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The Simulacrum: Creationism, Evolution and Intelligent Design (Gunnar Schofield) (Volume 1)

By Linda W. Yezak, Brad D. Seggie

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PROLOGUE

He crept through the moonlight shadows of the trimmed hedges, scrunched low to the manicured lawn, and eased toward the back of the house. Somewhere nearby a dog barked, and he froze, his eyes riveted to the splash of light spilling out of the windows and landing in bright rectangles on the deck. His latex-gloved hand tightened around the grip of his Glock. His nerves yanked taut, and he felt the heightened awareness he'd experienced in a different neighborhood, a dirtier, hotter neighborhood where the language was as strange to him as the people who spoke it.

What had happened in Kabul over a dozen years ago was war, an evil that no longer touched his life. In Kabul, everyone was a potential combatant, and many had felt the bite and burn of his sniper bullets an instant before meeting Allah in person.

But he'd never killed an American.

He clenched his jaw, let the urgency of his mission course through his veins and flush out the icy shards of doubt.

This American needed killing, deserved to die. The scientist posed a threat to everything the former Marine had dedicated his life to. The only way to save all he'd worked for was to eliminate the threat. Execute the old man, as was once done to all traitors of the faith.

He sucked in a cold breath, steeled his nerves.

He melted into the darkness on the back deck of his victim's large colonial home, stepped silently past the wrought-iron patio furniture and padded loungers arranged for casual conversation. How often had the scientist spread his lies while roasting marshmallows on the fire pit?

Heat burned in his chest, warding off the chill of the night and driving him on his mission. He edged forward for a peek through a crystal-cut window.
Inside, Dr. Wayne Oakford hunched over his laptop at the kitchen table, his fingers flying over the keys. A half-eaten sandwich and a sweaty glass of tea sat at his right hand. Bare feet peeked out from his lounging pants, and a dark blue t-shirt covered his thin torso. The silver-haired scientist looked harmless enough, but his weapon was words, and those words posed a threat to the entire scientific community.

With a .357 at close range, the Marine wouldn’t need more than a single shot to end Oakford’s life, and the suppressor would prevent the neighbors from hearing a thing. He placed a gloved hand on the brass knob and slowly twisted. The door opened without the slightest squeak, and he stepped over the threshold, not making a sound until he stood opposite Oakford in the kitchen.

He leveled the gun at his target. "It's time to stop working, Dr. Oakford."

The old man looked up. Confusion clouded his eyes, instantly replaced with alarm as the gun apparently registered in his brain. He shoved back from the table, his chair toppling to the hardwood floor behind him, and raised his arms over his head.

“What do you want?" His voice trembled, his hands shook. His face looked pale in the blaze of the overhead light. "Do you want money? I have money! It's in a safe in the basement.”

“This isn’t about money. It’s about science. You were warned.”

A gleam of recognition flashed across Oakford’s face, and he lowered his arms. Even with a gun aimed at his chest, he dared to smirk. “You’re too late. I’ve already spoken with somebody from the Academy. I revealed everything.”

“Nobody will believe it.”

“Oh yes, they will,” Oakford said. “I provided proof that can eliminate even a shadow of a doubt.”

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