About Mike Bond
Called “master of the existential thriller” by BBC, “one of America's best thriller writers” by Culture Buzz, and “one of the 21st century’s most exciting authors” by the Washington Times, Mike Bond is a best-selling novelist, war and human rights journalist, environmental reporter and prizewinning poet. He has covered death squads, guerrilla wars and military dictatorships in Latin America and Africa and Islamic terrorism in the Middle East, Asia and Europe. He has written widely on environmental problems including elephant poaching, whales, wolves, habitat loss, species extinction, renewable energy and climate change... Read More
"One of the 21st Century’s Most Exciting Authors"Washington Times
Saving Paradise - Excerpt
IT WAS ANOTHER MAGNIFICENT DAWN on Oahu, the sea soft and rumpled and the sun blazing up from the horizon, an offshore breeze scattering plumeria fragrance across the frothy waves. Flying fish darting over the crests, dolphins chasing them, a mother whale and calf spouting as they rolled northwards. A morning when you already know the waves will be good and it will be a day to remember.
I waded out with my surfboard looking for the best entry and she bumped my knee. A woman long and slim in near-transparent red underwear, face down in the surf. Her features sharp and beautiful, her short chestnut hair plastered to her cold skull.
I dropped my board and held her in my arms, stunned by her beauty and death. If I could keep holding her maybe she wouldn’t really be dead. I was already caught by her high cheekbones and thin purposeful lips, the subtle arch of her brow, her long slender neck in my hands. And so overwhelmed I would have died to protect her. When I carried her ashore her long legs dragged in the surf as if the ocean didn’t want to let her go, this sylphlike mermaid beauty. Sorrow overwhelmed me – how could I get her back, this lovely person dead in my arms? ...Read more
Tibetan Cross - Excerpt
AT DUSK the forest opened on a valley where horses grazed knee-deep, their tails painted red by the setting sun. Stone houses rimmed a paved yard cut by a stream whose susurration merged with the arrhythmic tinkling of horse bells and the failing wind's whisper in the rhododendrons.
A bent woman in a black sari watched him from a garden. "Namasté, grandmother," he called. "This is the Pokhara trail?”
"How many days?”
She raised three crooked fingers, holding in her other hand a plank she had removed from the stream bank to divert water into the garden. "If there are no landslides." Wrinkles jammed the corners of her mouth. "Now the dark comes. You may stay tonight in the house of my brother.”"I must go tonight to Pokhara.”
"It is impossible. Three days.”
Cohen turned toward the fields behind him. "They are fine horses.”
"I seek such a horse to go to Pokhara.”
"These do not leave the mountains." She replaced the plank. Water sank from view into the dirt, pebbles glistening. ...Read more