Exodus Conspiracy

By Chuck Hughes

When President Brookfield’s sudden heart attack puts his vice president into the presidency, the rules of engagement change—for the worst.

The new president attempts to appease the radical Islamic element and temper the reign of terrorism. His peace at any cost diplomacy, however, results in a series of catastrophic events—the emersion of the Palestinian National Alliance, a nuclear-armed Iraq, an isolated Israel and a rein of violence that begins with a gas attack on the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.

After the wife of wealthy philanthropist Jonathon Gates is killed in the attack on NYC, he and members of his humanitarian foundation, do what the government will not do—take on the terrorists on their own turf and in their own way.

To obtain their objective, the Foundation turns to a team of loyal, military misfits who quickly begin turning plow shafts into swords. Added to the team, is Russian immigrant Stanko Shirski. Stanko uses his ties to the Russian Mafia to assist in a more domestic chore—removing the new president from office—one way or another.

While the eye for an eye biblical edict lashes out at the terrorists, unintended consequences push the conflict to a critical point. Ultimately, Gates and the Foundation are forced to consider the ultimate retaliation.

Revenge is a harsh taskmaster.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Mar 23, 2011
• ISBN: 9781440164736

Chuck Hughes

In 2006, Chuck Hughes and two friends opened their first restaurant, Garde Manger, in old Montreal. They haven’t looked back. A fanatical clientele made up of locals and tourists keeps the place hopping; everyone is in search of Chuck’s magical take on comfort food classics. Chuck defeated Iron Chef Bobby Flay in the battle of Canadian lobster and starred in The Next Iron Chef: Super Chefs. His show Chuck’s Day Off airs in over eighty countries including the U.S. (Cooking Channel) and Canada (Food Network), as does his follow-up series, Chuck’s Week Off. Recently he completed the first season of his primetime show, Chuck’s Eat the Street, for Cooking Channel, and he is currently discussing another series for Food Network Canada for 2013.

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Copyright © 2011 Chuck Hughes.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means,

graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by

any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author

except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents,

organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products

of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4401-6472-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4401-6473-6 (e)

iUniverse rev. date:  02/23/2022

CONTENTS

Part I

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

Part 2

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

PART I

But if any harm follows, then you shall give life for life,

eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot,

burn for burn, wound for wound, stripe for stripe.

Exodus 21:23-24

CHAPTER 1

The weatherman’s hands moved in choreographed motions over a map made visible only by the trickery of the camera.

"It’s sixty-two degrees with dribbles of rain throughout the night. You can look for cloudy skies and some thunder throughout the night. Later in the week, the temperature will drop close to freezing. That means possible icy roads. Later this week, the rain will turn into snow, three to five inches. Just enough to erupt your Thanksgiving travel. That’s our weather forecast leading up to Thanksgiving day. This is Henry Jackson saying, be careful out there and good night."

The gloomy clouds drifting over Kearney, New Jersey, brought a degree of credibility to his threat.

As the evening aged, the clouds rumbled like an overfed stomach after an all-you-can-eat buffet. Occasionally, the belly belched, sending blinding streaks of electricity through the late afternoon sky. Sheets of wind-driven water filled the streets with multicolored nylon mushrooms on thin, metal stems held by people running to escape the downpour. Inside the dark warehouse, the only sign of the storm was the sound of rain pounding the building’s metal roof. Had it not been for the mustiness of the basement blending with the faint smell of a dead rodent somewhere nearby, the water beating on tin would have been a musical treat. However, to the tall, bearded man in his bishts and embroidered thobe, the traditional Muslim dress, the notes were just irritating plunks that amplified the room’s dismal climate. He was not concerned with brightness, pleasing aromas, or musical melodies on rooftops. His focus was on his young followers kneeling on the floor beside him, repeatedly bowing to the East. The dreary atmosphere suited their mood and malicious purpose.

Allah be praised, the tall man whispered after finishing his prayers. You are the blessed of Allah. You will bring his wrath to the front door of his enemies.

Once the last prayer rug was neatly folded, the man pulled each of his followers into his deformed chest and kissed their cheeks. Do not stray from the path, he whispered.

After the embracing and cheek kissing, he handed each a sealed envelope. Open this in someplace private. Read the message, remember it, then destroy it. Pointing to a table with eleven backpacks, he continued. Take one of these, but handle it with caution, just as I taught you to do.

Beaming with pride, eight men and three women pocketed the envelopes of money and instructions and gently put the backpacks over their shoulders. As they started to leave, the bearded man called to one of them.

Khamal!

Yes, Abdel, the young man said nervously.

Welcoming the fear in Khamal’s dark eyes, Abdel smiled with confidence. Fear ensured they would respect and obey him. Obedience was essential.

How goes your flying lessons? he asked.

They go well. I am a good student.

The fear in Khamal’s face faded when Abdel pulled him close. And for your efforts, you will soon be sharing paradise with the other brave followers of Allah.

You honor me, Abdel.

As you deserve, my friend. Now listen closely, for this is what Allah asks of you . . .

***

NYC, Thanksgiving Day

Despite the excitement of New York City being only a quick hop by private jet out of Dulles, Colette Gates preferred the serenity and safety of the Chantilly ranch. However, Christmas was the exception. Nowhere else rivaled Christmas in New York.

In addition to the bustling city’s sights, smells, and sounds, they would also view Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade from the safety and comfort of their seventh-floor Dakota Apartments suite. Days of shopping would follow. It was the highlight of the year for Colette and her granddaughter. She had missed the event only once in the past eight years. Husbands and heart attacks had a higher priority.

Although the clouds had a look that suggested a hint of snow, the wind was soft and gentle, at least for a New York November day. The only thing that kept the day from being perfect was that Kitty wasn’t with her this year.

Do you need a cab, Mrs. Gates? the doorman asked as the tiny, red-haired woman approached the door.

She flashed him a smile. Not today, Martin. Since the weather’s so nice, I thought I’d watch the parade from out here.

Martin looked towards the elevator in anticipation. Isn’t Mister Gates going with you?

Not the way he hates crowds, Colette said. He’ll watch from the balcony.

Jonathan hated the crowded street even on a typical day, so the balcony of the cathedral-like building was his usual perch for any event that demanded New Yorkers fill the streets with bands or floats. Colette likened it to participating in Mardi Gras from inside a blimp. Even then, the excitement would hold his attention for only a few minutes before he browsed the channels for a bowl game.

This year, their granddaughter, Catherine Gates, called Kitty by her grandfather from the day she was born, would be watching from an air-conditioned room at Disney World The wee one, she’s not with you this year.

Is she alright? the doorman asked.

She’s fine, Marten. She’s with her mother over the holidays, Colette replied with a frown. Disney Land vacations with ex-daughters-in-law were as much a priority as ex-husbands and heart attacks.

And young Christopher, has he deserted us too?

No, he’s in Richmond, Colette said with her white teeth hiding behind a tight-lipped smile. Christopher, would not be watching at all. He was testing the political waters for a possible challenge to the state’s senior senator.

Martin opened the door allowing a gust of arctic cold in. The portly, gray-haired doorman had opened the door, hailed taxis, and carried packages for the Dakota Apartment residents for the better part of his seventy years. Still, the Gates family was one of his favorites. They were what he called common rich folk, people who were wealthy but didn’t act like they were.

Colette pulled the belt of her ankle-length cashmere coat securely around her waist then stepped into the crowd that was beginning to fill 72nd Street. Unlike her husband, she welcomed the crowd. In fact, the crowd was the part of the experience she enjoyed the most,

As she watched float after float, marching band after marching band, celebrity after celebrity pass, the wind picked up and nipped at her face, leaving her cheeks with a scalded look. It wasn’t long before the warmth of the apartment beckoned to her. She took one last look at Garfield’s hooded eyes and scheming smile, then made her way back to the Dakota Apartments.

Jonathan stepped onto the balcony, more interested in catching a glimpse of his wife than the parade. That was when he saw the plane and the trailing banner waving in the wind. He squinted to read the advertisement. When he couldn’t read it, he shrugged his shoulders as the cold wind quickly chased him back inside.

Most who saw the small plane circling the sky on that cold November day gave it little thought beyond being another expensive advertising gimmick. After all, this was New York City.

The curiosity circled the city several times before suddenly diving and skimming the crowded streets of upper Manhattan. As the plane flew over the crowd, its turbine engines drowning out the shouting onlookers and the deafening bands, a fine cloud of mist spewed from tanks under the plane. Within minutes of releasing its payload, the crop duster rolled once then dove into the crowded streets below.

From behind the safety of the large picture window, Jonathan Gates looked at the panic-stricken people on the street below. At first, he thought that one of the balloons had deflated. Only when the tethered giants began floating away did he realize it was something worse. The thousand distorted faces slowly merged into one. From behind the double windowpanes, he watched with numbed horror as his wife stared up at him. Her full lips warped as she screamed in agony. But neither words nor gas could penetrate his refuge. He was safe, but the thick windowpanes couldn’t protect him from staring in horror at the chaos below with people screaming and dying. Then shock set in—his wife was one of them.

***

As Dallas Rudd helped carry Colette Gates’ mahogany casket from chapel to gravesite, rows of dark clouds, heavy and low like an omen to danger in a Hitchcock film, filled the sky while casting ominous shadows over the ground. He didn’t believe in omens or mystical reprisals. Still, he chose not to goad fate without cause. Walking under a ladder or having his path challenged by the blackest of cats made him edgy and uncomfortable. The change in the sky stirred up that uneasy feeling.

The sky suddenly erupted with torrents of rain that quickly turned into sleet. Dallas was no stranger to drenching rainstorms. Metaphorically, he had been drowning in one for a long time. It started four years and a court-martial ago on a cold March day that brought him to meet Jonathan Gates. That’s the day Dallas’ life changed.

***

Dallas was well into his sixth, seventh, or tenth boilermaker, but he wasn’t sure which since he had stopped keeping count hours ago. That was one more thing he owed to the Army; he could drink and hold what he drank . . . usually.

After finishing his shift, he had changed from his security guard uniform into a pair of well-worn jeans and an equally tattered crew neck sweater. Although he blended well with the onslaught of construction workers that filled the small bar celebrating payday, he was far from being one of them. They ran with the herd; he ran alone.

When the bar began to fill up, he decided to continue his drinking in the sanctuary of his small apartment. He held his glass up. Mike, hit me one more time, then I’m gone.

As Dallas raised his glass, a hand knocked it out of his hand. In the midst of grunts and shattering glass, a massive man, cloaked in a smelly pair of coveralls, was shouting, I’m gonna kick your ass, shorty.

You talk a good game, Frank, the short, wiry man shouted. But can you back it up, he growled with his fists clenched, ready to strike. His crouched stance made him look even smaller than his five-foot-five or so inches. The, You orto not mess with Otto, on his sweatshirt showed his boldness, as well as his name.

For a skinny shit, you talk pretty big yourself, Otto, Frank responded in a smoldering tone as he wiped the trickle of blood from his mouth with the back of his beefy hand as he charged. Then he swung at Otto. He not only missed, but he also lost his balance and pinned Dallas between him and the bar. All Dallas could see was coveralls and tangled locks of dark, shaggy hair flowing over the crease where a neck should have been.

While the coveralled man struggled to regain his balance, Dallas strained to free himself from the crushing weight. Added to the weight was the odor of sweaty, unwashed armpits. Dallas gasped for breath as he decided to motivate the huge man by pressing his arms against the bar then extending them. Sensing he had some advantage in his position, the weight behind him didn’t shift. Dallas stretched his arms again. Frank moved enough to allow Dallas to turn and confront him this time. Still trapped, Dallas took a step sideways, then one forward, bringing himself to the side of the big man. Frank’s toothless mouth formed a contemptuous smile as he turned.

You want some of this, too? he asked.

Dallas shook his head. Hey buddy, I’m not involved in this, so back off.

The air thickened as the man belched a pungent spray of spittle into Dallas’ face.

Otto, seeing his nemesis preoccupied, made his move. He sprang forward, slicing the tepid air with a four-inch knife. Before Frank could turn around, the blade was between his ribs. A hiss of air followed. The blubbery man’s eyes widened in bewilderment as frothy, red-tinged fluid bubbled from his mouth. Otto headed for the door leaving Dallas with the knife he pulled out of Frank’s chest in his hand; that was Dallas’ mistake.

The headlines said it all the next day, adding unproven details to make the article more sizeable than it was.

SECURITY GUARD INVOLVED IN FATAL BAR FIGHT.

Dallas Rudd, the security guard for the Travis Security Company, was arrested yesterday after a barroom brawl resulted in the death of a man. Mister Rudd denied killing the man, but officials confirmed he had the deceased man’s blood on his clothes and a knife in his hand. The ex-Special Force Master Sergeant also had a history of violence dating back to his time in the military.

It was what the article didn’t say that caught Jonathan Gates’ attentive eye. The eye had followed Dallas Rudd from the time of his court-martialed. It continued watching him after the army discharged him for his sins. The eye wasn’t critical, however. A head that set off metal detectors at airports and a chest full of medals forgave a lot of sins. Now, it was time for a face-to-face meeting with the six-foot-two, two-hundred-fifty pound, ex-Delta Force Staff Sergeant.

***

Dallas was hustled into court for his arraignment a week after the bar fight. He was a breath away from saying not guilty when a man in a double-breasted suit, clutching a brown leather briefcase in his hand, appeared at this side.

Your Honor, if it pleases the court, I’ll be representing Mister Rudd.

Before Dallas could object, the attorney made a motion for dismissal due to the lack of evidence. The Assistant D.A. quickly pleaded for the court to hear the case. He had not even opened his briefcase before the judge muttered something under his breath, shuffled through a few files then raised his gavel.

Case dismissed! he mumbled as the gavel fell.

Dallas shook his head and turned to the attorney. That went awfully fast, Counselor, considering I don’t remember calling an attorney.

You didn’t have to, Mister Rudd. Someone called one for you. Nodding towards the D.A. and the judge, he smiled. It seems some other people also received a call.

I don’t think you understand; I don’t have any money to pay you.

I haven’t asked for any money, Mister Rudd.

Not yet! Dallas said.

If it will make you feel better, Mister Rudd, I’ll put it on your bill and hold your soul for security.

Dallas laughed. You’re too late for that. I sold my soul a long time ago.

How would you like an opportunity to get it back?

Dallas eyed the tall, lanky man skeptically. Seriously, just who do you work for?

Someone who is very anxious to meet you, Mister Rudd. In fact, he’s waiting outside right now. That is if you can find time in your busy schedule.

Although the mystery man was beginning to irritate him, Dallas followed him to a limousine parked in front of the courthouse. When he approached, a smoke-tinted window rolled down, revealing an older version of his escort who, for reasons he still did not know, finagled his release. The elderly man removed his tinted glasses and motioned to Dallas to get into the car.

Dallas shrugged his shoulders. It’s your money, he said as he sunk into the smooth, black leather. But I think you made a mistake and bailed out the wrong guy.

Gates, Jonathan Gates, Mister Rudd, the man said as he extended his trembling hand. And the attorney who represented you is my son, Christopher. And I assure you, we do not make mistakes.

There’s always a first time, Mister Gates.

After minutes of idle chatter, Dallas asked the question that had been on his mind since Christopher Gates first approached him. Why all the interest in me, Mister Gates?

Jonathan waved his hand in protest. Please, call me Jonathan. I feel like I’ve known you for a long time.

Dallas’ eyes narrowed. Thanks, but no thanks. I prefer a more formal atmosphere, at least for the present. But the question remains, why?

Why?

Yes, Sir. Why all the interest in me?

Following a cursory smile, Jonathan answered him. Most people say I have more money than I have time. They are partly right; I do have the money, but I also have the time to do pretty much what I want. That makes me very fortunate. I also believe that good fortune should be shared, and I try to do that as well.

And I’m one of your charity cases.

Charity! Heavens no! Jonathan quickly responded. I would never consider someone who received a Silver Star and two Purple Hearts serving Uncle Sam a charity case.

Did you also know that I was discharged under less than honorable conditions for a little incident that—

Which incident, Mister Rudd? Jonathan asked behind a knowing grin. Calling in an airstrike on the wrong coordinates or assaulting your Commanding Officer?

One led to the other.

Were you guilty?

Yes and no. Yes, I did poke my CO in the nose—but no, I didn’t make a mistake with the coordinates on the airstrike.

The Major deserved it from what I heard.

The Army didn’t agree, and it didn’t agree with my argument that I was a scapegoat for some forward observer who fucked up.

You stood up to them, Mister Rudd. I liked that.

Standing up didn’t do squat to help me; they still gave me a second rate discharge.

That . . . error was, shall we say, corrected.

Dallas’ eyes narrowed again, this time more in curiosity than mistrust. Did you have anything to do with that?

Maybe I pulled some strings, but I like to make sure our vets have good care. I was in Nam myself. Christopher was in Desert Storm. Different outfit than you, but he heard about your situation and got in touch with me. After looking into it, I felt you got a pretty raw deal. When I read about the barroom thing, I decided you had enough bad luck to last a lifetime, so I called in some favors.

Look . . . Mister Gates. I owe you for getting me out of jail, but I don’t have any money. Like I told your son, if I can work it off, we have something to talk about; otherwise, I just want to go home.

We can talk about that later, Jonathan said as he pecked on the window, secluding him from the driver. Morris, take Mister Rudd home.

Although Jonathan Gates was interested in everything about Dallas, Dallas was only interested in a hot bath, a bottle of bourbon, and the weeklong visitor waiting at home for him.

The limo dropped him off under the broken streetlight outside his decaying apartment building. Once it turned the corner, Dallas headed toward his apartment. Inside, a caustic odor brought a wrinkle to his nose. The closer he got to the drunk curled up on the floor near the nonfunctioning elevator, the stronger it got.

After stepping over the drunk, Dallas walked up the thirty steps to his apartment on the third floor. Once inside, he closed the deadbolt and scanned the room. Old habits didn’t die easy—some never died. The same stack of dirty clothes cluttered the tattered couch. In the kitchen, the sink overflowed with dirty dishes.

He shook his head and took a deep breath as interest in the bath and the woman faded. All he wanted now was the bourbon. He found the empty fifth cradled in the arms of the bleached blonde snoring on the sagging bed in the next room.

Damn! She must have run out of the good stuff. The good stuff was nose candy or anything that she could stick into a vein.

He took the empty bottle from the girl’s hand and pulled the cover over her naked body. Back in the living room, he opened a bottle of bourbon he kept hidden in a corner cabinet. Bottle in hand, he flopped down on the couch. Despite its sagginess, he preferred the sofa to sharing the bed with his houseguest. He had enough issues without getting involved with someone who was far worse off than he was, someone who might or might not be there from one day to the next.

Some choice they gave me, jail or servitude, he grumbled. On the other hand, what’s to keep me here?"

He twisted the bottle cap and moved its narrow neck to his mouth, took a deep drink, and then looked at the pay stub lying on the marred coffee table.

Not this shitty, minimum wage job. Not this junk I call furniture. He turned his gaze to the bedroom door. Not her. She survived long before I took her in; she’ll survive long after I leave.

The chaos of the past three days began to take its grip on him. Usually, the alcohol ensured a deep sleep, undisturbed by exploding tanks and burning bodies. That night, however, his sleep was restless.

He constantly passed the drunk lying in the stairwell in his new night terror. Fighting the sickening odor, he finally rolled the drunk over with his foot. The body was stiff. Small