Nobody's Agent

Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

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 i***t. 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.