Retribution

by Michael Byars Lewis

  She sounded stressed. Perhaps the trip to England was her way of escaping it all. She went to visit Bill at the hospital in London. Jason wondered if perhaps they were closer friends than she let on.

  Regardless, his trip flying back to the U.S. in the B-25 no longer existed. He flew Delta jets from Gatwick to Atlanta, and from there, home.

  Jason tried to analyze the events from the last few days. Philip Ashford had been driven to the brink of madness by the loss of his family. News filtered across the Atlantic about a pair of independent newsmen who were found brutally murdered in New York. They had been butchered, described by one newsman as the most horrible scene he’d ever reported. Once the victims’ background was discovered, it was natural to tie them to Ashford. The timing, the location, and the motive were all evident.

  Ashford . . . he was a strange one. Why he chose to do what he did, the way he did, was questionable. Jason’s mother had been right, Ashford was broke. The paper trail showed he spent his vast fortune, tracking down the men he sought. One might think it would have been easier to find a weapon in France to use. Jason had the opportunity to discuss the situation with a secret service agent who was assigned as the liaison to the case, while sitting in the U.S. Embassy, waiting to go to the airport. The agent surmised Ashford determined after his initial hit man was arrested, this was the path of least resistance. Having his weapons smuggled in by someone else, who had a chance of not being detected, was his best bet. And using an airplane itself as a weapon was something no one had thought of guarding against before.

  The cab pulled into his apartment complex. His 1965 Mustang was parked in the space in front of his apartment. The Canary Yellow paint job was to factory specs. He loved that car; he’d had it since his freshman year. Jason paid the driver, grabbed his gym bag, and stepped out. When he reached the apartment door, he slid his key into the lock. He pushed the door open. Music blared over their stereo system.

  Maybe she’s doing housework. Or yoga.

  He walked into the apartment as the song ended and shut the door. Suddenly, Bethany rose from the other side of the couch. Naked.

  Naked yoga?

  He began to smile. Until a moment later, when a man’s head slowly rose up next to her. Jason’s heart raced, as the muscles in his face tightened. His teeth clenched, and his hands balled into fists. He looked back at his wife. Her face reflected no remorse, only disdain. For him.

  “Bethany?”

  Acknowledgments

  What a crazy journey this has been. I hope you've enjoyed this novella, which serves as a prequel to the Jason Conrad Thriller Series. You might be confused by the sequence of books as they have been published. Please don't be. You see, when I wrote my first book, Surly Bonds, I didn’t know this was going to be a series. In fact, I didn’t expect it to be published, let alone, read.

  The book was started in 1993 and had been worked on for years. When I finished the first draft in 1998, I had it scrubbed by a “Book Doctor” who gave me some great feedback. Most significantly, it was too long.

  The years went by and, as my wife likes to say, "Life gets in the way." It wasn't until I had an accident in 2011, where I was told I was lucky to be alive, and I decided to tie up some loose ends in my life. One of those was Surly Bonds. I had put so much work into the story, I simply wanted a hardcopy to sit on the shelf for my grandkids to see one day.

  I dusted off the manuscript (electronically of course) and began to pare and tailor the book to where I thought it should be. After having a few friends read the book, I got great feedback. Without going into excruciating detail, the book was launched in paperback, followed by the e-book a few months later.

  Then came the question, “When is the next one coming out?”

  Hmmm.

  I went to work on a story I’d carried with me almost as long as Surly Bonds. It became known as Veil of Deception. I learned a lot about writing, publishing, and marketing with the second book. In fact, the learning curve increased exponentially. And an interesting thing happened as I was writing Veil of Deception. I came up with ideas for several other books that take place between the two. Keep in mind, all of my books are stand alone, despite being part of a series. Yes, there might be a spoiler if you read them out of sequence, but you never have to read one, for another to make sense.

  So, the idea of a series was established. I completed the follow-on to Veil of Deception and immediately realized I had a much bigger world in front of me. It’s kind of a House of Cards meets Top Gun with The Americans stirred in. And it’s a helluva lot of fun.

  To tie them all together, I wrote Retribution, a prequel of sorts, that hopefully you just finished reading. It introduces some of the main players in Jason Conrad’s world, that interlace with the “real” world as well. Surly Bonds has been revised into a second edition, made shorter, tighter, and more focused as a thriller. I eliminated, hopefully, some of the errors in the original manuscript; both technically and creatively. Let's face it, writing novels is a lot like flying airplanes: if it were easy, everybody would be doing it. I've made a lot of mistakes along the way as an author. And like flying airplanes, it's not the mistake that you make, but how you deal with them, that counts.

  I have a few several people to thank who have been a tremendous help in this journey. Scott Tyler, Mike Burton, J.D. Rudman, Rob Rolfsen, and Terry Sears. These guys have been great at reading my manuscripts and letting me know where the holes are. I wouldn't be here without them. James R. Hannibal has helped and encouraged me to step up my game to the next level. My son Derek has helped with manuscripts and more importantly, the title for this volume. To my wife Kim, a special thank you for letting me pursue this "very expensive hobby." And finally, to you, the reader, for making this journey possible. Thank you.

  RETRIBUTION: THE AFTER THE EPILOGUE AND CREDITS SCENE . . .

  December 2, 1994

  * * *

  Sterling MacIntosh paced across the balcony of his New York City penthouse, his hands groomed the sides of his silver-colored hair. The warm wind whipped around him, and he loosened the knot on his silk tie. Central Park loomed below, rife with a myriad of tourists and residents alike. Pigeons darted around the patio before settling on the rails along the balcony. Sounds of the city were a distant echo far above 5th Avenue.

  He paused, deep in thought, his right elbow rested in the palm of his left hand. His chin rested in his right hand, his index finger extended, and tapped gently against his lips. Rays from the setting sun glistened on his oversized twenty carat engraved gold cufflinks. The door to the patio slid open, breaking his concentration.

  Sterling looked back to see his personal assistant, David, step through the doorway and make a gesture for someone to enter.

  A striking, curly-headed brunette wearing a tan-overcoat and big sunglasses stepped through the doorway and on to the balcony. He smiled as she approached.

  “Sterling, hello. How long has it been?”

  She stuck the sunglasses into her coat pocket and unbuckled the overcoat, then slid it off her shoulders. The scarlet dress she wore was conservative enough, but her voluptuous, yet athletic figure still made him stop and look at her. Sterling wondered why it had taken him so long to reach out to her.

  “My dear, you look as ravishing as always.”

  They met halfway, embracing in a friendly hug, followed by the European kiss toward each cheek. She surprised him by taking his face in her hands and kissing him on the lips. Her tongue darted into his mouth, and he responded in kind.

  After a few moments, he disengaged. “My dear, that’s not why I’ve asked you to come here.”

  "Sterling," she said, with a wry smile, "that's never why you've asked me to come here. It's simply a by-product of our meeting."

  He grinned at her comment. If she were only a little more refined, he thought, she’d be the perfect woman.

  They moved to the small table on the patio and sat. David walked out with a glass of Chardonnay for her and a Ma
callan Whisky for him. Sterling nodded, and David went back inside.

  “I need your opinion on something,” Sterling said.

  She raised her eyebrows with interest and took a sip of wine. “I’m listening.”

  Sterling swirled the whisky in his glass, looking at it, rather than her.

  “I’m sure you’ve heard by now about Jonathan’s announcement?”

  “Who hasn’t? Word on the Hill is he’s going to win the nomination.”

  Sterling nodded. He knew that; he was looking for something else. The former CIA field agent spent much of her time between New York and Washington D.C. and was privy to information that would otherwise be difficult to get.

  “I’ve been putting together his platform . . . I wanted to know what you’ve been hearing.”

  The corners of her mouth turned upward, slightly. She took another sip of wine.

  “I see.” She paused. “There is some question over Jonathan’s opinion on NAFTA. His embrace of Ross Perot’s giant sucking sound stance has confused some people. People who spend a lot of money on the Hill.”

  He took a sip of whisky and considered her comment. “This should be no surprise. Jonathan needs to stand diametrically opposed to Clinton on as many issues as possible.”

  “True. But NAFTA represents a fortune for executives and stockholders in a number of companies. Not to mention the unemployed workers who now rely on welfare because of the jobs moving south of the border. They’re creating a class of voters dependent on the government. And some of those voters like it. The Democrats certainly do.”

  “Let them know not to worry, my dear. Jonathan will push this hard in the campaign, but it will die on the vine once he’s in office.”

  “You’d better hope so. Otherwise, you’ll have a lot of angry associates out there.”

  “Nothing to worry about. So, tell me . . . What else is there?”

  She shifted in her seat. Uncomfortably, he noticed. He leaned in closer, positive she would provide something important.

  “I’ve spoken with some of my contacts at Langley,” she said. Her eyes darted to either side, as if someone may be close enough to hear what she had to say. “There are certain individuals overseas who are very concerned about the possibility of Bowman winning the presidency. The rumor is, they may try to interfere.”

  "Really?" He was surprised. Typically, he was tapped into such information, but this had slid by him. It was good he had reached out to her. "Where might this be?" he asked.

  She looked at him, the smile and sensuousness gone.

  “Russia.”

  Get Jason’s next adventure:

  SURLY BONDS

  About the Author

  Michael Byars Lewis, has been an Amazon #1 Best-Selling Author, and his books have also been on the Best-Seller lists on Barnes and Noble Nook and Kobo platforms. The award-winning author of the Jason Conrad thriller series, has been on numerous author panels at writer’s conferences such as Thrillerfest, The Louisiana Book Festival, and Killer Nashville. The Jason Conrad Thriller Series, consisting of Retribution, Surly Bonds, The Right to Know, and Veil of Deception, has garnered fifteen book awards.

  Michael is a former AC-130U Spooky Gunship Evaluator Pilot with 18 years in Air Force Special Operations Command. A 25-year Air Force pilot, he has flown special operations combat missions in Bosnia, Iraq, and Afghanistan. He served as an Expeditionary Squadron Commander for AC-130U combat operations in Iraq and spent his final assignment on active duty instructing and mentoring the next generation of gunship pilots at the Air Force Special Operations Air Warfare Center’s schoolhouse for flight instruction, the 19th Special Operations Squadron. Michael is currently a pilot for a major U.S. airline.

  Active in his community, Michael has mentored college students on leadership development and team-building and is a facilitator for an international leadership training program. He has teamed with the Air Commando Foundation, which supports Air Commando’s and their families’ unmet needs during critical times.

  While his adventures have led to travels all around the world, Michael lives in Florida with his wife Kim.

  Follow Michael Byars Lewis:

  www.michaelbyarslewis.com

  www.facebook.com/mblauthor

  Contact Michael Byars Lewis: michael@michaelbyarslewis.com

  Find out what happens next to Jason!

  I’m currently writing the next book in this series. If you’d like to get the novel for 99 cents (eBook formats only) when its done, follow these simple instructions:

  1. Leave a review for this book on the platform you purchased it on.

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  You’ll be notified as soon as the next book is available for pre-order/sale, so you can download it to the platform of you choice.

  Thank you.

  Michael

  Also by Michael Byars Lewis

  Retribution

  Surly Bonds

  The Right to Know

  Veil of Deception

  Preview of SURLY BONDS

  CHAPTER 1

  * * *

  August 8, 1995

  * * *

  BUT EACH ONE IS TEMPTED when he is carried away and enticed by his own lust. Old James nailed it when he wrote that line in the New Testament. Sport coat in hand, Dr. David Edwards stepped out of The Void, grinning as he shook his head. He had been tempted, enticed, and caught by the little vixen inside.

  Not a striking man, his five-feet nine inches sported a full head of hair, making him look years younger than forty-five. Slightly overweight for a man his age, his tailored clothes hid this physical imperfection. His most notable feature, and perhaps his most valuable asset, was his smile. A smile that told the world he knew something they did not.

  As he passed the front window, he stopped and waved to her one last time.

  “She looks kind of hot,” a male voice said from behind him.

  “What?” he replied, startled at the strange voice.

  “Are they real?”

  Edwards turned, his brow furrowed. “Can I help you?”

  The young man grinned. “Are they real? You’d know, right Dr. Edwards?”

  He glared at the obnoxious stranger. Edwards had walked into the bar two hours earlier. The afternoon he spent with his lawyer lasted early into the evening, and he had desperately needed a Scotch. One of Los Angeles’ more prominent plastic surgeons, Edwards started frequenting establishments like The Void four years earlier following a nasty divorce.

  The Void sat in the middle of Sunset Boulevard in downtown Hollywood. Tall windows trimmed with brass and a wooden bar with inlaid marble accentuated the interior. Coffee tables throughout the room and a small stage in the back catered to a counterculture living on the fringe of society. Dim lighting gave each table the illusion of privacy, while alternative music hummed softly in the background.

  Discretion was not an option at The Void.

  He had sat at the end of the bar furthest from the entrance, surveying the clientele. Several others sat near him, none of whom he considered engaging in a conversation. Smoke wafted in his direction when an older woman sat next to him, her cigarette held loosely in her long, wrinkled fingers. She and her partner were talking incessantly, chain-smoking between sentences.

  Lost in his thoughts, Edwards lifted his glass to his lips, wiping the condensation from his glass off the marble bar top.

  The establishment filled up quickly. Smoke hung over the bar like a sparse fog over the streets of London. Another chain-smoking group replaced the pair next to him. One of them, apparently a struggling actor, had made his first commercial that morning and was now celebrating. It was a tough town and a tougher career. For every lost soul who made his or her first commercial, there were a thousand out there who never found out where to start.


  Edwards decided it was time to leave. Until he saw her.

  A show-stopper. Period.

  She wore a lime-green mini-dress; skintight all the way up to the spaghetti straps that disappeared under her long blond hair. The dress strained tautly across her pert breasts. They were real enough. He should know. Her long legs descended to slender feet fitted into lemon-yellow pumps that matched her hoop earrings. A beautiful woman, perhaps no older than twenty-two. To him, her age was irrelevant. She represented something he no longer had. Youth.

  She stood at the end of the bar next to him.

  “Would you care to sit down?” he said, offering her his seat.

  “Thanks. I’m waiting for some friends,” she said. She climbed onto the stool and turned back to the bartender.

  After a minute, the bartender moved to their end of the bar and Edwards leaned over. “Can I get you a drink?” he said.

  She glanced at him briefly. “Sure,” she replied and continued to scan the crowd.

  Edwards waved at the bartender and pointed to the blonde.

  “Manhattan,” she said.

  “I’ll have another scotch,” Edwards said. When he pulled out a roll of hundred-dollar bills, her eyes grew wide, as the edges of her mouth curved slightly upward.