Nobody’s Agent by Stuart Field

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

About the author

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

Twitter: www.twitter.com/StuartField14

Website : stuartfieldauthorshomepage.wordpress.com

As part of the blogtour I have the pleasure of sharing an extract with you.

Sheriff Doug Harrison pulled up on the side of the road and let the vehicle idle. Finchley lay behind him, and before him was the mine. But, to his right was the track to the old Mason factory.

He hadn’t been back there since that night two years ago, and he hoped to God he’d never have a reason to go back there. But, he still remembered the sight of the man strung up like a pig with half his head missing.

Harrison shivered at the thought, put the shift into drive, and stepped on the gas. The tires spat gravel, and the truck sped off. He didn’t want to spend any more time near that place, that hell. The mine was bad enough. There used to be an old guy who lived in town. Tom was his name. An old Sioux Indian who had lived in the town before it was a town. People figured he was over a hundred when he went and died.

Tom used to tell stories about the old days. He’d tell tales about burial grounds and hunting grounds and how life used to be. Tom also said that the old mine was haunted by a bear spirit and how bodies used to turn up torn to pieces near the cave’s mouth. But, of course, people thought he was just trying to scare the hell out of them.

And then, two days ago, that all changed. They had found bodies at the mouth of the mine. But, of course, Harrison had left that part out. He didn’t need the Fed’s thinking he was crazy.

The mine was a quarter of a mile down the dusty track. Like most roads outside of Finchley, they were more tracks than roads. The Mayor didn’t see the point in investing cash on roads nobody would use.

The mine shaft was blocked off, with plenty of DANGER KEEP OUT signs. Not that most kids took any notice. If anything, it was a rush to break that rule. Possibly the only interesting thing there was to do in town.

Sheriff Harrison parked and stepped out of the Yukon, adjusted his belt so the snap buckle faced forwards, and pulled on his ballcap. A slight breeze from the East caused the nearby pine trees to sway and creek. Crows cawed at Harrison’s appearance. Harrison looked up at the sky and the dark clouds, which loomed overhead. Harrison grumbled and reached into the back for his jacket.

“Damned weather,” he growled to himself. The weather girl had promised rain, but when were they ever right? Most of the time, the rain went around Finchley. But there was a storm coming. He could feel it in his bones.

Harrison locked the truck and sauntered over to the gate. He already had a bad feeling about being here.

The mine compound was full of machines and crates. Five wooden shacks stood in a row. The largest of which had been the foreman’s office. The others had been used as break rooms and a canteen to grab lunch. Each shack was about 32 x10 feet. They weren’t built for comfort, but they were good enough.

Two large ventilation tubes jutted out and went off to the sides. Below these were the rail tracks for the carts. This wasn’t a big operation, no massive installation, no diggers, or cultivators. Instead, this was a small-town business that had been around for over two hundred years.

Now, it lay dormant. The machines were silent, no chattering of voices, no more deafening sounds from within from the hydraulic rock drills, cutting machines, and trolleys.

Harrison hated this place because it gave him the creeps. He’d come here as a kid; the other kids had dared him too. He had gone to the mouth of the shaft, peered down into the slopping darkness.

That’s when he had heard the low moan of something…something terrifying. He had run home that day, past the others who had waited outside the fence line. Their jeering cries of ‘yellowbelly’ echoed in his ears. Harrison shivered at the thought of that day when he was a kid.

Now, he was standing at the mouth of the tunnel again. It had been made safer since that day. There was safety equipment and shutter doors to keep people out. He looked around, making sure nothing had been disturbed since his last visit. The yellow police tape was still crisscrossing the entrance door.

He was happy enough. Everything was ready for the Fed’s when they arrived. Harrison expected there would be a team-up to seven people in those shinney-backed-out vehicles. Top agents with computers and mobile labs.

He smiled to himself as he walked back. He had watched enough TV to see how it would go. There would be a convoy of vehicles and a lead agent, tall, broadish, tough as nails.

“We’re here to take over; we will let you know if we need you,” the agent would say.

Finally, the Fed’s would come, and he could get back to doing nothing.