An Undercover Agent Among Bandits (Preview)

Chapter One

Tennessee’s Cumberland Plateau was stretched out around her, the Appalachian Mountain Range on every side. The cold spring winds blew hard over the plateau, and Daisy Carmichael could only hope and pray it would be strong enough to blow her off her horse, off that plateau, off the face of the planet altogether.

Better that than to face what she knew was waiting for her.

Daisy’s hands were still tied in front of her, bound at the wrists and tied by another stretch to the horn of the saddle in front of her. Her long, blonde hair had long come undone, hanging in tangled strands over her face. Her head was slung low, hair hanging over her like a veil, like a burial shroud. Her flanks and loins ached from the ride, the third day travelling south from Greensboro, North Carolina. But the events that took place there, the events that ended her life there, were as clear and terrifying as if they were happening right there and then.

She could still hear her father’s words, scolding her back in their family home years earlier, shaking that mighty fist in his authoritative insistence.

“It’s madness,” the great Issac Burr had declared, “nothing but pure rebellion!”

“But it’s my life,” Daisy remembered spitting back, chin thrust forward, little fists curled behind her. “I want to make a home of my own, raise my own family and not merely be the crown jewel of your own!”

“Then do so, and with my blessing! But can you not do it here, in New York City? It’s the very hub of the nation, whatever those Bostonians may think of themselves. What more opportunity could a young woman ask for, what better way to start off life than with every advantage?”

Daisy had shaken her head then, astounded in her youth by the seeming blindness of his advanced years.

“This is why I’ve worked so hard,” Issac had said, “this is what I strove for, for you and your future! But you turn your back on it … and on me!”

“Oh, Father, can’t you see that I’m not turning away from you or anyone or anything. I’m turning toward something; toward the future!”

“But Daisy, this is New York! This is the future! Business, travel, communications, invention —”

“Grime and filth and depravity of all sorts. Rats the size of small children, cutthroats around every corner. But there’s still clean country out there, Father, crisp and beautiful. North Carolina has some of the most beautiful countryside in the world, Father.”

“Made all the more attractive by a lack of my presence, I’ve little doubt.”

Daisy could not reassure him, but he could not dissuade her, and the day she and James climbed that train would be the last time either Daisy or her father would see the other. Now, of course, Daisy could see the wisdom of her father’s perspective. Whatever her excuses had been, Daisy knew without question that her father had been right, that rebellion had been the core of her decision, though not singularly.

There was also love.

James Carmichael had been everything she’d dreamt of as a child, reading books by Lewis & Clark, Col. David Crockett, John James Audubon. He was tall and rugged and very handsome, with a mane of long, brown hair over his bold, broad shoulders. It was too easy to recall the months together, building the ranch house themselves, on the outskirts of Greensboro where they would enjoy the peace and quiet of the wilderness, cuckoos and nighthawks circling peacefully above the white pines.

But those memories were shattered just as the events had been shattered those fated days before when the gunfire burst out of nowhere. The frenzy of activity encircled the house, rifle fire tearing through walls and windows, shattering glass panes, and childhood dreams.

Daisy recalled seeing the first torch flying in through the living room window, pulling the drapes down and catching them instantly. Smoke and flames spread fast rising in hot, noxious towers of orange, yellow, and black.

“They’re smoking us out,” James had said, and Daisy had known he’d been reading the expression on her face; stark terror.

There was nowhere to run. Smoke was already pouring in from other corners of the house, Daisy’s eyes burning. That torch hadn’t been the only one, and the house would soon be consumed by the flames from all sides. It was stay and die inside the house, or run out to whoever awaited them, guns blasting.

Daisy wanted to look one more time into the eyes of her beloved, but she could barely open her own. She wanted to take one last deep breath but knew it would choke her to death. When James’ footsteps clapped hard against the wooden floorboards, Daisy knew he’d chosen his moment, and hers. She joined him, the two running out of the burning house and into their future.

Bang, bang-bang! Daisy knew James was doing the shooting, the rifle fire that close. But her own vision was only beginning to clear, her brain still clamoring with thoughts too numerous and too dizzy to trace. With a pistol in each hand, all Daisy knew for sure was to fire upon the first person she saw, and then the next.

Bang, bang!

They were riders; Daisy could make that much out, on horseback, riding back and forth to avoid being hit, but not firing on either her or James. But it only took a second for her to discover why.

James reloaded the rifle to continue firing.

Bang!

The hole had burst open in James’ chest, his actions stunned into motionlessness.

“James!”

Bang!

The second shot sent him staggering back, dropping the rifle. Daisy’s instincts overwhelmed her, brain abandoning reasonable thought and giving way to her breaking heart, which would not be denied. She dropped her pistols and ran to James’ side, falling to her knees and hovering over him, hands on his bloodied chest. Tears were already pushing out of the corners of her eyes, breath short and panted in her burning, aching lungs.

“James … James?” Daisy stroked his face, smeared with his own blood from her quivering fingers. His voice was reduced to a long, slow crawl of sounds too feeble to be words, a body too wrecked and shattered to even say goodbye.

One of the riders was suddenly behind her and above. One big hand wrapped around her upper arm, a hardened fist to pull her to her feet and away from her dying husband. She reached out to him with one hand, her head jutting toward the face of her captor.

“Who are you? What do you want?”

“Pour vous,” the man said with a mean grin, revealing several brown teeth to punctuate the massive, gummy gaps. “We come pour vous, mon amore!”

Daisy looked into his dead-eyed grin, grime and stink over every inch of him. “Nnnnnnoooo!” Daisy had tried to pull away, turning to reach out to James, on his back and further away as the man dragged her back to the horse. “Please, no,” she went on, knowing the pointlessness of it. “Pleeeeaaaaassssse!”

One of the other six men rode his horse up to where James lay on his back. He raised a pistol, leveled it at James’ head, and pulled off a single kill shot, James’ body flinching before laying lifeless on the grass.

Another of the men came up to the others with her own paint and James’ speckled stallion, retrieved from the barn before it joined the house in a fiery death. They mumbled to each other in a broken combination of French and English, slang terms Daisy didn’t recognize. They wore tattered trousers and long johns without shirts, one wearing what had to be a stolen topcoat. Their hair and beards were long, gnatty, giving them a demonic look against the burning house.

Daisy had gaped in fear when one of the men approached her, looping the rope around her wrists in front of her. She began to scream and panic, trying to pull away from the man holding her from behind. But she was pinned to him, his arms around hers, fists around her forearms while his partner tied her. She flailed and screamed, but the one in front of her slapped her hard in the face, the strike a shocking bolt of pain shooting through her skull. Her cheek burned, her brain rattled, her heart suddenly pounding in her chest.

They stuffed a wool rag into her mouth and tied it into place with a bandana, wedged between her teeth and tied behind her head. Despite Daisy’s frantic kicking and bucking, they managed to wrangle her onto the saddle of her paint. One man tied her left ankle into the stirrup. He tossed the length of rope over the saddle behind her, where his partner tied off her other ankle. They mumbled and muttered and chuckled, but Daisy couldn’t make out any of it.

She didn’t need to. Daisy knew what they were saying, what and who they’d been talking about. They’d been careful about shooting to make sure she wasn’t hit. Because they’d wanted her alive; because they wanted her.

The men traded a few more incomprehensible barbs as they remounted and rode back off into the woods. One held the reins of Daisy’s paint, James’ stallion tied next to it to follow. Daisy couldn’t help looking at that empty saddle; a living illustration of his death, proof positive that he was gone and he was never ever coming back.

They’d ridden for days, only letting Daisy down off her paint on the second night. They let her remain un-gagged too, for the most part. She knew it would be death to any unlucky passerby she tried to alert. By the end of the third day, she could barely feel her legs at all. By then she’d come to realize they were Acadian, hunters and trappers of French descent who lived in backwater stretches and bayous. That’s where Daisy Burr-Carmichael would wind up, she knew; among the snakes and the alligators and the mosquitos, a domestic slave and a sex tool, a breeder.

They stopped and made camp as the sun went down. Daisy leaned up against a giant fir, allowed to eat a single smoked tree squirrel the men had caught and prepared the night before. The meat was chewy, stringy, tasting of wood smoke. And Daisy was famished. She hadn’t eaten anything in days and could feel herself weakening. But she could take no pleasure in the food, enjoy no sense of replenishment. Every bite was just another pointless exercise; every swallow another claw mark on a long, slow crawl to the grave.

One of the men stood up and waddled a few feet away from the camp and pulled down his pants to squat. The others shouted at him, waving him away, further from the camp. He muttered something Daisy couldn’t understand, then shambled deeper into the cedars and balsam trees surrounding the little camp.

Daisy couldn’t ignore the stares she got from the other five men. They craved her with every fiber of their greasy beings; she could sense that. More and more, Daisy wondered why they’d abstained from taking her the night before, or the night before that one. There was no doubt about what kind of utility she had to offer them. Yet she remained untouched, and though it was the last thing she was grateful for in this lifetime, it could only inspire another horrifying question:

How long before they make a different choice? How long before my run of luck fails me? How long before those sneers become more and come closer, how long before those hands reach out, more than one pair?

There was an odd grunt from out in the trees, the ugly sounds of an ugly man doing an ugly thing. Daisy hardly wanted to think about it, but there was nothing of any beauty to detract her. There were only the hungry leers of the other men, the way they shared little asides in that garbled French, then chuckled, all the while their eyes never leaving her.

The sixth man snagged back to the camp, hat low over his head as he sat down. The others looked at him, one saying, “Moon too bright for you, Francois?” He chuckled, and so did the others, but the sixth man, whom Daisy took to be called Francois, just grunted and waved them off again as he had before. The men went on chatting among themselves, chewing their smoked squirrel meat and passing a whiskey bottle among them. The bottle made its way to Francois, who took it and tipped it up under the brim of his hat. The other men watched him, and Daisy could sense that there was something wrong, some lingering doubt among them.

Francois tipped the bottle upright again and passed it along, head still down. Tension got thick fast as the man next to Francois slowly reached for the bottle. But instead of merely taking it, the man drew a pistol from his holster to gun Francois down at point-blank range.

Chapter Two

Francois swung the bottle, smashing against the man’s pistol. It shattered the bottle and knocked the pistol out of the man’s hand to land near the fire. Francois pulled his hat back to reveal that he was not the sixth man Daisy recognized as being part of the Acadian gang. But she had little time to think about anything more than that.

The new man jammed the shattered bottle into the other man’s neck, sending him tumbling back in a gurgled, twisted, writhing mass. The new man threw himself forward, tumbling toward the fire. He rose to his feet and drew his own pistol, suddenly standing upright among them, the center of a circle of four Acadian cutthroats.

They reacted fast, one of them already cocking a Winchester rifle on one side of the new man, another Acadian pulling a pistol on his other side. The man moved with incredible speed and grace. He jumped up and threw himself into a backward flip in midair. The two Acadians on either side of him fired before they realized what he’d done. Each Acadian took the other’s shot while the new man landed on his feet about a foot or so removed from the line of fire. Both Acadians snapped back, but only one hit the ground; the other staggered back, pistol still in his hand.

The new man aimed his pistol and squeezed off two shots in quick succession, sending the man backward into the grass, wheezing out his last breaths.

But that left two Acadians alive, one of them already grabbing Daisy from behind and pulling her to her feet. The other drew directly on the new man, but the shots burst out of their guns so fast that Daisy couldn’t tell who shot first or who was struck the worst. The Acadian fell, and the new man turned on Daisy and the last Acadian, holding her in front of himself and training a pistol on the new man.

He chuckled and squeezed the trigger to cut the new man down in cold blood. But the gun was cold, still in his palm. He took a quick glance at the jammed pistol in his hand before spitting out, “Merde!” and throwing the gun aside.

The new man jutted forward, but the Acadian was quick to pull out a hunting knife and press it against Daisy’s throat. Her muscles tightened, throat clenched, spine tight as she tried to lean away from the blade.

The new man stood, cautious but not timid, tall and intimidating. The sharp blade pressed against Daisy’s throat, skin ready to tear beneath it.

The new man said, “You didn’t drag that girl all the way out here just to kill her.”

“If I have to, mon ami.”

“But you don’t have to,” the new man said. His voice was low, grainy, free of any discernible accent. “You can put that knife away, let the girl go, and ride on back to the swamps.” The man paused behind Daisy, and she could sense that he was already considering the option. The new man went on, “These men are dead, my friend, there’s nothing you can do for them.” After another long pause, he went on, “But my guess is they might have given you a hard time, eh? Maybe one of these fellows was in charge, maybe a few more under him … then you.”

Daisy strained to catch a glimpse of her captor, and she could see the doubt in his wriggling frown, the consideration in his flexing brows.

The new man went on, “You can go back alone, be the big man, be the leader of your little community.” After another little pause, he added, “Isn’t that better than hurting that poor girl, and then getting killed by me, your body to rot out here, eaten by bears and wolves and hawks? Because I will kill you, my friend. You know that as well as I do, as well as our frightened young woman here knows it. It’s a simple choice, pal … take your life and go, or remain here for five seconds more … and lose it.”

Daisy was immobile in his grip, but she sensed there was no more need for a struggle.

“Five,” the new man said calmly, then added, “four.”

The man tensed behind Daisy, and she could feel his head jutting from the view of one dead Acadian to another, then behind him toward the south; to Louisiana, to his home.

“Three,” the new man added. “Two …”

“Oui, oui,” the man said behind Daisy, “c’est bon, c’est bon. I will go, monsieur, I will go.”

“All right then,” the new man said.

“But … you promise not to shoot when my back, she is turned, oui?”

The new man stared him down. “When I give my word, I keep it.” Daisy could feel the man nodding behind her, his arm loosening its grip around her neck and upper chest, knife easing away from her neck. Once Daisy felt she had enough room and little enough resistance, she pushed herself away from the man and ran toward the new man, nearly falling to her knees in desperation and gratitude.

The man stepped backward, eyes on the new man as he backed to one of the Acadian’s horses, tied to a nearby pine. He turned to climb into the saddle and gather the reins. Daisy looked over to see the errant pistol of one of the dead Acadians, laying not too far from the fire. She scrambled to it, picking it up in her still-bound wrists. The gun was hot, but she was beyond the pain, beyond caring, beyond feeling anything at all. She raised the pistol just as the Acadian kicked the horse to ride off.

The new man said, “Hey, what are you —?”

Bang! Bang-bang-bang-bang!

The fleeing Acadian leaned back, twisting in his saddle, the horse turning tight, confused circles beneath him. The Acadian finally fell back off his saddle to the grass, his horse riding off without him.

She turned to read the shock on the new man’s face. He seemed ready to draw on her, and she knew she could hardly blame him.

“I gave that man my word.”

“And you kept it,” Daisy said coldly. “I didn’t. He killed my husband.” The new man seemed to give it some thought. She said, “I’m sorry, I … I should thank you, Mr. …?”

“Wiley, Payton Wiley … Mrs. Carmichael.”

“It’s … it’s Burr-Carmichael, actually, and it always will be.”

*

Payton Wiley escorted Daisy Burr-Michael to Nashville, where a wire was sent to her father in New York. Payton had neither the time nor the inclination to escort her all the way back to New York, so the grand old man bid that they wait for him to take a train to Tennessee to thank him personally before escorting her back himself.

He arrived only a few days later, a graying man in the very best lounge suit and top hat, a gold watch and chain, long sideburns smooth and well-combed and neatly trimmed. He met them at the restaurant of the hotel where they were staying in a single room. There was no need to elaborate on that in her father’s company, of course.

“And you’re with the Pinkerton Agency,” Issac said, leaning back in his chair. “Most impressive!”

“He certainly is,” Daisy said with a secret smile that was not so secret.

“And you happened upon my daughter’s ranch by sheer happenstance? My word!”

“I was en route to Nebraska from Georgia, where I had … certain business to see to.” Knowing that he was a Pinkerton, the most prestigious and powerful private detective agency anywhere in the world, Payton didn’t expect Daisy or her father to ask him to elaborate.

He didn’t really need to; they seemed to know it as well as he did.

But Issac did ask, “Nebraska … more business is it?”

“It is,” Payton said. “In fact, I should be heading west soon if I’m going to make my … my appointment there.”

“I see,” Issac said as his daughter cast a sad glance at the table. “Because I’m a man of … of more than considerable wealth. I thought perhaps you’d like to come and work for me? In the highest levels, of course. Whatever position you feel would suit you best.”

Daisy’s expression brightened; eyes round, smile wide, a little nod to her head. “Any position you desire!”

“Well, that’s very kind … of you both, but —”

“It’s more than a position,” Issac said.

“Considerably more,” Daisy added too quickly.

Issac cleared his throat and went on, “I have powerful friends … in politics. Perhaps instead of living from one gun battle to the next, you’d prefer a more civilized field of combat.”

Payton repeated, “Civilized? Politics?” The two men shared a little chuckle as Payton rose the beer to his lips, cool and crisp and refreshing.

“You’ve got the goods for it,” Issac huffed out. “I don’t suppose there’s anything I could say or do —?”

“Or I could …” Daisy said, “say or do something, I mean … and I do mean anything.”

Payton offered her a little smile. “Why, Mrs. Burr-Carmichael.” He stressed her name to bring her attention back to what had happened. He had no interest in shaming her, of course. And he’d resisted her desperate affections for as long as seemed proper. But she had been through hell, and she clearly had craved and required a little bit of heaven to put her feet firmly back on the ground. Now that Payton had done the little he could to secure her stability, it was time to remind her just how unstable her feelings and their relationship necessarily was.

But she answered, “Don’t mistake me, Payton … Mr. Wiley. I will always be Daisy Burr-Carmichael; I will never abandon my late husband’s memory.” After a tender little pause, she added, “But I could yet be Daisy Burr-Carmichael-Wiley … and be terribly happy and proud to carry the name.”

“And well up to the task,” Payton said, “I haven’t a doubt.”

Daisy asked, “Is it so crucial, this business of yours?”

Payton took another moment and another sip of his beer. “It is, matter of fact. I can’t speak of it, of course, but … regardless of the matter’s import or detail. I gave my word. S’a funny thing, a man’s word, it’s a rare thing. When you give it, that’s when you keep it.” Daisy nodded, and Payton felt no more had to be said about it. “I’m sorry. Perhaps someday our paths will meet up again. Until that day, I wish you both the greatest happiness and success. I know they shall find you.”

Payton raised his glass, and Issac raised his own snifter of brandy. “And to your continued success in … where was it?”

“Nebraska.”

“Yes, excellent,” Issac said. “To Nebraska!”

Chapter Three

Omaha, Nebraska was the picture of the flourishing nation and its changing times. But Payton couldn’t be sure if the nation were changing the times or if it was the other way around. Either way, asphalt had paved over the muddy thoroughfares, telegraph cables festooned the city, brick buildings rose to threatening heights of more than five stories. Men and women lined the sidewalks, fewer and fewer of them the hardscrabble ranchers, cowpokes, and miners of his father’s era. These were people of means, in shirt collars and cravats and stockings and corsets and wide-brimmed hats. They dawdled in front of glass storefronts to enjoy everything the new generation could provide for them at sometimes only a moment’s notice. Dress shops, book stores, shops that sold radios and color photograph cameras, some that sold razors, instant coffee, a wide variety of all manner of household goods.

Payton couldn’t help chuckling to think back to his own childhood, in a sparsely furnished shack playing cowboys and Indians with his late brother, Zeek. But Zeek would be no help to Payton there in Omaha, though he certainly wouldn’t be alone.

The Omaha station of the Union Pacific Railroad was a hub of activity. People went into and out of the telegraph office, others lined up to board the new train eastbound to Utah, dubbed The Sweet Lorraine by the name painted on the steam engine in the front.

It belched out a great cloud of steam with a loud hiss, sounding to Payton like a frustrated and spiteful release. The big train seemed to know there would be trouble on the trip, and Payton had absolutely no doubt about it.

Payton caught sight of himself in the well-polished glass window; he was struck by how much he looked like his father. He had the same blond hair, the same blue eyes, the same serious expression.

But he knew he wasn’t in Omaha for pleasure, nor was he headed to Utah for the same. Considering what he expected to be visited upon them between there and their destination, there was everything to be serious about.

“Wiley,” Payton heard from the crowd behind him, “Payton Wiley.” Payton stopped and turned to see a most-welcomed familiar voice. The shaved bald head caught the light glare from his smooth pate. He extended a long, bony hand for Payton to shake.

“The great H.W. Farnsworth,” Payton said, taking his hand and shaking it with vigor. “Glad I made it here on time.”

“With little to spare. You were … waylaid at some point, I imagine?”

“You can imagine whatever you like,” Payton said, the two men sharing a little chuckle.

H.W. glanced at Payton’s duffle bag in his right fist, rifle around his shoulder. “Ready for Nevada.”

“It’s not Nevada that will be the problem,” Payton said. H.W. put a hand on Payton’s shoulder, giving him a little squeeze. “That’s why I’m so glad you’ve consented to go along.”

“Go along,” Payton said, “you’re not coming?”

“Me? No, no … wish I could, but I’m needed back in New York City. High level, can’t discuss it.”

“No, of course,” Payton said, tucking the notion away in the back of his mind for consideration later on.

H.W. dipped his head down, glancing around as he whispered, “But we’ve taken every precaution, Payton, really. Nobody even knows what’s happening, and we’ve got decoys en route in two other ways, so … I really think it’s an excess of caution, tell you the truth. Still, better safe than sorry, especially in this case.”

Payton nodded and leaned back, sharing H.W.’s suspicious glances. “Train’s all ready then?”

H.W. nodded. “I’ll show you around.” H.W. led Payton around the big engine car, black and red, sleek and huge, with a long cylindrical front, square cab and boiler behind it. H.W. led Payton up onto the side of the train to peer into a boiler. Between the furnace and the carload of coal behind it was a long metal screw, a curved metal piece spiraling around a central bar.

“The Archimedes screw,” Payton said, H.W. nodding and smiling.

“Precisely. It turns along with the gears, automatically feeding coal into the boiler. The train can run for days without a single shovel. Amazing, isn’t it?” Payton could hardly disagree, though he was surely less enthusiastic than his superior seemed.

They hopped down from the side of the train and walked along its length. It seemed almost impossibly long, the cars new and freshly painted, clean red drapes on the other sides of the well-cleaned windows.

“How many cars are there?”

H.W. answered, “Sixteen, plus the package, which is in a car of its own.”

“Of course.” Payton walked with H.W. down the length of the cars.

H.W. said, “You’ll be among the crowd, with a number of our other members. We’ve taken … other measures for this particular piece of cargo.” They arrived at a car toward the center of the train. A man in plain clothes stood in front of the car’s entry and only stepped aside after recognizing a nod of H.W.’s head. The man wore a goatee and said nothing as he faded into the crowd.

Payton and H.W. climbed up onto the car, a passenger car by all appearances, two neat rows of front-facing bench seats.

“Thought a cargo car would be too conspicuous,” H.W. explained. He nodded at the few passengers seated in the benches, all of them standing at strict attention. Payton took note of the rifles at their seats, pistols on their gun belts.

Two of the men approached a simple bench seat and lifted it to reveal a rectangular, unmarked wooden crate. “There are two more that look just like it,” H.W. said, “each with a vital part of the apparatus. These men are from the United States Army, out of uniform for the occasion.”

One of the guards approached, spine rigid, shoulders back. H.W. went on to Payton, “Payton Wiley, this is Sgt. Hugh McKellen, these men serve under his command.”

Payton gave the sergeant a nod. “Sergeant McKellen.”

“Mister Wiley.”

“McKellen here’s a good man,” H.W. said to Payton. “Hero of the battle of West Point.”

Payton nodded but said nothing. H.W. seemed to sense tension between Payton and Sgt. McKellen, and there was no real reason to linger. “All right then,” H.W. said, “let’s get you situated.”

They walked back toward the end of the train, still many cars off. “You’ll be back here, with another agent. We’re putting two in every car, undercover like you.”

Payton nodded and climbed aboard the train. Payton asked, “The package … what about … the packager?”

H.W. glanced around. “He’s here, but we’re not disclosing that. But the package won’t be much use to anybody without him.”

“Makes good sense to keep him as far from the package as possible then.”

H.W. nodded and led Payton to a bench chair with one seat empty, one taken. H.W. said, “Payton Wiley, this is Kiera Zane.” Payton looked down at the pretty woman, dressed in a fine high-waisted hobble skirt and bodice, her red hair piled up under a bonnet. “Kiera Zane, one of our best agents, Payton Wiley.”

She nodded politely. “Mister Wiley.”

Payton turned to H.W. But before Payton could raise a word of objection, H.W. said, “All right then, you’ve got the information about who’ll be making the pickup in Utah, so … have a pleasant trip.”

“H.W., wait —”

“No need to thank me, Payton. Keep an eye on things and let me know when you get to Utah.” H.W. turned to Kiera, offered her a nod and a quick, “Miss Zane.”

“Thank you, Mr. Farnsworth.”

With that, H.W. turned to walk down the aisle and then out of the car without looking back. Payton turned to Kiera, no older than twenty-five by the look of her flawless, pale skin and clear, green eyes. She offered him a smile, but it seemed more duplicitous than friendly. She glanced to the empty seat on the bench next to her. “Have a seat, Mr. Wiley.”

Looking around and knowing he had no choice, Payton nodded. “Thank you, I will.” She looked good and smelled even better, a light flowery scent wafting up from her spotless dress. Payton wanted to be aroused, to be attracted; he could hardly help himself.

But he was struck with the certainty that, one way or another, that girl, that Kiera Zane, would be his death before their mission was over.

*

Leslie Trudeaux arrived at the Omaha station of the Union Pacific Railroad, swarms of passengers and other travelers all around him. He glanced into their faces as he always did, able to read them each and all at a single glance. Young men with bold ambition smiled cocky and arrogant to their pretty female companions, tipping hats bought with other people’s money. Women flaunted their pretty faces, smiling and using their feminine wiles to beguile and belittle and bamboozle their willing if unwitting victims.

He pulled his topcoat back to withdraw the billfold from his breast pocket. He glanced around, careful to see that he hadn’t become the target of one of the increasing number of pickpockets and muggers and blackjacks that crowded such places.

Hhhmmm, Leslie thought with a little smile, let them try it. No, they can sense a man like me, power like mine. It’s something we all understand and respect, at the risk of our lives.

Leslie was careful not to glance behind him. The last thing he wanted to do was tip his hand, and there was no real need. Woods was close, Leslie had little doubt. He’d be getting on that train if he wasn’t on it already.

This is his last, best chance, Leslie knew. He thinks he’s closing in for the kill.

Excellent.

Leslie arrived at the entry of one car, a black man in a red porter’s coat with brass buttons and a red cap stepping out to greet him. He wore a wide, white smile as he gave Leslie a little nod, a name tag reading Dennis pinned to his chest.

“Welcome, suh, welcome,” Dennis said in a gravelly voice as Leslie handed him his ticket. “All the way to Utah, yes suh. Help you with yo’ bag, suh?”

“No,” Leslie said flatly.

Dennis’ smile melted away, and Leslie recognized the change of expression. It was one he saw often, one he looked for, one he hoped to inspire. But Dennis seemed to catch himself, as most people did. He forced the smile back onto his face, nodding and stepping back to allow Leslie to climb into the car without assistance.

Not too offensive, Leslie thought, not any more than God intends, obviously. But his kind suffer enough, crawling around licking scraps off the table of life. Despite the war, despite the jobs in the restaurants and hotels and trains, they’re little more than dogs; hardly worth noticing, worth killing only upon necessity.

Leslie put his bag on the storage shelf above the seats and sat down on the bench beneath it. Leslie glanced around at the other passengers, men and women and children of various ages and shapes and sizes, different shades of white on their faces; some darker, others more pale.

They chatted and situated themselves, their faces ripe with the excitement of travel. And that was an excitement Leslie could well understand. Even then he could feel the rush of a new campaign.

Who will it be? he wondered, scanning the crowd from one face to the other. Their idiot grins and foolish laughter only earmarked them as candidates. The happier they seemed, the more Leslie could feel his contempt rising from those dark corners of his soul.

None of them know, he told himself with a little smile, not a single one among them has any idea how precious life is, how precious their own lives are, and how close they are to losing them.

How delicious is the mystery, he reflected, how fundamental is the investigation, the stalking, the pouncing. It all makes the justice so much sweeter, the moment of glory so much more memorable.

The train hissed steam in the distance, and with a little jut, began a slow crawl on the tracks. The wheel ground in a prolonged rhythm, barely creating a recognizable pattern until the wheels began turning faster, the train picking up speed.

But first, Harry Woods and I have some unfinished business. Leslie sat there, savoring the feeling of the motion as it collected around him, carrying him forward. One hunt begins, another continues.

---

“An Undercover Agent Among Bandits” is an Amazon Best-Selling novel, check it out here!

Payton Wiley is already a legend among the ranks of the famed Pinkerton detective agency. He was hired by the private security force to protect an invaluable and volatile weapon on a passenger train route across the country. The device and its creator are pawns in a bigger plan against the Mexicans but it all falls down when the train is attacked by a mysterious band of bandits. Little does Payton know, that their leader is a dangerous man with sinister plans of his own…

In this undercover mission, Payton, along with the rookie detective Kiera Zane must protect the package and its inventor. In the meantime, they have to face the bandits and their ruthless leader and overthrow their hijacking scheme. Matters will get more complicated when a strong mutual attraction draws the two detectives together in the face of growing opposition. As the train barrels towards its explosive fate, the two of them face Comanche, government turncoats, and other destructive forces.

The fate of the entire world may be at stake if the weapon gets into the wrong hands, and it comes down to two desperate lovers to protect the human race. Will they overcome dozens of attackers, countless lies and deceptions, and their own lingering doubts to defeat their enemies and fulfil their mission? Or is it their fate to die with countless others in the shadow of mankind’s worst instincts?

A white-knuckle action thriller and intense character study that is both fast-paced and reflective, action-filled and meaningful. A great read for fans of exciting adventures!

“An Undercover Agent Among Bandits” is a historical adventure novel of approximately 80,000 words. No cliffhangers, only pure unadulterated action.

Get your copy from Amazon!