A Brush of Wings (2 page)

Orlon paced a few steps toward the window, toward heaven’s crystal blue sky. He turned and faced the angels again. “There was a time when Christ’s followers in the United States were an example of love and truth for all the world.” He felt the heaviness of the mission ahead. “Today people have strayed from the truth. Dallas Garner will help return a generation back to God’s word.” He paused. “If . . . he is born at all.”

The weight of Orlon’s words seemed to settle on the shoulders of every angel in the room.

Orlon explained that all four humans must stay alive, and together. In friendship and relationship. Despite the enemy’s attempts to tear them apart. Otherwise the mission would fail. And this stage of the mission involved life and death—but not like the last time.

He returned to the podium and checked his notes. “Previously, Jag and Aspyn faced gang violence and murderous attempts on the humans. This time the threats will be random and deadly. Accidents aimed at these four. And the greatest danger will come from within Mary Catherine. Her heart.”

The very great problem, Orlon explained, was that Mary Catherine still planned to leave for Africa. “There, she will face every kind of danger.”

A restless anticipation came over the room. The angels wanted to take action. It was how they were wired. Orlon stepped out from behind the podium, his voice determined. “I have already decided which Angels Walking team will be sent.”

A few of the angels blinked, looking about the room, surprised. Usually the angels volunteered for a given mission. This would be different.

Orlon turned to the angels at the front of the room. “Ember and Beck, Jag and Aspyn. You know the humans well, you’ve studied them and prayed for them, followed alongside them and intervened for them. You’ve wept over them.”

The expressions on each of their faces shifted from shock to holy determination. They sat a little taller in their seats, their attention fixed on Orlon.

“All four of you will work this final part of the mission. You will meet together often and decide which angel is best for each situation.”

Jag looked at his three peers and each of them nodded in agreement. “We are willing. And we are ready.”

Orlon glanced around the room at the others. “We will no longer stay here in heaven, planning and praying about what happens next.” He took a few steps closer to the group. “The people of Earth suffer more each day. Every team in this room will be on an Angels Walking mission by the end of the week.”

Several angels exchanged looks. This was definitely different.

Orlon took a quick breath. It was time to get to work. “Let’s pray.”

Around the room the angels closed their eyes and bowed their heads. Some raised their hands toward the Father, and others lifted their faces to the light. After the prayer, Orlon walked with Beck and Ember, Jag and Aspyn to the back door. “This will be your most difficult assignment yet.” He looked each of them in the eyes. “Pray constantly. Believe.”

The four angels looked set, determined. As they left the room, Orlon silently begged God that although the mission seemed doomed to fail, the four angels might succeed. He prayed also for Dallas Garner, the baby whose life hung in the balance.

And for a generation who might never find redemption otherwise.

FOUR EMPTY CHAIRS
faced each other at the center of the adjacent room.

Jag took the lead as they entered the space and shut the door behind them. Windows lined the walls, flooding the place with light and peace.

When they were seated, Jag studied his peers. “Are you surprised?”

Beck leaned back. Rays of sunshine streamed through the windows and flashed in his green eyes. He breathed deep, clearly bewildered. “Shocked.”

“It’s true, we know the humans better.” Ember ran her hand over her long, golden-red hair. Concern knit itself into her expression. “But if they suspect us, it could alter their choices. We must be so very discreet.”

Jag nodded. “Discretion will be key.” He planted his elbows on his knees, leaning closer to the others. “We’ll need a strategy.”

“For every minute.” Aspyn crossed her arms. She had the most street sense of anyone in the room. “I want this mission. But it’s risky.” She looked at Ember and then at Jag and Beck. “I’m concerned.”

Aspyn sighed. “It won’t be easy.”

“Remember what Orlon said.” Beck narrowed his eyes. “The baby has only a two percent chance of being born. The odds of failing are high.”

Silence like dense fog hung over the room for more than a minute. Then Jag rose to his full towering height. “If the odds are against us, then we will better prepare ourselves this time, more than for any of the missions before.” He felt his determination build. “We will commit to pray and we will always have each other’s backs.”

Jag sat down again, intensity filling his soul. “Here’s what we’ll do.” He could see the mission coming into view. “Let’s start with Mary Catherine . . .”

An hour later they had a plan. There were great risks, of course. Jag had never taken an Angels Walking mission without them. But this one would be even more dangerous. They would leave heaven later that afternoon and begin the assignment first thing in the morning. Jag was grateful about the immediacy of their actions.

Every hour could mean the difference—not only for the mission.

But for all mankind.

1

B
ECK CROSSED OCEAN AVENUE,
the sea behind him.

Determination welled up in his heart. The team had chosen him to make the first move, and Beck was ready. Anxious. He walked east along Santa Monica Boulevard toward a brilliant Southern California sunrise. It was several blocks to Mary Catherine’s apartment.

Beck stayed in the shadows.

He wore board shorts and a tank top, flip-flops and sunglasses. Over one shoulder he carried a faded black backpack.
Take it slow,
he told himself.
You’re just any other surfer headed off the beach for breakfast.

Beck caught a glimpse of his reflection in the front window of a seafood restaurant. His brown arms looked fit, athletic. Like he spent his days conquering waves. No one would suspect he was an angel.

After a few minutes he reached her apartment. Immediately he spotted her car—an old Hyundai. Beck glanced down the street. Several drifter types sat huddled on park benches or tucked up against the buildings. None of them seemed to notice Beck.

He stopped, lowered the backpack, and pulled a tire gauge from it. This first part of the plan was brilliant. Frustrating for Mary Catherine, maybe. But necessary. The gauge slipped easily into the tire stem of the Hyundai’s right rear tire. A hissing sound signaled the release of air. When the back tire was obviously flat, Beck moved to the front of the car.

As he did, a couple of police officers turned the corner and headed his way. Beck felt his heartbeat quicken.
Come on, Jag
.
You gotta help me.
He stood, not sure whether the officers had seen him. At the same time another officer, tall and blond, built like a gladiator, stepped out from a doorway and approached the first two.

Jag.

Beck felt himself relax. He could hear Jag’s voice—friendly and confident—as he talked to the officers. The words of their conversation weren’t clear, but that didn’t matter. Jag would hold them off until Beck finished the job.

He worked quickly and in less than a minute both right tires were completely flat. That should do it. She wouldn’t have two spares. Beck tucked the tire gauge away, slid the backpack onto his shoulder, and turned toward the beach. At the bike path that bordered the sand, he slipped around a busy bicycle shop and disappeared.

MARY CATHERINE WOKE UP
early for one reason—she wanted to feel the ocean against her skin, and she was nearly out of time.

In two weeks she would leave for Africa—no matter what anyone thought. Once she reached Uganda, there would be no beautiful spring mornings for riding waves. No chance to walk along the beach.

Today was perfect. It was early March and not a stitch of fog hung over Santa Monica. Nothing but sunny skies and the cool ocean breeze. Last night her roommate Sami had wanted to stay up and talk, but Mary Catherine had turned in early. All so she could drive to the ocean this morning. Lately, she didn’t have the energy to walk, not since her heart had gotten worse.

Sami couldn’t join her. She’d already left for an early breakfast meeting at the Chairos Youth Center. Which was okay with Mary Catherine. The more time she had alone out on the beach, the better. She had much to say to God, much to think about.

She could hardly wait to feel the sand beneath her feet.

Mary Catherine slipped on her wetsuit, grabbed her beach bag and towel, and hurried through the apartment. She pulled her boogie board from the front closet and headed out the door for her car.

The moment she was outside, she stopped. The tires on her Hyundai were completely flat.

“No!” A groan slipped from her lips as she walked closer. “Come on!” She scanned the roadway. No broken glass, no pieces of metal. Why in the world would this happen?

Without her car she’d have to pass on the beach. Which was frustrating because she had the morning off. Once a week everyone at her office came into work late. And this was that day. She would have only one more like it—and only if she didn’t need the time to finish her final projects.

She took her things back into her apartment and dropped them on the floor. Disappointment darkened her mood. If only she didn’t tire so easily, she could walk there. But she couldn’t take the risk on a work day. Maybe she could get to the beach later this week. In the afternoon. Once her tires were fixed.

Mary Catherine called a tow truck company, found her journal from beside her bed, and made a cup of decaf tea. She situated herself at the small kitchen table and stared at the weak-tasting hot drink. Coffee was another of her losses. Caffeine would speed the demise of her heart.

Mary Catherine closed her eyes.

She hesitated and then looked at the journal. The book was one of her closest friends. She opened it and found what she’d written yesterday. As far back as Mary Catherine could remember she had kept a journal. Not an accounting of her days, but a record of her dreams and goals. The very specific things she was learning in the Bible, wisdom she’d gleaned from quiet moments with God.

But lately her journal entries had taken a turn. She tended to write more about things she’d never see, the wedding she’d never have. Children she’d never hold. She wrote about her feelings, too. Her fear and excitement over what lay ahead in Uganda and the way she missed Marcus Dillinger.

These things consumed her.

In all likelihood she would never see Marcus again. He still emailed her and texted her from spring training in Phoenix. Sometimes she replied. Usually on days when she could still feel his kiss, still remember the touch of his embrace.

Mary Catherine took a sip of her tea. The days ahead would be easier if she could forget him. But forgetting Marcus Dillinger was like forgetting how to breathe. Impossible, no matter how hard she tried.