Dark Destiny

Chapter Three - The First Search

In a plush penthouse apartment, high above the bustling city below, a beautiful, dark-haired woman sits on a loveseat, her legs crossed, and her arms stretched out. She is wearing a business suit, with a skirt and black high-heeled boots. Her long hair drapes over the side of her business jacket, which is opened, revealing a low-cut, white blouse underneath. Beside her, resting on an oak end table is a mixed drink, placed on a round glass coaster. A bent straw sits in the drink, the straw pointing towards her. Across from the loveseat is a larger sofa, with matching plush burgundy fabric. She leans her head back, her neck rested on a large, thick pillow that is designed to automatically conform to her neck. She lets out a sigh of satisfaction, resting from a hard day. Her high-heeled feet brush against a beautifully-varnished cherry oak coffee table that sits on the hardwood flooring, as her upper leg rocks against her lower knee.

The penthouse is large, measuring over 1700 square feet. She is seated in the center of the den, which has nine-foot vaulted white ceilings. The walls are sheetrock, and are lined with bookshelves. The bookshelves are meticulously categorized. There are bookshelves devoted to historical works, works of fiction, literary and science works; but the center bookshelf, which stands above the others, has volumes of Biblical works—commentaries, devotions, and theological treatises. Above the bookshelves, fine artwork and the framed paintings of famous figures from the past adorn the walls. The figures are familiar—church leaders such as Martin Luther and John Calvin, as well as military and government men who shared the owner of the penthouse's faith. On the eastern wall, there is a marble fireplace, with oak panels and an oak mantle, beautifully stained to showcase the contours and natural lines in the wood. In the fireplace, a fire has been burning, the embers and ashes lining up on the bottom of the black metal surface within the fireplace. On the Southern wall, there is a large palladium window, draped on each side by ruffled curtains, neatly tied at the center. At the moment, the curtains are open, revealing the city several stories below to anyone who walks up to it and looks out. Beside the window is a sliding glass door, leading to a balcony overlooking the city streets below. The balcony is large enough to have two chairs and a small round table. There is also a canopy over the balcony to protect it from the elements. Adjacent to the den is the kitchen, with a small bar separating the two. The kitchen if fully-stocked, with a large refrigerator, a smooth surface stove, and a dining table in the far corner of the kitchen.

"I wonder where he is?" she asks, looking down at her jewel-banded, diamond watch, as she reaches over, taking a drink from her small crystal glass, then replacing it to the end table, being careful to lay it back on a glass coaster. She smiles silently, remembering how her host has made it clear that the coasters are 'there for a reason'. Her accent is noticeably lower European, and there is an allure exuding from her. "I had a long day at the hospital." Her name is Althea Kallos, and she is a neurosurgeon with a thriving medical practice. So saying, she leans back against the couch, her arms stretched again at each side, even as her hair drapes back across the cushion on the back of the sofa.

"A better question, I think," a brown-haired man in his mid-thirties responds, "is why we're being called here in the first place." His straight hair is neatly parted, but his face shows a full day's growth of stubble. Wearing well-worn blue jeans and a tan-colored flight jacket, he is in the adjacent kitchen, pouring ice into a small glass. He has the appearance of someone who likes to get to the point, a man of action. His name is "Ace" McRae, and he can pilot about any kind of aircraft that's ever been built. But he particularly enjoys the challenge of new aircrafts, and the man they are waiting for has come up with many. He then pours the glass full with bourbon, as he walks over to the edge of the bar, leaning against it, placing the glass in front of him. There, a blond-haired man in his early forties is seated on one of the padded barstools, waiting patiently. "Weren't we going to have a regular meeting next week anyway?"