Introduction

First Prize for Fiction -- 2015 New England Book Festival

Hawaiian surfer Pono Hawkins leaves the Big Island for Maine’s brutal winter to help a former Special Forces comrade falsely accused of murder. Pono learns first-hand about Maine’s rampant political corruption – rated by the Gallup Poll as the second-worst in the US -- seeing huge energy companies pillage the State’s magnificent mountains and purchase its politicians at bargain prices. Pono is hunted, shot at, betrayed, and stalked by knife-wielding assassins as he tries to find the real murderer. Nothing is certain, no one can be trusted, no place is safe, while Pono is the target of every cop in several states.

"Another stellar ride from Bond." -- Kirkus “A gripping tale of murders, manhunts and other crimes set amidst today’s dirty politics and corporate graft, an unforgettable hero facing enormous dangers as he tries to save a friend, protect the women he loves, and defend a beautiful, endangered place.” -- First Prize for Fiction, January 2016, New England Book Festival

“The suspense, mystery, and intrigue will keep you on the edge of your seat.” – Goodreads

“The action is exciting, and a surprise awaits over each new page … Bond is clearly one of the master authors for thrillers of this century.” – NetGalley Reviews

“A work of compelling fiction … Very highly recommended.” – Midwest Book Review

“Bond tackles many important social and environmental issues in a fast-paced, politically charged plot with a passionate main character. Killing Maine is a twisting mystery with enough suspicious characters and red herrings to keep you guessing. It’s also a dire warning about the power of big industry and a commentary on our modern ecological responsibilities. A great read for the socially and environmentally conscious mystery lover.” – Honolulu Star-Advertiser

“Killing Maine is quite a ride for those who love good crime thrillers. But, too, like its predecessor, it is much more than just another rousing crime thriller. This is another of Mike Bond’s environmental eye-openers ... I can’t recommend this one strongly enough.” – Book Chase

“There’s more than plenty of high-paced action and thrills ... Nicely paced and plotted … As an aside it just might compel readers to look into its underlying issue as well!” – Crystal Book Reviews

“Mike Bond has produced another nail-bitter … “Killing Maine just sucks in the reader and makes it difficult to put the book down until the very last page … A winner of a thriller.” – Mystery Maven Reviews

“In this multi-complex novel … Friendship, loyalty, love, revenge and greed are just some of the issues brought to light in this novel. Author Mike Bond scores some high points and shoots straight to the top of the rating list!” – Just Reviews

Editorial Review

No editorial review at this time.

Excerpt

A COYOTE BARKED downhill. As I stopped to listen a bullet cracked past my ear and smacked into the maple tree beside me. I dove off the trail skidding down the icy slope toward the cliff. Whack another bullet smashed into a trunk as I tumbled past, couldn’t stop sliding, couldn’t pull off my snowshoes, the cliff edge coming up fast as a shot whistled past my eyes, another by my neck.

My head hit a boulder and I spun jamming a snowshoe in brush. Another bullet spat past my ear and splintered a root. I tore loose from both snowshoes and leaped off the cliff down into a cluster of young hemlocks and deep drifts and came up gasping for air, bleeding and alive.

The shooter was above the cliff I’d just fallen off and had no angle of fire till I moved away from the bottom of the cliff. Unless he descended to the clifftop. Then he could shoot straight down on me.

I was going to die. The cliff of snow-dusted raw ice and stone seemed weirdly primeval, as if I’d been here before. Below me descended the bouldery rubble of what had once been part of this cliff, with another cliff below that, and all down the slope tall frozen hardwoods where if you got pinned down you were safe till the shooter got your angle and then there were not enough trees to protect you.

I’d lost my right boot pulling out of its snowshoe. The sock, ragged and soaked, left a smear of blood on the snow.

Was that footsteps near the clifftop, crunching crust? I was breathing so hard I couldn’t tell. If I ran and he was already there he’d shoot me easily in the back.

There was a terrible pain in my left hand. I stared at it stupefied. The ring finger was splayed ninety degrees sideways, dislocated. Once I saw it, it began to really hurt.

Trying to catch my breath and listening for the shooter, I pulled the finger straight but it would not drop back into the joint.

A shadow fell high up across a birch trunk: my shooter was above the cliff.

Like a wounded deer I darted downhill, running and dodging between tree trunks, slipping, skidding and tumbling ahead of the shots. The rifle sound so terrifying, the loud crack that crushes your ears, the physical whack of it, and if that bullet didn’t get you the next one will.

He stopped firing, maybe couldn’t see me through the trees. I slid, stumbled and ran a half mile further down the slope then circled back uphill above my trail, found a blowdown oak and broke off a hard limb like a baseball bat. I climbed higher and hid above my trail in a hemlock clump where I could see uphill but not be seen. If he followed my trail down the steep slope I had a chance of getting him with my oak limb as he walked past and before he could raise his gun.

My foot was freezing and very painful as was the dislocated finger. The pain was making me lightheaded, likely to make mistakes. I couldn’t move till dark, when I’d be harder to see and harder to shoot. Though I didn’t think my foot could wait that long without turning to ice.

And I still didn’t know where the shooter was.

Then came the snarl of a snowmobile on the ridge. Maybe it was him, leaving.

Or someone else going while he waited in the gathering dusk for me to return for my snowshoes and boot.

I sat cross-legged in the powdery snow watching my upslope trail, clasping my cold sodden foot, trying to set my finger back in its joint, shuddering, teeth clattering. The sun had quit the ridge and a deeper cold was sifting downhill. It was maybe minus twenty-five but going to get much colder. If I stayed out all night the shooter wouldn’t need to come back.

When facing death you sometimes get flashes of awareness, tragic epiphanies of what led to this fatal moment. As you gasp for breath and duck side to side running and falling and dashing on, expecting a bullet to smash your chest, you know how easy it would have been to avoid this.

It didn’t matter that three days ago I’d been surfing in sunny Hawaii. And now to help a buddy I couldn’t stand but to whom I owed my life, I was freezing to death in somebody’s gunsights on a snow-deep mountain in the backwoods of Maine. view abbreviated excerpt only...

Discussion Questions

1. Can a thriller be set in real, contemporary events?

2. Can a man love three women at the same time?

3. Can literature be used to reveal political and corporate corruption?

4. How far will you go to save a beautiful place you love?

5. Do you believe our political system is honest?

Weblinks

»	Author Mike Bond's web site
»	Publisher's Book Info

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