Guardian (8 page)

Perhaps.

A
bu lay on the floor of Kharija's hotel room, palm pressed against his stomach. He tried to crawl but the pain practically paralyzed him. No escape this time.

The Glock rested a few feet away. He considered reaching for it. Then he could kill himself and avoid the embarrassment to the order. Instead, thoughts of Kharija occupied his half-­conscious mind. He'd had him and lost him. Another failure.

He vowed to himself that it would not happen again.

As he lost consciousness, several police officers entered the room, weapons pointed at him. They shouted and kicked the Glock further away. Abu faded, not listening, and dreamed about killing Kharija.

 

Chapter Thirteen

M
ike sat in the overpadded chair in his hotel room, staring out the window at Nationals Park. He held an empty water bottle in his hand. A half-­eaten cheeseburger sat on the table next to him.

“How long are you going to contemplate your life while looking out that window?”

The voice came from the side, outside his peripheral vision. He expected to turn and find Greg but it didn't sound like him. The voice was neutral and not husky. Could have been anybody's voice.

He twisted and found a stranger leaning against the desk, arms crossed over his chest. He had long black hair and wore a flannel shirt and cargo pants. Guy could have been a construction worker.

“You're not Greg.”

“No, I'm not. Greg will not be seeing you anymore.”

“You took his place.”

“I've always been involved. The time has come for me to take a more direct role.”

“Who are you, then?”

“You don't sound surprised a stranger just popped into your room.”

“When ­people mysteriously show up, I know I'm dreaming. It's been happening a lot lately. Don't take offense if I'm not shrieking with terror. So who are you?”

“Uriel.”

“Uriel?”

“Yes.”

“Isn't Uriel an angel?”

“What humans would call an angel. ‘Seraph' is the more technical title.”

“You don't look much like an angel.”

“I appear in a form more comfortable for humans to accept.”

“You think looking like a roadie for Pearl Jam is acceptable to me?”

“I choose my appearance, not you. Be grateful I chose to appear as a human at all.”

“A talking dog would have been cute?”

“How about a nightmare your imagination could scarcely comprehend? One that would keep you from sleep for years?”

“Think I'll pass on that one. So what do you really look like?”

“Indescribable.”

“Really?”

“Your eyes would melt.”

“Thanks for appearing this way, then.”

“You're welcome.”

“You should get a haircut, though.”

Uriel chuckled.

“So you're the one who's been feeding Greg information to pump to me?”

Uriel shrugged. “Most of the time. I'm not the only one with an interest in what you do, however.”

“So what now? Come to tell me I have to listen to Greg? That I might have to kill more ­people?”

“Something like that.”

Mike rose and set the water bottle down. “If you're only going to repeat what he said, why bother coming?”

Uriel pushed off the desk and approached Mike, stopping a foot or two short. His arms remained crossed. “You need to stop entertaining thoughts about killing yourself.”

“Because the mark is not a curse.”

“That's correct, in addition to the fact that killing yourself helps no one at all, even though you might imagine it would. In all actuality, the mark is a gift.”

“And what do I do with this gift?”

“It will be revealed in time.”

“More mystery. Can you ­people ever just spit the facts out all at once?”

“Where would the fun be in that?”

Mike didn't know whether to laugh or cry at the statement. Instead, he said, “Real funny.”

“Tell me,” Uriel said, “what is the best way to learn—­through lecture or experience?”

“Experience. But it's nice to have a primer, too. You know, you give a lecture on survival tactics before dropping someone in the desert to apply those tactics.”

“And that's what I am here to do. To give you a primer, but ultimately you must endure the experience.”

“ ‘Endure' is a hell of a choice in words.”

“Because it implies difficulty?”

“Because it implies pain.”

“You're focusing too much on yourself.”

“Sorry. I thought for a moment this was about me.”

“You're a smart-­ass, aren't you?”

“I've been accused of that from time to time.”

Uriel paused a moment. “If it makes you feel any better, I don't know all the facts. I can see parts of the elephant but not the whole thing. Do you understand?”

“Privy to some knowledge but not all. Just like Greg.”

“Yes, and much like yourself. You're aware of the existence of angels and demons and other things dwelling in the outer darkness. But you don't understand how they all fit together yet. So it is with your mark. Although it may be used by others for ill, ultimately it will affect a greater good. What that good is and how it will come about, I don't know, just as you don't. Only God knows all.”

“You seem pretty damn sure this mark is a good thing. Doesn't it matter that it was a fallen angel that marked me?”

“What matters is it was an act of love.”

Mike chuckled. “That's funny. An act of love.”

“I'm not being funny. You had an impact on Semyaza's heart, so to speak. He turned back to the light and repented. And he left you with an aspect of him that was still pure.”

“Wait, so I actually did tame the heart of the wicked monster?”

“This isn't a fairy tale and it's not about you, Mike. It was your action and Semyaza ultimate realization of the futility of his body-­hopping campaign. You were more like a mirror, not an active manipulator.”

“Don't take this from me. I need it.”

“How about we say you helped someone who had fallen get back up and find their true footing again? Good enough?”

“I guess. And this gift will be revealed to me in time?”

Uriel nodded.

“This sucks.”

Uriel nodded some more. “It may mean killing Kharija.”

“Because whoever he's working for is holding something over him, right?”

“Yes. The lives of his wife and daughter.”

Mike closed his eyes. “Makes sense.”

“So you see why he will not stop and why you will probably have to kill him.”

“Unless someone else kills him first.”

“That is a possibility. Yet your path seems to lead to him.”

“Greg said I'd be able to stop puppets like Kharija but the ones pulling their strings, not so much.”

“True.”

“And this thing he's taking orders from?”

“Will be revealed in time.”

“But I can't kill him.”

“No, but you can disrupt his plans and save a lot of lives in the process. Focus on Kharija for now.”

“Why don't you just snuff Kharija and his master on your own?”

“Because I'm not allowed. Besides, then there'd be no cooperation between guys like you and angels like me..”

“Buddy-­action movies are part of His big plan?”

“Easy now.”

“I could be playing into his master's hands. Kill Kharija, fine. But if I still end up with the boss man, he could find a prison, open it, and millions of ­people die. All because of me. So how is me going after either of them a good idea?”

“Things happen for a reason.”

“Shit, you've got to do better than that.”

“Because you're supposed to.”

“Better than that.”

Uriel paused. “Your experience with Semyaza happened for a reason. Many ­people died, and that's tragic. But that's nothing compared to what's coming. Yet to prepare for what's coming, Semyaza had to happen. You had to have your eyes opened to what's out there. You had to be marked. Now this has to happen.”

“My eyes are already opened.”

“Others' are not. And you'll need allies going forward.”

“Sounds like a lot to risk.”

“Humans risk everything every day. That's what's exciting about being mortal.”

“Great.” Mike turned and walked to the window. “Heaven and hell exist.”

“Was that a question?”

“No. And so my soul is probably already damned, right? For all the shit I've done. But there's a chance for redemption if all this crap is true. How do I earn it if I keep killing? Or cause the death of millions?”

Uriel appeared at his side and motioned to the window. “Look out there.”

Mike did. The baseball stadium and surrounding buildings disappeared, replaced with a vast ocean that stretched into the forever. In the water, heads bobbed. Their white eyes, the color of milk, stared at Mike. Their hands rose from beneath the surface and stretched out toward him, but he was far from their reach.

The ocean of the dead.
He'd seen it before, in another dream, before he confronted Semyaza. The ­people he had killed and had yet to kill. All begging with their outstretched hands not to have death dealt to them.

“Remember this?”

Mike nodded.

“And what were you told?”

“That they're mine.” Mike swallowed, unable to tear his gaze away. “That there are many I've yet to kill.”

“That is correct. What else?”

“I kill bad guys.”

“Not just bad guys. ­People who have murdered the light of God in their souls. What else?”

Mike repeated those words in his head a few times.
­People who have murdered the light of God in their souls.
There was something powerful and terrifying in them. He shivered for a moment.

“What else, Mike?”

Mike stammered for a few seconds. “There's a difference between just and selfish.”

“And there it is. Just. Do you understand now, Mike? You no longer kill for selfish reasons, whether they are your own or someone else's. If you kill, it is in defense of the common good against enemies who cannot be dissuaded from their course of evil. Who is the Good Shepherd?”

“I am.”

Uriel laughed. “Not quite. God is the Good Shepherd.”

“But I protect the flock.”

“Yes, but what does the shepherd use to protect the flock?”

Mike nodded. “A sheepdog.”

“You are a sheepdog looking for the shepherd. But while you look for him, He still needs you to do your job. Even if you never find your master, He requires you to protect His flock.”

“But the wolves want to use me for their own ends. The mark.”

“The mark is a gift. They may want to use you, but that mark will serve a greater good once the time comes. Trust in that and have faith, hope, and love.”

Mike shook his head. “Why me?”

“Because He wills it. And He needs you as much as you need Him.”

“I have a hard time believing He needs me when He has angels like you around.”

Uriel shrugged. “Do not put God to the test.”

“Right.”

“What is the mark?”

“A gift.”

“And what does the sheepdog do?”

“Protects the flock from wolves.”

Uriel motioned out toward the ocean. “That is a sea of wolves—­”

Mike abruptly woke up and saw that he'd fallen asleep in the overpadded chair. He checked his watch. “Shit.”

T
hick gray clouds blotted out the sun. The humidity hit ninety percent. Mosquitoes swarmed off the Potomac. Dour and miserable. Appropriate conditions for a funeral.

He had taken the Blue Line to Arlington and arrived just in time to hear the sermon by a Navy chaplain. Dozens of ­people sat and stood around the flag-­draped dark mahogany casket in the garden of stones. The seven-­man honor guard was positioned several feet away, rifles at parade rest. Nearby, the now empty caisson and riderless horse watched like lingering ghosts. The sight of them sent chills rippling down Mike's arms.

He stood in the back, wearing a dark suit and sunglasses. He'd taken a huge risk coming here. But he felt he owed it to Temms to at least pay his respects.

Three days had passed since he'd checked into the hotel. Three days of quiet. Greengrass was safe at his home in Yuma, Arizona, still recovering from the wounds he suffered last month at the Battle of R91. The FBI had several agents watching the house, just in case. They had tried to move him to a temporary safe house, but Greengrass refused while also demanding to know why. All the FBI could say was his life was in danger. To their credit, they weren't being deliberately vague. That's all the agents knew. Because that's all Glenn had told them. Apparently, the FBI director owed Glenn a favor, because no further details were asked for before protection was put in place.

The chaplain finished the sermon. The honor guard sprang to attention. Seven bodies moving as one.

“READY!” the honor guard commander yelled.

The honor guard raised their rifles in unison.

“AIM!”

They stepped forward with their left feet and aimed the rifles at what looked like a thirty degree angle.

“FIRE!”

The first volley rang out, echoing across the cemetery.

The honor guard returned to the position of attention. The commander repeated the process and the final two volleys quickly followed.

After the completion of the gun salute, the honor guard commander yelled, “PRESENT, ARMS!”

Mike lowered his head out of respect.

A bugler standing forty yards away played “Taps.” The Navy and Marine Corps pallbearers lifted the flag from the casket and proceeded to fold it into a tight triangle. Then an admiral walked the flag over to a young woman who Mike assumed was Temms's daughter. She looked to be about twenty. Tears streaked her face.

The admiral leaned forward, held the flag out to her and said something inaudible. But Mike knew the words. He'd heard them at the funeral for Greg McDaniel. He repeated them in his head.

On behalf of a grateful nation, this flag is presented to you as a token of appreciation for your loved one's honorable and faithful ser­vice
.

The daughter accepted the flag, cradled it to her chest and broke down sobbing. The admiral rendered one final salute to the flag before about-­facing and marching away.