Surly Bonds

by Michael Byars Lewis

  “Hurry, he’s going under,” Kathy said. No sooner than she finished her warning, Jason fell on to his back. For the third time, he submerged below the river’s surface.

  Alonzo picked up his pace, almost running in the shallow water. He reached Jason in seconds. His large hands grabbed Jason by the jacket and pulled him out of the water. Jason coughed and gasped for air. Blood and water spewed out of his mouth.

  “You okay, kid?”

  Jason blinked at Alonzo. A faint smile crossed his face. “What took you so long?”

  “You know, I’m getting tired of saving your butt,” Alonzo said, smiling at him.

  “Good,” he mumbled. “I’m tired of needing it saved.”

  Alonzo helped him to his feet and led the young man to the sidewalk. Kathy leaned over the edge to meet them.

  “Jason, are you okay?” Kathy cupped his cheeks in her hands.

  He looked at her weary-eyed. “I think the question is, are you?”

  Kathy nodded. “Yes, I’m fine. Vince went that way. We’ve got to go.” She let go of him and dashed off. Jason and Alonzo followed.

  The bedraggled group of three pushed their way through the crowd, Kathy in the lead. They reached an area where they had to make a choice: either continue along the river or pass through the glass doors that led to the Alamo Plaza. The three of them stood under an awning, searching in all directions.

  “Hey,” a drunk called out to them, “are you guys looking for a guy who’s all wet and bleeding?”

  “Yeah, how did you know?” Jason said, blood dripping down his forehead.

  “You’re kidding, right?” the fat one said. His partner laughed at the comment.

  “Cut the crap, beer boy. Where did he go?” Kathy demanded.

  The fat one leered at her, then saw the gun on Alonzo’s hip. “That way.” He pointed to the glass doors. “Headed for the street.”

  JASON MOVED FIRST THIS TIME, as the three raced through the foyer and up the stairs. The tiny Alamo Mission stood across the street less than a hundred yards away.

  “Damn, where is he?” Alonzo said, frustrated.

  The three stood on the sidewalk and searched for Vince. It was easier on the Riverwalk—their focus was more channeled. But here in the streets, it might prove impossible to find him.

  Jason wiped the blood from his mouth with his sleeve. He scanned the area as he had been taught in the airplane. Search in a quadrant for a few seconds, then look somewhere else. Look there, then shift to another place. Search all quadrants, then go back, and start the process over.

  After about ten seconds, he spotted a familiar figure hobbling toward the front door of The Alamo. “There he is,” Jason said, “heading for the door.”

  The three weaved between the cars stopped in the street. Jason leaped on top of the hood of a nearby car and began jumping from car to car.

  “Hey asshole, get off my car,” someone shouted at him. Horns blared as everyone stuck in traffic joined in the chorus to break up the monotony. Jason jumped off the last car onto the sidewalk on the other side of the street.

  “Oh, crap.” Jason straightened. Vince stared at him, a mere hundred and fifty feet away.

  VINCE RAN INSIDE THE ENTRANCE of The Alamo and slammed the door behind him. He ignored the tourists around him inside the dark mission, and frantically sought a way out. The main chapel was crowded, probably because of the rain.

  He pushed his way through the mass of people as if they weren’t there. He dashed through the door toward the gift shop. When he entered, all heads turned toward him. Vince’s clothes were soaked and streaked with blood.

  A small Japanese man moved through the crowd and took a quick photo of Vince standing in the doorway. Vince threw a right cross to the man’s jaw.

  The Japanese photographer fell back, unconscious before he hit the ground.

  “All right, young fella, that’s about enough of that.”

  Vince turned around to see a security guard approach him. Slightly overweight and well into his fifties, Vince’s eyes fell on the .38 caliber revolver aimed at his chest.

  The guard had no nervousness in his voice. His hands did not shake. He had firearms training—and was a threat.

  Vince let out a sigh, shook his head, and slowly raised his hands. When the guard moved closer, Vince’s shoulders drooped, and his body relaxed. As the guard came within arm’s reach, Vince lashed out and clasped both of his hands around the pistol. The guard fired one round that went wild into the far wall. Twisting the guard’s wrists toward him, the guard’s grip loosened. Vince had the gun in less than two seconds. He leveled the pistol at the guard’s chest.

  “WHERE IS HE?” KATHY said, as she and Alonzo joined him in the chapel of the Alamo.

  “I’m not sure,” Jason said. “He’s been here. I heard a gunshot just before I came inside. I’ll check out back. You two look in here.” He didn’t wait for confirmation, as he bolted out the exit that led into the courtyard.

  Kathy turned to Alonzo. “Any ideas?”

  “Let’s try this door.” Alonzo thumbed toward the one on the left.

  Kathy nodded.

  BLAM!

  They glanced at each other and ran to the doorway.

  When they reached the entrance to the gift shop, Vince stood over the man he had just shot. Alonzo rushed him from behind.

  The OSI agent’s bulky frame smacked into the Russian assassin’s back, and the two fell forward, smashing into the glass display case. Shards of glass and antique pistols fell from the case as the two men crashed to the floor.

  Alonzo landed on Vince’s chest. Blood oozed from the small wounds caused by the broken bits of glass from the case.

  Vince let go of the pistol, which slid across the floor.

  The tourists and employees swarmed out the exits as fast as they could.

  Kathy, moving unnoticed among the fleeing patrons, searched for the guard’s pistol.

  VINCE WHACKED THE TALL black man across the back of the head with the butt of an antique flintlock pistol and he collapsed.

  He struggled to the door. People scurried out of his path. Once in the courtyard, the tourists stared at him. They had nowhere else to go. Vince glimpsed their faces as the rain pummeled them all. They were scared and angry. This was not an advantageous position to be in.

  Once back inside the chapel, Vince staggered toward the front door that had brought him into this maze of violence. The chapel was empty except for one man.

  Jason Conrad.

  The rage and hatred swelled within him, his fists clenched at his sides. Jason represented everything that had gone wrong in this operation and Vince wanted revenge.

  “Enough of this,” Vince said. “I’m finished. But I tell you, old friend, you are about to die here and now.”

  Jason took a deep breath, his breathing labored. “You know, you . . . are starting . . . to sound like . . . a broken record.”

  “I’m going to kill you, Conrad.”

  Hands on his hips, Jason grimaced. “Hey asshole, you’ve tried to kill me—what? Five, six times now? In my country, that pretty much means you’re a failure. You miss Lenny doing your dirty work?” Jason’s breaths came in long gasps. “If you ever make it back to Russia, do you think you’ll even have a job? I mean, your performance report is going to suck.”

  Vince roared and charged Jason, who braced for impact. Jason’s defenses were easily deflected; Vince grabbed Jason and slung him into the wall. Jason hit hard, his head impacted the edge of a picture frame. His legs buckled, and his knees impacted the concrete floor.

  Vince walked to a glass display case that contained an oversized knife. His elbow shattered the glass case, he removed the knife, and moved toward Jason.

  With Jason’s hair grasped in his free hand, Vince backhanded Jason in the face with the handle of the knife.

  Jason’s head jerked violently to one side and hung limp, as blood dripped to the wet floor.

  Vince maneuvered behind him
and placed the edge of the knife against Jason’s throat; he knew the best way to carve his victim.

  BLAM!

  A sensation stung his right arm and the force knocked him forward. Vince tried to control his arm as he fell, but it wouldn’t respond. The knife slid from his fingers as he fell. His other hand released Jason’s hair as Vince impacted the floor.

  Jason slumped over, battered but breathing.

  Vince writhed on the floor in agony. His left hand clasped the wound in his right arm. He rolled over toward the shooter. “You . . . why?”

  Kathy stared at Vince through the sights of the guard’s revolver as she moved within ten feet of him, the barrel pointed at his forehead.

  “It’s like Jason said—you’re just not very good at your job.”

  Vince rose slowly and leaned against the wall. He continued along the stone until he reached the doorway. Kathy followed; she kept a safe distance with each step.

  He backed out of the doorway and re-entered the courtyard. The people outside scurried away from him. A woman screamed when Kathy followed him outside, the pistol aimed at his head.

  Vince stood trapped. His breath heavy; his legs wobbled. His right arm was immobile; the bullet shattered his elbow. The rain increased, and blood dripped from his arm, blending into the puddles that swirled on the ground.

  Kathy started to lower the gun. Jason appeared ten feet behind her in the doorway. He tried to speak, but it came out as a mild mumble, drowned out by the rain.

  “Kathy, I—” Vince stopped, as his eyes met Kathy’s. He searched for some evidence of compassion, but all he found was determination. Escape, this time . . . unlikely. The gun firmly in her hand; her thumb cocked the hammer. He glanced at Jason for a moment, then back at her as he grinned. A deadly grin.

  “Dah sveedahnee yee,” she said. Goodbye. Her eyes narrowed, and her finger tightened as she squeezed the trigger.

  Epilogue

  April 19, 1996

  * * *

  JASON GRINNED AS HE TAXIED HIS JET on to the taxiway for his first solo sortie in the T-38, the chilly wind whipped through the open cockpit. Life was full of surprises. A few months ago, he struggled as a student pilot in the T-37. There were moments he didn’t think he would make it through the program. He wondered if his association with Lenny’s test cheating scandal or Vince’s dual identity as a Russian assassin would hurt him in pilot training. Ironic how those two events propelled him into the national spotlight and helped him save his father’s life.

  Senator Jonathan Bowman dropped out of the presidential race shortly after the incident. He took the time to get to know his son, who he’d only met a few months earlier.

  The Air Force, with encouragement from the CIA and the Senate Armed Services Committee, gave Jason a few months to recover from his adventure before he returned to pilot training. This had been a blessing, and he dove in with a vengeance. While his T-37 performance was average, Jason excelled in the T-38—it finally all clicked.

  The wing commander, however, didn’t appreciate all the attention that had been bestowed upon the second lieutenant. He was ready for Jason to graduate and move on to another base. Until that time, he thought he’d punish Jason by restricting him to the base. That move only helped him focus on his training.

  Jason lowered the canopy and taxied the jet into the hammerhead, the holding area for his jet while he waited his turn for takeoff. He thought about Kathy and what she meant to him. She saved his life at The Alamo. She was the one who pulled the trigger and killed Vince. Kathy vanished that day. When the police went to Kathy’s parent’s house, it was empty except for the furniture. She disappeared along with her parents. He found out later, the Joneses, who she had lived with in Enid, had moved and put their home up for sale.

  Kathy had turned in to a ghost. At one point, he thought he loved her, but he realized a relationship was the last thing he needed. At this moment, the only thing he loved was this jet.

  Cleared for takeoff, Jason eased the T-38 on to the runway, lined up on the centerline, and stepped on the brakes. He edged the throttles forward and checked his engine instruments. Verifying they were good, he released his brakes and pushed the throttles over the hump into afterburner. The two J-85 jet engines felt like a kick in the pants as he accelerated down the runway.

  “Woohoo!” Jason hollered as he rotated the jet and climbed away from earth.

  This truly was the most fun you could have with your clothes on.

  THE ROOM WAS SULLEN AND DARK, except for the single light bulb over the desk. The man seated behind it, beamed from ear to ear. Around the room, dignitaries and senior officers, lined all four walls for this special occasion. He stood from behind the wooden desk and walked to the front. A lone officer stood in the center of the room.

  Nikolai Gregarin spoke. “My comrades, it is with immense pleasure that we honor one of our greatest today. Months have passed, since the failed attempt on Senator Bowman, but the overall mission was a success. He ceased his election campaign. That my friends, was the ultimate objective.

  “My heart is saddened that during this operation, we lost one of our own, The Mako, Oleg Stolovich. But with every loss is a rebirth. And one of our finest has returned to Mother Russia, a hero. It is my duty and my honor, to award the Order of Glory, First Class, for service to the Homeland in the Armed Forces of Russia, for exemplary service, both during a war, although it be a cold one, and during peacetime, to Lieutenant Irena Vodianova.”

  Nikolai leaned forward and pinned the medal on the beautiful young officer’s blouse pocket flap, not concerned his hand lingered on her breast. He grasped her shoulders with both hands and gazed in her eyes. “Welcome home, Irena. You’ve had a long, hard journey. It took almost this long to get you home, but I think you will find it worth the wait. Kathy Delgato is dead . . . long live Captain Irena Vodianova!” Nikolai said, pinning the new rank on her.

  “Long live Captain Irena Vodianova!” the crowd roared.

  “Thank you, Comrade Gregarin,” said the woman who had once been known as Kathy Delgato. Nikolai noticed the soft but confident voice and the enticing fragrance of her perfume. It had a soft, rosy smell that had an edge to it, like her voice.

  Acknowledgments

  Writing novels is kind of like flying airplanes . . . if it was easy, everyone would be doing it. Surly Bonds was originally dreamed up and put to paper in the mid to late 90’s. Like most first novelists, I had absolutely no idea what I was doing, I simply had a story I wanted told. The first draft took forever, then sat on the shelf for ten years.

  It wasn’t until I had an accident (and the attending physician kept telling me I should be dead) that I decided to dust off the manuscript and get a copy made to put on the shelf. I had put so much work into the book, I wanted something tangible to show my effort.

  Eventually, with the encouragement of some friends who read the manuscript, Surly Bonds was published and released to the public. A few months later, the Kindle version was released as well. Before I knew it, the book was finding and enormous amount of success for an independently published book. When it won its first award, the story was picked up on the AP wire and it spread like wildfire. It was a pretty good story, but it had its flaws.

  By the time I finished my third book, I realized Surly Bonds needed some work. This second edition has a tighter storyline with a lot of the extraneous stuff thrown out. There are some craft issues that have been fixed, things that I simply didn’t know about as a first-time author. Some details have changed, to tie the existing books together more, but the overall essence and theme remain unchanged. And I think it’s a little more thrilling.

  I couldn’t have made this rewrite possible without the help of some great friends: Scott Tyler, Mike Burton, J.D. Rudman, and Terry Sears. Glen Berree, a good friend who left me a message on my phone that inspired me to keep going. As always, a special thank you to my beautiful wife Kim. And a very special thank you to you, the reader. I hope you have as much f
un reading this as I did writing it.

  Surly Bonds: The After the Epilogue and Credits Scene

  April 21, 1996

  * * *

  THE FRESH LOG CRACKLED IN THE blazing fire, flames licking the top of the fireplace. Joseph Archibald McCain waddled back to his leather recliner and took a sip of Jim Beam, straight up, as he stared at nature’s television.

  “I could’a done that for you, Big Joe.”

  Big Joe looked up to see Tuggar, the most senior “employee” he had left. Tuggar was bringing in a case of tequila Big Joe had received as a payment from one of his customers. Big Joe responded with a heavy sigh and returned his focus to the fire. He was frustrated after another round of questioning from the police about the deaths of Bob Allen and Monroe.

  They were killed eight months ago, and Big Joe had watched his business crumble ever since. He used to be welcomed in the fanciest country clubs and restaurants in Oklahoma. Now, he couldn’t even reserve a table at Eskimo Joe’s. In fact, he was asked not to return. Politely, of course.

  His money dried up quickly as his gamblers disappeared. The incident involving that damn Air Force lieutenant, Lenny Banks, scared off almost everyone. Everyone with any money that is. And with the money, so went the beautiful women.

  Most of the stable of women he employed had moved on to brighter pastures. Sheila was all that remained. Her figure was still impressive, but she was what Tuggar often referred to as less than attractive.

  Big Joe shifted in the large recliner, his massive form filling the chair. The stress of the last few months resulted in him eating and drinking twice as much as before. And he was far less mobile, now residing primarily in his small house outside Tulsa. He had quit weighing himself decades ago, but the clothes he owned, now burst at the seams and Big Joe figured he’d easily put on thirty to forty pounds. The winter weather didn’t help much. He spent most of his days in front of the fireplace, his exercise consisted of throwing another log on the fire.