A Riveting Crime Thriller Novel Set In Upstate New York

Nobody's Agent (Ronin Nash Thrillers Book 1) by Stuart Field

Book excerpt

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.