Election Read online

  CapWar ELECTION

  Brandt Legg

  Contents

  Copyright

  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

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  A Note From the Author

  About the Author

  Books by Brandt Legg

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  CapWar ELECTION (CapStone Conspiracy Book One)

  Published in the United States of America by Laughing Rain

  Copyright © 2018 by Brandt Legg

  All rights reserved.

  Cataloging-in-Publication data for this book is available from the Library of Congress.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-935070-30-6

  ISBN-10: 1-935070-30-4

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher. Published in the United States of America.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  BrandtLegg.com

  Chapter One

  Hudson Pound sat nervously in his truck outside the local branch of Titan Capital & Trust Bank. If he didn’t get the loan, the small chain of hardware stores he’d worked so hard to build would have to be liquidated. He’d lose everything.

  Pound Hardware and Plumbing had eight locations in six southeastern Ohio towns. It was holding on against the big-box home centers, but in recent years, Hudson had been so busy championing his many causes that, in the weariness of juggling priorities, he’d let the stores slip. Now a cash flow crisis had to be addressed. Surely his old friends at TC&T would see him through.

  Hudson checked his tie. He rarely wore anything but jeans and a casual shirt, but today called for the suit. His reputation was excellent; a real community leader, civic duties and do-gooder. However, banks were only interested in numbers, and Pound Hardware’s weren’t solid enough to get the loan without putting up his house, and even then . . .

  But that’s where years of extensive charity work might tip the scales. Hudson hadn’t done that to help get a loan. It had been out of guilt, the deep burning kind that can ruin a life. He’d been running from the pain of it for almost three decades. When will I escape it? he wondered while looking into the mirror. When?

  Today, like so many times before, he had to force his past out of his mind. Take care of business. Get the loan. Otherwise, he . . . well . . . he didn’t know what. Maybe he’d find a teaching job, get a cheap rental on Eighth Street.

  What about my employees? Will they all find new jobs? And my reputation . . .

  No. The bank would work with him. He was prepared.

  “Look sharp,” he whispered to himself as he got out of the truck.

  Hudson took three steps and tripped over the curb, his right knee hitting a protruding piece of rebar. The twisted metal gouged his leg as he rolled onto the sidewalk. “Damn it!” he hissed, chasing papers which escaping the folder that had fallen a few feet away. The pain in his leg burned, and he saw his charcoal-grey pants were torn and bloody.

  He collected his papers and limped inside. The assistant branch manager, whom he’d known for years, greeted him warmly. The two were on several local boards together, including Rotary, Chamber, Hospital, Friends of the Library, and Little League.

  “Geez, Hudson, what happened?” the assistant manager asked, noticing the ripped pants.

  Blood was running down Hudson’s leg. The top of his sock was wet and sticky. “You should see the other guy,” Hudson joked, trying to cover with a laugh, as he winced.

  “No, really, let’s get that cleaned up.”

  Hudson followed the man into a breakroom where a large first aid kit was anchored to the wall. After washing the wound, Hudson taped on a big square of sterile gauze that the assistant manager had handed him and called it good. Nothing could be done about the pants.

  As they started down a long, mahogany-paneled hallway, Hudson asked his buddy about the chances of getting the funds.

  “The loan committee has gone over your application and financials. Everything looks good, but we’ve got some questions.”

  Hudson stopped walking and lightly put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Is there a problem?”

  “I really don’t know, Hudson. This one is very strange.” The assistant manager started walking again.

  Hudson followed, wondering what “very strange” meant. We’re talking about nuts and bolts, pipe fittings and paint. Hudson was about to press further, but his friend was suddenly called back to the front of the bank.

  With a reassuring gesture, the assistant manager left him alone in a small reception area. A few long minutes later, a woman he’d never met—although he thought he knew everyone who worked at the bank—introduced herself. With a friendly but professional smile, and no mention of his tattered attire, she asked him to follow her. The plush carpeted hallway, lined with a local artist’s oil paintings of sweeping landscapes, smelled like new money. The woman opened a polished wood door, stood aside and motioned him into a spacious conference room. As the door closed, he found himself alone with a man who sat comfortably at the end of a long, glossy black table. Hudson had not met him before either, but he certainly recognized him from the media.

  “Am I in the wrong room?” Hudson asked, as Arlin Vonner, famous for being one of the richest men in the world, stood and walked toward him. Hudson self-consciously tried to block his bad leg with the good, leaving him in an awkward pose.

  Arlin Vonner didn’t look seventy-two. Other than thick silver hair, his smooth face an
d dirt-brown eyes gave him the appearance of a distinguished executive, perhaps in his late fifties. He held out his hand. “You’re in the right place, Hudson Pound, owner of Pound Hardware and Plumbing, school board member, US Army veteran, age forty-six, single, widower, father of two, height six-two, weight . . . hmm, I’d say about one-eighty-five.”

  Hudson chuckled, which is what he always did when he felt strange or uncomfortable. Why is Arlin Vonner reciting my resume? Why does he even care? “I’m just here about a loan for my hardware stores.” He cocked his head to one side. “What am I missing?”

  “What happened to your leg?”

  “Old football injury,” he said, trying another joke.

  “You’ve never played football,” Vonner replied.

  “How do you know so much about me?”

  “Hudson, I’ve been an admirer of yours for quite some time.”

  “You have?” Hudson said, bewildered, having no idea why a man worth in excess of seventy billion dollars, famous for takeovers and venture capital, would even know his name, much less “admire” him. “Do you want to buy my stores?”

  This time Vonner laughed. “Are they for sale?”

  “Well, I—” Hudson stammered.

  “Of course they are. Everything’s for sale!” Vonner boomed. “It’s just a matter of negotiating the price.”

  “Do you really want my stores?”

  “No, no, nothing like that,” Vonner said, still smiling broadly. “But I do have a proposition for you.”

  “All right,” Hudson said hesitantly, still wondering if he was in the right room and trying to imagine what a man like Vonner would want from him. Absently, he turned around, looking for the gag, or at least John, James, Charlie, or any of the other bank employees he’d known and worked with for more than a decade. But Vonner and Hudson were alone in the room. “You certainly have my attention.”

  “Good.” Vonner smiled the flawless smile of a billionaire—snow-white and Hollywood-perfect. His boyish face revealed too few laugh lines for someone in his seventies with a light tan. “Then I have a very serious question for you. It may sound humorous at first, but I assure you, I never joke about politics.”

  “Politics?” That made a little more sense. Hudson had been approached many times about running for Mayor. After his breakthrough work on the school board, success in his business and military service, he might seem an ideal candidate, but his ambitions didn’t run that deep. “I really have no interest in seeking public office.”

  “Who said anything about seeking?” Vonner asked, still smiling. “I want to know if you’d like to be the next President of the United States?”

  Chapter Two

  Hudson stared at the billionaire as if he’d just told a joke that had the wrong punch line. “Excuse me?” he said, laughing nervously.

  Vonner held the hardware store owner’s gaze, wearing a friendly but serious expression, silently allowing the weight of his question to sink in.

  Hudson filled the silence. “Me, running for the presidency? That’s impossible.”

  “I assure you, Hudson, it’s very possible,” Vonner said evenly. “And more than just running . . . you’ll win.”

  “Why me? Why do you want me? Why would anyone want me? I have no experience, I—”

  “Don’t be so modest, Hudson. I’ve put together a list—the criteria, if you will—for the perfect candidate.”

  “There must be hundreds, or thousands.”

  “Yes.”

  “How did I get to the top of the list?”

  “Did I say you were?”

  “What exactly are my qualifications?”

  “You’re a seasoned executive running a successful business, your leadership on the school board turned the district around and has been a model for the entire state—and even other states.”

  Hudson had received a lot of attention in Ohio after that success. He’d been appointed to chair the Governor’s Blue-Ribbon Commission on Education Reform, and the Ohio Chamber of Commerce had made him Citizen of the Year.

  “That’s not enough to be president,” Hudson said.

  “Don’t forget, you bravely served our country, and you’re a native son of a key swing state.”

  “I’ve never held elective office.”

  “That’s the best part.”

  “I don’t see how.”

  “Come on, Hudson, you’re smarter than that. I’ve seen your university transcripts.”

  “Because the electorate is desperate for an outsider?”

  “I knew you’d catch on. The recent elections taught us many things, but the biggest was that the voters don’t trust, don’t like, and don’t want career politicians.”

  “Even if I was interested, which I’m not, what makes you think America would want a nobody like me?”

  “You’re exactly what they want,” Vonner replied. “They may not know it yet, but they will. I’ll make damn sure they will.”

  “How? I don’t understand.”

  “Hudson, I’m a powerful man. I have more money than most people can comprehend, but all of that only matters if I can do something with it. Something monumental.”

  “Then why don’t you run?”

  “No, you’re missing the point. The country wants—and, more importantly, needs—a regular guy. One of them. That’s where we’ve come to. First Catholic president, first black president, first woman president—well, almost, anyway. Now it’s time for the first average joe American president.”

  “Okay, but I still don’t get it,” Hudson said, finally sitting down, his leg throbbing. “You’ve got thousands of possibilities, why me?”

  “Do you think the country is on the right track?”

  “Well, no, but—”

  “Don’t you think we need to get government spending under control? Isn’t it time for real tax reform? Education? How about term limits for Congress? Aren’t there a hundred things you’d like to change about the world?”

  “Sure, but every voter on the planet has a wish list like that.”

  “But the difference is that you can do something about it. We need fresh ideas like you brought to the school board. Look how you’ve run your hardware stores, thriving against the onslaught of Home Depot and Lowe’s. They send you customers! You distinguished yourself in the military. Single dad, community involvement like nobody’s business—I mean when do you sleep? You’re a fantastic speaker. I’ve seen videos of you in front of the school board, hospital fundraisers, and the veteran’s memorial dedication. You’re a natural. And, torn pants aside, your Robert Redford looks are no small thing,” Vonner concluded, flashing his big smile.

  They continued talking for another forty minutes. It became increasingly clear to Hudson that Vonner had more than a plan for his candidacy. He had a vision.

  “We’ve got to return the Republican Party to its roots, the party of Lincoln. We need to get the country back on track, and really make it happen this time,” Vonner proclaimed. He spoke of change and reform in a way that not only captured Hudson’s imagination, but also mirrored his own beliefs. “There is so much to do!”

  The hardware store owner watched, mesmerized, as Vonner ran through a presentation that included a campaign commercial, incredibly well-researched material, and obscure polling data. For a few moments, while listening to the billionaire pontificate, Hudson could actually imagine it all happening. Maybe it wasn’t so crazy,

  “President Pound” does this, signed that, vetoed a detrimental bill, ordered troops . . .

  In the early days, Hudson’s favorite part of the hardware business had been fixing things. All day long he’d solve problems—a missing screw, a broken bolt, a stuck lock, a broken window pane, a leaky faucet. He loved to help people, but what Vonner was offering went way beyond just helping a handful of individuals . . .

  Just as he was having those fleeting thoughts, Vonner clicked for the next slide—a bright blue campaign sign that read: “Hudson Pound the Problem So
lver.”

  Hudson couldn’t help but smile. “That’s the motto for our stores. We’re the problem solvers.”

  “I know,” Vonner said, grinning. “Makes a perfect campaign slogan for you, don’t you think?”

  Hudson nodded and wondered if Vonner knew everything. How could he not, with his fortune and resources? How could he make such a proposition, stake so much on Hudson, without having investigated every aspect of his life?

  Still, there was something that only Hudson and two other people knew—and one of them was in prison, something Vonner could have no way of knowing.

  Hudson suddenly felt self-conscious. He’d been silent too long. “How do you know I’m not a closet alcoholic, or that I’m not a deranged arsonist, or something worse?”

  “Don’t be silly,” Vonner said. “You’ve been fully vetted. I know more about you than you do.”

  Hudson managed a weak laugh and looked back at the screen. The slide shifted to a photo of him that must have been taken at a school board meeting, but it had been Photoshopped so that Hudson appeared to be speaking to thousands of supporters with a “Pound for President” sign affixed to the podium and a large American Flag behind him. Hudson had to admit he looked presidential, in a Kennedy-esque kind of way. His good looks had helped him throughout his life, no denying that. Six-foot-two, blond hair worn in a shaggy version of JFK’s style, slate-blue eyes, and a runner’s build. Yeah, he was telegenic, photogenic, some might even say magnetic, and on top of that, public speaking and debating had always been passions of his. Maybe he could do this . . .