Bad ANGELS

The angels reached accord.
They must kill St. Dominic.
There were many ways to do this.

Sure, God could strike him with a lightning bolt from heaven in a flash. But the Angels would have to ask God to do the deed, and their relationship with the eternal heavenly father did not automatically allow that.

Humans could pray to God, and on a good day, he might hear their prayers. But humans tend to be unreliable. If one prays for black, another is likely to pray for white.
It has been thus since the days of Adam and Eve.

All things considered, it would be better to go about the task without involving The Lord. The angels should do it using their own limited powers. Angels can fly, so gaining entry to the secure space would not be a problem. There were already angels inside the Garden – members of the angelic host – who could help.
What of the technology? Everyone knew that the boundary fences were festooned with optical-electronic sensors, visible and invisible. Would they detect angels? That stupid old line speculating about how many angels could dance on the head of a pin was not helpful in this day and age.

No, it would be better to pose as humans, tackle the job accordingly.

The guards at the Garden gate, on round the clock duty, would be a problem, but not an insuperable one. Intrinsically, guards are dumb. The longer they work at their boring, mentally crippling job, the dumber they get. When any organism lives without sensory stimulation its senses atrophy. The guards would have endured years of exposure to their brain-numbing routine. They would not be good at picking up the unusual, then asking themselves why, or what, or whom, lay behind it.

The angels should best enter by the front gate, just like humans. Maybe at some time of day when there was some legitimate traffic – deliveries of food, cleaning materials, household bits and pieces, the Airdsdale GP even. Local tradespeople visited often to fix things – the electrician, the plumber, the glazier. Sure, they were under scrutiny while they worked, but most likely their vehicles would not be. With the basic strategy in place, it would be easy enough for the angels to hitch a ride with someone who made these routine visits.
How about the local electrician they called Handy Andy. Everyone in Airdsdale knew Andy – the cops, the Shire staff, the aldermen, even the newly arrived Arcadians. Andy was okay by the Gardeners. He had made hundreds of trips through those threatening gates. The guards trusted him. Lately he spent months working at Arcadia Downs, wiring the houses one by one as they were built.

Andy had a dog called Patch. The dog, an ageing fox terrier, mostly white with a conspicuous black patch on his bottom, came and went with Andy like his shadow. Some locals liked Patch, others did not, but everyone saw the wisdom of being nice to Patch if they wanted to get along with Andy. The doggy connection was an easy way for the angelic host to get into Andy’s soft heart.

Taking human form for a while, they could talk to him...
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