Josh Davenport is a former Army G-2 intelligence officer sent deep undercover to infiltrate The Brotherhood, a terrorist group whose goal is a New World Order under their sole control. Davenport is the only one standing between them and the political takeover of America. However, his cover is blown, and The Brotherhood orders his termination.
Six years after the death of her husband, Jennie Davenport has finally rebuilt her life. Following a bizarre vision, she begins to suspect her husband is actually still alive. She swears she spoke to him, but was Josh real or a figment of her desperate imagination?
Determined to find out if Josh is dead or alive, Jennie unknowingly jumps into the line of fire where every word she speaks is listened to and every move she makes is watched. The quest for the truth takes her from Dallas to New Orleans, Chicago, London, and even further, plunging her into the dark clutches of this odious group. The vision of her dead husband soon turns into a nightmare as Jennie becomes the Brotherhood’s next target.
February 14, 1977
The massive man scrutinized the terrain with rapt concentration. From his vantage point in the helicopter, he could see that the trail up the mountain would be steep and difficult in the summer months, but in the winter when the snow was deeper than a grave, it would take a strong, experienced hiker to navigate it. Only one narrow break in the trees was evident, this will do well, he thought. Unwelcome intruders will be at a minimum.
The chopper zoomed over the treetops then dropped into a clearing fast enough to keep ahead of the re-circulating white-out. Before the snow settled, two uniformed guards shoved a ramp up to the open door and the man rolled down in a battery-powered wheelchair.
Impatiently waving the guards away, he maneuvered along the pathway toward a dark-timbered structure hanging on the edge of a rocky precipice. Stopping just out of range of the swirling snow, he spun his chair about and gazed at the surrounding area. Mt. Pilatus loomed over the isolated chalet that was hidden in the mountains above the small village of Engelberg.
“Have the others arrived?” he wheezed at his assistant Hans who was standing nearby.
“Four of the men are here, sir,” Hans’ voice grew louder as he struggled to speak over the rumble of the rotors revving up for takeoff. “The helicopter carrying the other eight is on its way.”
The huge man nodded and shielded his face from the icy wind when the chopper lifted off. Gasping in the thin air, he signaled the young man to lead the way.
“Your room is midway down on the left,” Hans said as they entered the central hall. “The conference room is at the far end.”
“And the other bedrooms?”
“They are on the second floor, sir, and the staff is housed on the third.
“Well done. Make sure everyone knows that the meeting will start as scheduled,” he ordered, peeling off his leather gloves.
Hans made one last assessment of the conference room. Obstacles had been removed and there was ample space for the chairman’s wheelchair between the table and the credenza. Within reach was a silver tray holding brandy, Evian water, and crystal goblets. A gold gavel lay beside a leather notebook. Twelve other places were set, all with matching notebooks and pens.
He added another log to the enormous rock fireplace and stirred the fire to a higher blaze. Harsh winter light streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows that looked up to Mt. Pilatus’ 6,982 foot elevation. One guard stood at attention at the entrance to the room and another on the balcony outside the windows. Other guards were placed strategically around the perimeter of the property. All was ready.
Promptly at 1100 hours, thirteen of the world’s most powerful men assembled in the richly paneled conference room for the annual meeting of The Brotherhood. Five men from the United States, four from British Isles, and four from Europe circled the long marble table and found their designated places. In the early ‘50s three separate and powerful groups, the Illuminati from the United States, the Inner Circle from the British Isles, and the Alliance from Europe combined forces and organized a controlling nucleus to be known as The Brotherhood. With this convergence, their power became unlimited.
The chairman called the meeting to order and distributed agendas. One by one each man presented an update on his particular field of global concentration. The political infrastructure, foreign and domestic policy, universal values and religion, education, public opinion and media, communications and transportation, food supply, oil and energy regulation, health and welfare, a unified international economic order, a world treasury agency with taxation powers, and military jurisdiction, all designed and leading to a new world order under the sole control of The Brotherhood.
The tall gray-haired man from Lloyds of London was reading his report when a loud knock interrupted him. Conversation ceased and twelve pairs of eyes turned toward the stone-faced man in his sixties sitting at the head of the table. All waited for the chairman to respond.
“Enter,” he barked, turning the sheaf of papers in his hand face down on the table. His fingers drummed a cadence as Hans hurried toward him.
“This just arrived for you, Mr. Chairman. It's marked urgent.” Handing the folder to him, he quickly left the room.
The chairman pushed away from the table and inspected the seal on the folder before opening it. He withdrew several sheets and read through them. Jerking his chair about, he rolled to the window and stared outside for several minutes.
A collective breath was held. All was silent except for the whirring of the wheelchair and the crackling of the fire.
Turning back to the table, the chairman’s voice exploded with fury, “Gentlemen, we have confirmation, The Brotherhood has been infiltrated. This identifies the man as Joshua Davenport.” Throwing the folder toward the center of the table he roared, “Check it yourself.”
Waves of rage flowed around the room like living organisms. A thin, weasel-faced man on the chairman’s left sprang up knocking over his chair. He dashed to the credenza and grabbed a packet marked Ballots. “I call for a vote,” he shrieked waving the packet in the air.
“I second it,” came a guttural voice from the man known as the Enforcer.
“A vote has been called and seconded,” said the chairman.
The ballots were distributed, completed in a matter of seconds, and flung to the center of the table. The agitated man slowed his pacing long enough to collect and open them one by one.
“It is unanimous, Mr. Chairman. The decision is termination.”
“So be it,” the chairman concurred, a vein pulsating in his forehead. Maneuvering his chair to the console behind him, he picked up a dark red drawstring bag, dropped one black ball and eleven white ones into it and drew it closed.
“You know the procedure, gentlemen.” He handed the bag to the man on his right. Each man reached in and drew out one ball in his closed fist and immediately placed it in his pocket.
“You will examine your selection in private. You have twenty-four hours to exterminate Joshua Davenport. We’ll meet here at 1800 hours three days from now.”
The chairman’s face prohibited any conversation. He crashed the gavel against the marble table and bellowed, “Adjourned.”
The sound reverberated in the ears of the angry men as they stormed out in silence.