Confronting the Fallen Read online

  The Angelic Wars: Book 1

  Confronting The Fallen

  by

  J. J. Thompson

  Text Copyright © 2014 J. J. Thompson

  All Rights Reserved

  For Kara, Brianna and Alyssa

  Our Future

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 1

  Chris sat in the corner booth of the restaurant, sipping his coffee and trying to ignore the conversations he could hear in the adjacent booths. It had been a long night and he just wanted to eat his breakfast in peace. But peace was hard to come by when you are surrounded by early morning commuters eating a hasty breakfast on the way to work.

  He sighed as he speared a piece of bacon and gave up trying to block out the hum of talk around him. A couple in the booth to his right were chatting about a police chase the night before and he suddenly became very attentive.

  “Did you hear what they said on the news?” It was a woman's voice. She sounded excited. “At least three police cars chased someone through the downtown core.”

  It was four cars, Chris said silently.

  “And then a foot chase through one of the big malls. In and out of shops, people screaming, the police waving guns.”

  No one waved a gun, he thought. The cops in this town are pros. She must think this is the wild west or something.

  “They finally cornered the guy in a sports store,” the woman continued breathlessly.

  “So what happened?” asked her male companion.

  Nothing, Chris thought.

  “Nothing,” she said. “Somehow the guy got away. But the police don't know how. They searched the mall from top to bottom but they didn't find a thing.”

  “Great. Another fine job from our boys in blue.” The man had a sneer in his voice.

  Idiot, Chris thought.

  “So who was the guy anyway? What did they want him for?”

  “I dunno,” the woman answered. She sounded frustrated. “The police aren't releasing any details. Maybe a murderer or a rapist. Could be an escaped prisoner, maybe! Guess we'll just have to listen to the news until we hear something. How far can he get in Toronto anyway? We have cops all over the place.”

  The man yawned loudly. “Yeah? You listen to the news. If it isn't in the paper, it isn't news as far as I'm concerned.” There was a moment of silence then the man said “Look at the time! Let's get going. We'll miss the bus.”

  Chris listened as the couple stood up and walked away. He shook his head. No one had respect for the police anymore. When my parents were growing up, he thought, no one would have spoken about the men in uniform like that. He sighed again and looked up as the waitress approached.

  “All done, son?” the young woman asked.

  “Almost, ma'am,” Chris answered. “The eggs were great.”

  “Well, aren't you sweet,” she said with a smile. “It's not often we get teens in here with such good manners.” She added some coffee to his cup. “You can pay at the front on your way out.” She smiled again and walked toward the back of the restaurant.

  Chris stretched and dug into his pocket for his money. He pulled out a few crumpled bills and found a twenty. I'll leave the waitress the change, he thought. She gave good service. Besides, I have some food at home. I think.

  As he slipped his money back into his pocket, Chris heard the front door of the restaurant open. He glanced over and froze. Two men, one wearing a denim jacket, the other wearing a long leather coat, walked into the room. Both had short, blond hair. And both had a tattoo on their cheek. Chris couldn't make out what it was from across the room, but then he didn't have to. He knew it was a claw.

  The two men stood in the doorway and scanned the room. Chris just sighed and shook his head. “Damn it,” he muttered and took a sip of his coffee.

  He knew they were walking across the room toward him but he didn't look up. Instead, he finished his bacon and wiped up the last of his eggs with his final piece of toast. There was a small pile of baked beans on his plate. He had never cared for beans. Then he drained his coffee mug, sat back and looked at the men standing beside the booth.

  “What?” he asked harshly.

  The two glanced at each other and then the man wearing denim looked at Chris.

  “You're not easy to track down, sonny,” he said softly.

  “Then that should tell you something, yes?”

  “Yeah, it tells us you don't want to talk.” The other man sat down across from Chris. “But you really don't have any choice.” He put his elbows on the table, folded his hands and rested his chin on them. “You know what we want. And you know you only have two options.”

  Chris sighed and sat back. He looked up at the man still standing and then back at the other one. “Why do you want me so badly? I won't help you; you know that.” He narrowed his eyes. “And if I have to defend myself, I will. So why risk it?”

  The sitting man chuckled. “We know you, Chris. We know how you think. You wouldn't hurt someone unless you had to. And we're not giving you an excuse.”

  “You can walk out that door, lad,” the man in denim said. “We won't stop you. But this is our final offer. Next time, you won't be given an option.”

  Chris glared at them. The claw tattoo on their cheeks sickened him. He had seen it too many times. And he knew what those who wore it could do. He stared down at his clenched fists. His hands were shaking with rage. The man sitting across from him lowered his voice.

  “Look, lad, Talon wants you. We could use your talents. You know what we offer. Wealth, something to belong to, a home, friends. Everything you haven't had in so long. And all we ask in return is that you let us study you. Try to duplicate what you can do.”

  Chris looked at the man in surprise. “That's all?” he asked incredulously.

  The man shrugged. “That's all. If we can't use your talents, that's our loss. But we won't try to force you into doing anything you don't want to do.” He laid his hands palm up on the table. “You have my word on it.”

  Chris looked at the denim man. One hand was on the back of the bench that Chris was sitting on. The other was hidden behind his back. Then he looked at the man across from him. His hands were still resting palm up on the table. But a small drop of sweat had appeared at his hairline and was slowly trickling down between his eyes. He smiled at Chris. “What do you say?” he asked.

  “I say...you're full of crap,” Chris said quietly and he reached out and touched the man's hand and at the same time tilted his head back and bumped the arm of the one standing beside him. The man in leather sat back, his eyes widening, while the man who was standing started to pull his hand from behind his back. Then both men collapsed. The head of the sitting man slammed on to the table. His partner fell into a heap beside Chris's seat. Chris looked at them both for a moment, threw the twenty on the table then got up.

  He stepped over the body on the floor and pushed the gun that had dropped from the man's hand under the body as the people around him reacted. The waitress ran over from another table. “What happened?” she asked in a panicked voice.

  “I don't know!” Chris replied, trying to sound scared. “They started asking me these weird questions and then bang! They fell down. You think they're on drugs or what?”


  She looked at him and saw what Chris wanted her to see; a young, frightened boy. Then she reached out and patted his shoulder. “I don't know, buddy. Someone call 911,” she shouted as other diners came over to see what had happened.

  “I...I don't know C.P.R. Do you?” Chris asked, looking around at the people standing there. The waitress knelt down beside the man in denim and touched his throat.

  “I do, “ she said. Then she gasped. “There's no pulse!”

  She began pumping on the man's chest and Chris took advantage of the confusion to slip through the people around him and quietly left the diner. Outside, he looked around. He didn't spot anyone but just to be sure, he ducked into the nearest alley and ran a zigzag route for several blocks in case he was being followed. After about thirty minutes, he decided that he had gotten away and headed straight north out of the downtown core.

  Well, no more talk, he thought. The door is finally closed on that route. Now they will try to grab me. He shrugged. They had their work cut out for them, he thought. He smiled grimly to himself and kept walking.

  He knew that he'd have to find some place private and soon, before the reaction set in. Several minutes passed and he found a spot in an alley between two large dumpsters. He squeezed into the tight space, ignoring the stench of rotting garbage, sat on the ground with his head between his knees and waited.

  Like clockwork, a few minutes later he felt the nausea well up inside him. He clenched his fists and gritted his teeth, forcing himself not to vomit. He waited for it to pass. His head began to pound and his body convulsed violently several times as great shudders raced through him.

  Breathe slowly, he thought. Be calm, clear your mind.

  It did no good. Whenever he used his trick, Chris reacted like this. He held on with all of his strength and waited it out.

  Finally, he was able to stand up and walk normally. He knew that home wasn't safe now. Talon had probably been watching him, waiting to catch him in the open. Now, they'd want him, badly. So he had to get his stuff and move on. He began to walk faster, almost running.

  Home was a small house, a furnished bungalow, in the suburbs. Chris had rented it several months back through his lawyers. None of them had met him. He did all of his business over the Net. Not a lot of people his age could afford to rent a house, so he used lawyers as his agents. As long as they were paid on time, they were happy to work for a faceless recluse.

  Chris had read the biography of Howard Hughes a few years back, which his dad had found a bit amusing, and it had led him to create an alter-ego named Donald Tyler White. He was a wealthy eccentric who never met anyone face to face for fear of germs. When you have the funds, it isn't hard to have a birth certificate and social insurance number created and just like that, Donald was born.

  Old Donny had been very useful, Chris thought. It was doubtful that even Talon had connected the two of them, so Chris would do what he had done several times now. He'd grab his things, use Donald's bank card to get some cash and move to a different part of town to start over once again. He knew that the money was getting low. All of it went on the rent for the house, which meant that Chris usually ate at the local soup kitchen and, once a week, had breakfast in a diner like he had done that morning.

  Chris slowed down and looked around. He was sure he wasn't being followed, so he hopped on a bus heading north. Faster than walking, he thought. Taking a cab was too risky. Taxi drivers remembered things like kids flagging them down and he couldn't risk it. Besides, money was tight.

  As he sat at the back of the bus, idly glancing at the other passengers, Chris caught a glimpse of his reflection in the bus window. He grimaced and turned away, looking at the passing buildings. Funny, he thought. When he heard people talking about being young, they seemed to forget how powerless a youth really was. How useless a thirteen year old was when you were trying to interact with adults. He sighed. Or when you were fighting for your life.

  He sat back, shook his hair out of his eyes and looked up at the ceiling. Five-six and a hundred and ten pounds. Small enough to get bounced around by the weakest of men. Useless. But pretty. Oh yeah, he'd heard that enough on the street. Apparently, shoulder-length black hair and light blue eyes were considered attractive. He didn't care.

  After he got off of the bus, Chris walked the two blocks home, constantly checking for signs that he was being followed. But the streets were empty of both cars and people. Everyone was either at work or at school, he thought. He shook his head, feeling sad that he would be leaving soon. He had enjoyed living here.

  The small bungalow looked secure. Chris checked the perimeter, examining the ground in front of the windows and some dirt he'd scattered there and in front of both doors. Everything looked untouched and he allowed himself to relax a bit. Safety first, he thought. Always safety first.

  He let himself in through the back door, locked it behind him and walked into the kitchen. Coffee. I need coffee. He flicked the switch on the coffee maker. He always set it up to make a fresh pot before he went out.

  As the coffee was brewing, Chris put away the dishes he had left to dry the night before and wiped down the counter top. He liked a sense of neatness and order in his kitchen. He finished his clean-up, made his coffee then walked toward the living-room.

  As he entered the room and headed for the couch, a voice from his left said “Welcome home, Christopher.”

  Chapter 2

  Chris turned so quickly that hot coffee sloshed out of the cup and over his hand. He dropped the cup and gripped his wrist, cursing loudly.

  “Not a very nice word for a young man to use,” the voice said.

  Chris looked up and found himself staring at a man sitting in an armchair across the room. The man was wearing a black suit and a string bow tie. Chris couldn't guess his age; he could have been as young as forty or as old as seventy. His face had an ageless quality to it. His black hair was short and combed back and he had a very neat goatee.

  Chris just stared, at a loss for words, and the man smiled slightly at the teen's stunned expression.

  “I do apologize, Christopher.” The man stood up, taller and much wider in the shoulders than Chris. “I didn't mean to startle you.” He walked by the teen into the kitchen and returned with a roll of paper towels. Tearing off a few sheets, he bent down, wiped up the spilled coffee, picked up the cup and then went into the kitchen again. He came back into the living-room and sat down in the same chair that he had previously occupied.

  Chris had just stood and watched, astounded, while the man had cleaned up his mess. Now, he broke out of his shock with a small jerk and glared at the stranger. “Who are you?” he asked, trying to sound braver than he felt.

  “Ah yes, introductions are in order. My name is Judge Ethan Jameson Hawkes; retired,” the man said and bowed slightly in his seat.

  “Judge?” Chris said hesitantly.

  “Retired,” the man said with a small smile. Then he glanced at his watch and suddenly looked serious. “It is one-fifteen. We haven't much time, young man, so I will get right to it.” He stopped and directed a puzzled look at Chris. “Perhaps you'd like to sit down?” he asked and indicated the couch next to the teen.

  “Um.” Chris just stood there, at a loss. A polite stranger who said he was a judge was asking him to sit on his own couch in his own house. He wasn't quite sure what to say and do, so he sat down.

  “Excellent,” the judge said and he sat back in his chair and slipped what looked like a large cellphone out of his inside pocket.

  “Now, let me explain why I'm here. We have approximately,” he glanced at his watch again, “thirty minutes before we are interrupted so I'd like to get through as much as I can in the time we have. Now...”

  “Interrupted by who?” Chris asked, trying to keep up.

  The judge was looking at his screen and Chris realized that the man was checking some notes. The judge hummed under his breath for a moment and then glanced back at Chris.

  “Sorry about
that. You were saying?”

  Chris tried again. “You said we would be interrupted?”

  “Yes, I'm afraid so.” The man nodded and looked at his watch again. “Twenty seven minutes.” He sat back on the chair and stared at Chris. “Interrupted by the same group that you assaulted this morning, young man,” he said sternly.

  Chris' mouth dropped open and then he said angrily, “Wait a second! Those guys assaulted me! One of them had a gun!.” He glared at the man, who sighed heavily and shook his head.

  “Yes, he had a gun. A weapon that he had no intention of using, by the way. And how did they assault you, hmm? Did they attack you? Grab you? Harm you in any way?”

  “Well no,” Chris replied hesitantly. “But...but why else would they have a gun? I was sure they were going to use it.”

  “Yes, I suppose you were.” The judge's tone became less severe. “Should have considered that,” he muttered to himself. Then he looked back at Chris. “Those men would not have harmed you, Christopher, because their employer wants you rather badly, as I'm sure you know.”

  “Yeah, don't I,” Chris answered bitterly. The judge looked curious.

  “Just how long have they been after you?” he asked.

  Chris thought for a moment. “It's got to be about a year now,” he said.

  “And how many times have they approached you directly?”

  “This morning was the third,” Chris replied. “The first two times they were all like 'join us and we'll be your friends, your new family'”. He snorted. “Like I need a new family.”

  “Yes, your family,” the man glanced down at his pad and tapped it a few times. “You lost your parents almost three years ago, did you not?”

  Chris shot the judge a piercing look. “You seem to know an awful lot about me, um, your honor,” he said suspiciously.

  The man chuckled. “Young man, I would say that I know more about you than you know about yourself.” He looked down at the pad and read aloud. “Christopher Emmanuel Wright, born to Scott and Candice Wright. Father was a professor specializing in ancient religions, mother was a research physicist.” He paused and his voice became almost gentle. “Scott died in a car accident on the way home from work; Candice died several days later in a house fire. No other family.” He looked at Chris. “You've been alone and on your own a long time for someone just thirteen, Christopher.”