Cursed Blessing Read online

  CURSED BLESSING

  J.M. LeDuc

  Book ONE

  Trilogy of the Chosen

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2011 by J.M. LeDuc

  Originally published by Suspense Publishing All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by AmazonEncore, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and AmazonEncore are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  eISBN: 9781477880517

  PRAISE FOR “CURSED BLESSING”

  “...An intriguing and suspenseful read. It will have you eager to turn the page, then mad at yourself for rushing through it. J.M. LeDuc shows an unmatched talent in this debut novel.”

  –Tanya Wright (www.tanyawright.net)

  “There is plenty of mystery and suspense along with betrayal, love and a wonderful ride!”

  –Ashley Wintters (http://ashleysbookshelf.blogspot.com)

  “...Contains all the ingredients for instant success: memorable characters, a gripping storyline, spirituality, and romance. First in a trilogy, “Cursed Blessing” introduces us to Captain Brent Venturi, a mild-mannered librarian who, through faith and incredible acts of courage, manages to save his friends, save the world from a gang of criminal masterminds. J.M. LeDuc is a master storyteller and from the first page to the last, readers will be instantly hooked. Luckily, there are more books to come.”

  –Caryn DeVincenti, Former Senior Editor, Fabulous 40rties Magazine”

  “J.M. LeDuc’s, “Cursed Blessing,” the first in the Trilogy of the Chosen, will keep you reading well into the night. For a good part of that time, you’ll live on the edge of your chair. All the while, you’ll be unable to put the book down.

  “You are about to enter a world of high technology and espionage that seems almost unimaginable, challenging the most basic beliefs of your faith, yet J.M. masterfully combines all of the exciting elements of this story into the believable. The characters are human, yet extraordinary in their abilities. You’ll like some, love others, while not knowing, until the very end, who to trust. Expect to be surprised at your choice. J.M. LeDuc has captured all the suspense and mysticism of John Grisham, James Rollins, and the Preston & Child novels.

  “Turn off the television, and settle into a comfortable chair. When the story ends, you will be praying to your God that Captain Brent Venturi and the Phantom Squad really do exist…just in case!

  “Suspense novels have a new sheriff in town.”

  –Leslie A. Borghini aka The Angel of Horror: Author of “Angel Heat”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENT

  To the administration, faculty and students of The Academy of Practical Nursing and Health Occupations, I have nothing but admiration and respect for all of you.

  To Dr. Lois Gackenheimer, your dedication to your staff and students is extraordinary. You inspire all those around you and I personally would like to thank you for inspiring me.

  To the faculty of APNHO, I have been privileged to have been associated with many academic institutions, but nowhere have I seen a faculty that cares so much for the wellbeing of their students. You are to be commended on your professionalism and your compassion.

  Finally, to the graduating students of the Academy, each of you should be so proud of your accomplishment. Your success is by no means a small feat. You inspire everyone around you; family, friends, and faculty. The education you received at APNHO is unparalleled and will allow you to be the best health professionals possible.

  God bless and good luck,

  Dr. Adduci aka J. M. LeDuc

  CURSED DAYS

  J.M. LeDuc

  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 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  CHAPTER 49

  CHAPTER 50

  CHAPTER 51

  CHAPTER 52

  EPILOGUE

  “Cursed Presence”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER 1

  Brent sat up in bed, his heart pounding, sweat pouring off his face, and dripping down his long brown hair. My God, will these nightmares never end? he thought. At least three times a week for the past seven years, it had been the same thing. Brent dreamt of his old life—a life he had been trying desperately to forget.

  As leader of the Phantom Squad, the military’s most covert entity, Brent had seen and experienced things that he’d rather not remember. His dreams always took place while he was alone and diving underwater, and they always ended in disaster. Tonight, like many other nights, Brent had been setting an underwater explosive in a deep crevasse when somehow his primary and secondary air devices malfunctioned, leaving him one hundred and eighty feet below sea level with no air supply.

  Sitting in the bed, Brent could still feel his lungs burning. They felt as if they were compressed to the size of his fist. Closing his eyes, he could still feel the oxygen-deprived hallucinations. Brent could feel the pressure in his lungs become so overwhelming that he spat the regulator out of his mouth and, with all of his remaining strength, inhaled voraciously, starved for oxygen. Right after inhaling nothing but seawater, Brent always woke up, but not before an image of Chloe passed before his eyes.

  Lifting his hand to eye level, he could see by the hazy light from the street post that he was trembling. Wiping his hair from his eyes, he took one last look, just to make sure he was not still dreaming. So much for hypnotherapy, he thought. I should have known it would be a waste of time. It didn’t help when I left the squad, and it sure as heck didn’t help this time, either.

  Brent’s therapist kept telling him that he was drawing on his past experiences, but he knew better. H
e let her know that he had never dived alone. The fact was, Brent did everything by the book and would never deviate from protocol. Well, there was that one time, he thought, but that was none of her business. Truth be told, he’d already been over that with the army shrinks and therapists at Bethesda Memorial back in D.C.

  Knowing that sleep was now out of the question, Brent reached over with a trembling hand and turned on the lamp. Glancing at the clock, he saw that it was 4:17 in the morning. The bulb began to flicker, so he fiddled with the antique Tiffany lamp cord. The illumination then became brighter and steadier. As he fiddled, he thought, that’s not exactly a masculine lamp, now is it?

  The lamp as well as the Queen Anne bed and other furnishings in his townhouse were either antiques passed down to him or items he and Chloe had picked up at antique shops and yard sales. Shaking his head, he thought aloud, “Now I’m thinking about Chloe again! It’s been more than six months. Why can’t I forget her?”

  Because you love her, you jerk. Great, now I’m answering myself; that’s the first step to the loony bin.

  Opening the nightstand drawer, he fumbled for a pack of cigarettes. He only smoked when he was alone and only when Chloe clouded his mind. He’d been smoking a lot lately.

  Grabbing his lighter off the nightstand, he looked at it intently. It was an old brass lighter that still used lighter fluid and flint to spark a flame. Flipping it open, he inhaled the smell. As the aroma of the fluid and the brass infiltrated his nostrils, his mind was flooded with memories of his grandfather. The lighter was originally his, and thinking of him brought Brent immediate comfort. As the tremors and sweating subsided, he again smelled the aroma of the lighter fluid. Lying back and closing his eyes, Brent’s mind drifted to his final Delta Force advanced-training mission.

  The Delta Force’s primary tasks as a special operations unit were identified as anti-terrorism and homeland security. It was a perfect fit for Brent, a self-proclaimed adrenaline junkie. His final training assignment was a survival mission in the Grand Teton Mountains. It had changed his life, forever.

  After a brief training and instructional period (less than two days) and signing all the prerequisite government forms that basically stated he had volunteered and was in no way ordered or coerced to do it, Brent and two other soldiers were ushered into an airplane hangar at the crack of dawn. They were to become members of the Phantom Squad. Of the original fifty, only five troops made the cut; already and two of those had been cut from the squad.

  There, he and the others were introduced to their survival-training instructor. This guy was a legend in Delta Force, and he was a civilian. When Brent first saw him, he thought it was a joke. He didn’t fit the image Brent had in his mind. The man was short—five-foot-six, maybe five-foot-seven—and not powerfully built. He looked to have just as many hairs on his head as he had real teeth in his mouth: seven.

  When the instructional period ended, Brent and the others loaded up their backpacks, put on jumpsuits and were herded into a small, single prop biplane—the kind used for crop dusting, not exactly an Air Force C-130 cargo plane like he was accustomed to. As he approached the plane, the smell of gasoline and motor oil overpowered him. Brent wondered if it would blow up before he had a chance to jump out of it.

  At five thousand feet, Seven, as Brent affectionately called his instructor, slid the plane’s side door open. Smiling a tobacco-stained smile, he waved Brent over. As many times as Brent had jumped from a plane, he was still not comfortable doing it. Just before the command was given to jump, he always internally freaked out a bit. He wanted to scream yet he did not want to embarrass himself or the force. Instead he’d bless himself with the Sign of the Cross and go.

  Brent made his way to the open door and swung his feet out while he held onto the fuselage. The wind, caused by the speed of the flight, pushed his legs toward the back of the plane. He reached for the strut of the wing, grabbed hold and then pulled his legs forward until his feet rested on a small platform under the wing. Seven tapped him on the back and signaled him to let go, but Brent held on with an iron grip.

  In the C-130, the back end of the plane would open up and he’d just sort of get pushed out. Brent wasn’t used to voluntarily letting go.

  “Ya gonna miss your landing site, boy,” Seven yelled, and he tapped Brent again.

  This time, he gave him more of a kidney punch to force him to let go. Brent’s arms flew out as he arched his back, maintaining a classic freefall position.

  Brent loved the adrenaline rush of the skydive once he was airborne, but this jump was different. Unlike previous jumps, this one wasn’t a high altitude, low opening (HALO) jump, and it was in the pitch black of night. He wore infrared goggles to help him see, but it was hard to read the terrain. Brent looked down, looking for an open spot on the mountaintop to land. He kept one eye on his altimeter at all times to check his altitude. He needed to open just below two thousand feet.

  At 1,800 feet, Brent grabbed the handle positioned on the front of his chute and pulled. He could hear the sound of the chute deploying, like the crisp sound of a sheet when it’s snapped to fluff before being spread out. As he looked up he grabbed the toggle handles to help him steer the parachute to the landing site.

  Brent didn’t enjoy his “controlled” fall, and he wondered if it would ever end. The good thing about HALO jumps was that once the chute opened, the ride was pretty much over. This one, on the other hand, was taking forever. It was a windy night and his parachute blew all over the sky. He constantly readjusted his flight pattern to stay on course with his landing site.

  As he dropped through the last layer of clouds, the mountain finally came into clear view. He directed his chute via the toggle lines to an opening near the peak of the mountain. He did what he had been instructed to do as he approached the top of the tree line.

  “As you get to the top of the trees,” Seven said, “pull straight down on both toggle handles as far as they’ll go. This puts the brakes on. Bend your knees, point your toes and don’t look down. If you screw up, one or more of you will break an ankle, or at least sprain the heck out of it. You’ll have a lot of suffering in front of you before you reach your destination without having to hop on one leg.”

  Brent did just as instructed, but at the last second, a strong gust of wind came from behind and blew him forward, toward the trees and away from the opening. He closed his eyes and turned his head, just in time to avoid an eyeful of branches and twigs. Instead, the branch cut into his flesh about an inch below his left eye. He could feel a warm sensation on the side of his face as he hit the ground. Hoping it was sweat, he reached his tongue out to taste what had been dripping. It was definitely blood.

  After clipping out of his harness and securing his chute to a tree, Brent checked the damage to his face. In the small mirror on his utility knife, he saw that the gash was deep and nearly an inch long. He reached into his backpack for a suture kit, but first, he had to clean the cut and sterilize the needle to keep the wound from becoming infected. As he reached for a vile of rubbing alcohol, Brent bit down on the strap of his backpack to keep from cracking his teeth. He silently screamed when he poured the alcohol onto the cut. To burn off any germs from the needle, he heated it with his lighter. Looking into the mirror, he stitched the gash closed and then wiped blood off his face with the remaining alcohol. Once the triage was complete, Brent buried his chute, and then began the land leg of the training.

  CHAPTER 2

  As the long hot ash of his cigarette fell onto his chest, Brent snapped back to reality.

  “Ahh,” he yelled and brushed the ashes off his skin.

  He snuffed the cigarette out, sat up, and tried to stretch. He could hear his shoulders pop as they settled back into joint. Moving his head side to side, he felt more cracking.

  “So many injuries for such a young officer,” the army doc used to say.

  Brent looked at the
clock again: 5:00 a.m. I might as well get up and start my day, he thought. There’s a lot of work I need to do at the library.

  As he stood up, Brent’s bare feet hit the hardwood floor. He stretched again—more popping. He walked from the bedroom to the small adjacent bathroom. The sound of the wood floor creaking under his footsteps reminded him of his grandfather walking across the same floor, and that memory gave him comfort.

  In the bathroom, there was a freestanding claw-foot tub, and thanks to his grandfather’s handiwork, it held a shower attachment. A pedestal sink and a toilet so old it had a chain pull used to flush the toilet were the other accoutrements. The bathroom, like the rest of the townhouse, had old fixtures, but they worked as if brand new. Brent took a great deal of pride in maintaining the house his grandfather left to him.

  Chloe hadn’t much liked the bathroom, but Brent loved it.

  “There’s not even enough room to think in here,” she used to say.

  And Brent would always reply, “Who needs to think in the bathroom.”

  Brent stared at the three-day growth on his face. Scratching the scruffy beard, he decided to take the time to actually shave. It was only 5:00 a.m., after all. He turned on the hot water, filled the sink and then dipped his razor into the steamy water. Brent prided himself on still using a single-edged, double-sided razor blade. He wasn’t quite sure why he still used it, but like most other things in his home, it just felt right. As he shaved, the scar under his left eye seemed to become more prominent. He looked intensely into the mirror while he wiped his face.

  At thirty-five, the “character lines” around his eyes seemed to multiply. He reached up and lightly touched the scar. He’d known the gash would leave a mark, especially with his suturing skills. At the time, he’d thought it would be prominent and ugly. Now he liked it, maybe because it reminded him of times past and the man he used to be. As much as he tried to forget, there were traits in his old, self that he missed.