Nobody's Agent E-Book

Stuart Field

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

In the Small town of Finchley, upstate New York, three bodies are discovered in an old mine. Soon after, Sheriff Doug Harrison contacts the FBI for help.

Ronin Nash is an ex-FBI special agent who wanted nothing more than to finish restoring the old family lake house. Now, Nash's old boss wants him back and on the Finchley case.

Nash takes the job and travels to Finchley, expecting to solve the case quickly, but it turns out that things are not not as clear-cut as he thought. Someone in the small town has a secret, and they're willing to go to any lengths to protect it.

A riveting crime thriller, Nobody's Agent is the first book in Stuart Field's Ronin Nash series.

Leseprobe

NOBODY'S AGENT

RONIN NASH THRILLERS BOOK 1

STUART FIELD

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

About the Author

Copyright (C) 2017 Stuart Field

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

Edited by Megan Gaudino

Cover art by CoverMint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.

To my family and friends who have supported my madness as a writer.

Thank you all.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I would like to thank

My amazing wife, Ani, and my family and friends for their constant support.

To my fantastic daughter, who always makes me proud.

To all the writers who have helped me with all your advice.

To Gail Williams my editor.

To Next Chapter books, my publisher.

PROLOGUE

Directive 2035 was simple.

The three-letter agencies found themselves overworked and undermanned due to an ever-increasing number of terrorist acts – both domestic and foreign, which put a strain on the agencies.

Those agencies also had their hands tied in certain areas, making some investigations almost impossible to deal with.

So, the new president implemented Directive 2035.

An agency made up of specialist investigators who were not bound by the same rules as the other agencies. Who were there for one purpose— to aid whichever agency required their help.

Some called them the Bleacher Boys or the Unnecessary Unit.

But whatever others called them. They were the Interagency Investigation Bureau or the IIB.

CHAPTERONE

Niagara Falls. March 5th

Twenty minutes to midnight.

The blue and red flashes from police cruisers’s light bars illuminated the Rainbow Bridge. Police vehicles had blocked both sides of the bridge, trapping the red Ford Focus in the middle.

The car sat idling as bellows of gray smoke irrupted from the tailpipe.

It had been an hour since the standoff, and nobody had moved. The police and border control ensured the car didn’t go anywhere because the FBI was on its way by helicopter.

It had been three days since the kidnapping of the Karr family. The ransom had been five million dollars, which would be small change to the billionaire. The money had been dropped at the location given, but the boy remained missing.

The wind hollowed across the bridge, rocking the vehicle as it sat and waited.

The man inside, John Barrett, waited. He knew the Feds would come, and he would be arrested if he played by their rules.

High above the thump, thump, thump of rotor blades caused the police to look up. The FBI helicopter was circling. The beam from its spotlight lit up the Ford and half-blinded John, who raised his arm to shield his eyes.

The helicopter circled twice then landed in the bottleneck space after the toll booths. Three men got out, instinctively ducked down as they ran from the helicopter. The men cleared the downdraft and straightened up. Their gazes fell toward the cordon and the trapped car. The agents all wore black suits with white shirts. They were all the same height, but the middleman had a larger build and walked with a swagger.

“Got you, you son-of-a-bitch,” said the agent in the middle. The lights reflected off the naturally dark skin of his shaven head.

The three agents turned as a man in a police uniform hurried over to them. The agents didn’t move, allowing the cop to come to them.

“I’m Sheriff Jones,” the man said. He was tall and slim, with gray hair almost hidden under a ballcap.

“Special Agent in charge,” the lead agent said, shaking the sheriff’s hand.

“We got your man when he ran the barrier. We figure he saw one of the cop cars and figured the worst. Thanks for the tip, by the way. We would’ve just figured he was some asshole running for the border otherwise,” Jones said.

The agent’s eyes narrowed as though the news of a tip hit a sore point. “Not a problem, and thanks for catching our boy,” he replied.

“What now?” asked Jones.

“Well, we have to make sure the boy is in the car, then we take the bastard out with a sniper,” the agent said, with a satisfied smile.

“So, the kid is in the car?” Jones asked.

“I guarantee it, he would be stupid to leave without his insurance,” the agent said.

“So, what you waitin’ for? Shoot him so we can all go home.” Jones shrugged.

“Unfortunately, we have to follow procedure. We have to make sure the boy is safe, the man could have explosives in the car or other form of traps, we kill him, he still wins. No, we do this right,” the agent replied, nodding to himself as though confirming his decision.

From behind them came a screech of tires, and a man in a gray suit came rushing toward them.

“Who the heck is that?” Jones asked.

“The fly in the ointment,” the agent growled. “What are you doing here, Nash?” the agent yelled at the approaching agent.

“I know what you want to do, but you can’t,” Nash said, panting heavily from the run.

“And why is that?” the agent said, crossing his arms defiantly.

“The boy isn’t in the car. He is somewhere else; if you kill Barrett, we will never find him in time,” Nash said.

The agent looked Nash up and down, taking note of his suit. Nash wore a three-piece dark gray suit, a light blue shirt without a tie, and brown boots that were more for hiking than the standard black business-style footwear. Nash was tall with an average build, and light-brown hair parted at the side.

“And you know this how?” asked Jones, with a confused look.

“Sheriff Jones, meet the Bureau’s profiler, and pain in my ass, Ronin Nash,” the agent said.

“You’re not an agent?” Jones asked.

“Unfortunately, he is, but he prefers not to use it for some reason. Apparently, it makes people prickly when they hear it,” the agent said.

Jones said nothing. He just bobbed his head as if in agreement.

“So, what makes you think the boy isn’t in the car?” the agent asked impatiently.

“It doesn’t fit his MO. Barrett has got what he wants, and now he is moving on. The kid would be a problem that he can do without because he would have to stash the kid somewhere, feed him, and how long for? No, Barrett has got the money. As far as he knew, nobody knew what he looked like, so all he had to do was leave the country and start fresh. He has the funds to do it. The kid would be baggage,” Nash said.

“Wouldn’t it be better to keep the kid with him?” Jones asked.

“You think about it. You are on the run with five million, and people are looking for you. Now, if you get made, and the cops find you for some reason, broken taillight, speeding, looking suspicious, do you want your bargaining chip there with you or tucked away to ensure nothing happens to you? Because only you know the location, so the cops will take you in and question you, not blow your head off,” Nash said.

“Makes sense,” Jones said.

“Utter crap, Nash, you have no idea, you are just guessing,” the agent barked.

“Just like I had no idea, he would be heading to Canada via this route, or he was driving an old Ford, OK the color was a guess,” Nash shrugged.

“I thought you called it in?” Jones said, turning to the agent.

“Look, the point is we have our man, so whether the kid is in the car or not, we have to do something,” the agent growled.

“Let me talk to him,” Nash said.

The agent thought for a moment. Of course, he would prefer not to lose an agent, but seeing Nash mess this up would be worth the black mark.

“OK, Nash, you have five minutes.”

“Here, take this,” Nash said, unclipping his holster from his belt and giving it to the agent.

Ronin Nash began walking over, his arms raised to the side so Barrett could see he wasn’t armed.

“Hi, John, I’m Ronin Nash,” he said as he strolled over to the red Ford.

“Finally, we meet, Nash,” Barrett said with a broken smile. “I had a feeling if I was geetin’ caught, it would be you.”

“Is that why you hid the kid?” Nash asked.

Barrett said nothing. He just nodded as if he was impressed by the question.

“So, what happens now, John?”

“You could let me go, I tell you where the kid is, we move on, everyone is happy,” Barrett said.

“Possibly, but that asshole over there with the massive shiny head won’t see it like that,” Nash said.

“Yeah, Special Agent.” Barrett nodded. “You know, Nash, if it hadn’t been for you, the kid would be home now?”

“If it hadn’t been for you, John, we wouldn’t have been looking for him, so, don’t put this on me,” Nash said calmly.

Barrett laughed. “Yeah, I figured you weren’t the guilt trip type but had to try, right?”

“Where is he, John?” Nash said, creeping closer. Finally, close enough, he could make out the dashboard.

“I come in quietly, maybe make a deal, then I tell you,” Barrett said. His voice became soft and nervous—a man with only one option.

“You come in, turn over the cash, we can talk to the DA, possibly work something out, but you know I can’t guarantee anything. That’s your best option. You haven’t killed anyone, so kidnapping is the only thing on the table,” Nash said.

“OK, Nash, we do it your way,” Barrett said.

Nash nodded.

But as Nash turned, he saw two cops rushing for the car. He went to raise his hands to tell them to stop, and then he heard the roar of the engine.

Nash turned to see the anger in Barrett’s face. “Nice try, Nash. Tell the agent he ain’t takin’ me in. Best find the kid before time runs out, Nash.” Barrett said, then hit the gas, turned the wheel, and smashed the vehicle through the railings and off the side of the bridge.

“NO!” Nash screamed as he rushed to the broken railing just in time to see the rear of the car disappear into the water. He fell to his knees. Anger welled up inside of him.

“What the hell did you do, Nash?” the agent barked.

Nash stood up and faced the agent. “Who ordered the men to rush the car?” he asked.

“It was a tactical move and one worth risking. You had him engaged. We thought we could take him,” Jones said.

“Who gave the order?” Nash said.

“You messed this one up, Nash, not me,” the agent said.

Ronin Nash nodded. He had his answer. He grabbed his gun from the agent and placed it back on his belt. “No, you did. He was coming in before your ego got in the way.”

It took two hours to retrieve the Ford from the river. Inside they found precisely what Ronin Nash expected. Barrett, a bag with two million dollars, and no kid.

After searching Barrett’s navigation system and using cell tower information, the Feds narrowed the search to a new construction site, just out of Manhattan. Finally, they found the missing child in a container buried under what was due to be new foundations of a building. The concrete was to be poured the next day.

The child was dead. He had only enough oxygen to last up until midnight.

Ronin Nash figured that Barrett would have given up the location whether he had made it over the border or had been caught. But the agent’s intervention had changed everything.

Two days later, Ronin Nash quit the FBI.

CHAPTERTWO

It had been two years since the Mason factory murder. An event that the rest of the US either hadn’t known or had just forgotten about.

It had also been a year since other events forced Special Agent Ronin Nash to leave the FBI. Even though Ronin Nash had been cleared of any misconduct or wrongdoing, he’d felt differently. The shrinks had called it survivor’s guilt, but to Nash, it was something more – something darker.

The black vehicle appeared on the horizon of the long, lonely road just off Route 81 near the border between Pennsylvania and Maryland. The shimmering August heat rose from the cracked asphalt, making it appear like the car was hovering above the endless highway.

The vehicle sped along the straight road; the GMC SUV was a government issue with one person aboard – Director Nicolas Blake. The maps had the dusty road as a white line instead of a light brown of a highway. A forgotten road that few people used. However, the isolated location was perfect for the person he was going to see. The nearest town to the house was fifty miles away, so small it only appeared on the map as a point. Christchurch, Pennsylvania, was founded back in the 1800s and possibly still had the same population size, close to 600. The rest of the small towns in the US had either boomed or died, but Christchurch had just remained. Although he had to admit, he’d never heard of the place. In fact, it was just a dot on the map. Which was perfect for a person who didn’t want to be disturbed.

The population mainly consisted of farmers and laborers because there was no real industry. There were no automobile plants, mining, or oil: only cows, corn, wheat, and flowers. However, a local man called Jeb Forester had a productive stud farm that brought in people from far and wide. This, in turn, had been good for the local hotel and Diner.

The town got by, primarily because of its small numbers. The farmers sold their produce to nearby cities, and the milk was bought by a nearby chocolate factory.

The flat scenery was broken up by the roaming green and yellow from the mixture of fields and the never-ending rows of utility poles at the side of the road. The vehicle navigation system told Blake that he had to take the next left in a hundred feet.

“Okay,” said Blake, his voice soft but deep.

As the vehicle took a sharp left, thenheaded toward a lake, the scenery had changed from the patchwork of fields to a track made up of hard dirt, small rocks, and towering pine trees on either side. He followed the trail, hoping that it would level out or come to the property he was looking for, for the sake of his spine.

Blake smiled as the track evened out and suddenly became an asphalt square in front of the house. The house was a two-story mass of stone, wood, and glass, creating a thing of beauty. The porch had two chairs next to the front door. To the right was a three-car garage. To the left was the lake.

Blake learned years ago that the land had been passes down from generation to generation. He’d seen the photos of the original cabin that once stood there. It had been made from thick lumber back in the 1800s. However, over time, it succumbed to nature and neglect.

Blake knew that his old friend, Ronin Nash, had spent a lot of money rebuilding it and was amazed at what Nash had accomplished.

After parking near the front porch, Blake got out of the vehicle. He stretched out and sucked in a lungful of clean air. He saw how a man could live here happily but couldn’t see how a man like the one he was here to confront could live here happily for long.

Nicolas Blake was tall, sported broad shoulders and a thick neck. The sun reflected off his dark, shaven head as he stepped out into the blistering sunlight. Despite the tree shade, it still seemed like a million degrees outside, compared to the vehicle’s air conditioning.

Blake straightened his black suit and blue tie. The drive from the Washington office had taken hours. Still, he thought the trip would be better received if he didn’t come by helicopter. After all, Nash didn’t much like visitors.

Once he walked up to the front door, he saw the button for the bell. He pressed the brass button and waited. In the distance, he could hear the gentle ding-ling from a bell somewhere inside. The sound made Blake smile; it reminded him of the local corner store he used to go to as a child. He paused for a minute before he gave up and moved around the rear of the house.

The back of the house was fenced off by a high wooden wall, probably to keep the wildlife out, but Blake found a door that was unlocked, to his delight. He clicked the latch and entered to find a small vegetable garden and a wooden deck. There was also a jetty with a small boathouse at the side. The view across that lake was nothing less than spectacular.

Blake looked over to the house and walked up some wooden steps to the deck and the rear of the house. The house was constructed from stone and wood, and in the center were huge windows that allowed as much sunlight to enter as possible. Blake smiled and nodded; this was paradise. He knew of people – his wife included – who would spend a fortune on just a weekend in such a place.

Nicolas Blake looked around the deck to see if the owner was there, but to his surprise, he two mugs of black coffee, sitting on a small wooden table next to two chairs. Blake smiled and shook his head. So, either the man Blake sought had company already, or the man knew Blake was coming.

“The answers no, but thanks for stopping by anyway,” came a voice from the house. Blake didn’t turn, he just smiled and reached for one of the coffees – taking the man’s greeting to mean one of those drinks was for him.

“Can’t a friend just stop by?” Blake’s voice rang with a Harvard tone.

“He could…but DC isn’t exactly just down the road,” Ronin Nash said as he approached from the rear sliding door.

Nash was six feet with broad shoulders and muscular arms. His mousey-colored hair was long. His square jaw was covered with a beard, trimmed but only to stop it from getting too long. Blake turned to face his host and smiled at the man’s blue checkered shirt over jeans and desert boots, which was a change from Nash’s usual attire. Blake had wondered how Nash had gotten through life without picking up an accent. His father had been a former Major in the Black Watch, a Scottish regiment. Nash’s mother had been from New York. But somehow, Ronin hadn’t picked up either accent.

Born in Edinburgh, Nash had never really lived there. The army had moved the family around a lot. Then, finally, they all settled in the States when his father had been posted to Washington as a Quartermaster. Nash had been fifteen by then.

“Good to see you, Nash,” Blake said as he took a sip from the coffee. It was strong and hot – fresh from the machine. Of course, most would question how Nash knew he was coming, but Blake had given up asking that kind of question years ago.

“You too, Nick, but I still can’t help,” Nash said as he sat in one of the chairs and took the remaining mug.

“Look, what happened in that case, wasn’t your fault. You called it, and well, nobody listened to you,” Blake said reassuringly. “It’s been over a year now, Nash. Don’t you think it’s time to come back?”

Nash thought as he stared out across the water for a moment, then shook his head. “I don’t think I will ever come back – truly back, that is. I’ll be more a hindrance than an asset,” Nash said.

Blake nodded. He could understand Nash’s pain. But now wasn’t the time, and he needed Nash. “I get it, I do. But you gotta do something, I mean…you can’t just stay here for the rest of your life,” Blake said. Then, looking out across the calm water and the fantastic view, thinking how stupid that statement had been…God, he could spend the rest of his days there – who couldn’t?

“Look, there’s a new agency, the IIB,” Blake started to say.

“Yeah, the Interagency Investigation Bureau. Yes, I read about it,” Nash said before taking a sip from his coffee. Blake smiled and nodded, unsurprised at the man’s need for knowledge. “I also know you are the director of the operation. Starting…yesterday, I believe. Congratulations,” Nash said, raising his mug to toast the man’s success.

“Look, we’re opening an office in New York. I’d like you to run it,” Blake said.

Nash’s gaze was fixed on the view in front of him. “No, thanks. What about Dixon? He’s a good guy, solid…dependable. A hell of a good leader as well,” Nash said.

Blake smiled. He knew that Nash thought Special Agent Frank Dixon was an idiot. Still, he knew Nash wanted the chair even less than working with Dixon. “His name came up, but I thought I’d offer it to you first.”

“Well, not interested… and not interested,” Nash said.

Blake looked over at Nash, his sunglass-hidden eyes were full of desperation. “You mean, no to the chair, and no….”

“To the job offer,” Nash said, his tone was friendly but held a stubbornness to it.

“Look, man, if you’ve looked into it, you’d know it’s easy work. We just do the low-level crap that the other agencies have no time for,” Blake said, hoping the sound of a less stressful job would appeal to Nash. Blake placed a thin brown file onto the hard surface and tapped it as though he was inviting Nash to look.

Nash had worked for Blake in the FBI; before that, Nash had served in The Rangers, then he had transferred over to the CID division before he got snatched up by the Feds.

Nash had been around, but at thirty-five, he was ready for a quiet life…especially after the incident.

“Thanks, but no thanks, Nick,” Nash said with a broken smile. He knew that his old boss and friend were only trying to look out for him, but he also felt a hidden agenda in his friend’s invitation.

“Okay,” Blake said, his voice sounding defeated, but Nash knew him too well. “Can’t say I didn’t try.” Blake shrugged and stood up. He downed the rest of his coffee and prepared to head back to the car.

“Sorry, boss, but you get it, right?” Nash said as he pulled himself out of the chair.

“I get it. You’ve given up. But that’s cool. After what happened, I probably would have done the same. I mean, what normal person wouldn’t have, right?” Blake said.

Nash shot his friend a scowl for the low blow.

“Look, Nick. Why don’t you stay over? I’ve got a guest room you’re welcome to use. We can catch up. I’ll get some steaks on. I’m sure I’ve still got a couple of bottles of that wine you like,” Nash suggested.

Nash hoped the offer of good food and good wine would take Blake’s mind off his pursuit. Nicolas Blake looked at his watch; he hadn’t realized how late it was. It was nearly five o’clock, and the thought of the 2-hour drive back along that damned road was enough to convince Blake.

“Okay, you’re on. Thanks, Nash,” Blake said.

Nash nodded and headed inside the house with Blake close behind. All the while, the clock in Blake’s head was ticking.

He needed Nash on a case, and he needed him on it fast.

CHAPTERTHREE

It was ten o’clock in the evening, and Sam Trent had just called it a day at the local paper, where he worked as a reporter. The town of Finchley was not full of the sensational news of the big cities. In fact, the only crime they seemed to have lately was a spate of burglaries, but that was put down to homeless people who wandered through town.

A couple of years before, a body was found in the old Mason factory. The unidentified man had been murdered by some homeless guy and Mayor Karl Thomas, who had been the sheriff at the time, caught the killer. The case was quick, mainly because the guy had admitted to it. So, now the man was serving life in prison, and Thomas had been the local hero.

Finchley was one of those towns in the middle of everywhere but close to nowhere. It was a go-through town, perfect for the local diner and gas station. Some big-shot asshole from New York wanted to build a supermarket close to the gas station. He even visited the town— not that anyone noticed. Something had changed his mind, despite the townsfolks’ apparent interest. It would have meant jobs for many people, and it would have been incredibly lucrative for the gas station and the diner.

However, the deal had fallen through. Some had blamed the new highway that was to be built a couple of miles away. A route that was now going to be a problem for the town as it would mean fewer people passing through Finchley.

Trent had been around long enough to have seen the same thing happen to many towns. And now, it was happening to his town. The construction of the new route wouldn’t be going ahead for another year, but of course, that didn’t stop the townspeople from worrying.

Trent, however, had a new story. While reporting on a story involving dead fish at the local fishery, he discovered something. Elliott Bowmont had reported a spate of dead carp in his ponds, despite having never had a problem in thirty years. Sam Trent walked toward his blue Ford F-150 pickup, tired and in desperate need of a drink and something to eat. Dan’s Diner was just down the street from his house, so having a quick bite there seemed a perfect choice. Besides, he couldn’t be bothered to cook, and he’d had enough of TV dinners. The thought of one of Dan’s burgers and fries made Trent’s stomach groan in agreement with his decision.

Trent was a tall, slim man, with short jet-black hair, a trimmed beard, and a pair of round spectacles with thin black frames that covered his wide, ever-exploring brown eyes. He had dressed appropriately for the daytime, blue jeans with a white shirt, gray V-neck sweater, and brown walking boots. After all, the weather forecaster had said it would be a nice warm day. And it had been, with sixty-four degrees and clear skies.

But now, with no cloud cover above, the temperature had plummeted to, at best, forty-six degrees. A crisp breeze blew in from the east. Trent shuddered and wrapped his arms tightly around his chest, making him regret his decision to leave his heavy brown leather coat in his car.

He pulled his keys from his trouser pocket and pressed the electric fob. There was a gentle thud as the car lock disengaged, and the signal lights blinked orange twice. Trent opened the driver’s door, heaved his shivering body inside, and set the vehicle’s heater to the red zone before starting the engine. He waited for a moment, let the engine warm-up, and the stale heat began to circulate. A song from the nineties blared on the radio, taking Trent back to his youth. He smiled, put the shift into drive, and eased gently onto the gas.

Trent lived on Highway Road, a lonely stretch of asphalt overlooking a cornfield. His was the last house of five in the row, with Dan’s Diner at the end and then nothing but road and fields until you hit the turn for the highway.

Trent sang along to the music and stared into the blackness of the road. The streetlamps had ended as he turned off Main Street and left at the church on Highway Road. Trent always found it odd that nobody put streetlamps along that stretch of road, but he knew the term, “budget cuts,” would be the answer.

The journey to Dan’s Diner would take Trent by his house. Still, he didn’t mind driving back on his own later. He was feeling too lazy to walk the short distance, besides, the portions at Dan’s were huge, so he wouldn’t have the strength to walk. Trent looked over the rucksack in the footwell of the passenger side and smiled. He had just started writing the true-crime novel, but it got more interesting than he had envisaged so far.

The song finished and was replaced by the local half-past-ten news. California was electing a new Governor, France and Britain were in talks over the tunnel and ferry ports. All-in-all, nothing affected him personally, so he gave up listening and changed the station.

His thoughts were a million miles away, thinking about the burger and fries and the appointment he had in the morning. Trent’s work at the newspaper paid the bills, but there wasn’t much going on worthy of front-page news. The thought of leaving the town and working for a city newspaper had been squashed years back after his mother had become ill, and he was forced to look after her the best he could. Even though she’d been dead for six months, he had lost the motivation to leave.

The book, however, was a turning point for him. It was a chance to do something other than reporting about how farmer Jack Lloyd had grown a prize marrow.

Trent pulled into one of the parking spaces in front of Dan’s Diner and sat for a moment. The welcoming glow from the interior lights and the red of the neon sign illuminated his face. It was a fantastic sight for him, one he would miss when those book sales started to come in and he could get the hell out of town.

CHAPTERFOUR

Ronin Nash and Nicolas Blake sat on the house’s back deck, looking out across the water. Nash had served up steak, fried potatoes, and plenty of red wine.

Nicolas Blake sighed comfortably as he felt the warmth from the nearby fire pit and listened to the medley of the water lapping at the bank, cricket songs, and the crackling from the firewood. He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. This was paradise— but Blake couldn’t stay and neither could Nash because Blake needed him back on the team.

While knowing it was selfish of him, Blake was desperate because the agency was new and had to make a name for itself, and Nash was the one to put them on the map. Now, the agency was a novelty, a plaything for the others, but Blake knew it was more than that— could be more than that.

Nicolas Blake resented the nicknames the other agencies had for them. The IIB was a joke to the other agencies, and Blake was brought in to change that.

“So, any fish in the lake?” Blake asked, hoping to someday get an invitation to return and do some fishing.

“Got some nice trout in there,” Nash smiled as he sipped from his wine glass.

“Must be really beautiful here in the winter,” Blake said, his voice almost singing with the thought of snow-covered trees and an iced-up lake.

“I’ll send you a postcard at Christmas,” Nash said as he waited for the point of the conversation. Nash knew Blake wasn’t going to be happy unless he left with Nash or at least a ‘Yes, I’ll join your little band.’

Nicolas Blake stood up and stretched out. “I gotta hit the head.” He groaned with disappointment, feeling the sudden discomfort of his bones hurting from the drive.

“Up the stairs, second on the right, that’s your room for the night,” Nash said, his gaze fixed on the water and the massive golden moon high above.

“Your bedrooms are en suite?” Blake said in surprise. “I have got to rent this place off you some time.”

“And bring Maggie and the kids?” Nash said, turning around suddenly as though Blake had said something insulting.

“You kiddin’ me? Nah, man, I’m goin’ fishin’.” Blake laughed.

“And you’ll tell her what? You’re the boss. You don’t go out in the field?” Nash said. Nash knew Blake’s wife would kill him if she knew or possibly used it against Blake later.

“I can do fieldwork. But, like you say, I’m the boss.” Blake laughed and headed through the glass doors and into the open plan sitting room and kitchen. The room was a mix of old and modern. Separating the rooms was a long, black marble-topped breakfast bar.

Blake looked over at the lounge area and stared in awe at the stone wall with the chimney and open fireplace. A hand-carved coffee table sat between the fireplace and an old, worn leather couch. Both rooms seemed bare but simultaneously contained the correct number of furnishings, not like his place with far too much of everything. This room was somewhere to sit back and relax, enjoy a meal, or read a book. There was no TV, just a radio in the kitchen. Blake figured that Nash would have an office somewhere, with a computer and an extensive library.

Directly in front of him, Blake saw a long hallway that branched off from the sitting room. The wall on the right was made from the same stone as the chimney and held the glass-paneled front door. The left-hand wall was made from the same treated timber as the rest of the house. Finally, he noticed the three doors, each with ornate brass handles, one of which Blake figured was Nash’s office.

Next to the front door, six brass hooks sat neatly in a row. Each one had a coat or jacket hanging from them. Antique brass wall lights illuminated the passageway with a warm honey-colored glow, showing off framed pictures that hung proudly under each lamp.

Next to the hallway entrance was a magnificent spiral staircase to the first floor. Blake imagined from Nash’s directions held the bedrooms.

The whole place was a fantastic mix of aromas from polished wood, flowers, and herbs. In addition, the scent of the fire pit had wafted through the open door, adding to the combination of smells.

Nicolas Blake looked down at the varnished wooden floor. It glistened as though it was made from water. He smiled as he noted the enormous, Turkish handwoven rug between the couch and the breakfast bar, remembering where Nash had bought it and how much trouble it cost to import the damned thing.

What Nash had accomplished amazed Blake, turning the once forgotten and abandoned land into an incredible home. Although he had to admit that he was jealous, the thought of how much it must have cost Nash over the years suddenly made Blake quite happy with his home.

He headed for the hallway and opened the first door of the three. Sure, he was snooping around; he was curious about what was in those rooms, after all. But, of course, knowing Nash, they would be full of books— the man did like to read.

Blake grasped the cold metal of the door handle and pushed down slowly, hoping it didn’t let out a squeak of metal as he did so. Instead, he cringed like a naughty child as he inched the handle down, ready to let go at the first noise from the mechanism.

“You always were a nosey bastard,” Nash said, having snuck up behind his friend.

Nicolas Blake yelped and let go of the handle, then turned to face Nash, his hand over his heart, as if trying to prevent it from breaking through his chest.

“Fuck knows why you’re grasping your chest; you gotta have a heart first, Nick,” Nash said with a grin.

Blake scowled. “I was just headin’ for your bathroom.”

“I said upstairs, but I guess you won’t be happy until you’ve had the tour,” Nash said, shaking his head with amusement. His old boss hadn’t changed— and Nash was happy about that. If anything, that would be one good reason to come back— but it still wasn’t enough.

Nicholas Blake swung the door open to reveal an office. It was a twelve-by-twelve box with one window opposite the door. The furniture was antique, with a big oak desk and a brass banker’s lamp on one corner next to a large computer monitor, keyboard, and mouse. The office chair was soft brown leather and thickly padded. There were bookshelves crammed with books. Blake stood in the doorway and took in the view of this magnificent workplace. There was another chimney and a smaller open fireplace masked by a brass fireguard to his left. Nash slid past Blake, headed for a wall cabinet, and pulled down a flap, revealing a drink cabinet.

“I see you’ve been raiding the local antique stores. Man, they must love you, Nash.” Blake smiled as he looked around, inching his way around to the desk, his gaze fixed on that chair.

“So, what you do here, apart from keeping up to date with stuff you say you’re not interested in?” Blake smiled as he eased himself into the chair. The thick leather creaked, and Blake rolled his eyes; the chair was perfect. It had just the right amount of cushioning, and it felt amazing.

“I…write,” Nash admitted, as though it was something to be ashamed of.

“You write what?” Blake asked, confused for a moment.

“Stories.” Nash shrugged and poured two glasses of port.

“You’re shittin’ me?”

“No, I write stories. It’s part of my therapy, apparently,” Nash said, handing over the glass of port.

Blake took it; he didn’t know whether to laugh or congratulate Nash— the man had gone to the shrink.

“So, what kind of stories? Crime, horror…it’s not porn, is it?” Blake said, his eyes wide with anticipation.

“No, they’re thrillers, wise-ass, and before you ask, it’s just for me. I’m not looking at publishing; besides, they’re crap,” Nash said, taking a seat on a fabric couch which sat underneath the window. It was a tatty blue thing, with worn material and a thick Afghan blanket slung across it to hide the couch’s appearance.

“I’m glad you went to a shrink, sort your head out,” Blake said. But Blake already knew Nash had been. In fact, he was getting constant reports from the doctor regarding Nash’s mental state. Each time, the doctor had confirmed that Nash had no side effects from the trauma, no feelings at all— and according to the doc, that was far worse than if he’d broken down. The words sociopath and psychopath had come into play.

But Blake already knew these things about Nash— heck, it was one reason he had poached him from the CID section of the Military Police.

“Yeah, like I had a choice,” Nash said, raising an eyebrow.

Blake smiled back at him sheepishly.

“What was it…oh, yeah. Go to the shrink and get a clean bill of health, or we can’t release you from service,” Nash spoke in a loud voice, mimicking the Director of the FBI.

Blake laughed. “Impressive, you got that arrogant bastard down to a tee.”

Nash nodded slowly, as though he weighed a few things in his mind. His eyes took in the room, picking out the old photos from his time in the service before resting on one in particular. It was newer. It was of his FBI team back in DC.

“I’m going to bed. See you in the morning,” Nash said, easing himself off the couch and from his comfortable position. The wine and port were starting to get the best of him; hell, the last time he had drunk this much, he had just buried a friend – damned Irish funerals.

“See you in the mornin’,” Blake said, giving Nash a two-finger salute. As the door closed, a smile cracked from the corner of Blake’s mouth as his eyes wandered back to the computer in front of him. He thought back to what Nash had said, thrillers, not a thriller, the implication of more than one fascinated him.

Blake leaned forward and pressed the ENTER key. The screen blinked and showed the main screen. At first, he was curious why there had been no security protection on the computer. After all, they’d had security protocols drummed into them at Quantico.

Blake saw many files, but the folder that interested him read, ‘Books.’ He looked around, more out of muscle memory than anything, then opened the folder. He was shocked to see four manuscripts already done and found Nash was working on a fifth. Blake got comfortable and clicked the first book called The Agent. Blake smiled at the irony of the name. He sat back and read. Blake had to be honest; he thought it might be utter garbage, but hours and several cups of coffee later, Blake realized he was hooked.

CHAPTERFIVE

It was six in the morning, and the sky was a fiery red with the late sunrise. The streets of Finchley were quiet. Most people were already at work or just staying at home. Harrison pulled into the parking lot of Dan’s Diner and parked the Yukon next to Sam Trent’s red Ford F-150 truck. He knew it was Trent’s, just by looking at it.

Harrison was now the sheriff. He was promoted as soon as Karl Thomas had become Mayor. Of course, he hadn’t expected to be promoted, but then again, he wasn’t about to argue either. But, today, he wished he had because the Feds were on their way to investigate the bodies in the mine.

Harrison looked over at the truck for a moment; he knew it belonged to that pain-in-the-ass journalist Sam Trent. He sneered slightly as his gaze darted between the truck and the diner. He was hoping for a quiet breakfast. But, unfortunately, the last thing he needed before he’d had his coffee was Trent and his theories regarding that true crime crap he’d been working on.

Harrison got out of the patrol vehicle and looked in Trent’s truck. It was clean inside, not the mobile office Trent usually kept. In fact, there were no papers, notebooks, or anything. He smiled; maybe the guy had given up his quest for the story? Either that or he decided to work from home instead of his vehicle.

The morning was beginning to get warm, but a crisp wind from the east made Harrison’s bare skin tingle. He caught his reflection in the glass of the vehicle’s side window and smiled. He wore a short-sleeve shirt, which, like his pants, had razor-like creases. Although he had to admit, Sue at the dry cleaners always did a hell of a job on his uniform; better than he could ever do, that was for sure.

Harrison entered the diner wearing his usual morning smile. The door made a sucking noise as he nudged it open with a flat palm.

Madeline Baker, the waitress and Dan’s wife, smiled as he stepped inside.

“Mornin’, Maddy,” Harrison said, taking off his ball cap to flatten his hair out.

“Mornin’, sheriff. Your usual?” she said.

“Sounds good to me, just as long as that old bastard ain’t made the coffee this time.” He laughed as he saw the of Dan’s scowling face appear from the service hatch.

“It’ll be right up, sheriff,” Maddy said.

Harrison nodded a thank you and looked around the diner. It was a prominent place, with enough room to seat forty people. It was a typical 1960’s diner with red PU leather seats in benched booths, which ran back-to-back along both sides of the room. The floor was a black and white checkerboard. The walls were white and full of memorabilia from the 60s. There was a jukebox at the end of the room between two doors for the restrooms.

The morning-sun bathed the diner in a honey glow, giving it a warm, homely feel. Harrison loved this time in the morning; it was quiet in the Diner, except for the usual suspects. At the counter was old man Lloyd, a slight man with weathered brown skin. He was over seventy but had that sharp, one-eyed stare. He wore a dark blue shirt with jeans and what appeared to be his old issue M65 army jacket. Many moons ago, he had been 1st Airborne. Now, he was alone with his ham, eggs, and coffee.

Dick Saunders, the town doctor, a round-looking guy in a beige suit with thinning black hair and a mustache, sat at the back of the room. The man was crammed into a booth looking at something he didn’t need anyone else to see on his laptop. He had a stack of empty plates next to the computer, meaning he’d gotten there early.

“Mornin’, sheriff,” said the doc as he peered over the top of his laptop and pulled it down slightly.

“Mornin’, doc,” Harrison replied.

Old man Lloyd remained silent and lifted his coffee mug in greeting. Harrison nodded in reply.

Harrison made his way to his usual seat facing the door in the middle of the window side row of booths. For him, it was a perfect seat for tactical purposes, not too close to the door or too far back. And, he had a perfect view out of the window and of the door. Then, as he sat, he looked around again before staring curiously out of the window at Sam Trent’s truck.

Maddy walked over to the Harrison holding the mug of coffee, her shoes squeaking as she went. She was tall and blonde with an hourglass figure. Like Dan, Maddy was in her fifties, and she had been an attractive woman once. However, the years of hard labor had taken their toll, but she was still a looker, too pretty for the likes of Dan, some would say, but they were good together.

Harrison sat back in his seat as she placed down the coffee and shot her quick nod toward the red Ford.

“So, where’s Trent? Ain’t in here,” Harrison asked, picking up the coffee mug, feeling the warmth coming through the porcelain.

“Dunno, ain’t seen him this morning. I guess he left his truck here last night.” Maddy shrugged.

“What time did he leave?” Harrison asked, expecting a tale of the reporter getting waisted before heading home on foot.

“He didn’t,” Maddy replied.

“Didn’t what…leave?” Harrison said.

“No, come in. He didn’t come here last night,” she said, looking over at the truck then at Harrison. “You don’t think somethin’ happened to him, do you?”

Harrison shrugged, almost as if he didn’t care if something had. Trent had proven to be trouble. But he was curious.

“He’ll be fine, Maddy. Probably sleeping it off somewhere. But don’t worry, he’ll be in later spouting all kinds of shit, you wait,” Harrison said before taking a sip from the strong coffee.

Maddy nodded, but all the while, she feared the worse. Sam Trent had stirred up some feeling with his investigation into this true crime, that had been for sure.

Harrison thought nothing more of it because he had other things on his mind. The Feds were on their way after he’d called them in for assistance. After all, the bodies were on federal land, so it was their problem— less for him to worry about, but still, he felt uneasy about it.

CHAPTERSIX

Nicolas Blake had left early the following day. He had crept about, trying to be as quiet as possible, as he often did at home after working late. But as he made his way into the kitchen, he found the coffee was already made and a note from Nash to say he’d gone fishing for breakfast.

Blake already felt that he’d overstayed his welcome, so remaining for breakfast would’ve been pushing it. Besides, he had to get back to DC before the traffic hit. Blake got his thermos cup and filled it. The coffee had a fantastic aroma, one he’d never encountered before. He hoped it tasted as good.

As he went to leave, Blake stopped, thinking it only polite to leave a note. He went to the desk in the office and started to write. It was a simple, great to catch up and thanks for the meal and the chat, kind of note. He also left his number at the agency just in case Nash changed his mind.