Retribution
Praise for Michael Byars Lewis
“This story would make an excellent movie that should appeal to a wide audience.”
-Judge, 24th Annual Writer’s Digest Self-Published Book Awards, from a review of Veil of Deception
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“If you like thrillers, you will love Surly Bonds!”
- John Mese,
Award-Winning Writer/Actor/Director/Producer
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“An entertainingly dense plot that links flawlessly to its forerunner, with room for more adventures.”
- Kirkus Reviews on Veil of Deception
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“Michael Byars Lewis brings depth and authenticity to the world of the high-tech thriller.”
- James R. Hannibal, Author of the Nick Baron covert ops series, on Veil of Deception
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“. . . it’s time that genre fans stand up and pay attention to one of the most talented living writers in the genre today.”
- Bella Wright, Bestthrillers.com
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“. . . a plot that rockets along on full afterburner.”
- Tom Young, author of The Mullah’s Storm, Silent Enemy, and Sand and Fire on Veil of Deception
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“. . . Lewis simultaneously writes fiction and predicts the future. Don’t miss this talented author’s work.”
- Joseph Badal, Best-Selling Author of Death Ship (Danforth Saga #5)
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“. . . a fast-paced military thriller with twists and turns that will hook a variety of readers.”
- Manhattan Book Review on Veil of Deception
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“An unforgettable debut . . . non-stop action from start to finish!”
- Gary Westfall, Amazon #1 Best Selling Author of Dream Operative
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“Lewis practically makes the U.S. government a collaborator in its own destruction here. That was a surprising and very intriguing touch that added a lot to what, in a lesser author’s hands, could have been a humdrum conspiracy plot.”
-San Francisco Book Review on Veil of Deception
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“. . . Lewis clearly demonstrates that he has the skills to compete with some of the top thriller and intrigue writers of today.”
- Anne-Marie Reynolds, Readers’ Favorite
Also by Michael Byars Lewis
Retribution
Surly Bonds
The Right to Know
Veil of Deception
Retribution
Michael Byars Lewis
DISCLAIMER: The views presented in this fictional work are those of the author and in no way reflect the views of the Department of Defense nor its Components. This is a work of historical fiction. Characters and incidents are products of the author's imagination and are used fictitiously while locations and names of historical figures may be used as reference to ground the reader. Any resemblance of characters and incidents to actual events and persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright ©2018 by Michael Byars Lewis
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
First Printing: April 2018
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SATCOM Publishing
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ISBN 978-0-9914764-4-2
ISBN eBook 978-0-9914764-5-9
Cover Design by Damonza/Interior artwork by Michael Byars Lewis
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Printed in the United States of America
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Michael
Retribution
Contents
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
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
RETRIBUTION: THE AFTER THE EPILOGUE AND CREDITS SCENE . . .
Get Jason’s next adventure:
About the Author
Find out what happens next to Jason!
Also by Michael Byars Lewis
Preview of SURLY BONDS
1
June 1, 1994
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Sometimes opportunity presents itself—it’s whether you take advantage of the opportunity that counts. Carmine Romita stared at the ice in the bottom of his glass of scotch. The silvery translucent cubes slid effortlessly around the circumference as he jiggled the empty vessel. The CEO of Century Avionics had been shown his opportunity three days prior, and he wasn’t about to pass it up.
The Gulf Stream leveled off at forty-one thousand feet as it approached the entry for the North Atlantic Oceanic Route. Romita waved at the flight attendant. The young blonde retrieved his glass and poured him another drink. She placed it, with a fresh napkin, on the table in front of him, and flashed a flirtatious smile. She sauntered past him and ran her hand across his shoulder.
There would be time for that later. He leaned forward to his chief operations officer, Robert Casey.
“What do you think?” Romita said.
Casey glanced up from the papers spread out in front of him.
“About?”
“What the hell do you mean about? Bowman, you numbnuts.”
Casey grimaced.
Romita shifted in the leather seat and began to swivel back and forth.
“He’s going to run for president,” Casey said. “What else is there?”
Romita shot him a stare of incredulity. “Are you shitting me? You remember who this guy is, right?”
“Of course, I remember who he is. He’s the guy who made this company billions as a first-year congressman.”
“Damn straight,” Romita said. “And we made him a millionaire overnight.”
“Okay, so we made each other rich. He’s avoided us ever since. He’s intentionally distanced himself from the most profitable company in his district. We’ve never heard from him since he made the announcement that he was running for the Senate. What makes you think he’ll talk to us now?”
Romita leaned back in the soft chair and stared out the window. It was dark outside, and he saw no indication of stars.
“I had lunch with . . . him. Yesterday.”
“Bowman?”
“No. Sterling MacIntosh.”
The corners of Casey’s mouth fell. “You . . .why?”
Romita’s face flushed. What in the hell was wrong with Casey? He straightened in his chair. His longtime friend and associate tested his nerves. Whether it was pride, ego, or a toxic mixture of both, Carmine Romita was pissed.
“If Bowman gets elected, this company stands to make a fortune.”
Romita watched Casey’s bottom lip quiver.
“What did you talk about with MacIntosh?”
“I told him we were making a deal,” Romita said. He raised his voice. It was a subtle gesture to establish dominance in the conversation.
“What kind of deal?”
“I told him if we weren’t awarded the contracts on the
F-15E avionics upgrade, the Washington Post might find out how a first-year congressman from Houston, quadrupled his income.”
“You did what? Are you fricking crazy?” Casey’s response surprised him. The man never cursed. Especially at him.
“Relax, what the hell is the matter with you?”
Casey gathered the papers from the table in front of him as if he would leave. More of a symbolic move than anything else, he had nowhere else to go.
“You do know who Sterling MacIntosh is, don’t you?” Casey fumed. His anger overwhelmed Romita’s pride.
“Yeah, I know who he is.”
“You don’t make threats against Sterling MacIntosh. It doesn’t end well. Have you forgotten everything that’s happened over the last twenty years?”
“I haven’t forgotten shit, Casey. When the hell did you turn in to such a candy-ass? My job is to protect this company and our employees. We are on the threshold of making a fortune when this guy gets in office.”
“If he gets elected.”
Romita took a hard swallow of his scotch. “He’ll get elected. Dole is a dinosaur. Bowman will take him in the primary. After that, it will be a breeze stepping into the White House. There’s no way in hell this country is dumb enough to vote Clinton in twice.”
The blonde sashayed by again, and Romita's eyes followed. She turned and leaned against the cockpit door. Her hands reached up and unbuttoned the top two buttons on her blouse. Romita blocked Casey's uneasiness out of his thoughts. He focused on the blonde. She and this airplane cost his company more than he wanted to admit. Century Avionics, in fact, was bleeding money, fast. That was why they headed to Paris to personally make a proposal to Airbus. That was why he talked to Sterling MacIntosh about Bowman.
Casey stared out the window and chewed on his thumbnail. What a pathetic imbecile. Romita twisted his neck with a loud crack and returned his thoughts to the young blonde.
The Gulf Stream shuddered as it hit a pocket of turbulence. Romita had to brace himself against the side of the aircraft. When the aircraft settled, he returned his focus to the girl who held on to the side wall. He used his index finger to motion her over. The smile gradually returned to her face, and she started to walk toward him, and the Gulf Stream shuddered harder, almost like a bounce.
Romita flew out of his seat, and his knees hit the floor. Casey had his seat belt on, but his face turned pasty white, and his hands squeezed the armrests. Romita climbed back into his chair and buckled up. He noticed the blonde had fallen to the floor, as he grabbed the handset to call the pilots up front.
“Yes, sir?” one of the pilots responded.
“What the hell are you guys doing up there?”
“Our apologies sir. We’re encountering some turbulence that isn’t in the forecast.”
“Well get the hell out of it. I’m working back here.”
Romita hung up the handset and looked at the blonde. She climbed into the flight attendant seat and strapped in. He glanced at Casey, who stared blankly at him.
“You need to make things right with MacIntosh,” Casey said.
Romita started to answer when he heard a loud pop, and the airplane erupted into a massive fireball at forty-one thousand feet over the middle of the Atlantic.
2
June 2, 1994
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Jason Conrad stood on the corner of Bourbon and St. Peters Street, outside of Preservation Hall, a variety of purple, green, and gold beads strung around his neck. He tapped his feet on the broken sidewalk to the beat of the jazz quartet that played inside. Every night on Bourbon Street was like a mini-Mardi Gras. Darkness fell a couple of hours ago, but the neon signs up and down the street illuminated the area as bright as day. It was early, so there was still a freshness in the air, but by morning, the street would reek with stale beer, vomit, and urine. At sunrise, the owners of the establishments hose down the sidewalks, and the daily ritual would begin again.
He and two friends had come to Bourbon Street for Ben Harris’ bachelor party. Ben wanted his last night with the guys to take place in “The Big Easy.” Jason’s mother offered them a place to stay, one that was kind of hard to ignore. Her condominium was in the heart of the French Quarter. She moved there after Jason graduated high-school. Bourbon Street was a frequent destination for students from Louisiana State University, these guys were no exception.
Jason stuffed his hands in the pockets of his khaki’s. The heavily starched subdued purple and gold short-sleeved button-down was a much better fit in uptown New Orleans, but The Quarter had all kinds here.
Ben patted Jason on the back. “You stay here,” he said. “I’m gonna go talk that chick into showing me her tits.” Jason shook his head as his friend danced down the street.
They started at Preservation Hall earlier in the afternoon, then made their way to Pat O'Brian's. One Hurricane led to three more, and the guys were lit. They had wandered up and down Bourbon Street throughout the night and found themselves where they began.
All four of them recently graduated and were newly commissioned second lieutenants in the United States Air Force. They had been cadets in the LSU Air Force ROTC detachment, Det 310, The Flying Tigers. Ben and Jason were going to pilot training. The other two met a pair of school teachers from Minnesota an hour ago and returned to Pat O’Brian’s. He knew that was the last they’d see of them. Their new careers in non-flying assignments began next month.
The band in Preservation Hall competed with music blaring from other bars up and down the street; his ears rang from the noise. The “Hall,” rich in heritage, but short on glamor, was too crowded. He settled on standing outside.
Jason searched for the girl Ben mentioned. He thought he found her on the second-floor balcony down the street, flirting with people below. She hung on the ornate wrought-iron railing that spanned the length of the balcony. Her free hand held an oversized drink of an unknown type of alcohol, and her Carmen Electra-esque figure was on display for everyone to see. When Ben stopped and started yelling to her, that confirmed it. That was her.
There is no way he will convince her to show them, he thought. He’s not that good, nor that lucky.
Ben stood in the middle of the street, about fifty feet away. Jason couldn't hear what Ben yelled to the blonde on the balcony, but he was sure it was something about her breasts. Although his wedding was two weeks away, Ben insisted he'd need at least that long to recover from his bachelor party. The night was still young. "Well, I'll be damned," Jason mumbled softly.
Ben finally coaxed the girl out of her top, and he tossed a handful of beads up to her. It was an impressive feat. And an equally impressive sight. Jason laughed and started to turn his attention back to the band when he noticed a biker type rapidly approach Ben.
Uh-oh.
Ben was still looking at the half-nude girl when the guy threw a right cross that hit him just below the eye. He spun to the right and landed on his hip as two others showed up in support of the first guy. Jason pushed through the crowd toward Ben. He wished their other two buddies were here, but he couldn’t wait. The crowd moved away from Ben and his assailant.
The biker was about to hit Ben again, but Jason plowed into him from behind and knocked him face first into the filthy street. Jason stayed on his feet and turned to face his two accomplices. The first one lunged at Jason. He grabbed his arm and used the guys momentum to hurl him into a group of onlookers. The guy stumbled into a girl, spilling her Hurricane all over her white dress.
Jason turned to face the third guy, who was much smaller than the other two. After watching Jason handle his buddies, he cautiously backed into the crowd. Jason kept a steady eye on him until he disappeared. Ben staggered to his feet and walked over to the guy who hit him. The biker struggled to his knees and looked at Ben just before Ben’s foot connected with his jaw and sent the guy over on his back, unconscious.
The girl in white with a large red stain on the front of her dress, dropped f-bombs every other word at the b
iker’s buddy, who had bumped into her. Jason couldn’t tell what he said back to her, but the girl’s date started to pummel the guy.
He snagged Ben by the collar. “Let’s go,” Jason said. The two disappeared into the crowd as the street brawl escalated. Jason scanned around them for the third guy who disappeared. “What the hell did you do?” he said.
"I dunno. . . All I said was I was gonna get married in two weeks, and I wanted to see her tits. I guess her boyfriend didn't want me to."
“I guess.”
“They were nice tits.”
“Yeah, you got that going for you.”
Ben grinned a drunken grin like a little kid caught stealing from the cookie jar.
“I hope Tiffany doesn’t show her tits,” Ben said. Tiffany was his fiancé.
“She won’t.” Jason had his arm around Ben to keep him on his feet. The two turned left and headed to Royal Street—toward the condominium.
“Yeah, she will. She’ll leave me one day.”
“That’s the booze talking buddy,” Jason said.
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