CHAPTER 2
Brent Venturi, the Ambassador and the deciding
factor in a possible holy war was thirty-five thousand feet in the air. Having
left the Vatican a mere three hours ago, Colonel Venturi, the Phantom Squad and
the directorate of the SIA, (Strategic Intelligence Alliance), the world’s most
covert intelligence agency, were on their way home for some well needed rest.
Only two weeks ago, Brent had almost lost his life
while defeating The Omega Butcher indwelled with Satan’s spirit in a battle
which had been predicted since the first century of our Lord.
The light above his seat glowed an incandescence
that could only mean one thing—insomnia. The cabin of the SIA’s 707 was dark
except for the one light. All others on the flight had found the peace that
accompanied sleep. Too many thoughts buzzed Brent’s brain for him to relax. His eyelids grew heavy, but he
fought the urge to close them. There was too much to think about, too many
decisions to be made, too many lives depending on his decisions.
I used to
think putting my life in God’s hands would make things simpler, he thought.
A slight grin materialized on his face. A face etched with lines not normally
found on a 36 year-old. Then again, he was no normal 36 year-old. Brent was
this generation’s Ambassador, the heir to a secret that had been kept since the
time of Noah. Brent was also God’s chosen, the one who had to go up against
Satan in a battle for man’s free will. . . and now this. Rubbing his eyes, he
could almost feel the dark circles that rode the top of his cheek bones. His
eyes ached with a dryness that came with lack of sleep and more stress than he
knew what to do with.
From the outside, his life was one to be admired,
one that others would want to emulate. But from where he sat—things were
different.
He looked
about the cabin at those who were the closest to him, his family, some blood
born, others love born, all God sent. Brent blindly reached beside him for his
coffee cup. A sip of cold coffee made his facial expressions twist in pain. Why do we let Seven make the coffee? he
thought. We hope that somehow, someday it
will turn out different, but. . .
He swallowed as he grandfather’s words came to
mind. “The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again expecting
a different result.”
Brent looked down at the dossier on his lap. He
inhaled a deep breath, a breath that brought with it answers. Closing the
folder, he reached up, shut off the light and tried not to think about the
arguments to come. Twenty minutes later, exhaustion won the battle over
consciousness and he fell into a fitful slumber.
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