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  THE QUIET PROFESSIONAL

  Praise for Michael Byars Lewis

  “High speed, low drag, The Right to Know is a high-octane thrill ride!”

  -Brian Andrews, co-author of the Wall Street Journal

  Bestselling Tier One Thriller series

  “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.

  “If you like thrillers, you will love Surly Bonds!”

  -John Mese, Award-Winning Writer/Actor/Director/Producer

  “An entertainingly dense plot that links flawlessly to its forerunner, with room for more adventures.”

  -Kirkus Reviews on Veil of Deception

  “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

  “. . . 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

  “. . . 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

  “. . . Lewis simultaneously writes fiction and predicts the future. Don’t miss this talented author’s work.”

  - Joseph Badal, Best-Selling Author of Death Ship

  “. . . a fast-paced military thriller with twists and turns that will hook a variety of readers.”

  - Manhattan Book Review on Veil of Deception

  “An unforgettable debut . . . non-stop action from start to finish!”

  - Gary Westfall, Amazon #1 Best Selling Author of Dream Operative

  “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

  “. . . 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

  The Quiet Professional

  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 ©2019 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: August 2019

  SATCOM Publishing

  ISBN: 978-0-9914764-8-0

  E-Book ISBN: 978-0-9914764-9-7

  Cover Design by Damonza

  Printed in the United States of America

  Also by Michael Byars Lewis

  Retribution

  Surly Bonds

  The Right to Know

  Veil of Deception

  THE QUIET PROFESSIONAL

  Dedicated to Jakals everywhere; past, present, and future…

  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

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Find out what happens to Jason!

  Also by Michael Byars Lewis

  1

  October 10, 2003

  Ben Harris was once told that a man in debt is considered a slave. He was starting to understand what that meant. Beads of sweat pushed their way through his pores, and his shirt clung to him like a dense layer of skin waiting to be shed. He reviewed his instructions one last time before stuffing the page back into his pocket.

  The river seemed an unusual location for a payoff. He edged his way through dense traffic in the crowded market, hoping he could blend in. For a six-foot-one-inch blond American in Bangkok, Thailand, it would be difficult, if not impossible.

  He kept walking, his head on a swivel. The market, for all its informality, appeared relatively well-structured and busy for this late at night. Vendors sold everything from fresh fish and vegetables to handcrafted wooden elephants. The enticing aroma of pad see ew gai tickled his nostrils. The chicken and noodle dish was his favorite, and nobody made it better than the old women in the market. Various scents of peppers and spices wafted through the night air, the merchants' small skillets sizzled with delight. Loudspeakers pumped out stringy Asian music and techno-pop simultaneously while the nasal shriek of elderly Thai women created a chaotic distraction.

  A couple of young girls’ eyes followed him as he passed by a corner building. Their outfits were mismatched in both color and style.

  “Hey, G.I.,” one said. “You lonely tonight?”

  Ben put up a hand. "No, thanks."

  “You asshoe, G.I.,” she yelled.

  The two girls giggled and scurried to the other side of the street. He would not have been their first military client. Or last.

  The outdoor arena sat at the edge of the market. A pungent odor displaced the pleasant. The sounds changed, too, a structured rhythm of cheering replaced the constant chatter and music. Spectators surrounded the boxing ring. He chuckled to himself. Why do they call it a ring, when it’s a square?

  The makeshift arena, built from scraps of wood and rope, stood isolated from the market. All four sides had a set of po
rtable bleachers, five rows high. He edged closer, two Muay Thai fighters pummeled each other in the ring, yelling every time they landed a blow. Neither fighter had an ounce of fat on him. One sported a solid green pair of shorts; the other, in maroon with gold trim, was doing a lot more yelling.

  Ben’s chest tightened, and his breathing shallowed as the boxer in the maroon shorts landed blow after blow. It was Sarathoon, the casino owner’s “enforcer.” The location for this meeting started to make sense.

  A middle-aged Thai man next to him turned, the corners of his mouth sagging, exposing his rotting, yellowish-brown teeth. The wrinkles in his forehead contracted, and his eyes squinted. “You not belong here, farong,” he said in broken English.

  Ben got the message—he was a foreigner, outside of his element. He headed toward the rendezvous location by the river, refusing to make eye contact with anyone along the way. His anxiety decreased as he moved away from the arena. He shifted the canvas backpack from his right shoulder to his left; it grew heavier by the minute, in both weight and relevance.

  At the river’s edge, he glanced at his watch. When he was a lieutenant, his commander once told him, “On time was late, and early was on time.” The advice stuck with him. The meeting would take place in five minutes. Small waves splashed against the shore from a boat passing by, the water as black as the night sky.

  The horn and loud cheers behind him indicated the end of the boxing match. He repositioned himself so he could see upriver.

  Ben bristled at the tingly warning sensation in the back of his neck. He wiped the sweat from his brow and dried his hands on his pants.

  Not much traffic traveled this winding waterway tonight. After a minute, a lone light appeared around the bend to the north, like a train at the far end of an empty tunnel, until a second light appeared. Lamps hung from the bow and the stern, highlighting the vessel that sliced its way through the black water. The long-tail boat nosed around the curve and headed in his direction. He squinted his eyes while the long-tail moved closer, the intricate designs carved into the hull, the ornate trim and fresh gold paint gradually coming into view.

  Bingo.

  The long-tail pulled up to the dock. A man hopped out to secure the boat to a post with a rope while a second man laid a small gangplank from the boat to the dock. A woman rose from her seat on the boat, and Ben exhaled long and slow. His right thumb and index finger casually twisted the wedding band on his ring finger as she stepped on the wooden platform, her long blond hair cascading over her shoulders. A tight, khaki skirt fell mid-thigh, and a sheer, white, long-sleeve shirt fluttered in the slight breeze.

  She was not alone.

  The two men from the boat stood by her side and looked toward him. They focused on him briefly, then continued to survey their surroundings, each with a hand on his right hip. They waited by the water’s edge for a few minutes until Sarathoon jogged down the path from the boxing ring. He still wore the maroon shorts but now sported a t-shirt and tennis shoes.

  Ben's internal radar went into hyper-alert, and the hairs on the back of his neck bristled.

  His attention shifted back to the woman, Helena De Vries. He could not believe a woman with a body like hers could play blackjack the way she did. Maybe that was the reason she was so good. Who the hell could focus on the cards when she was at the table? Either way, here he was, attempting to pay her off. A slave to debt.

  The four left the dock and walked toward him. His heart raced.

  She smiled as she approached. The men’s stoic faces displayed no emotion.

  "You're a fool to show up here," she said, the smile fading from her face. His eyes traced the outline of her face and neck. She did not sweat; her skin glistened in the moonlight.

  Ben started to speak, but she put her hand up, her finger gently settling on his lips.

  Suddenly, she snatched him by the collar and pulled his head toward hers. She placed both hands along the sides of his face and kissed him. She slid her tongue in his mouth, and his eyes bulged. He detected a slight hint of Chardonnay on the lingering kiss.

  After a few seconds, she pushed him away. That was unexpected, and it made him more nervous. She did the same thing when he’d first met her at the card table. He searched her forest green eyes for a sign. Any sign.

  “Follow me,” she commanded. Hmmm. The payoff would not take place here.

  She marched toward the neighborhood next to the market, Sarathoon by her side. Ben stared at her backside as she moved away. It was perfect. One of those heart-shapes that only showed up in somebody else’s life. His eyes traced down the back of her thighs to her finely sculpted calves and her trim ankles perched in high heels.

  The firm push on his back came from one of her escorts. Was his staring obvious? Perhaps the guy thought he strayed too far behind, but it was the only way to enjoy the view. Her being here gave him a false sense of security. A second shove followed, and Ben closed the gap.

  The five of them turned down a side street, away from the noise and smells of the market. Helena’s high heels clicked with a steady cadence on the asphalt. At the end of the block, a lone streetlight lit the area. Ben took a quick assessment. Four men stood in the street, a large SUV and a Mercedes parked nearby.

  Ben recognized one of them, a short and overweight man he called “Chunky” at the blackjack table. He had lost big in the same game that put Ben in this mess.

  Perspiration poured down the sides of Chunky’s face, and his hands shook. Ben stopped in the intersection while his escorts moved toward the black SUV.

  Chunky brought three men with him despite being told to come alone.

  Helena moved forward, glancing back and forth between Ben and Chunky.

  “I hope you both have brought Monsieur Andrepont’s payment.” The firmness in her voice highlighted by a subtle Dutch accent.

  She turned to Ben. “Do you have it?”

  Sliding the backpack off his shoulder, Ben held it out toward her. One of her men took the bag and knelt. He counted the contents and muttered something in Thai to the woman.

  “Where’s the rest?” Her eyes glared.

  “It’s not ready yet,” Ben replied.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean it hasn’t been delivered. Look, I’ve been to every jewelry shop and gold dealer in Bangkok. The city is tapped out. I’ll get the last ten thousand to you in a few days. I—I need more time.”

  “Monsieur Andrepont will be disappointed,” she said. One of her men placed the backpack in the SUV and climbed behind the wheel. Ben realized they wouldn’t be going home by boat. Then she smiled. “You have four days. If the final payment isn’t delivered, we will come for you.”

  She turned to Chunky.

  “Well?”

  The man shrugged his shoulders. Chunky stood about the same height as Helena. His eyes showed . . . distance. The three sidekicks spread out. Helena tracked their movement. When she turned to face Chunky, he pointed a gun wrapped in his short, stubby fingers. His sidekicks then pulled guns.

  “I don’t think I pay your crooked boss a thing,” he said. “I think I have you move the gold from your car to mine.”

  This new twist in the standoff had Ben searching for a way out. People don’t pull out guns in Thailand. It is not part of the culture. That tingling sensation in the back of his neck was right.

  Ben’s eyes darted from one group to the other as he backpedaled cautiously. Helena’s men didn’t flinch. The sidekick to the right of Chunky grabbed Helena from behind around the throat, his pistol aimed at her head.

  Sarathoon’s body tensed, and one of Helena’s guys yelled in Thai. Ben checked to his left. Chunky pointed his pistol at Helena’s men. Ben had pegged him unstable from the beginning of the blackjack game two weeks ago. That’s why he called him Chunky—to get under his skin, hoping to rattle his concentration. But Chunky sweated worse now than when he played cards at the table, his hands visibly shaking. His gun shifted sporadically from Sarathoon to
Helena’s men.

  BLAM!

  Ben jumped when Chunky fired his gun. He missed whomever he was aiming at. The echo in the deserted street reverberated off the buildings. Helena’s men returned fire, a cascading eruption with no order or discipline, making Chunky’s shot sound like a BB gun. Chunky and one of his men ducked behind the Mercedes. Chunky’s man to the far right was hit immediately, his light-yellow shirt riddled with growing crimson spots. Ben dove for the ground and covered his ears. The gunman holding Helena turned toward her crew. At that moment, Helena bent her knees and dropped. Her captor had a confused look on his face just before his head vaporized into a red mist of bones, brains, and blood, followed by the loud report of a rifle.