SURLY BONDS
Praise for Michael Byars Lewis
“The Bottom Line: Guaranteed to please Brad Thor fans…”
- Bestthrillers.com
* * *
“An unforgettable debut…non-stop action
and intrigue from start to finish.”
- Gary Westfal, author of the Amazon.com
#1 Best Seller, DREAM OPERATIVE
* * *
“If you like mysteries and thrillers akin to works by Vince Flynn and John Grisham, read SURLY BONDS.”
- Dennis Barnett, Editor-in-Chief,
Air Commando Journal
* * *
“A page turner to the end. Hats off Mr. Lewis for a job well done! If you like thrillers, you will love Surly Bonds!”
- John Mese, Award-Winning Writer/Actor/Director/Producer
* * *
“…a suspenseful and well-crafted thriller that delivers…”
- Jack Mangus, Readers’ Favorites
AWARDS WON BY SURLY BONDS
2014 Beverly Hills Book Awards
Winner – Military Fiction Category
* * *
2013 Next Generation Indie Book Awards
Finalist – First Novel over 80,000 Words Category
* * *
2013 Readers’ Favorite Book Awards
Bronze Medal Winner – Fiction/Intrigue Category
Surly Bonds
Michael Byars Lewis
Also by Michael Byars Lewis
Retribution
Surly Bonds
The Right to Know
Veil of Deception
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 ©2012 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: December 2012 Revised: June 2015
* * *
Second Edition: April 2018
* * *
SATCOM Publishing
* * *
ISBN 978-0-615-663951
eBook ISBN 978-0-9914764-1-1
* * *
Cover Design by Damonza
Printed in the United States of America
Publisher’s Cataloging-In-Publication Data
(Prepared by The Donohue Group, Inc.)
Names: Lewis, Michael Byars, 1963-
Title: Surly Bonds / Michael Byars Lewis.
Description: Revised. | [Navarre, Florida] : SATCOM Publishing, 2015. | "Revised: June 2015"--Copyright page.
Identifiers: ISBN 978-0-615-66395-1 | ISBN 978-0-9914764-1-1 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Pilots and pilotage--United States--Fiction. | United States. Air Force--Fiction. | Political campaigns--United States--20th century--Fiction. | Cold War--Fiction. | Scandals--Fiction. | LCGFT: Thrillers (Fiction)
Classification: LCC PS3612.E95 S87 2015 (print) | LCC PS3612.E95 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6--dc23
To Scott and Scott, thanks for getting me through . . .
To my lovely wife and children, without you, I would be lost.
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
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
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Surly Bonds: The After the Epilogue and Credits Scene
Get Jason’s next adventure:
About the Author
Also by Michael Byars Lewis
Find out what happens to Jason!
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 establishm
ent 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.
“Are you in the business?” she said. The “business” in Hollywood, is code for the movie industry.
“Sort of.”
“What do you mean ‘sort of’?”
“I’m a doctor. A plastic surgeon.”
She tossed her head back and laughed. “Yeah, I guess you’re sort of in the business.” Her eyes narrowed as she paused and tilted her head. Her tongue traced over the hot pink lipstick covering her upper lip and she stuck out her hand. “I’m Nikki.”
Edwards shook her hand. “David.” Typical. He could spot one a mile away.
She took a sip of her drink then bit her lower lip. “Okay, if you’re a plastic surgeon, let me ask you something.”
“Okay,” he said setting his drink on the bar.
Nikki turned on her stool to face him. “What would you do to make these better?” She sat upright and pulled her shoulders back, her breasts sticking out majestically.
Edwards glanced down briefly, and his eyes locked on hers.
“Not a thing,” he said with a confident grin. “You’re absolutely perfect.”
Her eyes grew wide and her cheeks flushed. She reached over and slapped his forearm.
“That’s a great line,” she said with a big smile.
“Trust me. I’m a professional.”
Two more drinks, followed by an exaggerated version of his life greatly embellished by Scotch, and she was hooked. He made promises of elegant dinners and weekends on his sailboat; she made promises of evenings in his hot tub. They flirted for a while longer then made plans for a rendezvous next week. After her friends arrived, Edwards collected her phone number, paid his bill, and left.
Outside, staring at her through the window, he was still captivated. But his focus shifted from Nikki to the stranger who had just approached him outside the bar. He sized up the man. Vaguely familiar, early to mid-twenties. Blue jeans, too big and too long, dragged beneath his Reeboks. He wore an oversized hockey jersey with an Anaheim Ducks ball cap backwards on his head.
“I thought I recognized you,” the young man said. “I wanted to say hello.” As he turned to leave, he said over his shoulder, “By the way, you do good work.”
Edwards’ eyes followed him as he rounded the corner. He felt like he knew him from somewhere . . . odd.
Unable to place him, however, he turned back to the window and waved to Nikki. She waved back enthusiastically, her tight frame bouncing in the formfitting dress. The doctor lingered for a moment, then strutted toward the parking lot, his grin wider.
As he rounded the corner, Edwards left the bright lights of Sunset Boulevard. The street lay dark and the overcast evening sky blocked out any moonlight. Despite the mantra that it never rains in L.A., the weatherman had forecast rain showers for earlier this afternoon. He missed his mark by several hours.
A cool breeze started to pick up on the quiet street; the air felt moist. It would rain any second now. The streets were deserted. Several drops of rain hit his Italian-made sport coat, and Edwards started walking faster.
The silence broke with a loud crack. Edwards jumped, then realized he was the source of the noise. Broken glass. He looked up. The lamppost he stood next to was broken.
Damn kids . . . Oh no, my car! If they’ve done anything to my car . . .
Scanning the vehicles in the immediate vicinity, none of them appeared to have been vandalized or robbed. Several BMWs, Mercedes, Saabs, Cadillacs, and a Jaguar XJ-6 convertible all untouched. Edwards increased his pace to a jog, his mind spinning between thoughts of the girl and fear for his car.
At the next intersection, Edwards saw his car across the lot through the darkness. Slowing to a walk, his breath came in large gasps. He ran his hands through the slightly graying hair matted against his head, and grinned. The effects of the Scotch he’d had in The Void made him oblivious to the impending storm as the rain started to drizzle.
Twenty yards from his Porsche, he pulled out his keys and triggered the alarm. Two loud blips pierced the increasing rhythm of the rain, and the parking lights flashed as his car alarm deactivated. The rain fell heavier now, and he picked up his pace to a brisk walk.
When he approached his car, someone grabbed him from behind, gripped his forehead, and jerked him back. Edwards’ arms struggled to loosen the grip holding his head. Flailing helplessly, his strong attacker had no difficulty sending Edwards off-balance. He saw a screwdriver in the attacker’s hand. He struggled in vain, franticly attempting to free himself. Unable to do so, frustration and fear rapidly took over his thought process. Edwards felt the tip of the screwdriver against his flesh where the skull joins the vertebrae. Visions of this nightmare raced through his consciousness as the dull tip pushed its way through his skin at the base of his skull. Edwards screamed as his face twisted in pain. The screams went unheard.
WITHOUT PAUSE, THE MAKO thrust the thin metal tool through the base of Edwards’ neck into his brain. The screwdriver pierced the meninges and thrust into his brain. A few quick rotations of the crude weapon and it was done. Death came quickly. Edwards’ body went limp and fell to the ground. Blood trickled out of the small but fatal wound in the back of Edwards’ skull, mixed on the ground with rainwater, and washed away in seconds. The Mako briefly stared at the lifeless form on the ground before him. Kneeling next to his victim, he dropped the screwdriver by the body.
“I do good work, too,” he said as he stood up, turned, and walked away, his job here complete. He had a plane to catch.
2
August 10, 1995
* * *
JASON CONRAD WAITED IN THE second row for class to start. Seats in the rear filled up first, forcing the latecomers to sit in the first few rows. He didn’t mind. In college, he always sat up front. It showed the instructors he was interested, and it exposed him to fewer distractions. The habit followed him to pilot training at Vance Air Force Base (AFB).
The base was located south of Enid, a small town in Northwest Oklahoma with a population around 40,000. Vance AFB was an integral part of the community, and Jason Conrad found himself following the path of thousands of pilot hopefuls before him.
A stack of books covered the edge of his desk. Perspiration rolled down the sides of his face and his heartbeat increased. Tapping his pencil on the notebook, Jason shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The olive-gree
n flight suit fit him a bit too snuggly. He grabbed his workbook and skimmed through it. His eyes wandered from the book and darted around the room. A small percentage of the armed forces had the opportunity to attend pilot training, and he was lucky. In an era of cutbacks and reduced funding, his timing was perfect.
There was a variety of students in the room. To an outsider, they would appear as a room full of clones, in olive drab flight suits. But to the insider, every person was unique; with his own ability, his own past, and his own secrets.
The room was about twenty by thirty feet with an elevated platform at the far end. On the platform stood a wooden podium and a metal pushcart that contained a television and VCR. A four-paneled dry-erase board covered the wall behind him. It was arranged so the panels slid to the side and a projector could be used from behind the screen.
Surly Bonds Page 1
