It is 1902, and a bright, inexperienced young man named Isaac Bell, only two years out of his apprenticeship at the Van Dorn Detective Agency, has an urgent message for his boss. Hired to hunt for radical unionist saboteurs in the coal mines, he is witness to a terrible accident that makes him think something else is going on…that provocateurs are at work and bigger stakes are in play.
Little does he know just how big they are.
Given exactly one week to prove his case, Bell quickly finds himself pitted against two of the most ruthless opponents he has ever known—men of staggering ambition and cold-bloodedness who are not about to let some wet-behind-the-ears detective stand in their way.
hollow charge to the chain bridle, he wouldn’t need a big bunch of sticks of dynamite you’d spot a mile off. Fact is, I don’t think he used a cold chisel at all. I think that hollow charge did the job all by itself. What you heard, Isaac, was a small charge of dynamite blowing all in one direction straight at this link—so concentrated that it sheared the chain like a chisel.” “But how long would the charge stick to the chain? Jerking around like it does.” Kisley shrugged. “Not long. Maybe
of a man accustomed to success, which was rare in workmen beaten down by the struggle to put bread on the table. He was not, of course, as handsome as Isaac. Nor, she realized, was he as warm. She could see a remoteness in his eyes, almost an emptiness. She had thought at first glance that they were hazel-colored, but they were actually that rarest of colors, amber. They looked golden in the smoky light of the eatery. But they did not glow like gold. They were opaque like copper. If, as she
chair.” “It would be better if I left,” she said primly. Clay said, “Of course.” He walked her to the door and shook her hand. Was it trembling? he wondered. Or was his? • • • A PRODUCTIVE FIRST STEP, thought Mary Higgins. But she needed more. A search of his apartment, constrained by fear of it being noticed, had produced no clue to the identity of the man Claggart-Clay served, nothing that would bring her even one inch closer to the enemy. She said, “I hope you
ARE YOU DOING, ISAAC?” WISH, WALLY, AND MACK were at his side. “Coming alongside to get those people off. Back your engines, Captain Jennings. Wheel hard over.” “Not ’til I saddlebag the murderers.” “Back them!” “You can’t let ’em win.” “Henry Clay doesn’t want to win. He wants mayhem. I won’t give it to him.” Mack Fulton cocked his Smith & Wesson, told the pilot, “Boss man says back your engines.” A single lever in the engine room engaged the reversing gears on both
face and a derringer in his unwounded hand and fired. The bullet seared the heel of Bell’s hand. His thumb and fingers convulsed. His gun fell to the deck and bounced into the narrow slot between the back of the boat and the stern wheel. Clay’s smile broadened in triumph. “I’ve waited a long time for this.” He squeezed the trigger. Isaac Bell was already swinging, hoping that the only thing that would slow down the rogue detective would be talking too much. Before the slug had emerged
