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.
Nash tossed the handset onto the desk and leaned back in the chair. He looked at the coffee in his mug and watched the steam rise from the dark liquid. Nash was happy in his life by the lake. It was quiet. He had time to himself, but his overactive and curious mind wouldn’t stay calm. Still, it had been a long time since he’d done any investigating. Maybe it was a perishable skill, and he wasn’t that guy anymore; perhaps he’d lost the talent. But then Nash didn’t know what would be worse, to find he had lost all his skills as an investigator, or that he’d still got it even after all this time?
“Hi, Dixon sent me down to get a ride,” Nash had said to the man at the motor pool. The IIB’s motor pool was a disused parking lot that looked like a used car sales place. There wasn’t much choice. But then, Nash hadn’t expected there to be that much to choose from. Around thirty vehicles parked around the edge of the wire fence, leaving the middle empty to safely maneuver the cars in and out of the lot. The office was a prefabricated cabin used on a building site. The door was at the end of the cabin’s left side, and the counter was at the other end.
On the right-hand wall was a unit with thirty slots that held the keys and documentation for that vehicle. On the bottom of each slot was a white plastic plaque. This was around an inch long and half an inch wide, printed in bold black letters, was the vehicle’s registration number. The air was thick with the smell of motor oil, grease, and cigar smoke, and dust.
There was a mix of Ford, GMC, Dodge, and other various makes outside the lot. There were red, blue, silver, and black vehicles. Despite their differences, they had one thing in common, they were all old vehicles, hand-me-downs from the FBI, CIA, and Sheriffs Offices. There was even a couple from border control.
“Got the paperwork?” asked a small spindly man who sat on an old wooden captain.
Nash handed the man the paperwork for the vehicle requisition. The man took it and chewed on the end of the fat cigar that he gripped in the corner of his mouth. The man was in his sixties with greased-back hair – he had obviously dyed it black himself. His skin aged, but his blue eyes were wide and had a healthy sparkle. He was about five-seven and wore greasy blue coveralls and training shoes. Above a pocket on his left breast was a sewn-on name tag that said Fletch.
“Do I get a pick, or did that asshole do that for me?” Nash asked.
Fletch looked up from the paperwork, scowled at Nash for a second, and then chewed on the cigar again. Almost as if he weighed up this agent in front of him. “He did pick somethin’ for you,” Fletch said. His voice was nasal and had a strong Brooklyn accent. “It’s the silver Ford on the far left. You can’t miss it. It’s got a reserved sticker on it,” Fletch grinned, causing his egg-shaped face to tighten. His long nose was pushed up by the wide mouth. Nash thought the man looked like a goblin or something from a Grimm’s tale. He walked over toward the left-hand side of the lot and headed toward the only silver car in the row. Nash had gotten a few feet away from the vehicle when he stopped. He turned looked at Fletch, who was standing in the doorway.
“You’re kidding me – right?” Nash asked angrily.
“Nope, that’s the one,” Fletch yelled back.
The vehicle was a silver Ford passenger wagon from the nineties. It had dents in the side, and part of the front grill was busted. Nash grumbled under his breath and headed back to Fletch, who was waiting with the keys. As Nash grew near, he stopped and looked over at a gray Wrangler Jeep JL, Night Eagle. Nash smiled as he walked over to the car.
“Hey, that ain’t your car. Boss said, you gotta have the silver one,” Fletch yelled angrily.
Nash ignored the man as he looked around the vehicle, kicking the tires and rocking it to check the suspension. From what Nash could see, this machine was virtually brand new.
“Hey, Nash, that ain’t your car,” Fletch protested.
Nash turned slowly and sauntered back to Fletch. “I’ll take it,” Nash said.
Fletch held up the keys to the Ford.
He shook his head. “No, the Jeep. I’ll take the Jeep,” Nash said coldly.
“Sorry, Agent Nash, the boss said you gotta take the van,” Fletch shrugged apologetically.
“I see you’re smokin’ Cubans?” Nash asked.
Fletch laughed out loud. “You think I’d be workin’ here if I could afford Cubans?”
Nash smiled at Fletch’s response.
Twenty minutes and a phone call to his father later, Nash was driving out of the lot in the Jeep. Meanwhile, Fletch was sitting in a new office chair and blowing smoke rings from his Cuban cigar.
Stuart Field is a British Army veteran who now works in security after serving twenty-two years in the British Army. As well as working full time he writes in his spare time.
Stuart was born and raised in the West Midlands in the UK.
His love for travel has been an inspiration in some of his work with his John Steel and Ronin Nash thriller series.
As well as future John Steel novels, Stuart is working on a new series and standalone novels.
Follow him at:
Facebook : www.facebook.com/stuart.field.5811
Website : stuartfieldauthorshomepage.wordpress.com
Amazon - https://geni.us/vOno4M7