Exerpt From Solomon by Bil Howard (coming soon)

He ignored the innocent and trusting eyes of the greyhound as he looked down the sights of his 9mm, semi-automaticpistol and pulled the trigger. "Now," he commanded. "Get me some new dogs that can
win!"

"Yes, sir," came the immediate reply.

"Perhaps it isn’t the fault of the dogs?" he said aiming the pistol between the eyes of his kennel keeper. The man closed his eyes, crossed himself and waited for the expected bullet. His boss did not pull the trigger, though he smiled and enjoyed the moment of terror that came over the man who tended to the breeding and keeping of his dogs. He had just emptied his clip to kill all of the dogs in his kennels and he knew that there were no more bullets in the gun, but he was enjoying the moment.

After a long, silent period of prayer, the kennel keeper opened one of his eyes and noticed that his boss was smiling and had not shot him. Emboldened, he opened his other eye, still not trusting the smile. He had seen it before. It was a smile that had no joy in it, but rather cold, hard evil. "I will get new dogs for you," he whispered. "Better dogs that run like the wind itself."

"Good! Now get out of my sight!" He lowered the pistol to his side and glared at the kennel keeper; the smile gone from his face. He watched as the kennel keeper backed away from him until he was around the corner of the small building which housed the last dog whose life has been taken, not wanting to be shot in the back. He turned away and started back across the large, green lawn which was walled in by large, white, limestone, cut from a quarry in the mountains of Venezuela.

The white wall and green lawn surrounded a large, two story mansion set upon the top of a hill in the western mountains of Venezuela, not more than 100 kilometers away from the border of Colombia. Colombia had been his home until he had been forced to move his cartel operations across the border into a friendlier climate. He had government officials in Venezuela who made secret visits and frequently came with large sums of money meant to keep him happy. In return he was to regularly harass the army and the people on the other side of the border. One day FARC would be strong enough again and they would start a revolution. The people would come to him and he would unite them all under the flag of Colombia once more. All of the land of the old Colombia from the Caribbean to the Rio Maranon in Northern Peru and from Costa Rica to Guyana; the land of Bolivar would be united again.

Thoughts of how he would restore the great nation of Bolivar were in his head as he approached the large swimming pool at the back of his mansion. The water of the pool was a crystal, clear blue that had not a speck of any sort to be seen upon its surface. There was a man there whose only job was to make certain that the water was spotlessly clean. Surrounding the pool was more of the white limestone as pavers and half a dozen women were sunning themselves in various states of undress on the lounge chairs. He looked around in disgust as he took his first step onto the limestone patio. His house attendant was rushing toward him.

"Can I get you anything sir?" his attendant offered. "You look like you need something cold to drink."

"I want you to get rid of these damned women!" he shouted. "They eat my food. They each have a bedroom and bathroom provided for them. They lie around my pool all day and they don’t even acknowledge me!" What he said was true, however, they were also called upon regularly to perform all sorts of sexual favors and deviant fetishes for him at his bidding and had been chosen because of their beauty and kept because of their skills in pleasing him. At the sound of his command, they all turned and looked at him. "Yes, you, all of you!" he raged. "Get your shit and get the fuck out of my house!" He raised the gun and they started scrambling. "Now!" In a little more time than it takes an Olympian to run 100 meters, he was alone with his attendant and the pool keeper. He lowered the pistol and strolled toward the gazebo.

"I will get you that cold drink," the attendant said, scrambling to be away from his moody employer who made himself comfortable in his favorite chair in the shade of the gazebo.

He was in a rage today. He did not like to lose and his dogs were not performing. He enjoyed bragging to his friends about his winnings and to have that taken away from him was something that he could not stomach. He knew that they were talking about him and laughing about the fact that his dogs had been losing races. The thought of others laughing at him and about him, made his blood boil and nothing could change that until it simply wore off. Nothing, except for the tall, leggy, sleepy-eyed woman who strolled out of the house, across the patio and entered the gazebo.

"I was told that I needed to leave," Bianca said as she entered the gazebo. "I came to say good bye and to collect the money that you owe me."

He raised the pistol and aimed it between her sleepy, black eyes, that remained cool and steady as she stared at him. Her face was sharply cut, with a small mouth, but with full, puffy and pouty lips. Her body was slender and toned with tight abs, proportional breasts and a handsomely round, bubble-butt with a cute little tuck. She leaned over the table in such a way that he had a perfect view down the front of her loose fitting blouse which she was wearing without a bra. She was one of the few women that he had ever known who was not intimidated by him. Her look was cold and bored and she seemed almost reckless. "I owe you money? You sleep in my house and eat my food and have my protection and I owe you money?"

"Don’t fuck with me Tinto. Pay me or shoot me, it’s all the same to me," she said. Her steady gaze was still locked on his. She had the ability to be as hard and cold as he was and then lose that coldness in a moment of passion as they made love; if she was able to love. "I have done work for you that is beyond what these other whores have done and I’ve been your whore as well. If I am leaving, I am leaving with the money that you owe me."

He looked down the sights of the pistol with the same cold look that he had when he shot the dogs, then smiled and put the gun down on the table in front of him. "Sit down," he said.

"I’d rather not," she said. "I have packing to do."

"You don’t need to pack," he said. "You can stay."

"Maybe I want to go," she said. Her tone was cold and careless. "Maybe I’m tired of your bull shit."

She was likely the only person in the world who would be able to talk to him that way, and he let her. Why did he let her? Five minutes ago he would have shot anyone who spoke to him that way. The thought of her leaving and the defiance that she was showing should have made his blood boil over, but he was somehow calmed by her strength and her presence. The only other person who ever had that kind of control over him was his mother. She would always have that control over him. "How much do I owe you?"

"Sixty thousand dollars," she replied without blinking.

"When I pay you, you will be leaving then?" he asked.

"I will decide that after I’ve been paid," she replied. As she was speaking, his attendant arrived with his mojito. Her steady gaze never left Tinto’s eyes.

"Juan," he ordered. "Have 60,000 dollars placed in Bianca’s room and then bring her a drink."

"Yes sir," his attendant replied.

"There is also a mess to clean up in the hallway," she said. Her cold stare had a little bit of glint to it. "The whore who told me that I had to leave."

"Juan," he said as Juan started to turn away. "Let the security guys know that they can do whatever they want with the whores that I am dismissing, but there is to be no break in security."

"Yes sir," he said and turned away quickly to attend to his duties.

"You will be staying then?" he asked. His eyes had never left the cold stare that lingered between the two of them. They stayed locked onto hers as she took her seat. It was a game that he loved to play. He would not allow himself to be beaten at it. He would force the other person to look away. It would never be him. However, Bianca had always been a perfect match for him even in this.

"I will decide that after I get my money," she replied.

"Maybe I will not let you go," he replied. He enjoyed the sense of power that he exerted over everyone around him, but it was even more satisfying to him to have an equal who was as cold and careless as he. She would probably stay, but she would defy him for a while first. Why did he allow her to defy him? What was it in her that kept him from simply pulling the trigger? He considered that maybe he loved her, but he wasn’t sure that he loved anyone. He admired her strength and he always felt a warm sensation move through him when she was around.

"Then you will have to kill me," she replied. "But reload your gun first."

A deep chuckle began to rise into a laugh. "You are good," he said. "How did you know?"

"I have ears and I know how many shots are in that 9mm semi-automatic," she said. "I gave it to you."

"I could have reloaded."

"You only have one clip."

"Maybe I bought another."

"You did, but you didn’t take it with you."

He slid the gun over in front of her. "Prove it," he said carelessly.

She picked the pistol up from in front of her aimed it at him and held it on his face for a long time. The coldness made him believe that given the chance and the right reason, she would pull the trigger without any remorse. Her finger however, hit the release and the empty clip dropped to the table. She sat the gun down and continued staring into his cold eyes.

"Very good," he said. "A beautiful assassin who knows her weapons."

"Guns bore me," she said.

"Yet, you know how to use one."

"I have other weapons that are more deadly and make less noise," she whispered.

He swallowed the lump in his throat as he considered just how silent and deadly this beautiful woman could be. He did not fear her, he was too vane for that, but he felt that he needed to respect her a great deal. She was his feminine match and he would never underestimate her. "I might have another job for you."

"We will see," she said. "After I decide if I am going to stay."

"This one will pay double what the other did," he said. It was a way to control her and keep her near him where he could watch her. He really had no other control over her. She enjoyed watching how his calm demeanor changed when rage suddenly filled his eyes and she cracked a small smile as she realized that she had hit the chord.

"Let me guess," she said. "You need me to take out the American who embarrassed you in Colombia?"

"No," he said. His eyes flashed with the rage of having been embarrassed by the American. The entire detachment had been executed for being inept. His blood began to boil again. "Another job first."

"Sicotris is here." Juan broke into their conversation as he placed the mojito in front of Bianca.

"Send him out," he replied without looking away from Bianca. "You might find this interesting."

"Why would it be interesting?"

"He is bringing me information on the location of the American and who he is," he replied. "I think we will pay him a visit and eliminate him."

"Or he will embarrass you again," she smiled. "I have other things to do." She stood, her eyes still locked on his, backed away slowly then very decisively turned her back on him, walked several steps, then looked back over her shoulder to let him know that she was still in control.

Excerpt from a Writing Project

I thought that some of you might be entertained by this short excerpt from a project that I'm working on:

AJ Spencer gave one last sharp tug on the latigo, slipped the prong of the cinch buckle into the nearest hole in the latigo strap, tucked the extra bit of latigo in the keeper and dropped the stirrup from where it had been across the seat of the saddle out of his way. He buckled the back cinch, pulled the breast collar into place and attached it’s straps and buckles. His horse stood still with the reins hanging to the ground and waited patiently as AJ buckled on his spurs, adjusted his chaps on his legs and buckled them into place. He had packed a lunch inside a flour sack, wrapped it in his slicker and he tied that onto the back of his saddle, pulling the leather saddle strings tight in a square knot so that it would be easy to work them free later. With little ceremony for an activity that he had performed thousands of times since his youth, he led his horse out of the barn, stepped into the “on side” stirrup and swung his leg up over the saddle. His horse started out as soon as he felt AJ settle into the seat. After a half a dozen steps, the sorrel gelding broke into an easy trot, blowing the remnants of a little bit of hay dust from his nostrils in something of a nervous manner, indicating that he was eager to be at his job.

 There was a big difference between a working horse and a pet, which is what AJ called those which people kept for pleasure riding. In his opinion, one that had been formed by four generations of men who spent their entire lives working in the saddle, an idle horse was dangerous. Horses needed to be busy and have something to do, otherwise, in the words of his granddad, “They’ll stand around and think of ways to hurt you.” It was a lesson that was true enough and AJ tried to pass along that wisdom to people who asked him to train some bad habit out of their horses. He worked some of their horses during the winter and spring when he wasn’t riding for the Lost Lakes Stock Growers Association during the summer and fall.

 Things had become increasingly difficult dealing with the government when it came to managing summer grazing permits on federal lands. Because of pressure from environmental organizations and animal rights activists, the cattle had to constantly be pushed up out of the “agrarian areas” and onto the slopes. “Agrarian areas” was a fancy term used to try to impress the ranchers, many of which had college degrees, with a high-sounding word that basically meant the richer bottom land that was near a stream or creek. That precious land was supposed to be reserved for the elk and moose. It was a ridiculous idea. Elk and moose did not produce meat to put on the tables of families all across the U.S. and the world. The other part that was even more ridiculous was that the government and those making the demands knew less about how to conserve and care for the land that did the ranchers who had developed and nurtured its resources for nearly a hundred and fifty years. Never the less, AJ spent his summers in the saddle moving the cattle around and making sure that the sick ones were doctored.

 As he road out of the ranch yard of the old homestead he was taking in the sights, sounds and smells of the early morning. The sun was just beginning to break over the Eastern ridge of the valley as he turned to follow the two deep ruts of what served as a road in the Western Montana Rocky Mountains. He could smell the sweet, savory scent of the sage covered with dew and the fragrance of pine and fur trees that lined the ridges on both sides of the valley. He heard the birds singing and chirping and a couple of coyotes in an early-morning chorus before returning to their dens after a night of hunting.

As the light increased he saw the numerous wild flowers, in every variety of color imaginable, sprinkled over the grassy bottoms which were in a constant battle over the advance of moisture, which was beneath the surface of the soil, with the sage brush. The invasion of the grey sage brush was held back by the grass in a ragged line of defense all along the bottom of the sub-alpine valley. Ahead, in the distance loomed one of the many peaks of this stretch of the Rocky Mountains. It thrust its bald face up over the jagged ridges which were covered in the darker green of the lodge pole pine, which grew thick and tall, but did not develop the girth of the Ponderosa, which was usually found lower down. The lodge pole pine had gotten its name because it was used for tee-pees, or lodges, by the Nez Perce and other nomadic tribes, which had used this area as their hunting grounds for centuries until they were driven off of it and put onto reservations.

 AJ rode along taking in the usual sights which were a regular part of his daily routine. He and Sam, his Queensland Blue Heeler, which trotted along beside and slightly behind him, were greeted by all of the normal morning sights and sound just as a man from the city was greeted in the coffee shop every morning, but AJ stopped when he saw something else that baffled him. There were tire tracks in the deep ruts of the road. “I wonder who came along here?” he asked aloud. It wasn’t uncommon for him to talk to Sam and Champ, his sorrel gelding, as he went along during the day. They or another horse from his cavy, provided all of his company and companionship as he went about his work alone. He hadn’t seen the tracks the night before, because he had ridden into the old homestead using the ridge, trail which came off of the ridge and into the ranch yard from the other side of the creek opposite the side where the road wandered along the edge of the slope through the sage.

 He examined the tracks for a moment. “By heaven, Sam, those are car tracks,” he said. “They aint big enough to be a jeep or a pickup. Who in hell would bring a car up here?” He touched his spurs to Champ to start him along again. The action was more of a signal than it was any form of prodding. Champ was well trained and the movement of AJ’s legs was the actual signal. There was barely even a brushing of his fur from the touch of the spurs. The three of them continued along the road at a steady trot and soon came around a bend and up over a small rise where they caught their first glimpse of the sun reflecting off of the cherry-red paint of a car sitting cross-ways in the road about a quarter of a mile ahead. “I’ll be damned,” he muttered.

 Sam saw the car and dashed ahead in his curiosity. He sniffed around, raised his leg to mark his territory on each of the tires and looked up at each of the windows expecting to see whomever it was that occupied the car. Most dogs would have barked at the strange sight in the middle of their yard, to Sam the entire range was his yard, but he was a quiet type which did not easily get excited and rarely barked at anything. His curiosity finally overcame him just as Champ and AJ were within a few lengths of the car. He jumped up and placed his from paws on the ledge of driver’s side where the bottom of the window disappeared into the door. When he did that, all hell broke loose.

 As AJ and Champ were approaching the car, Champ was a little bit spooked by the strange object in the road. He had stiffened and was snorting and blowing at the car as they approached it. He was beginning to calm down and get his nerves under control when Sam jumped up onto the car and the shrill whistle of the car alarm was set off. Champ leaped in the air to escape the now screaming object which had quickly turned from irritating, to unbearably dangerous. He spun along with the leap and plunged into the sage brush at the side of the road. Following his instincts, he began to buck and kick. The plunging into the brush spooked a flock of a half a dozen grouse which were pecking at the small berries that were scattered on the ground beneath. When they flew up, the start that had already set Champ into a wild fit, made him dodge sharply away, nearly unseating AJ, who barely recovered his balance in the saddle before the next wild leap of the gelding.

 The car continued to whistle, which set Sam to howling as he scrambled to a safe distance away from the car to sit and watch the entire proceedings while hidden behind a large clump of sage. The plunging horse came down a little to close to Sam and he yelped and scrambled to a safer place further down the road away from the impromptu rodeo, which had started near the red car turned sideways in the road.