time to time cheering his preaching.
The unarmed security guard patrolling the parking lot and souvenir shops
on the northwest corner, being unsuccessful in getting the fired-up street
evangelist to move away from the corner, folded his arms in frustration and
moved back to a shady spot under an awning near the larger souvenir shop
observing from a distance.
His name is
Dale Higgins, his bible is book-marked in numerous places with multi-colored
paper tabs he made and taped to certain pages.
His white short-sleeved dress shirt shows signs of faded, once crisp,
ironed creases he pressed when he arose that morning, and now sweat stains
under his arms detract from his previous polished look. He almost sings in his recitation of biblical
verses with his distinct Alabama accent. “Yeeess pey-ple, I’m here t’day to
tell ya…as ya’ll go’on aboutcha gamblin’, whore’n, and,…and sinful waaays…Gawd
will not be mocked!” Dale shouts through his bullhorn with his mouth too close
to the microphone as he paces back and forth.
“Not ownly d’ya have ta’ wurry bout’a so-called Y..two..K,….but’cha’ll
had better start thinkin’ bout what that all means ‘bout the comin’ of the
Lawrd! Oh yeeess, I know’d most of ya’ll done forgot about Jey-zus,….ya show it
in the way ya’ liiiive! Dale’s knees buckled as though he was about to execute
a dance step and then straightened up as he continued his pacing and directing
his bullhorn towards the new crop of cars now stopped heading southbound at the
traffic signal. “As this here Y two K
counts on down,…Almighty Gawd has a count-doooown for all the
transgressors,…and backslidersss, ta’ get right with The Lawrd. That’s right! Ya’runnin’ outta’ tiiiime
ta’repent.”
His protégés shouted an approving “amen” as Dale
continued even as the light turned green and the cars were now in motion, while
pedestrians gave various reactions of smirks or tried to ignore him
altogether. “Let me read somethin’ to
ya’ll,…just’a give ya an I-dea of what’s comin’,…this is REY-AL pey-ple!” Dale turned
quickly referenced one of his book-marks and thumbed the book open one-handed.
He neglected to wipe his forehead from the sweat beaded up around his brow, his
handkerchief already soaked from prior wipes.
“Right’chere’in the book of Ee-zekial,…I’m tawlkin’ the very first
chapter,…says the wooord,…the word of the Lawrd came expressly unto Ee-zekial
the priest, and so forth. And the hand
of the Lawrd was there upon him. And I looked, and, behold, a whirlwind…. came
out of the north. A greeaat cloud, and a FY-yer flashing con-tin-u-al-ly! Ya’ll
don’t her’me! And a brightness was about it, and out..of..the..midst…..thereof
as the color of amber, out of the midst of the fyre.”
Dale paused
for a moment as he glanced around him and then directed his bullhorn towards a
crowd of people on the southwest corner across from him continuing with the
next verse. “And it says right’chere in the next verse….Also out of the midst
thereof came the likeness of four…li-ving…creatures. And this was their
appearance,…they had the likeness of…a MAN!” Dale slapped the book closed as he
raised it and held it above his shoulders and continued. “Ya’ll ain’t
listenin’, but I PROMISE ya’, if that don’t tell ya’ right there from the very book
filled with the words of The Lawrd Himself,….Gawd is coming! I’ve seen these
wheels of E-zekial myself! Some of you have seen these wheels of E-zekial,…this
Say-tanic gov’ment can lie all they want about it,….but as I said b’fore
Gawd…will…not..be…mocked!”
Dale ranted
on for an hour or so more about the “coming of Jesus” and “Ezekial’s wheels”
until the megaphone battery died. And then he and his companions retreated
north up “The Strip” towards a run-down motel several blocks away just off of
the main boulevard where they intended to retire to the room they had checked
into just the day before. They all handed out “tracks” with photos of UFO
clippings and biblical passages referencing “Ezekial’s Wheel” and phrases like
“Jesus IS Coming” across the front, on their way up the boulevard. Frustrated at the young Mexican lads along
the way who refused to accept their tracks, but were passing out cards
themselves advertising escort services and “Girls Directly to Your Room”
written in bold letters at the top of the cards.
Meanwhile,
back in Washington, D.C., Michael Beverly lay sleeping, his bed being wheeled
to another floor while he dreamed. He
was in a deep, but restless state of sleep as his dreams took him from being
escorted from the radio station where he had given an interview earlier that
morning, to images of a fist flying towards his head a number of times. His visions then focused on the stranger
calling himself “Sijil” to the volleyball-sized orb that came down and hovered
just behind Sijil and then began glowing. Sijil appeared to have an aura of
light around his head. “Halo,” he
thought to himself, as his dream jumped back in time, looking through the scope
of his M40 sniper rifle, a modified Remington 700. Through his scope he watched hundreds of men
of the 1st Battalion, 9th Marines standing motionless
with expressions of horror and fright on their faces as the foliage of the
jungle rustled and shook. Michael’s
dream zoomed in on the approaching darkness and the cold sensation he felt
while his body began to perspire. His
vision then jumped to dozens of figures leaping out of the jungle with
khopesh-style swords in hand, all clad in grayish Indonesian-style clothing,
the material looking like a metallic silk.
Michael’s body twitched as he fought to pull away from peering through
his scope at the horror of Marines getting sliced, chopped, diced, and
dismembered in such and efficient manner. The most-highly skilled sadistic
butcher would be envious, as bodies and appendages flopped lifeless to the
ground. Michael’s respiration increased
rapidly as he twitched and winced and continued to struggle to pull away from the
scope of his rifle while the implacable figures seemed to be traveling into and
through his scope, blades flying at a diagonal angle toward him, and just
before the closest blades approached the end of the scope which looked like a
tunnel now in his dream,….Michael woke up. He gasped as he clutched the hand of
the nurse who was changing the solution hooked to the IV in his right
wrist. His breathing was shallow and
rapid, his eyes staring at the frightened nurse who stood motionless as he began
to orient himself. “Mr. Beverly,” the nurse stated in a soft tone, “I’m going
to need you to give me my arm back,…ok?” Michael glanced around looking for
something familiar, he then espied the name tag which read ‘Monique’, and for
some reason this name seemed familiar to him and he released his grip and
unhanded her as she eased her distressed look. The nurse, Monique, regained her
confidence and then demanded, “Mr. Beverly, you are in the hospital and until
the doctor feels you are hydrated enough you won’t be released ‘til then, but,
um….in the mean time I’m going to need you to NOT put your hands on me Mr.
Beverly again. I’m just changing your
IV, and I do not need any bruises, thank you,” she ended with sarcasm.
Michael gave a low guttural cough, and then strained a
whisper, “I’m sorry,….may I please have some water?”
“Sure you can,..but only because you asked nicely”
Nurse Monique replied with a smile, pouring water from a nearby pitcher into a
Dixie cup and handing it to Michael. He
sipped from the cup handed to him, drinking in the coolness like a satisfied
hummingbird sipping sweet nectar from a flower it had flown for miles to find.
Michael flopped his head back to the pillow after emptying the cup and dropped
his arm, cup in hand, on his chest. He
was too tired and drained to ask for more as he sighed,…but he was still
thirsty.
End
of Prologue
