Sheila entered the house through the door that led into the kitchen, the icy wind blowing in behind her. After she shut the door and slipped out of her coat, she scurried in front of the fireplace, facing Big Joe with her rear end close to the fire. She wore a long-sleeve plaid shirt, tied below her breasts, Daisy Duke shorts, and cowboy boots. No wonder she was cold. The abnormal cold-front had caught everyone off guard.
“Oh, that’s nice,” she cooed.
Big Joe gave her a disdainful glance. “If I wanted to look at you Sheila, I would throw some dollar bills on the floor.”
She started to say something but saw the anger in his eyes. Across the room, Tuggar chuckled as he moved the tequila to the pantry.
“Screw you, Tuggar,” she yelled. She turned back to her rotund employer. “Big Joe, while I was at the club, some feller came in looking for you.”
His brow furrowed. She had his attention.
“For me? Who? Police?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think so. He was dressed way to nice. A real nice-looking feller. He was an older man. I mean, older than you, of course.”
Big Joe grunted. He wasn’t sure if that was meant to be a compliment or not.
“What did he want?”
“I don’t know. Wanted to talk, I guess.”
“What did you tell him?” Big Joe was curious now. Could it be a previous customer?
“I didn’t tell him anything, Big Joe,” she said. “He wanted to know how he could get in touch with you. I didn’t tell him nothing.”
There was a sound outside and Tuggar moved to the window by the front door, pulling the curtain back slightly.
“Big Joe,” he said. “There’s a limo outside.”
“A limo?” His head tilted to the side. He glanced back at Sheila, who retreated sheepishly away from the fire.
“Sheila?”
“T-that’s him, Big Joe. The man from the c-club.” Her face changed from confusion to fear. “He must have followed me home, Big Joe. I-I didn’t say nuthin’.”
Big Joe reached into the drawer of the end table next to the recliner and pulled out his Smith and Wesson .357 Magnum. The chromed pistol glistened in the fire light. Big Joe tucked in next to his thigh and saw Tuggar still peering out the window.
“Two fellas’ walking this way. One of ‘em looks like the old guy she talked about.”
The three were silent, until the knock on the door echoed through the living room. Tuggar glanced at Big Joe, who gave an approving nod. Tuggar opened the door and stepped back.
“Can I help you fellas?” Tuggar said.
“I’m here to speak with a Mister Joseph McCain,” Big Joe heard one of them say.
Big Joe’s eyes darted back and forth as he bit the left side of his lower lip.
“Tuggar, let them gents in from the cold,” he said.
The two men walked into his home. The older man, wearing a cashmere overcoat, walked in the lead. Confident. As if he owned the place. Shit. It’s for sale if he wants it. The second man was younger, more fit, and wore all black. He was the bodyguard. No doubt armed.
Subconsciously, his hand drifted toward the pistol by his leg.
“I don’t think you’ll need that,” said the older man with the perfectly coiffed silver hair.
Big Joe’s hand stopped and returned to his lap.
“What can I do for you gentlemen today?” Perhaps, he thought, it was an opportunity for him to finally make some cash.
“Mister McCain, it’s not what you can do for me. It’s what I can do for you. My name, sir, is Sterling MacIntosh.”
“Okay, Sterling MacIntosh . . .what is it you gonna do for me?” Big Joe began to relax. This guy was no thug. He was a man of means—and influence. And he had money. A lot of it. The question is, what the hell is he doing here?
Big Joe watched the silver-haired MacIntosh remove his gloves and walk toward the fireplace. The man acted as if Sheila wasn’t in the room, as the barely dressed tart scurried out of his way.
“It appears,” Sterling said, “that you’ve had quite a bit of misfortune since you began transactions with a young man named Lenny Banks.”
Big Joe’s body tensed, and his teeth clenched. How the hell did this guy know about that? Just how much does this guy know?
“Banks wasn’t a big deal. The kid owed eight-grand. Killed himself in an airplane before he could pay up.”
Sterling chuckled at his response. It pissed Big Joe off.
“I understand that amount of money, at that time, was irrelevant to you, Mister McCain. It was a matter of principle. And when someone didn’t pay, it made you look bad. You, no doubt, felt the need to show your customers this kind of thing was unacceptable?”
“Yes.”
“And the men you sent to resolve this issue, what happened to them?”
Big Joe thought about the guy who’d beaten his boys. “That fella who whipped them, he was killed in San Antonio.”
“Yes, the man who defended Lenny Banks. But your men were eventually murdered, which led to numerous law enforcement agencies probing your activities. Your customer base disappeared virtually overnight.”
Big Joe huffed. “I know what the hell happened to me. What the hell are you here for?”
A smile crept over the man’s face. “I’m here to tell you the name of the man responsible for your troubles.”
A sense of calm swept over Big Joe. He glanced at Tuggar and Sheila, who stood silent. A shocked look covered both of their faces. Big Joe tried to play it cool. He leaned forward in his seat with an authoritarian tone. “All right. Gimme a name.”
Sterling MacIntosh pulled the gloves out of his pocket and placed them back on his hands. He walked across the room toward his body guard and turned back to face him.
“The man you want . . . his name is Jason Conrad.”
Get Jason’s next adventure:
The Right to Know
About the Author
Michael Byars Lewis, 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.
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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.
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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.
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While his adventures have led to travels all around the world, Michael lives in Florida with his wife Kim.
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Follow Michael Byars Lewis:
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www.michaelbyarslewis.com
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Contact Michael Byars Lewis:
[email protected]
Also by Michael Byars Lewis
Retribution
Surly Bonds
The Right to Know
Veil of Deception
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Surly Bonds Page 33
