Angel of RAGE

For Bob and Shirley

. . . and Zenneda

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

A note of thanks to Heather Bradberry, Alice Fennell, Tamara Dodd, Connie Teague, Amber Ray, and Shaun Steele, my small but mighty band of beta readers. Without their contributions, I would be lost. Thanks to Julie Plonski for controlling my comma and ellipsis addictions, and Mike Clark for the amazing book cover. And finally, to my husband and my kids—you are my reason.

Edit by Ms. Julie Plonski

Cover art by Mr. Mike Clark with MC Graphics

CONTENTS

Chapter 1: The Meeting

Chapter 2: The Proposition

Chapter 3: The Criminal

Chapter 4: The Glitch

Chapter 5: The Restoration

Chapter 6: The Ultimatum

Chapter 7: The Angel

Chapter 8: The Demon

Chapter 9: The Confidence Game

Chapter 10: The Miracle

Chapter 11: The Blessing

Chapter 12: The Lesson

Chapter 13: The Partner

Chapter 14: The Aftermath

Chapter 15: The Truth

Chapter 16: The Seraphim

Chapter 17: The Encampment

Chapter 18: The Surrender

Chapter 19: The Flesh

Chapter 20: The Choice

Chapter 21: The Golden Rule

Chapter 22: The Family

Chapter 23: The Mark

Chapter 24: The Testament

Chapter 25: The Tail

Chapter 26: The Monster

Chapter 27: The Plan

Chapter 28: The Archangel

Chapter 29: The Setup

Chapter 30: The Sentence

Chapter 31: The Emancipation

Chapter 32: The Final Confession

Chapter 33: The Farewell

Chapter 34: The Sacrifice

Chapter 35: The Consequences

Chapter 36: The Absolution

Chapter 37: The Reunion

When justice fails,

RAGE begins.

Chapter 1

The Meeting

Rage. It’s a daunting emotion. That’s what I believed. I possessed rage, but I feared it. I cowered at its power. That was until I understood it, embraced it—made it my shield and my weapon.

Then, it became my liberator.

I wish I could say that fate and tragedy hadn’t plotted the course of my life, landing me on the ground I now stand upon, but wishes are whimsical things. I don’t exist in a world of make-believe. I thrive in the reality that tragedy brought an acquittal; and fate, a meeting. I was chosen. I was singled out. I don’t know when it was that they had found me, but I can say with certainty that it was no accident.

I suspect, as I sit here in this hole of a tavern, that she did the same thing. She sat on a barstool a few seats away from me, staring into her glass of whatever, watching the ice cubes melt, waiting for the right moment to make me an offer that would change my life. I wasn’t paying attention to my surroundings—couldn’t have cared less of who was around me. I was like Eve Haskel is now, sitting alone, numbing her sorrows, burying her rage.

How do you hide it? I asked, just as my Watcher had asked me so long ago. I caught her eyes sliding in my direction, but she didn’t answer. How do you hide it? I asked again.

How do I hide what? Eve Haskel slurred back to me.

How do you hide all that rage?

I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, she answered with a scoff.

I ordered us a round and moved to the second stool from her, not too close to invade personal space but close enough to still be personal.

I saw you on the news, I said, lighting a cigarette to casual things up. Watched you testify, too, I added, blowing out a plume of deeply inhaled smoke. You gotta love that court TV—airing one’s misfortune for the entire cable-watching populace to see. I drew in, releasing another breath full of smoke. Anyway, I saw it in your eyes.

She was staring at me, those same eyes now filling with a bit of curiosity, along with a dab of contempt.

And just what do you think you—

I saw rage, I answered, cutting her off. I knew where she was going with her question. I had asked the same one. Spotted it when you were staring at him from the witness stand. If your eyes had been Ginsu knives, he would’ve been dead ten times over, chopped into fine little pieces, I finished my opinion, downing the liquor in my glass. Am I right?

Eve Haskel, twenty-seven-year-old widow of Seth Haskel, agreed with a nod and the shot from her own glass.

You’re not alone, I said, wasting no time in ordering us another round.

What do you mean, she hesitated, but her curiosity forced her to continue, when you say that I’m not alone?

I smiled at Eve, inhaling then exhaling another column of smoke into the stagnant air. You’re not the only one who’s been touched by the fatal four.

Fatal four? she repeated.

Violence. Tragedy. Loss. Despair, I recited from memory.

Her stare bore into me. I had struck a nerve. She wasn’t sure where this conversation was going, but I knew she wanted to hear more.

I obliged.

Once upon a time, Hell visited a house—not unlike yours. And its occupant, too, met Hell’s four associates. She thought she had been crushed and consumed by their power, but a hint of something she felt inside fought against them. This unrelenting energy—I call it rage—had dwelled unseen and undetected in the very pit of her until their existence suddenly forced it out into the open. Along with that rage came so much fear and confusion, I told her. She didn’t know how to cope with all those knotted-up emotions. She did know, however, that she just wanted it to be over. She wanted to die.

Eve looked away from me, concentrating on the full shot glass just placed in front of her. This is how I hide it, she whispered, grabbing the whiskey and guiding it down her throat with a throw of her head.

I snuffed out my cigarette, studying the single tear running down her face. Me too, I said, hoping this concession would weaken her private defenses enough to permit my entry. I kept silent, allowing Eve’s two shots to absorb with the other four she had ingested before our initial exchange. Necessity warranted her intoxication, but not to the degree that she wouldn’t remember. I had to be confident that she was ready.

A tech . . . nicality, she slurred. He walked out of that courtroom a free man because of a damn technicality. He’s free to do whatever he wants, whenever he wants, she stopped talking long enough to wipe the single tear from her cheek. Sometimes, I even think I see him in random places—standing on a street corner, passing me in a car . . . I’m not free. Seth . . . isn’t free. Her words were subdued but spiked with hatred, and her eyes fell to her lap. Every waking second of my life since then has been consumed by him and what he did to us. The eye from which the single tear fell now welled with steady streams.

I didn’t enjoy watching her grieve and fight with herself about the love she had lost and the hate she had gained, but I kept my focus. She was beginning to let down her guard, so I pushed her, adding some fuel to the flicker of flame. Are you sure he was the one?

Eve’s eyes snapped in my direction, a glimmer of rage coming to light in those dulled irises. It was him, she barked, her lip quivering. I saw everything. I watched him shoot my husband; I watched him destroy everything . . . Her fiery eyes were losing their flame, and she looked away from me. You know, Seth’s blood is still on my hands, she whispered, pulling her attention to where they lie in her lap. You can’t see it, but his blood is still there. The familiar air of despair replaced the rage I had tried to encourage. I—I think I’m going crazy. I don’t know who I am anymore, she admitted. And I don’t know how to live without him. God, I miss him so much.

I stayed quiet, waiting for her to give me the sign.

I don’t want to live without Seth, Eve blurted. I—I just want to die . . . She focused on me, her eyes bloodshot from the crying and the drinking. What did she do? She hesitated to sniffle, How did the woman in your story survive it?

With the sign delivered, I exhaled a sigh of relief; I think just as my Watcher had when we shared the same conversation. She was presented with a compelling proposition, and she took it, I informed her candidly.

She wrinkled her brows at me and her mouth formed an inebriated smirk even though she was still crying. I don’t understand.

By now, the alcohol had flooded her bloodstream. Eve Haskel was drunk and vulnerable. She was ready. So was I.

Rising from my place on the barstool, I helped her from hers. She didn’t resist. Listen, let me take you home, I offered. You’ve had a lot to drink. You shouldn’t drive.

I supported her by the arm as she walked with me to the exit, still submerged in her memories, oblivious that we were leaving. Pulling her keys from her coat pocket, she dangled them in front of me, but as I reached for the ring, she yanked it away. I faced her, and her eyes refracted even more despair and more tears.

I’m driving myself! she yelled. I’m driving myself straight into a tree!

I attempted to take her keys a second time, and Eve pushed me. She tried to get away, just as I had tried to escape my Watcher, but I calmly took control, just as my Watcher had taken control. I performed a quick scan of the bar, noting that the regulars were occupied with their drinks of choice, conversation, and games of eight-ball. None of them cared about another belligerent drunk wrestling their designated driver, so I grabbed her forcefully by the neck, throwing her out into the parking lot.

Outside, it started to rain. Eve, crashing into the damp pavement, looked up at me, her pallid face filled with shock and confusion. I ignored her, making another cursory check of the area. When I was sure we were still alone in the darkened lot, I performed an up-turn of my coat collar, attempting to shield my face from the iciness of the misting rain and then pulled her from the wet ground.

What the hell did you do that for? she asked me, brushing off the backside of her now-water-stained dress slacks.

Saying nothing, I grabbed her again, this time forcing her into the side alley of the building, away from the rows of parked cars and the busy street. I pushed her to the building’s wall, using my forearm to pin her against it. She tried to fight me until she saw the 9mm Beretta sticking in her face. An exceptional flash of lightning illuminated the space around us, momentarily exposing her wild eyes. It was good. It was the way I needed her to be—terrified.

Wh—why are you doing this? she whispered, her voice trembling. Did he send you, she swallowed hard, to kill me?

You said that you wanted to die, I reminded her, but why smash a perfectly good Camry against a helpless tree? I flashed a smile. You can just use this, I suggested, waving my gun in front of her.

Mascara-mixed tears blended with the rain and rolled from her stare as it tracked the gun’s movements. Then she closed her eyes to it, lowering her head to sob. It was good. It was the way I needed her to be—resigned.

I lightened the pressure of my arm against her chest, still keeping it in position. I didn’t trust her strength of will yet. Are you ready to do it? Are you ready to die, Evelyn Jane Haskel, widow of Seth Michael Haskel, victim of Neil Thomas Hollingshead?

My question only compounded her agony and her crying. I slammed my arm back into her chest, pushing her as hard as I could into the rough edges of brick. What’s it going to be? I yelled as another bolt of lightning and rumble of thunder joined in, jarring her from her fit, and gaining her full attention. The slightest guttural cry escaped her throat, but I didn’t hear fear. I heard the faint echo of rage.

I said I wanted to die . . . and I—I meant it! Eve vowed bitterly. She hesitated, attempting to suppress her sniffling and calm her rapid breathing. Are you going to do it? she asked me. Are you going to shoot me?

The rain was coming down harder now, and we both stood in the middle of the rogue storm—our long hair blowing around in saturated strands, our clothes waterlogged and dripping. The strikes of lightning were getting closer, the explosions of thunder getting louder, but neither of us flinched. Eve’s eyes locked onto mine, silently searching for my answer.

To Eve, I’m sure the moments passed in a way comparable to a scene from one of those Matrix movies, where time is seized frame by frame but still seems to flow three dimensionally, but I didn’t prolong her apprehension. No, I answered, offering her an honest smile and a slow shake of my head. She was calm, so I released her, pulling the Beretta from her face and taking a few steps backward. Holding my gun up and straight out, I flipped it in my hand, leaving the grip facing her and the barrel facing me. You have to do it, I told her. If you want to die, your blood has to be on your hands.

Eve stood with her mouth hanging open, completely drenched and motionless, her eyes frozen to my gun.

Take it, I urged. Do what you have to do.

Her stare slid from my Beretta, settling onto me. Her brain was still numb from the whiskey, her emotions still muddled from our encounter, but I could tell Eve was making her decision—just as I had made mine before her.

Without a word, she reached out, taking the gun from my hand. She held it still for a few moments, studying it, getting a feel for the cold weapon’s weight in her fingers. She had never held a gun before, I speculated. It empowered her, I concluded, just as it had empowered me the first time I had held one.

The safety is off. All you have to do is point and pull the trigger, I instructed, resting my hands in my coat pockets. I waited for her next move.

Eve, with eyes unblinking and now dry, took a full, deep breath and slowly put the barrel to her temple.

Not there, I cautioned. If you’re going to do it right, you have to put it in your mouth or up against the fleshy part of your neck, just under your chin. With a smile, I delivered her a demonstration using my pointer finger. Finishing the lesson, I stuffed my hand back into my pocket. Again, I waited.

She stared at me, but her state seemed altered. She was still drunk, still emotional, but the shadows of sadness, hopelessness, and despair I had earlier observed in her expressions were now absent.

With swift action, she yanked the Beretta from her head, aiming it directly at me. My gun was shaking in her hand, her rapid, shallow breaths louder than the claps of thunder, and I had no doubt that her heart was trying to leap from the confines of her chest. It was good. It was the way I needed her to be—incensed.

You’re not hiding that rage now, I said. The fire I now see burning in your eyes is what I witnessed back then on the television screen. My smile broadened. That’s good, Eve.

I’m going to kill you! she screamed.

I’m counting on it. Giving her no warning, I bolted toward her, grabbing for my Beretta and forcing her hand—compelling her to make that split-second decision that would change her life.

Then I heard it—a single click.

Eve Haskel had pulled the trigger.

Chapter 2

The Proposition

Lightning sparked and twisted over our heads, illuminating Eve’s statuesque pose. She was frozen in place—knees straight, feet apart, and arms extending outward and locked with my Beretta still pointing at me. Her face, stuck in its state of rage to kill me, began melting into numbed shock.

I stood in front of her wearing my understanding smile, my body absent of any bullet holes. I reached for my gun, gently removing it from her fingers.

You don’t want to die, Eve, I said, replacing my gun into its holster. If you truly did, you wouldn’t have just attempted to shoot me. You would have tried to put that bullet into yourself. You act as though you’re already dead, but you desperately want to live. You’ve just forgotten how, I reasoned.

Closing her eyes, she let her arms fall to her sides and then slid her body down the wet bricks, resting it in the puddles on the pavement. It wasn’t loaded—

No.

Her eyes rolled to mine. You were teaching me a lesson—

Yes.

Eve let out a snicker. Why?

To show you who you really are.

And just who am I? she asked me with some attitude.

A survivor. A warrior.

She stared at me. This time, she didn’t snicker. I think she was daring to believe me.

C’mon, I said, holding out my hand to her, let’s get out of this crazy weather. I’ll drive you home.

She was hesitant at first, but a dangerous stranger offering the shelter of a dry car was a far better cry than sitting on the soaked ground, inebriated, in the middle of a thunderstorm. Reaching up, she took hold, allowing me to pull her to her feet. The wind-driven rain was relentless, but within seconds, each of the Camry’s doors slammed shut, and we were out of the elements.

As I pulled out of the bar’s parking lot, steering toward Eve’s home, I could feel her eyes putting me under some serious scrutiny.

Who are you? she asked.

My name is Irinim.

She wrinkled her nose. What’s your first name?

I continued to drive, keeping my gaze forward through the rain-hammered windshield. Just Irinim, I told her.

Irinim, she recited, letting the strange formation of letters roll off her tongue, is that foreign?

You could say that, I said.

Eve started to feel more relaxed in my presence, slumping herself against the armrest of the passenger’s side door and continuing to focus on me with her blurred stares. She also continued to run her mouth. Well, Irinim, I sure don’t need to introduce myself to you, do I? How is it that you know so much about me? She didn’t wait for my answer, leaning toward me again, glinting at me with a sly eye. You haven’t even asked me where I . . . live. Her eyes jumped open as she slowly leaned back into her seat again. Damn, she mumbled under her breath, realizing I already knew her address.

Her relaxed feeling quickly disappeared. Who—who are you, really? What do you want from me? Her query was barely audible.

I’m commissioned to offer you a proposition.

Eve pushed away the sopping wisps of hair from her face, narrowing her stare. A proposition, she repeated with an air of doubt lacing her voice. What kind of proposition, and—and who commissioned you?

The benefactor wishes to remain anonymous for now. I’ve been appointed to offer you help in securing a new direction for your life. If you choose to accept, you will be required to repay this endeavor when the benefactor calls upon you.

Eve’s gaze wavered. I don’t understand—

What is it you want most? I asked. Do you want to live again? Love again? Do you want your world to return to its normality—live every day as you had lived it before?

Love? Normalcy? I’ll never have those things again.

Then what do you want?

I want justice.

I glanced at her, seeing the fire and determination raging again. It’s a step in the right direction, I said, but you’ll never get that either. It doesn’t exist for people like you and me. Justice was an idea—a theory introduced through the courts by politicians and lawyers when this country was new and had just won a war. Those same politicians and lawyers planned for society playing it civilized. I glanced at her again. They never counted on the predators refusing to play along.

Eve didn’t say anything. She just continued to stare and listen. She was sobering, giving way to clear-headed consideration.

I can give you something far better than an imaginary concept. I can give you vengeance.

Eve’s mouth gaped, her red, swollen eyes flew open wide again as if what I suggested had never crossed her mind in all these months since Hollingshead’s acquittal. Are you talking about murder? she whispered, as if someone outside the boundaries of her Camry would hear her.

I pulled her car into a parking space just off 9th Avenue, shutting off the motor. I faced her. Such a strong word, I noted, but just for argument’s sake, let’s say that is what I’m talking about. You seemed to have no qualms about murdering me back in that alley, and I did nothing that even remotely compares with what Hollingshead did to you. I’m offering you the opportunity to put your persistent nightmare to rest. I’m offering you the chance to make amends for your husband’s death. I’m offering you the ability to heal your life, I hesitated, wanting to be sure that she understood me. It will not be the life you initially envisioned, but I promise it’ll be a hell of a lot better than the one you have now—endless days consumed by a dead-end desk job, evenings spent drowning in shots of whiskey, sleepless nights crying into your pillow.

Eve sat in silence, wiping the wetness off her face and rubbing her forehead with her sleeve, looking as though the pressure of the situation might be taking its toll. What you’re suggesting . . . I—I can’t do it, she said finally.

I just showed you that you can.

That was different. You had a gun pointed in my face. You forced me into it.

The only thing I forced you into was making a choice, I exacted, handing her the keys. "Rage is rage, Eve, no matter how you