B.J. Kenneth's Blog

To mark the release of my latest novel, The Extractor, I’m giving away 25 copies of the eBook. There is a whole slew ofways to enter. Follow me on Twitter @BJ_Kenneth, make some tweets about the new book, pin the cover on Pinterest, subscribe to my blog feed. Check it out.

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Here’s the cover art for my latest novel, The Extractor. Click for full size.

How does an author with anti-social tendencies use social media? Can’t say I have the answer to that, but I guess we’ll find out. First a blog, then a twitter handle @BJ_Kenneth. What’s next, Facebook?

Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

    The lot around the dumpster had been canvassed, but nothing had been found related to the body. Lilly had been hoping to find Dr Sassiwich's clothes, her purse, or anything at all really. But it looked like the dumpster had simply been a convenient place to dispose of the body.
    The construction workers would all need to be interviewed, but preliminary questioning told her nothing new would be found there, either. For insurance reasons, it was common practice to check the dumpsters before the day began. That way, the company couldn't be sued if some bum who decided to spend the night got a bump on the head. Lilly had never considered such a thing. The foreman simply shrugged.
    "You'd be surprised," he had said. "They'll take a shit in one corner of the dumpster, then curl up in the other for the night. If we don't check 'em, we're likely to drop something on their heads."
    It was a reasonable solution to an unreasonable problem. Reflecting on the conversation with the foreman brought a fragment of a spark of an inkling to mind. Lilly wasn't sure what it was, but she knew it was something. She sat in her car, engine running, heat on full blast, as she concentrated on it. After a minute, it came to her.
    "Drop something on their heads," she repeated.
    Looking at the dumpster, she saw the orange chute rising from it, up the four floors of the unfinished building. The foreman had grudgingly cancelled work for the day. The workers hadn't gone through the building yet. The canvass had been cursory, at best, in the building.
    Lilly decided to take another look for herself. Specifically, she wanted to look at the chute. Climbing out of the car, she killed the engine and braced herself against the cold once more. The wind was even more brutal on the second floor of the exposed building.
    Lilly walked from the stairwell to the chute, watching it flutter in the breeze. At the precipice, orange plastic netting stood as the last and only line of defense against falling to the ground below. Lilly put her hand on the cable supporting the net and peered over at the waiting dumpster. It was only a twelve or fifteen foot drop, but the gusting wind felt as though it was tugging at her clothes, trying to pull her out, over the netting. Lilly shivered and backed up a step.
    The chute itself had an opening just above the netting. Semi-rigid flaps covered the opening, intended to keep debris from above from escaping. Lilly examined the flaps and the feeder lip, but didn't see anything but dirt and grime. Pushing the flaps inward, she poked her head into the chute and looked down. She wasn't sure what she was looking for, but more dirt and grime was to be expected, and she saw plenty of it. Dark streaks ran the eight feet of the chute below.
    Lilly pulled out of the chute, made her way back to the stairwell, and up to the next floor. The third floor looked a lot like the one below it. The wind seemed ever more vicious the higher she got.
    The opening of the chute here looked nearly identical to the one below. When she pushed the flaps open, she noticed one of them was darker near the bottom. The color was wrong for it to be dirt. It took only a moment for Lilly to make up her mind.
    Lilly let the flaps fall back into place and went to the stairwell. After quickly making her way back down the stairs, she hurried to the forensics vehicle. As the EMTs had done before, two techs sat in the front keeping warm. It took only a minute to explain what she wanted from them, and soon enough they were following her up to the third floor.
    At the chute, she pointed at the flaps. One of the techs pushed them back with a gloved hand. Lilly pointed at the stain. The second tech took a swap from a kit and handed it to the first, who used it to take a sample. The stain was dry, but the techs didn't seem to mind. The second tech took the swab back and placed it into a tube. He added a drop of liquid, waited a few seconds, then added a drop of a different liquid. The swab turned pink almost immediately.
    "Could be blood," he said. "Won't know for sure until it goes through the lab."
    "I know. But if it is, that means she was up here, then dumped through the chute. We need to check this floor for more blood."
    "Unless you saw some obvious pools, that's going to take a while."
    "Then I guess you better get to it. Let me know what you find."
    "You're not going to help?" a tech protested.
    "Are you kidding?" she asked, walking away. "It's cold out here."

Here's Chapter 4 of A Killer Present.

    "The Policía Nacional de Colombia found the SUV a few blocks from the warehouse."
    "Tell me he was inside, slumped over the steering wheel," Bill said, not bothering to get his hopes up.
    "No dice," Randall replied. "They found his guy Sandoval in the passenger seat. Died of a sucking chest wound."
    "I'm having a hard time feeling sorry for him."
    "And you're such a compassionate man," Randall said with a laugh. "Imagine how everyone else feels."
    Bill imagined nobody felt anything about the loss of Sandoval.
    "It's been eight hours," Bill observed, looking at his watch. "The yacht is gone. Has it been spotted?"
    "No. But we got lucky in Panama. We may not get lucky like that again."
    "He could be headed anywhere."
    Randall didn't argue the point.
    "This is your fault," Bill growled, no longer able to hold his temper in check. "That fucking girl you sent was joke."
    Randall remained silent.
    "I'm serious, Randy. I'd rather do this on my own than deal with people like that."
    Randall sighed.
    "There's only so much I can do," he said, in an even tone. "It's not like it used to be. You aren't inside any longer. That limits the personnel I can send your way."
    "I get the rejects," Bill said, bitterly.
    "If they played by the rules, they would be busy with other assignments," Randall confirmed obliquely.
    "And if I can't trust them, they're useless to me."
    "I don't know what to tell you." Bill could imagine his shrug. "What's your next move?"
    Bill rubbed his face and thought about the question. He needed to figure out where the target was headed. Since the meeting had been interrupted, the target would presumably try to schedule another.
    "I'm going to find the supplier," Bill said, explaining his reasoning.
    "By yourself? Let me make a few calls, see what-"
    "By myself," Bill interrupted. "I'm not buying any more of your dented cans."
    "Bill, there's a reason we always used a minimum of two-man teams," Randall said.
    "Tim worked on his own," Bill replied.
    "And look where it got him. I nice hole in the ground next to his daughter," Randall responded immediately, the words cutting deep. "If you have a death wish, there are more productive ways to go about it. Besides, Tim worked from inside. He didn't set up his own shop."
    Bill didn't feel like having this discussion again.
    "Just call me if the yacht turns up somewhere."
    With that, Bill ended the call. There was nothing left to say and he found himself growing irritated by the excuses. He decided to go for a walk to clear his head.
    What he needed was a good night's sleep, but he hadn't had one of those in eight months. Even when he had a place to rest his head that was more than a mattress on the floor of a flophouse like he and Erin shared in Buenaventura, his sleep was brief and unrestful.
    Bill's mind must have been clear, because before he realized it, he was only a block away from the scene of the shootout the night before. There were police vehicles everywhere, blocking access to the street. Bill walked up to a scruffy looking man standing just outside a police barricade, watching the police work.
    "Que paso?" Bill asked him.
    "Los operadores," the man replied, quietly.
    "What kind of operators?" Bill asked.
    "No, Los Operadores," the man repeated himself, verbally capitalizing the letters.
    "Who?" Bill asked.
    For the first time, the man actually looked at Bill. He looked Bill up and down, taking him in.
    "Where are you from?" he asked.
    "Not from here," Bill answered.
    "Then you should return before you learn about Los Operadores."
    "They did this?" Bill asked.
    "Si. Someone tried to attack them. You see how well that turned out," he said, pointing at the bloodstains.
    "So Los Operadores owned that warehouse?"
    "What does it matter who owned it? Los Operadores used it."
    "I guess they won't be using it any longer."
    "They'll find some place else."
    "Where would that be?"
    Again the man looked at Bill, this time not appraising, but judging.
    "You're crazy if you think I know. You're crazier if you think I'd tell you even if I did."
    The man turned and walked away, not giving Bill a third look. Bill considered following him, asking some followup questions. In the end, he decided against it. The guy seemed like he was telling the truth when he said he didn't know anything.
    Instead, Bill simply watched the police do their work. He imagined that to the cops, he looked an awful lot like the scruffy guy, except bigger.
    After a while, Bill wandered away from the scene. He wasn't going to learn anything else. That he'd learned anything at all came down to dumb luck. Bill didn't mind getting lucky, but he knew luck couldn't be relied upon.
    He needed to stop reacting, and start acting. The first thing he needed to do was find someone who could point him to Los Operadores. Once he found them, he could persuade them to give him information about his target.
    So that's what Bill set out to do. At the first bar he found, he stepped inside. The place was open and held several patrons, despite the early hour. Bill walked right up to the bar and slapped money down on it. The bartender came along quickly enough.
    "Dónde está Los Operadores?" Bill asked, keeping his fingers on the cash.
    The bartender looked down at the cash, then up at Bill. He shook his head and walked away. Bill picked up the cash and held it in the air, fanning the bills out for all to see.
    "Dónde está Los Operadores?" Bill asked again, loudly enough to get everyone's attention.
    They all looked, but nobody came forward. Bill put his money away, then walked out of the bar. He tried the same routine in four more bars. In the fifth, he finally got a reaction as he walked out. Three men followed him out onto the street.
    Bill pretended he didn't notice, walking at a regular pace until he was around the corner of the building. Once out of their line of sight, he stopped, leaning back against the brick wall. The men stopped abruptly as they too turned the corner. So abrupty did they stop, that the trailing two bumped into the leader, causing him to stumble forward. Watching as they regained their balance, Bill smiled.
    Amateurs, he thought.
    The three men looked nervous, at first. They hadn't expected Bill to stop. Then they saw Bill's smile, and matching smiles slowly crept onto their own faces. As they looked to one another, their smiles grew. Bill took the wad of cash out of his pocket, showed it to them.
    "You want this?" he asked.
    "Si, we'll take it," the leader said, chuckling.
    "Tell me where I can find Los Operadores, and you can have it. Easy."
    "We will take it without telling you. Easy," the leader replied.
    Bill nodded, putting a thoughtful expression on. He shrugged, then dropped the money on the ground between his feet.
    "There you go," Bill said. "I don't want any trouble."
    "You are smart," the leader said, as he bent over to pick up the money.
    "But you aren't," Bill replied.
    Fingers no more than inch from the money, the leader looked up, puzzled. Bill pushed off the wall with his elbows. The man started to move back, but it was already too late for him. Grabbing two handfuls of his greasy hair, Bill drove the man's face down until it connected with Bill's rising right knee. Bill felt the man go slack, but gave him another, just to be sure. Then he let him fall to the ground. Neither of the other men had even begun to move yet, and already, their friend was out.
    "Dónde está Los Operadores?" Bill asked once more.
    Finally, they reacted. They came at Bill together, but one had to hop over his downed friend. Bill took advantage of this by striking out a lightning-fast forward kick to the man's thigh, causing him to tumble face first to the ground.
    The third man wasn't as bad off as his friends. He started off a bit further to Bill's right than the other two, and had a clear lane at Bill. His opening move was to simply rush Bill and take him down with a tackle. Hitting just below Bill's right shoulder, he tried to run through Bill. The problem with that tactic was simple, Bill outweighed the man by a hundred pounds, at least. Even with a lower center of gravity, the man stood little chance.
    Bill moved with the tackle, pivoting against the wall with his left shoulder, using the man's own momentum to carry him in a wide, swinging arc. The man tripped over his two comrades as Bill spun him. Now, he clung to Bill for support, rather than in force.
    Raising his arms above his head, Bill made a fist and brought an elbow down with all the force he could muster, right between the man's shoulder blades. This was enough to stagger him. Bill brought down two more blows, and the man went to the ground, trying to roll away.
    The second man was still scrambling to his feet, having been knocked down twice now, once by Bill, and once more by his friend. He hesitated and held his hands out in surrender.
    "Los Operadores," Bill demanded.
    The guy bolted. He simply turned and ran back around the corner of the building. Bill let him go. Even if he wanted to chase him, he couldn't. Instead, he looked down at the two guys who weren't running. The leader was still out cold. The other guy was still trying to crawl away. His legs were moving, so Bill assumed he wasn't paralyzed. But he'd probably be walking funny for a few days.
    Bill walked over to him and put a boot to his ass. The man sprawled out with is face in the dirt. He turned his head to look at Bill.
    "Lo siento, señor," he apologized pitifully. "Lo siento mucho."
    "Los Operadores," Bill demanded, again.
    "The rug importer," he said. "They sometimes use the rug importer's warehouse."
    "Where is it?"
    "Two streets west," he said. "Señor, por favor. This is all I know."
    Bill believed him. The man was beaten, and his only other conscious friend had abandoned him. Bill left the man where he was, retrieved his money from the ground, and went off to find the rug importer.

Here is the third chapter of my upcoming novel, A Killer Present. Look for it in June 2012. I hope you enjoy it.

    When Detective Lilly Montgomery pulled into the construction lot it was a little after sunrise. It was also entirely too cold. The mercury was headed in the wrong direction, even though common sense said that the sun should have started to warm things up a bit. The weather never followed common sense, though. Especially not in Chicago.
    Climbing out of her car, she stuffed her hands deep into the pockets of her coat, as far as they would go. Even with gloves, that barely helped. She could feel her fingertips going numb already.
    It wasn't hard to figure out where she needed to be. The group of people milling about, all looking at the same spot, was a pretty decent clue. She headed over there and made her way through the crowd.
    A few patrol officers were doing their best to both keep their extremities hidden, and use them to keep the gawkers back. She didn't envy them their job. She'd done her time on patrol in weather just like this. She knew what it was like, and she knew she didn't want to go back to it.
    The butterflies in her stomach reminded her of her first day on the job, though. Back then, she'd been nervous simply because she was a newly minted cop, straight out of the academy. Now the butterflies were the result of something similar, though more sinister.
    This would be Lilly's first homicide investigation as primary. Since returning from a leave of absence months ago, she'd been part of a number of homicide investigations. Chicago averaged a homicide per day, so there were plenty to keep the Violent Crimes section busy. But she'd always been in a support role.
    Today a case fell to her. Lilly had the sneaking suspicion it was because of the weather. Perhaps the detectives with more seniority had all decided to stay inside where it was warm.
    Either way, Lilly was prepared to do her job. She wanted to solve her first case. Proving herself to her new co-workers in VC was part of it. The larger part of it was proving to herself that her transfer from Special Victims Section, Missing Persons Unit, was a good idea.
    Lilly was forced to remove a hand from her pocket in order to badge the patrol officer who moved to stop her. When he saw the metal, he let her through. His shivering was noticeable, even without her special detective powers.
    "I've got a thermos of hot coffee in my car, if you need it," Lilly said as she passed him.
    "Marry me," he replied almost instantly. Lilly laughed and continued on.
    There was an ambulance parked near a large steel commercial dumpster. The EMTs sat comfortably in its warm cab. Crime scene technicians were in the dumpster itself.
    A ladder had been set up next to it. Lilly climbed a few steps until she could easily see the entirety of the dumpster's interior space. There was plenty of rubble, pieces of metal, plastic, and wood. Plus one body.
    The first thing Lilly noticed about the body was its missing clothes. Most of the time, when you find a body, you find it either with all of its clothes, or none of its clothes. On average, women were more likely to be missing their clothing.
    But the bodies of female victims who were missing their clothing generally didn't get to keep their underwear. This woman still had on her matching peach-colored bra and panties.
    Lilly didn't even try to climb into the dumpster to get a closer look. It wasn't a matter of vanity, or even sanitation. It was simply procedure. The techs were here, so the crime scene would be better left uncontaminated. Or at least as much as possible. The detectives on television might wade through the dumpsters looking for clues, but that didn't happen out on the real world. Then again, murders were solved in an hour or less on television, too. That never happened in real life.
    Lilly climbed back down the ladder and went to the ambulance. She knocked on the back door of the bus. A few moments later, it opened and she climbed in. To her relief, it was toasty inside. She sat on the side bench as the EMTs resituated themselves.
    "You guys first on scene?" she asked.
    "Yep," one said. "Teddy, Shooms," he said, pointing a thumb first at himself, then at his partner.
    "Okay, describe it for me, Teddy."
    "We got here and the construction guys told us there was a body in the dumpster," Teddy said. "We got 'em to bring over a ladder, and I climbed in. Checked for a pulse, but she was a stiff. Literally. She's been out in the cold for hours, at least."
    "Did you see what kind of injuries she had?"
    "I'm not a medical examiner," Teddy said warily.
    "Yeah, but you guys have seen enough. You don't need the lab coat and fancy degree to know what you're talking about."
    That seemed to win them over. Teddy grunted his agreement.
    "She was banged up pretty good," he said. "Reminded me of a domestic call."
    "Bruises?"
    "Busted nose," he said, nodding. "Blood on the back of her head. Like someone knocked her a good one. There was a nice piece of metal going straight through her side, too. I think that one might've been from when she was dumped. But I'm no ME, so..."
    "Yeah I gotcha. I'm just trying to get a preliminary idea. I won't hold it against you if the coroner says something different."
    "Tell her what we were just talking about," Shooms piped up.
    "What were you talking about?" Lilly prompted.
    "Well, we were just thinking how it was weird she still had her underwear," Teddy said thoughtfully. "I mean, you figure if it's a rape thing, those would probably be gone, right?"
    "Maybe," Lilly allowed, though she had been thinking the same thing.
    "They didn't even look dirty or torn or anything."
    "I told him she could have been dressed afterward," Shooms said.
    "She still would have struggled when he was taking them off," Teddy said, turning to argue with his partner.
    "Unless she was knocked out cold," Shooms argued. "You said she got knocked on the back of the head."
    "I guess," Teddy allowed.
    "Did you see the rest of her clothes when you were in there?" Lilly asked.
    "No." Teddy shrugged. "I wasn't really looking for them, though."
    Lilly hadn't seen them either, and she had been looking. If the techs hadn't bagged them already, that probably meant they weren't there. She added that to her list of things to find out about.
    Lilly thanked them and got their contact information. Then she went back out to brave the cold. A tech was climbing out of the dumpster as she stepped out of the bus. He approached the ambulance and spoke to Teddy and Shooms.
    "We're ready to pull her out," he told them.
    The EMTs brought out their gurney and soon enough the body was on it. Lilly took the opportunity to get a closer look. It would be her first chance to see the woman up close. When she got a look at the face, she wished she hadn't.
    Lilly knew the victim.

Here is the second chapter of my upcoming novel, A Killer Present. Look for it in June 2012. As always, I hope you enjoy it.

    There are very few cities in the world where down by the docks is actually a nice neighborhood. Buenaventura, Colombia, wasn't one of those. Its docks neighborhood was as dirty and worn out as many others. At night, its streets were just as dangerous as many others.
    Bill Fairing didn't mind. He'd been in worse places. He'd made a career out of going to worse places, dealing with worse situations. He'd spent years chasing down the worst people the world had to offer. It no longer surprised him when that took him to some of the worst places the world had to offer.
    Two weeks had passed for him in this town. During those two weeks, Bill had walked plenty of these streets. It had to be done, if he wanted to find his target. Ever since the target had been spotted and identified on a yacht travelling through the Panama Canal, Bill had been searching Colombia. And it finally looked like it would pay off.
    "Eyes on the target," the voice in his ear said.
    The voice belonged to his new partner. She said her name was Erin. Bill had no reason to doubt her, but he also had no reason to trust her. He didn't like working with her type.
    Erin was what the French called a femme fatale. She was beautiful, seductive, and dangerous as all get-out. Her specialty was using her feminine charms to coerce men--and even some women--to do her bidding.
    Bill's problem with her wasn't professional. Erin was good at her job. His problem with her was entirely personal. She didn't have an off switch. She never stopped. Not even when they were alone, just the two of them.
    Erin tried to play him as much as she did her targets. Bill did not take kindly to being a target. His obvious reticence caused friction in their working relationship.
    While they were in Colombia, there was nothing for it. Erin was all he had to work with. But once this mission was over, once this name was scratched off the list, he'd set the process in motion to find someone else. Erin could go back to whatever agency she'd been with before--the CIA, its National Clandestine Service sub-agency, the NSA or one of the other Department of Defense agencies. She'd have a job, it just wouldn't be with him.
    "He's got two men with him," Erin said. "One of them is Sandoval."
    Sandoval was the name of one of the target's bodyguards. Erin had used her talents on him the previous night when he'd slipped off the yacht for a little fun and a good time at one of the local establishments. To say that Erin was better looking than the local prostitutes would be an understatement. So when she turned her attention to Sandoval, he was very receptive. So receptive that his lips loosened, revealing his employer's plans.
    This outing to a warehouse in the shipping district of Buenaventura had been planned well in advance of the target's arrival in Colombia. This outing to the warehouse was the entire purpose of the target's trip to Colombia.
    A black SUV rounded the corner just up the street from Bill's position. It turned toward him as it approached the warehouse. Bill was on the opposite side of the street from the warehouse, a short distance away. His position was deep in the shadows between two other warehouses.
    The SUV stopped outside a large roll-up door. Instead of driving in, the three men exited the vehicle and used the adjoining personnel door.
    "They're inside," Bill said after activating his throat mic. "I'm approaching the vehicle now."
    "Standby," Erin said quickly, freezing Bill in place. "Three more vehicles approaching. On you in ten."
    Bill slid back into his shadow and waited. Ten seconds later, three more vehicles rounded the corner. They didn't look nearly as new or as well maintained as the SUV. They did look more full to capacity, though.
    Five men with an assortment of firearms spilled from each vehicle. They went straight for the door the target had entered moments before. A ripping staccato of gunfire followed.
    "What's going on?" Erin asked.
    "Hold your position," Bill told her.
    "Are they shooting at our target?" she asked.
    "Just hold your position," he repeated.
    "We should do something. We need information from him."
    "Damn it. Just shut up and hold your position."
    Bill was surprised when he didn't hear a rebuttal. All he heard was the continuing firefight inside the warehouse. He didn't know why they were shooting. He didn't particularly care. If they all killed each other, he wouldn't shed a tear.
    The roll-up door started to open. When it got about three feet up, gunmen started to fall out of it. Some literally fell out, as they were struck in the back by bullets. Bill counted eight in total who made it back to the vehicles. Eight of fifteen. Whatever sort of raid this was, it paid a heavy toll.
    The gunfire trickled to a stop as the vehicles tore off down the street and out of sight. Bill reached his hand to activate his mic, but Erin broadcast first.
    "I'm going in," was all she said.
    "No you're not!" Bill said, barely controlling the volume of his voice. "Remain at your position!"
    Only silence followed his directive.
    "Acknowledge last transmission," Bill directed.
    A few moments later, gunfire erupted on the other side of the building. As much as Bill wished it were a pocket of raiders left behind, he knew it wasn't.
    "Damn it," Bill swore, not bothering to transmit it.
    As Bill moved again from his shrouded position toward the warehouse, the target and one of his bodyguards ducked out of the roll-up door. Bill couldn't tell if it was Sandoval or the other guy. What Bill could tell was that he'd been injured. The bodyguard staggered to the black SUV. The target got behind the wheel.
    When the car started up, Bill stood in the middle of the street, fully illuminated by the headlights. There was a moment of indecisiveness from the target as Bill continued to approach. Then the SUV was put into reverse and backed away.
    Bill was holding a pistol at his side. It was a familiar extension of his arm, his favorite .45 caliber Smith & Wesson Model 1911. He quickly took aim at the windshield and put five holes in the glass. They hit in an area roughly the size of a basketball, just above the dash, centered on the driver's seat.
    But the SUV didn't stop. It didn't even slow down. Bill sent the last four rounds of his clip down range. They all hit the vehicle as well. That didn't stop it from turning the corner and disappearing from sight.
    Bill ejected the empty clip and slotted another. After chambering a round, he activated his mic again as he moved to the warehouse door.
    "Target on the move," he said, hoping Erin would acknowledge.
    "Understood," she replied. "Pulling-"
    That was all she said, her transmission cut off abruptly. The gunfire inside the warehouse slackened once more. Bill was dropping to the ground to get under the door when it started to rise again. He flattened himself to the wall as four vehicles burned rubber exiting the building. Bill figured he'd gone unnoticed when the last of them turned the corner down the street.
    Bill waited ten more seconds without hearing any further activity. He played his mic again.
    "Are you clear?" he asked, hoping once more for an acknowledgement.
    When none came, he knew he had to go inside. Bill got up from his prone position into a half-crouch and quickly ducked inside the warehouse. Nobody shot at him, so he took that as a good sign, though he didn't drop his guard.
    There were dead gunmen just inside the door, where they'd fallen after breaching. A few of them made it twenty or thirty feet further. None seemed to have gotten any further than that, though.
    Bill moved on into the interior. It was a mostly open space. In the rear, he could see more bodies on the floor. Bill suspected that's where Erin had been.
    Once he approached, his suspicion was confirmed. In fact, Erin was still there. The expression on her face was one of surprise. She had a gash in her neck, and her eyes were vacant. The pool of blood beneath her and the pattern on the wall spoke volumes. She'd bled out quickly. A bullet to one of the major blood vessels in your neck will do that.
    Bill looked around again. He knew you could never be too wary. When no threat presented itself to him, he holstered his weapon. As quickly as he could, he stripped Erin of everything that could identify her. They weren't stupid enough to carry their passports this night, but other things could look suspicious to authorities. He took her radio and ear piece. He took her weapons and holster. He took the tactical vest that had done her no good. There wasn't much else he could do.
    Without thought, he cupped her cheek in one hand, momentarily flashing on another girl, at another time, whose life had been cut far too short. Like Erin, the girl was blonde and beautiful. Unlike Erin, the girl had been flayed, her skin removed while still alive.
    Bill's hand trembled. He snatched it back from her face as the trembling spread up his arm, into his torso, and settled into his stomach. A moment later, Bill lost his lunch--rice and beans on cornmeal tortillas--turning just in time to avoid Erin's lifeless body.
    After rocking back from his doubled-over position, he stood. He didn't know the response time for Buenaventura's police, but he suspected a major gun battle wouldn't go entirely unnoticed. He needed to leave. He looked Erin over once more, shook his head at the waste and to clear the queasiness, then made his way back out into the street. Into the shadows.
    His partner was dead and his target had escaped. And to make matters worse, he was apparently an assassin who could no longer stomach death.

As promised, here is the first chapter of my upcoming book, A Killer Present. I hope you enjoy it.

    As the woman sat bound to the chair, Chuck studied her. Her head was slumped forward in unconscious repose, chin resting on her collar, brown hair falling over her face. Even dressed as she was in only her underwear, she didn't do anything for him. Chuck figured the best way to describe her was homely.
    She stirred, her head lolling to the side as she began her return to consciousness. Within a minute she was looking around. When her eyes found him, she spoke.
    "Charlie..." her voice rasped. "What... what's happening?"
    "Kari," he said, moving closer, setting his own chair in front of her. "I need information from you."
    "Information?" she repeated, as though it were a new word he'd just invented. "I don't understand. Where... my clothes."
    Kari tried to move her hands, but they were bound to the back of her chair by plastic ties. Fear finally began to show on her face as her predicament dawned on her.
    "I've taken your clothes until you tell me what I need to know," he explained.
    "It's cold," she said, her teeth rattling, her breath steaming.
    "Yes, it is. About ten degrees. The sooner you tell me what I need to know, the sooner you can have your clothes back."
    "What... what do you want?"
    "I need some information about one of your patients," Chuck explained.
    "I c... can't give you information about my patients. It's c... confidential."
    Her teeth continued to rattle and the rest of her shivered.
    "When you got your PhD, did you have to study hypothermia?"
    "I'm not that kind of doctor," she said.
    "I know, but how long do you think it takes for hypothermia to set in at temperatures like this?"
    "I don't know."
    "Neither do I," Chuck admitted. "Do you want to find out?"
    Kari shook her head.
    "Tell me about Holly," Chuck said.
    "Who?"
    "Don't play stupid, doc. Teenage girl, blonde, recently pregnant. Recently not. You know who I'm talking about."
    "I don't know-"
    Chuck cut her off by slapping her across the face. It was open-handed and it stung even his gloved hand, but it wouldn't do any real damage.
    "Don't lie, doc. You know who I'm talking about."
    "She's not my patient any longer," Kari admitted.
    "That's okay. When was the last time you saw her?"
    "She hasn't been my patient for months," she said.
    Chuck slapped her again, across the other side of her face. She gasped after the contact.
    "I know you visited her two days ago in the hospital."
    "Then why did you ask?"
    Chuck chuckled.
    "I want you to understand that I know when you're lying to me. Do you understand that?"
    Kari nodded.
    "Good. Now tell me, where is she?"
    "I don't know."
    He hit her again.
    "I don't," she said with a whimper.
    "Doc, you must know something. Otherwise, how would you have known she was in the hospital?"
    "I got a call."
    "From who?"
    Kari shook her head. Chuck struck her again, this time with a closed hand.
    "Who called you to tell you she was in the hospital?" he asked again.
    "Beth," she replied, between sobs.
    "Beth who?" Chuck asked.
    Again she shook her head. Again Chuck was forced to hit her. She shook him off, so he did it once more.
    "You need to talk to me, Kari," he calmly told her.
    "Why should I?"
    "For your own good."
    "You're going to kill me anyway," she sobbed.
    "Why would you say that?"
    "Because I know who you are. I can describe you to the police."
    "That's true." Chuck shrugged. "Okay, so you know I'm going to kill you. The question is, how unpleasant will your last moments be?"
    "I don't care," Kari said, defiance in her voice.
    "You don't care? I can be pretty unpleasant when I need to be."
    "I don't care," she repeated. She looked him right in the eye. "I've had worse."
    "I genuinely doubt that," he replied, smiling.
    "Do what you want. You're not getting anything else out of me."
    Chuck took a moment to study the woman. He hadn't expected to meet any real resistance in her. He didn't think she had that sort of resolve in her. He had pegged her as a meek and mousy woman averse to pain.
    "So Beth..." he said, trailing off. "You think she'll be as tough a nut to crack as you?"
    It was Kari's turn to study him. Perhaps she was gauging how likely he was to find Beth.
    "Do you think I can't find her?" he asked.
    "It doesn't matter," she replied.
    "Why's that?"
    "She won't tell you anything, either."
    Chuck shook his head in mild awe. He had interrogated men who coughed up information after less abuse and intimidation.
    He punched Kari in the stomach. She tried to ball up into herself, but her legs were bound to the chair as well. Instead, she simply retched as her abdomen went through a series of spasms and her lungs tried to take in the cold air.
    Chuck grabbed her by the hair and turned her face up. Her expression was pained, but not submissive. He punched her in the nose, hearing cartilage snap and crack.
    Again he turned her head using her hair. She spit blood into his face. Chuck laughed as he wiped it away. Kari held her chin up defiantly. Chuck obliged her with an uppercut that toppled the chair backward.
    Chuck heard another crack as she hit the concrete floor. He figured that had to hurt worse than the punch.
    Grabbing the chair between her legs, he righted it once more. Kari's head lolled as she settled upright again. Taking another handful of hair, he looked into her face. Her eyes were closed, blood from her nose colored her mouth. He slapped her a couple of times to get her attention. It had no effect.
    "Come on now, I'm not done with you yet," he said, slapping her a bit harder.
    When he got no response, he sat back down in his chair to wait. He wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his gloved hand. The beads of sweat trickling down the nape of his neck were a rude reminder of the chill in the air. That and the puffs of steam as he caught his breath from the rush of his exertment.
    Chuck froze for a moment, holding his breath. The steam cleared. He noticed there was none around Kari.
    "Shit," he muttered as he reached out to her neck.
    He felt for a pulse, found none.
    "Shit," he repeated.
    Chuck reached around to the back of her head, felt up her neck to the base of her skull. He stood when he felt the gash there. Looking behind her, he could see where her head had hit off the concrete base of a steel pillar. A red stain marred its otherwise pristine new grey.
    "Well God damn it," he swore.
    He looked around the rest of the open floor. Countless other steel pillars just like it dotted this level of the unfinished building. Chuck knew that if he'd simply angled the chair a little to the side, he would not have had this hiccup. But he hadn't expected the woman to offer any real resistance.
    "Fucking sloppy," he chastised himself.
    There was nothing to be done for it now. Chuck cut Kari loose from the plastic ties binding her to the chair. Lifting her up into a fireman's carry, he walked over to the edge of the floor where an orange waste chute opened. Angling her head-first, he pushed her into it. A moment later, he heard a heavy crash as Kari's body hit the waiting dumpster below.
    Chuck grabbed the chairs, tossing them into the chute as well, before making his way out of the new building. He climbed into his car and pulled out of the lot of the construction area. He needed to find Beth.

My next novel, A Killer Present, should be released at the beginning of June 2012. It will be the second novel in the Man of Constant Sorrow series. Leading up to the release date, I'll be posting one chapter each week. For now though, here's the description.

Bill Fairing's task is simple: track down and kill a man responsible for mass murder. When he finds his target operating as a drug runner in South America, Bill thinks his mission is finally over. But his partner is killed and the target escapes. Then Bill gets word that his closest friend has been killed in Chicago. Can he track down his friend's killer when his plate is already full with a mass murderer, a dead partner, and an old girlfriend who seems hell-bent on exposing him?

When the members of a women's support group start turning up dead, Detective Lilly Montgomery sets out to find the killer. But will she succeed when she finds herself pitted against a ruthless and calculating hitman, her own inner demons, and the Chicago Police Department which no longer trusts her?