Folks, from the Flight Blog, this is Cap’n Aux speaking. As promised, at the end of this post you will find a link to the story behind that amazing “Rio Gold” cabin photo from our last post, shot by Flight Attendant Anthony Reece, as he flew many of our U.S.A. Olympians back from the Rio Games.
But First . . . .
I know many of you have enjoyed my books and novels, (almost as much as I’ve enjoyed writing them!) and I’m very excited to announce the pending publication of my latest “Spy/Fly” novel, Yakuza Dynasty!
Publishing on October 5th, this is the fourth and final installment of the Code Name: Dodger Spy/Fly series.
In honor of my fellow avgeeks—and because I love aviation so much myself—the Code Name: Dodger Spy/Fly series has always contained a liberal dose of aviation scenes, and Mission Four is no exception. Shanghai’d on a Korean mobster’s Gulfstream, New York teen orphan Justin Reed must figure out a way to escape inflight!
(By the way, today’s banner pic is of my good friend Captain JD Marcellin, of People of the Sky Facebook page, aboard his new Global. JD’s Gulfstream was the original inspiration for the inflight escape scene in this book!)
It’s been a long and rocky road for Justin, as he’s been forced to square off against the evil spy Pharaoh (Mission 1: Operation Rubber Soul), drug smugglers in Mexico (Mission 2: Cartel Kidnapping) and violent terrorists in Israel (Mission 3: Jihadi Hijacking.) Now, his saga comes full circle, as Justin is discovers the shocking truth of his Japanese childhood.
Just as in the past, you’ve clamored for an early release. So, for your convenience,
Preorders Now Available for Your eReader!
Special eBook Preorder rate: $2.99!
Preorder Link: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01LGL6OSI#nav-subnav
Stay tuned for special discounts on Missions 1-3, beginning October 1st!
What others have said of the Code Name: Dodger Series
Mission 1: “Superb, gritty and engaging, with equal doses of adventure, sentiment and thrill. A thorough entertainer!”Online Book Club
Mission 1: I’m 50 years older than the target market for this book, and I couldn’t put it down!George Nolly, Airline Pilot, Author, Hamfist trilogy
Mission 2: “4/4 STARS! Fast-paced, action-packed spy novel. Reluctant and avid readers who enjoy teenage, fast-paced spy adventures will love reading this book !”Online Book Club
Mission 2: All expectations were exceeded! The ending was nothing short of a great surprise!”Karlene Petitt, airline pilot and author, Flight to Success trilogy
Mission 3: “A free-wheeling, engaging espionage tale that aims to enlighten readers!”Kirkus Review
Mission 3: “4 out of 4 stars! Superb on so many levels. A well-executed juggling act with just the right amount of humor. A highly detailed, entertaining, and character-driven spy thriller!”Online Book Club
As with all my books, half of ALL author proceeds go to the orphan charities kinshipunited.org and flyingkites.org!
From the back cover:
Michiko aimed a bright pink pistol at my gut . . .
She giggled. “Sakura was right. All you have to do is scream like a damsel in distress, and Justin Reed will come running straight into your arms.”
Lost in the mean streets of Japan and inexplicably pursued by Korean and Japanese mobsters, Justin must use every ounce of his street skills and CIA training to battle mafia thugs, modern-day ninjas—and a stunning, pink-haired harajuku punker named Michiko.
Fighting for his very life, Justin unearths a secret from his childhood so shocking that not even his CIA training could prepare him.
OF THE CODE NAME: DODGER SPY/FLY SERIES!
Be sure to read the free preview of the Prologue, at the bottom of this post!
To view all books, visit: http://amazon.com/author/ericauxier
For signed copies, be sure to visit our new AirwaysMag.com store at:
Rio Gold Flight
. . . As promised, here’s a link to the story behind that amazing “Rio Gold” cabin photo, shot by Flight Attendant Anthony Reece, as he flew many of our U.S.A. Olympians back from the Rio Games.
Just look at all that precious metal!
Thank you, Anthony, for a great story!
— — — —
PROLOGUE: THE STREETS OF KYOTO
It had been almost ten years since I’d set foot in my home country, and my Japanese was mighty rusty. So, practicing the old CIA skills, I did my best to eavesdrop on the passers-by, and to get back up to speed on the language.
We’d moved away after mom died, and before I’d learned very much Kanji, the complicated characters they’d “borrowed” from the Chinese to write with. It still blew my mind that both the Chinese and Japanese could read each other’s newspapers without knowing a lick of the other’s language.
Not knowing Kanji made it tough to navigate the streets, too. Fortunately, I still mostly remembered the standard, 46-character hiragana and katakana alphabet that every child learns, which was nearly always used on street signs to spell out the names. To my surprise, here in the big city, they had even started printing most of them in English.
Eying the signs at the street corner, I turned left to head toward the train station.
The hair on my neck raised. I glanced behind, wondering if someone was following me. Nothing but Japanese businesspeople, scurrying every which way.
But something had triggered my radar. After CIA training, I’d learned to trust my life with the instinct.
I ducked down a side alley. Now, if there was anyone actually tailing me, I could spot them in a second.
Hopping on my skate, I pushed off down the alley.
I kept glancing behind. Nothing.
“Shake it off, Artful Dodger,” I whispered to myself. “There’s no Pharaohs, drug smugglers or terrorists after you.”
Up ahead, a girl screamed.
“Help!” she cried in Japanese. “They’ve got me!”
Shoving off hard, I raced on my board toward the commotion. Halfway up the alley, I skidded to a stop. Between buildings on the left stood three teen thugs. Their backs to me, they slowly advanced on someone. All I could see over their shoulders was a flash of pink hair.
“Go away,” she cried. “I’ll call the cops!”
The boys laughed.
“Not till after we’re done playing with you, princess,” one said.
I did a quick mental frisk, like CIA had trained me. No weapons beneath their ratty T-shirts; just a jungle of tattoos writhing around each kid’s arms. But, judging by the bumps in the back pocket of their tight jeans, three switchblades.
I heard a smack. Their victim screamed in pain.
I kicked my board up into my hands.
“Let her go, now!” I shouted in Japanese, using my best cop voice.
“Aré?—huh?” one of them asked in confusion.
The three punks turned.
I brandished my skate like it was a broadsword.
“Let her go, now,” I repeated.
One whispered, “Hear that funny American accent? He’s a gaijin. A foreigner.”
The biggest one, the leader I guess, yelled, “Or what, Ainoko?” calling me a half-breed. “You’ll skate us to death?”
“This doesn’t concern you,” another replied.
The third chimed in. “Go away and find your mommy, before we shove that board up your shiri.”
With a shriek, the girl they had cornered broke through their line and raced toward me.
Her wild outfit threw me for a loop. She wore a frilly, red and black overall skirt and a ratty black leather jacket. Mismatched stockings ran above pink clod-stomper boots that glowed nearly as brightly as her pink-colored, bobbed hair.
“Harajuku Punk,” they called the crazy, cutesy-tough style. A bizarre mishmash of clothes and cultures, the looks were always changing, but the dress always wild.
I could tell that, even with a look of terror on her face, she was still one stunning Japanese beauty.
Continuing her panicked screaming, she raced past me, around the corner and down the alley.
She never even said, “Arigato.”
“Look what you’ve done,” the leader said.
The second one added, “Now we gotta go find a new play toy.”
The third added, “But first, you pay, Ainoko.”
Flipping out their switchblades, they charged me.
Holding my board like a baseball bat, I ducked below the first one’s thrust and swatted his knees. With a shriek, he fell to the ground, blade sailing away. I stepped aside, and the second stumbled over his buddy. As he fell, I beaned the back of his head with my skate for good measure. Two down.
With a Kamikaze war cry, the third lunged at me, chopping down from above. Grabbing both sets of wheels with my hands, I blocked the blade, his knife penetrating through the laminated center and almost slicing my nose. He tried to yank it loose, but the blade was stuck.
I kicked straight up his crotch line. On his way to the pavement, I bop-bopped him with both ends of the board.
Eyeing the damage, I stepped around the groaning, writhing, whining punks to continue my journey.
“This was my new board,” I growled, yanking the knife from the stick as I sauntered away. “You douchewipes know how much these things cost?”
I kicked into a jog, wondering if I should risk trying to ride on my precious, wounded board.
Rounding the corner back into the alley, I ran smack into the crazy-dressed Harajuku girl.
I nearly bowled her over, but caught myself. I stepped back, bowed and said, “Sumimasen.”
As I straightened, she raised a gloved hand.
In it, she held a pistol.
A tiny, 9 mm Ruger LC9. Painted bright pink, of course.
She aimed it at my gut. With a dimpled smile that could sell toothpaste, she said, “Apology accepted, gaijin.”
Sighing, I dropped the board and raised my hands.
She said, “My name’s Michiko. But my friends call me Miki. Hajimemashite,” she finished, nodding her head.
“Nice to meet you, too, Miki-san,” I mumbled, rolling my eyes and bowing slightly.
Holding a free hand to cover her mouth, Miki giggled. Every finger was adorned with random metal rings, from butterflies to skulls.
She said, “Sakura was right. All you have to do is scream like a damsel in distress, and Justin Malcomb Reed will come running straight into your arms.”
“What? How did you know my—”
A black Mercedes skidded around the corner and screeched up next to us.
I glanced around for an escape, but the three punks hobbled up to surround me, a look of murder in their eyes.
Gently holding a hand to my cheek, Miki giggled again. “I quite enjoyed our brief encounter, Justin Reed-san. You are much cuter in person.”
The door to the Mercedes opened. Miki stepped back. With the pink Ruger, she motioned for me to get in.
From inside the car, a ghost from my past said, ”Welcome home, Chika.”
My legs grew weak. I collapsed to my knees in shock.
“Mom,” I whispered.