United in Peril: It Can Happen Any Place Any Time

By Albert Mordechai

It can happen any place, any time.

In an era when religion often divides us and spawns terrorism, what could happen if we laid our differences aside to fight terrorism? United in Peril answers that question while tackling several other relevant points that pop up in our daily headlines, such as the following:

• Can good come out of evil?

• Are some acts of terrorism justifiable?

• Can courageous people make a difference?

• Can natural enemies agree to disagree and work for peace?

Join Avi and Sam, from opposite sides of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, got in the wrong place and the wrong time, along with the Dominican foreign minister, a likely target of terror. With Henry and Emily, they were recently touched by the coordinated terror attacks in Paris, wondering how they set foot again in a violent drama.

Many of the webs of global politics and terrorism intersect on one unremarkable route when the truly remarkable occurs, giving hope to everyone who reads this spellbinding story.

Albert Mordechai on Southern Sense Talk Radio

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 25, 2021
• ISBN: 9781682896068

Book preview

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United in Peril: It Can Happen Any Place Any Time 

Albert Mordechai

Copyright © 2017 Albert Mordechai

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING, INC.

New York, NY

First originally published by Page Publishing, Inc. 2017

ISBN 978-1-68348-285-7 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-68289-606-8 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Chapter 1

President Guillermo Mejia had seen enough. Pounded nightly by the international media as street protests dragged on and common hoodlums suddenly became heroes, his patience had run out. He had tried to remain calm and tell his troops not to provoke any clashes, but that had only led to hundreds of unemployed young men looting shops throughout certain sections of Santo Domingo, brazenly vandalizing the neighborhood closest to the National Palace, trying to jump into a higher economic class via one night of thievery. Enough business owners had called the Palace’s few lines to complain about their enterprises being destroyed that President Mejia really had no choice. He knew that he would be portrayed as a bully in the press, but he was not going to let the capital look like a burned-out precinct straight out of The Hunger Games . He had pride, and he took it personally that young thugs were ruining his neighborhood. He had campaigned as a man unafraid to make difficult choices, and this was one of them. He knew that some civilians could be killed, but it was time to reestablish law and order in the most splendid city on the island.

Holding his cell phone to his ear, he moved it slightly to make sure that the minister of defense, Juan Delgado, would understand him clearly. Do whatever you have to do, but don’t do anything reckless.

Got it, sir.

We can’t let the inmates run the asylum.

No, sir.

Pray for our country.

Yes, sir.

Keep me posted.

Will do, sir.

Thank you.

And with that, President Mejia put his phone in his pocket and realized how hungry he was. It had been a very long day, a long week, a long month. He wanted to slip out to a peaceful part of the city and grab a bite to eat, but he knew that was impossible. As much as he longed to get away from the troubles and become seminormal for at least an hour, he understood that to go out into public would be risking his—and others’—lives. At least he could stay off the grid for a while, even if he were bound to the Palace. He pulled his phone back out of his pocket and turned it off. By the time he turned it back on again seventy-three minutes later, three people had been shot and killed by the military police. That kind of news would have spoiled the president’s order-in dinner. He chatted with his wife and a few friends as Santo Domingo became a veritable war zone.

Over the next two days, the military did indeed clear the riffraff off the streets. Yet this order had come at a cost, as orders often did. The final toll was six dead and fifty-four wounded as the military turned on its own people—a mini civil war. Sure enough, the local and American media portrayed the military as the aggressors and oppressors. No circumstances whatsoever justified the killing of citizens by their own army. Unfortunately, this wasn’t the first or last time that the military would crack down on the populace in the capital city. The death toll had mounted over the past few years, some in direct clashes, more often in hidden jail cells as political prisoners were identified and incarcerated, then tortured if they showed too much attitude.

Meanwhile, Dominicans were not supposed to notice or be offended by the nearly nonstop trials for corruption and embezzlement that local and national leaders either delayed or had to undergo. At times it seemed as if every single politician was skimming from the national budget to the tune of hundreds of millions of dollars. The cynicism among the citizenry left it highly suspicious and volatile. Sometimes the people could not take it anymore, and they took to the streets to call for a new group of leaders. The longer they stayed in the streets, the more appealing the storefronts looked, and as long as the police was occupied with defending the National Palace, windows were smashed and televisions and refrigerators were snatched. Then the military would get involved, assisting the Santo Domingo police with their guns and even tanks, firing into the violent crowds and trying to run some of them over. The frequent conflicts in Santo Domingo did not look good on the evening news as poor citizens were slaughtered simply for objecting to a government that made its leaders into millionaires just months after each election.

President Mejia wasn’t the only person in Santo Domingo who had witnessed enough of the current trouble. Carlos Santiago and Oscar Ortiz had seen and experienced quite enough of it as well. As Carlos pressed the power button off on the TV remote, he lowered his head and shook it. Oscar quickly said, Don’t worry. Let’s take care of it. He leapt to his feet, pulled out his cell phone, and dialed a number. We’re ready to move, he said. Carlos knew that a vehicle would be by to pick them up in a few minutes.

We have to get out of here. The violence of the military is forcing our hand, Oscar observed.

Yes. We have to get them before they get us—again, Carlos added. I’m ready.

Me too, replied Oscar.

Twelve minutes after Oscar placed his call, the men heard a honk out front of the hiding place they had occupied for the past week, an empty apartment on a nondescript street a mile from the neighborhood surrounding the National Palace, not far from the National Botanical Gardens. Oscar grabbed Carlos by the shoulder in a demonstration of solidarity and said, It’s showtime.

The two men burst out the front door to jump into a car provided for them by a wealthy opponent of the government. The 2007 silver Hyundai Tucson had accumulated a lot of miles, but it had served the cause admirably over the past few years, often called upon as a getaway car for opponents of the president who needed to get away from police heat in the capital. The driver knew where the men wanted to go, having received his instructions from the mastermind of the show that Oscar had referred to. The group was headed northwest towards Highway 1, if possible, and drive several hours away from the glare of Santo Domingo.

Oscar had made the call a little earlier than he thought he would because he and Carlos knew that, if the military was firing on protest neophytes, they and the police would surely begin another roundup of every person with even the scantest record of opposition to the president’s regime. The two men had already spent time in a small, filthy jail cell for their political beliefs, tortured almost daily to break them for information. Neither had cracked, though, and they were released when their families collected enough money to spring them. Neither man had any desire to spend even another second of their lives in those overcrowded hellholes.

Can you go a little faster? Oscar asked impatiently. The driver complied, but Oscar added, Don’t run any red lights, though. That will just draw attention. What no one in the car realized was that the police had been tipped off to watch for anything unusual near the perimeter of the city. They had received information on the very vehicle that the men were in, and they knew that anyone surpassing the speed limit on that night probably needed to escape the tightening web around the government’s opponents.

Even though the driver was avoiding Dominican Republic-1, which would certainly be crawling with cops, the Tucson was seen by two groups of policemen a half mile from the city limits. Knowing that one opposition group favored Hyundai Tucsons and spotting one zipping through city streets at double the speed limit, the police gave chase, instantly turning on their lights and siren to reel in their prey.

Shit! Carlos said instinctively as he saw the screaming police vehicle behind their car.

You knew they wouldn’t let us drive out of here without an escort, Oscar said, trying to find dark humor in the men’s suddenly perilous predicament.

What should I do? the driver asked.

Turn up on the avenue where that factory—

Just then another police car came out of nowhere and smashed into the Tucson, spinning it counterclockwise up onto a sidewalk. The driver slammed on the brakes and avoided hitting a pharmacy’s brick wall. The police, sure that the vehicle was now disabled and the occupants