Divine Destruction (The Return of Divinity Book 1) (30 page)

His beam materialized within a courtyard of a large white building near Orlando, Florida. The sky was full of folding reds and yellows. Darkness was an hour away. Gabriel stood a moment weighing his responsibilities. In his mind the near future was a fixed set of events. In this moment he neither regretted nor relished what he was about to begin. These were just the tasks set out for him. But Gabriel admitted to himself tonight's task he may enjoy.

He shrank and solidified his form and used an unlocked rear door. This so-called church was a sprawling complex of buildings added onto as the funds and responsibilities allowed. He walked down a long hall way. On Gabriel's right and left the rooms were multifunctional. He stopped at an open doorway and peered in. The room was a classroom. Possibly one used to teach the lies of hate this ministry had employed in Africa, or in the Americas.

He turned and looked down the empty hall. Ahead he could see the double doors of the sanctum. There were halls ahead to the left and right. Gabriel continued to explore, walking quietly down the hall. There was no hurry. Except for his task, he knew he was alone in the building. He stopped by a large cork board covered in written material. Class schedules, event reminders, and sheets regaling God's work. Pictures of the senior pastor, Mark White, were surrounded with messages loaned from our father. A burning inside Gabriel began to grow. This man had orchestrated sins spanning continents. As he turned and quickened his pace, a sword sprang and grew from his right hand. The sword was long, over six feet. It was said to have been forged whole from God's own hand, the sword was solid metal. It's appearance was monogamous. There were no jewels in the hilt, and no leather wrapped it's three hand's breath length. Gabriel walked with the sword point down near the floor.

“Enough,” Gabriel said.

His form shifted from solid to light. Gabriel moved as lightning within the walls of the massive church, burning through every wall between him and this pastor. There was a booming whip crack of thunder that trailed directly behind the Archangel. The concussion blast blew Mark White's desk free of paper. The room shook from Gabriel's presence. The human jumped from the sudden entrance. Pictures and plagues fell from the office walls.

Gabriel stood before a large pecan desk. Three human forms could have laid across its length together. The desk was also ornate. Each corner was carved resembling ancient columns covered in vines. The surface was at least three inches thick and held several cutouts to pass electronic cables. But now the human's computing accessories lay behind him on the floor.

Gabriel took a moment to admire and record the desk. There may come a time to replicate such a marvel.

But that may be the future. This was the present.

Mark White was understandably mortified. He began spouting the most ridiculous of questions. “Who are you? Who let you in? What do you want?” And, then began making demands, “Get out!” the human shouted. Ridiculous puny human.

Gabriel extended his wings. The room was large but the walls fought to contain the gray-white wings. There was an effect Gabriel had seen before. Mark White's mouth stopped emitting sound. The color drained from his face and his eyes widened to twice their normal opening.

As Gabriel lifted the sword it cut through the massive desk like a molten cheese wire cuts through warm tofu. The blade not only cut, it also burned the desk as it traveled. Whiffs of acrid smoke rolled from the blade. The right side of the desk flipped over backwards as the left crashed inward with a quaking thud.

Gabriel brought the sword tip up to Mark White and laid the last two inches of the blade upon his sternum. Mark's shirt crackled and a line burned through his shirt before Gabriel squelched the blade's heat.

Mark made a gibbering sound as his mouth open and closed in quick succession. Gabriel remained expressionless.

Through the physical contact with the blade Gabriel began transmitting images to Mark White. Images of black men and women hanging, African children crying as their loved ones were dragged away, and of lovers being torn from each other and executed. The images marched beyond each other. Over and over the pictures of the dead clipped by. There were thousands.

Gabriel watched Mark White's eyes fix and his mind's eye was captured by the streaming images. The pastor's breathing began to race.

“What am I seeing?” he asked.

“Those that have died from your influence,” Gabriel replied through the sword.

The images continued.

“Africa?” it asked.

“Yes”

“But these are queers!” it squealed.

“You lead the influence to have thousands of humans put to death over their personal individuality.” Gabriel said through gritted teeth.

“These aren't God's children. They were perverts, deviants, homosexuals,” it said.

Gabriel pushed the blade through it's skin until it touched his breast bone. It screamed.

“We were doing God's work!” it shouted.

Gabriel watched it begin to shake. Tears ran from it's eyes. But before the inevitable pleading began, the Archangel said, “Here is God's response. No one has the right to judge another's happiness.” The blade pushed through the back of the office chair. The spray of blood from it's chest foamed and made a pink steam mist. It bucked, struggled to escape from Gabriel's blade, but only made the hole more lethal.

“Now watch as I end your wicked dynasty.”

Gabriel removed the blade and drew it into his arm. It vanished. The Archangel drew in a breath and an explosion emanated from Gabriel's body, but it left the pastor where he sat, dying. The energy passed over the desk, pastor, and his bloody chair. But it folded then disintegrated the wall behind him. The shockwave of energy passed across the grounds leveling the church. Many neighboring buildings were damaged too. Small fires erupted from exposed gas lines and flames licked skyward under pressure.

Now, at the center of what was a sprawling complex of connecting buildings, Gabriel stood on naked dirt and cracked concrete. The Archangel watched as one of humanities pariah took its last breath. Gabriel knew everything this man had built would unravel and fall apart now. One less murderer. The ground swell of hate that polarized three African nations would be reversed.

“I do God’s work,” the Archangel said to himself.

He folded his wings and returned to a more empyreal form. Looking around at the destruction he caused and again down on the man who was once Mark White, Gabriel allowed a fierce satisfaction washed over him. He threw up his left arm skyward and flung a beam of light straight into the night. In a moment his form had dissolved into the beam and he was gone. The fires he had left behind grew and began to devour what remained of the church.

The Press

It took much longer than Joe liked. Glancing at his watch for the fourth time in the last five minutes didn't help his anxiety. The S.W.A.T. command vehicle was just pulling up. The squad van had been here for forty minutes. It was four fifteen in the morning and Joe was on his last nerve. Thankfully, Bryce was with him, and Chris was running a skeleton crew back in operations.

The team had found Mr. DeLuca and Ms. Aledar, an Indian national, staying the night in a Resident's Inn off Settler's Cabin Road. The pair had doubled back to this side of Pittsburgh, after being seen on the north, shopping. They were doing a great deal of shopping, Joe imagined. Were they leaving the area? Were they soon to elope?

Both were registered under assumed names again. Tom and Sara Briggs. It was nearly comical. Mr. DeLuca seemed to have no end to these false identities. It was his team who tracked the pair down again. After this was over Joe promised his team high praise and personally written letters of recommendation. Each, even the Turd Twins, had earned his respect. Any future department would do well to have any of his team.

Joe rounded the S.W.A.T. command van. He found Sgt. Timmons running his team through a weapons check. Joe counted nine men including the sergeant.

“Sergeant, when will your team be ready?” Joe asked the sergeant as he checked then holstered a Sig P229. The sergeant pulled a Remington 870 shotgun from an unlocked cabinet off to the right of the business end of the van.

The sergeant looked Joe over for a moment then said, “Ten minutes, tops,” as he looked at what must have been his second in command. The other S.W.A.T. member nodded agreement, and the sergeant nodded again toward Joe.

“Ten minutes, good,” Joe said.

Joe Diclaro turned and walked back over to Bryce who was looking threw a pair of matte black binoculars at the motel.

“Anything new?” Joe asked Bryce.

“Nothing Chief,” Bryce replied. “All is quiet.”

Joe pulled a heavy radio from his raincoat pocket and keyed the mic button. His team had requested and received a private channel for tonight's operation.

“Team, S.W.A.T. will be ready in ten minutes. Go time will be oh four twenty five. We will wait for the road barricades to be in place before we send in the guns. Is everyone in place?”

Joe listened as all of his regular police officers checked in. Joe had to use several teams to block the roads going in and out of the area. The overpass had to be blocked at each end. The feeder road and two sets of on-ramps also had to be barricaded while Mr. DeLuca was brought down.

“No one moves until I give a 'Go' call over this channel at my oh four twenty five,” Joe said into the radio. He pocketed it and looked back over toward the hotel. His team had assembled in a retail parking lot over looking the east facade of the Resident's Inn. The building was a simple six story box, hotel chains like to throw up in a month. It wasn't ornate. It's only feature was a large awning covering the main door. The hotel manager had confirmed with Joe that the back door would be locked from the outside. Foot traffic could only exit the building from the main entrance and the back exit.

Bryce and Joe now looked down upon the hotel from a distance of two hundred and fifty yards. There were no room lights coming from any of the hotel's windows. All guests were asleep. The plan was to have S.W.A.T. roll into the hotel quietly and have the manager open the room door with a pass key. Surround the fugitives and have them cuffed and shackled before they could wipe the sleep from their eyes. Morning breath and all.

Joe turned and looked back toward the S.W.A.T. command van. The sergeant saw him and gave Joe a thumbs up. His team was lined up receiving orders. Any minute now, Joe thought. This will be all over soon.

“Sir!” snapped Bryce.

Joe instinctively spun and looked down at the hotel. The rental car his team had identified was gunning out of the parking lot. Rounding the corner onto the feeder road the car tires squealed before they made traction. The night had begun to sprinkle and a light rain was forecast for the upcoming day.

“God Damn it!” Joe screamed.

Ripping the radio from his coat pocket, Joe keyed the mic, “Officers, everyone into their cars, leave the barricades and pursue that light blue ford sedan. The target has left the motel parking lot heading north on the feeder.”

Joe watched as DeLuca’s vehicle turned left onto over pass. Police cars pulled out from cover and were already within one hundred yards as DeLuca sped by them.

“Now heading west on the overpass. They are going to make for three seventy six,” Joe barked into the radio.

Bryce broke away and headed toward their unmarked agency ride. Joe spun to yell at the S.W.A.T. sergeant, “Sergeant, mount your people up and follow us. The fugitives have left the hotel.”

Bryce was already seated when Joe yanked open the driver's door and jumped inside. With one swift set of motions the engine roared into life, the driver's door shut, and the car was dropped into gear. Unfortunately, the logistics of the retail parking lot was eighty feet above the feeder road and everyone in the staging area had to drive completely across the parking lot and down a swerving entry road before coming to a traffic light at the bottom of the hill. Joe's sedan made outrageous noise as it was thrown down any flat surface he could navigate. They were flying.

Behind them came the police commander's patrol car, a local precinct supervisor vehicle, and the two S.W.A.T. vans. One loaded with special operations police, the other, the command van was loaded with equipment and weapons. Joe could see as he gunned across the overpass there were six patrol cars already in pursuit. Their lights making a parade of flashes against the nearby hillsides. Sirens yelled into the night. Joe was thankful traffic was almost nonexistent. However, he threw his magnetic flashing light onto the roof when he could take advantage of lower speed while turning left to go down the entry ramp. Joe didn't want that one half-asleep early riser to T-bone him on his way to downtown.

“Suspects have turned off three seventy six and onto the north bound lanes of seventy nine. We will be on them within seconds. What are our orders?” an officer chattered from the radio.

Joe fished the unit out of his pocket. Keying the mic he said, “Do not engage. Hang back fifty yards. Do not engage.” Joe dropped the radio onto the center console between him and Bryce. Without being told Bryce secured the radio so it would not fly out a window or get lost in the floorboards. Moments later their car ripped down the exit ramp with four vehicles closely behind.

The six squad cars fell back the ordered distance and matched Griffin's speed. Three of the cars in each lane. Their emergency lights created an epileptic event down the I-seventy nine corridor. Communicating between themselves, they agreed to kill their sirens. This area of suburban Pittsburgh was home to many tax paying citizens. It would not do well to have hundreds of complaint calls awaiting them once they each returned to their precincts. They were now a quiet high speed disco entertaining no one but the heads of deer chewing grass on the side of the highway.