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.