Infiltrating a Vicious Gang (Preview)

Chapter One

Rain had been falling the entire journey, but Silvester hadn’t felt a drop. He still wasn’t used to traveling by train. The sound and the motions on the way home were unfamiliar to him. Once, he had even heard from a traveler from across the sea that it could all cause madness—but Silvester noticed nothing strange about the thoughts ticking through his head.

They were the same as ever.

Silvester had an itch, one that was seemingly impossible to scratch.

After spending so long away at his parents’ home, he had plenty of time to stop, think, and wonder why his sleep was so poor.

His father had asked him if being a deputy was getting under his skin, that it would be understandable for such a dangerous job to get to a man. Silvester had considered this, but he knew deep in his heart that it was more than that.

Silvester had spent his whole life dedicated to trying to help people; that’s what drew him to become a marshal. One day he hoped to become sheriff if God willed it. Yet, he felt that after so many years and seeing so much, everything he had done had not made a scratch.

That was why he couldn’t sleep. That was what was rubbing him.

He smiled as he saw the town appearing through the swirling rain clouds. The brakes screeched, and he knew he was arriving back home.

It had been a long month that felt more like a lifetime, and Silvester wondered what awaited him on his return.

Just a small lodging by the saloon with a half-burned candle. That was what he had left behind. Still, in his bones, Silvester knew well that there was more to this world.

A whole lot more.

“You getting off here?”

He snapped awake, seeing that one attendant was standing in the doorway. The doors had opened, and all the passengers had kicked into action, dragging heavy suitcases along the mahogany halls toward the doors.

Silvester stretched and stood.

“Thank you, sir.”

He flipped the man a coin and threw his old coat over his shoulders, catching his broad reflection on the door’s glass.

There he was. The marshal. Already living part of his dream. He was paid well and lived a good life.

As he passed the attendant, he took him in. The man looked frail—hardly a boy of perhaps seventeen but still as small and weak as a young kid.

He might not have eaten in a few days, and Silvester could see from his eyes that the kid was starving.

“Hey,” he said.

The attendant looked up, his eyes gleaming as he saw the silver dollar in Silvester’s palm.

“Sir, well, I’d love to, but it’s just too much—”

Silvester shook his head and left the carriage before the kid could protest more.

That’s what the world needs, he thought, more people thinking about others.

He smiled and stepped out onto the platform.

As soon as his boots met the wooden boards, Silvester saw that trouble already awaited him. It was clear on the platform that a chase was taking place just below the incline.

Silvester knew the signs well, hollering and dust clouds, horses screaming, the way the townspeople cowered up by the stairs. Something was coming.

Bang!

A puff of smoke and a gunshot scattered the crowd, and through them came a man of large build. He wore a crimson scarf tightened around his chin, disguising his identity. In his right hand, he clutched a revolver skyward.

“Quiet, dammit!” he barked.

Silvester jumped back into the carriage, checking how many bullets his colt six-shooter still carried. He hadn’t intended on using it so quickly.

As he turned, he saw that the man in crimson had disappeared into the rain, and behind him came three marshals hot on his trail.

“Where’d he go?”

Silvester didn’t stop. He leaped onto the platform, searching downward, seeing a sleek black boot disappearing beneath the underside of the locomotive that was already whirring to start.

Quick as a flash, he spun to the marshals as the train began to move, waving the rain from their faces.

“Go!” he ordered. “He’s making a break for the other platform; y’all better come round and meet him.”

The marshals held their hats fast and spun round to the staircase.

Silvester smiled, searching through the cracks between the train carriages that sped up for a second.

On the other side, he could see the fleeing man had already pulled himself up.

Silvester couldn’t believe his eyes. He almost respected a move so brash and foolhardy; this guy was no amateur.

As the train sped past with a gust of wind, Silvester was met with the train tracks and an empty platform awaiting him across the other side, water leaking from the roof.

He could hear boots across the ground below and the deputies pushing through the bustling crowd underneath. Everywhere in town was noise, coming from one place or another, but Silvester stayed focused. He waited.

Then he heard what he was waiting for: the click of a shoe across the platform. He looked upward and saw that the fleeing man had pulled himself up to the roof and was making ground over the slippery surface.

Silvester raised his pistol.

“No,” he said to himself.

He had a rule: never shoot at a man if he was uncertain why.

Housing his pistol, Silvester skidded his suitcase beneath  the station seating and jumped onto the tracks, one hand on his hat.

“Stop there!” a shout came.

Silvester recognized the voice. It sounded like Sheriff Abbot. Whoever it was, they were coming up fast, and Silvester heard three shots directed at the roof.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Scurrying up the other platform, Silvester kept his eye on the bandit, whose crimson scarf streaked as he clambered over the roof. As Silvester trailed below, he saw where the sheriff was standing, further down the train tracks on the bridge.

Silvester supposed he had pulled himself up. Below the sheriff, he could make out chimney smoke and endless rooftops.

He tipped his hat as he continued, and Silvester heard the bandit stopping in his tracks.

Taking a knee and craning his neck, Silvester smiled. He and the sheriff had the bandit surrounded from either side. The bandit remained up on the roof, but Silvester could hear uncertain steps on the old ceramic bricks.

“There’s nowhere to go, boy!” the sheriff howled from further down the tracks.

Silvester backed up, trying to get an eye on the outlaw. The further back he stepped he sighted the bandit crouched up on the peak of the small roof. To Silvester’s shock, he looked as if he was about to jump.

The outlaw leaped from the roof, rolling through the rain, arcing down, and tumbling over onto the sheriff.

Silvester pushed forward, noticing as the two men tussled that a glint of metal lit up through the steaming train tracks.

The man was holding a knife.

Now, Silvester unholstered his weapon, heading to the edge of the platform, getting as close as possible to the two men rolling around on the tracks.

From far away, Silvester heard a sound that brought a chill to him. A train was coming.

They were running out of time.

“Hold him down, Sheriff,” he shouted. “I got my sights on him.”

“Silvester is that you boy?” the sheriff said. “You got to—”

Then, with a flash of his arm, the sheriff groaned in pain, and the bandit sprung up.

Silvester aimed his gun.

In the steaming rain, he couldn’t make out the man’s face through the fallen neckerchief.

Far behind, the train was thundering toward them, and Silvester knew this was his moment.

He had to take the shot.

Then, as his finger wrapped around the trigger, the man suddenly dove to the side, landing hard on a rooftop and rolling into the brush.

Silvester took a deep breath.

The sheriff sat up, clutching his leg, as Silvester saw the train right behind him break through the fog.

He jumped, grabbing the man and pulling him close.

Both men stopped, clambering to the side of the tracks as the train screeched into place with the squeal of wet breaks.

Silvester caught his breath.

“Good to see you again, Silvester,” Sheriff Abbot groaned through the pain.

“Great to be back,” Silvester said.

He looked out over his town, the murky rain-soaked buildings, the smog, the horses, and all the mess.

“Great to be home.”

Chapter Two

“How’s your folks?”

“Abbot, be careful. You’re bleeding like a tap!”

“It’s nothing.”

Silvester smiled as he hoisted the man up. Sheriff Abbot was just a small man, hardly older than fifty, but he took the stab wound to the leg like it was a paper cut. His creased face was squashed in concentration, but no sign of pain in his beady black eyes.

Silvester lifted the man up with a heave and continued into the town square.

His back strong and steady, he made his way down the muddy street, the old wooden houses shrouded by mist and smoke, people and horses making their way through.

On sight of the two, a great hubbub rose, and many windows opened.

“How you feeling there, Sheriff?” Silvester asked.

“Why, just fine, Sil,” came the groan.

Silvester smiled, although when he looked to his right, he saw that the sheriff was growing paler.

He had to move faster. Without blinking, Silvester rushed to the nearest passerby, an old man with a horse and cart.

“Hey there!” Silvester called, his voice faint. “Please, I need to get this man to the nearest physician, Dr. Marley. Can you lend a hand?”

The rain hadn’t stopped pouring, and the old man lifted his broad hat and squinted at the pair, his mouth dropping.

“He bleeding?” asked the man.

Silvester felt Abbot’s breath rising.

“What you think?”

He lifted his boot and tapped the back of the wagon.

“Come on! He needs a doctor!”

The old man muttered something under his breath and began moving his wares around.

“Hope he don’t get blood all over the place …”

Silvester shook his head, steadying his posture in the mud.

He had never seen Abbot hurt like this. Of course, in this town, there had always been those that wanted to square off with the sheriff, but the man garnered so much respect, even among the outlaws, that things were usually settled man to man. Silvester never saw someone try to attack Abbot as though they were trying to cleave an animal.

It just wasn’t befitting this place.

He took a quick glance around. Since he had been gone, nothing seemed to be different in town.

There was always trouble, but gangs running around in the middle of the day? This did not bode well. Silvester had no doubt what he had seen. The colors of the neckerchief around the man’s neck made it clear. They were gang colors.

As the man shifted the last of his rope, blankets, and cow hides, Silvester lowered Sheriff Abbot in place and checked the rag he’d tied around the wound.

He clambered up and looked at Abbot’s face; the man’s eyes were drooping, and his breath was becoming shallower. Silvester detected beads dripping from the man’s long black hair and becoming one with the rainfall.

Silvester snapped up, catching the driver’s attention.

“Sir! If you don’t mind …”

The old man snapped the reins and the cart pulled out into the muddy street toward the dark corner where the doctor’s office lay.

“Hold on tight …”

When the two made it through the door, Dr. Marley sprung up from the old wicker chair.

“Get him over to the living room!” he said, seeing there was no time for pleasantries.

Dr. Marley was an aging man with a sour face and cold blue eyes that burned behind his small round spectacles. He pulled up his sleeves and grabbed a small leather bag as Silvester heaved Abbot over to the center of the room and laid him down.

“Martha!” Marley called.

In the adjacent room, his wife sprung up from the fireplace.

“Good heavens!” she called.

“Fetch some hot water, if you would, dear!” Marley said. “You! Grab a blanket, watch where all the blood is going!”

Silvester snapped to attention, noticing that his hastily tied rag had indeed soaked through. He got up, and wiping back his soaking black curls, looked down into the large wicker basket.

This wasn’t the first time he had dragged a bleeding man into Dr. Marley’s dark little townhouse, and he knew just where to find what he needed.

The house was small, but the couple made up for its cramped size by filling the entire space with art, pottery, and portraits of old family members.

“How long’s he been bleeding like this?”

“Wouldn’t be longer than five minutes.”

Dr. Marley nodded sharply, running a rag over his sweat-soaked head.

“Is he going to be alright?” Silvester asked, suddenly full of fear. He didn’t like the way the doctor was looking over at Abbot.

“Not if you keep asking questions.”

Martha, a small woman with silver curls, entered with a tub full of hot steaming water in her arms.

“Keep the wound clean,” Marley said.

Silvester rolled up his sleeves and knelt to the ground, soaking a rag in the boiling water and squeezing the excess before taking it to the sheriff’s wound.

“How long you been back in town, Silvester?” Marley asked.

“Last train in was mine,” Silvester returned.

Marley laughed darkly and shook his head, inspecting the wound as Silvester continued to clean it.

Silvester looked down at Sheriff Abbot’s face, seeing the slight whites of his eyes. The man was still conscious, although certainly stupefied, and his face was paler by the second.

“Is he going to be alright?”

Marley nodded, and Silvester was instantly full of relief. He leaned back slightly on the hard wooden floor and continued cleaning the wound as Marley took some stitches and a needle from his leather bag.

Martha leaned closer, looking down at Abbot.

“Who got him?” she asked.

Silvester met her eye, feeling an uncomfortable rumble in his stomach.

“I’m not sure,” he replied, “I didn’t get a good look at him.”

Martha looked up at the cross on the wall and tutted.

“Broad daylight,” she muttered. “Things were meant to get better here, but I fear they just worsen. What kind of a world is it where a criminal can take a shot at the sheriff like that? What a world.”

She shook her head once more and stood, taking the blood-stained bucket to the back of the house.

Silvester glanced back at the cross.

None of it made sense. Why would someone take such a brash shot at the sheriff? What money was there in that? Criminals around here weren’t like that.

Dr. Marley pulled the needle through, and Silvester found himself unwinding for the first time since he’d arrived in town. He strode to the front of the house, placing his tobacco pouch on his knee and turning his heavy eyes out to the road.

He rolled up a cigarette and struck a match, looking down at the dry blood on his fingers.

As he smoked, Silvester tried to remember how things had been when he left. Things had always been strange around Fort Flint. The town was prosperous but surrounded by nothing but mountains, it tended to attract wild types.

Crime was no stranger to Silvester. He had been born just as the last shots of the Civil War were being fired, and the mess it had left behind produced all kinds of cracks in the country.

Within these cracks, crime seemed to dwell. He had seen it his whole life, and Silvester had wanted nothing but to dedicate his life to setting things right, to become a sheriff himself one day.

This town was his home, and he would protect it.

Was it that things had gotten stranger since he had left town? Or could it be that he had only begun to notice with fresh eyes?

Silvester’s thoughts were interrupted by a neighing horse, and he noticed that the other marshals had arrived on the street.

“Quit your daydreamin’, boy!” called one of the marshals.

With a smile, Silvester stood, stretching his body.

“Wouldn’t need to be daydreamin’ if I didn’t spend so long waitin’ on you here,” he replied.

The old marshal stepped in front of the others, his eyes black with disdain. They bustled toward the door, all removing their hats and entering the room.

Silvester chuckled and followed after them.

“Does every man in town need to step mud in my house!” Marley hissed.

The marshals formed a small circle around the fallen sheriff, who was now awake, the color even returning to his face.

“You alright?” the old marshal asked.

“Oh, it’s fine.” Abbot smiled. “Nothin’ a good night’s rest won’t cure.”

Marley shook his head, packing away his supplies.

“No siree, Sheriff,” he said, “it will be a while before you can walk on it properly …”

The marshals murmured as one, all taking their seats.

“Well, I’d be buzzard food if Sil ain’t came across me,” Abbot said.

Silvester tipped his hat, leaning up against the window at the back of the room.

The old marshal seemed to huff slightly, and Silvester found himself enjoying the slight resentment from the others. Their friendly rivalry for the sheriff’s praise sometimes got the better of them.

“Did you get any of them?” Abbot asked the marshal.

After a moment’s silence, the old man shook his head, brushing his red fingers across his mustache.

“We lost all of them,” he said, “the … the rain, it was just too damn heavy …”

Abbot smiled, leaning himself up and looking down at his bandage.

“Well,” he said, “next time, let’s try and get to ’em before they get the drop on us. How’s that sound?”

The old man’s face turned a little red, and Silvester noticed Abbot’s twinkling eye. Both of them had always found pleasure in ruffling the other marshals’ feathers.

Silvester stood and turned to the sheriff.

“Sheriff,” he said, “that leads me to my first question … What happened out there? Seemed like it was ongoing?”

The marshal huffed again, leaning back in the wicker chair.

“Leave town for a month, Silvester, and you’re bound to miss some things.”

Silvester kept his eyes pressed on the sheriff. In his sparkling black eyes, he saw he was deeply serious.

“Can we have the room?” Sheriff Abbot said to the marshals, “I need to talk to Silvester for a moment.”

With a low rumble, the men stood, and all shuffled to the front door. Silvester approached the sheriff and took his hand, raising him carefully up onto the padded lounge chair.

“Thank you, Sil. Seriously, I’m glad you were there.”

He smiled, taking a knee beside him.

“What’s going on?” Silvester asked. “Who was that man? What’s the story here?”

The sheriff smiled, steadily moving his leg so that he faced Silvester.

“How long you been gone, Sil? A month? Feels longer …”

He nodded.

“Feels like a lot longer.” Abbot smiled. “I gotta catch you up on a few things …”

Chapter Three

“You ever heard of the Hartz gang?”

Silvester leaned back in his chair, drawing his eyes toward the roof.

“Can’t say that I have,” he said. “They ain’t from around these parts, far as I can say …”

Abbot laughed.

“Well, they are now, partner,” he said.

Silvester nodded.

“Understood.”

“Last few weeks, they been making their presence more than known,” Abbot continued. “It’s like a wave washed over this town. People never been so concerned about finding trouble, people never been so scared …”

Out on the back porch, Silvester saw a trail of smoke, and he stood and stepped closer to the window, seeing Dr. Marley and his Martha out the back. Although it was cold, they sat huddled together, looking out to the smoke and the mist over the fence.

Silvester could see it. The fear. Whoever this gang was, they had brought fear to this place.

“What they done, Sheriff?” Silvester asked. “They had to have done something really cold-blooded to spook this here town.”

Abbot’s face furrowed.

“It ain’t what they done,” he said. “I mean, my bleeding leg speaks for itself, but there’s more to it than that.”

Silvester cocked his head.

“What is it?”

Abbot caught his eye again.

“I uh,” he said, thinking for a minute, “you know, Sil, I think it’s something less to do with what they done and more the way they go about it … You understand?”

Silvester shook his head.

“Not sure I’m followin’ you …”

Abbot looked up to the sky, seeming to become lost in himself.

“I dunno, kid,” he said. “I remember being a young man. I remember wanting so bad to be a lawman, wanting to stamp out the sins of this world, make sure people around here could walk home safe. Things were so desperate after the war, felt like it couldn’t get worse.”

Silvester pressed forward in his chair.

“But it ain’t … Is it?”

Abbot shook his head.

“I’m not so sure,” he said, “criminal is just a criminal. It’s about having the wrong kind of blood if you ask me. Bad blood breeds bad blood. There’s a difference between a man committing evil for personal gain, or accounting for a corrupted soul, and a man who commits evil because he doesn’t know what the difference is. You understand?”

Abbot reached under his shirt and removed a sparkling silver cross, running it through his fingers as he took a moment to be silent.

Silvester would never say a word, but he felt uncomfortable sitting before Abbot as he spoke like this. To him, there had always been more to it than ‘bad blood,’ and Silvester wondered whether Abbot truly believed the things he said or said them just to feel better about it all.

He reminded himself the man was recovering from a brutal stab wound, not the best kind of state to think about things in a way that wasn’t black and white.

Silvester shook off his thoughts.

“I shouldn’t dump on you,” Abbot said. “You ain’t even got your suitcase home yet, have you?”

Silvester blinked, his head spinning slightly.

“Goddamn …” he whispered.

He realized his suitcase was still sitting at the station, probably soaked with the weather if some lucky stranger hadn’t swiped it.

Shaking his head, he retrieved his tobacco pouch from his coat.

“You’re not wrong there, sir,” Silvester said.

He hadn’t been in town for more than an hour, and already things had gone topsy-turvy.

As he prepared his cigarette paper, he heard a click.

Silvester spun. Abbot leaned on his elbow a little further and gestured for Silvester to come to him, his eyes on the tobacco.

“What would the good doctor say in your condition?” Silvester asked.

Abbot sneered.

“I don’t need no doctor to tell me when I can’t smoke.”

Silvester laughed and moved closer, licking the end of his cigarette paper and bringing it to Abbot’s lips.

As he struck the match, he saw the same unfamiliar fear in the man’s eyes.

“Abbot …” Silvester said, “really. This gang … What they done?”

Abbot took a puff, and from the corner of his lip, he let the smoke drift up into the living room.

“Separately … they ain’t anything so out of the ordinary,” he began. “They get about the same sorta business any other low lives get up to … thieving, burning, usin’ their reputation to get away with it … you know how low lives be, Sil, attracted to trouble like a moth to a flame.”

At this, Silvester found his head spinning.

Abbot was a cunning man, and he often talked like this. Although Silvester would not say it, something about this talk rubbed him a little wrong. The sheriff would talk about criminals like they were beasts, and this thought seemed off. Abbot had grown up in a small town; it was no surprise he would feel like this, but Silvester knew crime his whole life. He always felt as though there was a little more to the story.

“You agree, Silvester?” Abbot barked.

Silvester jumped up, his daydreams snapping from him.

“Uh, yep,” he said, “Hartz gang gets up to the usual sort of business … but then what’s got everyone so spooked?”

The sheriff took another puff and pawed at an empty shot glass on the nearby table. He ashed the cigarette inside and cleared his throat.

“It’s who they got at the reins …” Abbot said darkly. “Crispin is the name; he’s the leader of the Hartz gang … and he ain’t no ordinary smash-and-grab man like the rest of them. He’s got that cold blood … That kind of blood that makes a man evil, you understand?”

Silvester nodded, his eyes moving down toward Abbot’s wound.

“He the one, isn’t he?” Silvester asked. “The one at the train station? The one who brought the knife to you?”

Abbot didn’t flinch.

“Dead on, Sil, he’s the one …” Abbot said. “He’s the one who got everyone scared to leave their homes at night. He’s the one so quick all of us can barely keep our eyes on him. He’s ruthless, coldhearted, and there seems like nothing that can stop him …”

Silvester shook his head.

In all his years as a lawman, he had never seen a man go for the knife so quickly, without cause. If it hadn’t been for the oncoming train, he could have gutted Abbot completely.

He suddenly felt tightness in his chest.

What makes a man like that?

Silvester felt the weight of his thoughts. He approached the front of the house, looking out past the curtains at the street.

The sun was only just now beginning to set, but already he could see people locking up. Even the saloon at the end of the road was dimming its lights, and Silvester felt sudden anger come over him.

“How we gunna stop them?” Silvester said. “What’s the plan? What are we cooking up?”

Abbot laughed, his black eyes twinkling.

“There is no plan.”

Silvester raised his eyebrows, taking a seat back in his chair.

“That’s why I’m relieved you’re back, Sil,” Abbot said. “You know how the marshals can be … They ain’t interested in strategy; in their minds, the solution to all this is to sit back and wait for one of them Hartz fellas to trip and fall right in the jailhouse themselves.”

Laughing darkly, the sheriff grabbed onto the nearby table and steadied himself, trying to stand up. Silvester rushed to his assistance, but Abbot waved him back down, grabbing a walking stick instead.
“That’s all these old dogs ever think,” he said. “I been waiting for you to get back; I need someone who thinks a little more creatively …”

Abbot clambered over to the edge of the room.

Creatively? Silvester thought. What could the sheriff mean? He was always full of plans, some that worked, others that hadn’t, but Silvester knew that all of them meant trouble.

With a closed fist, Abbot rapped on the window, and the doctor jumped up.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Can I go ahead and pour myself some whiskey?” asked Abbot. “For my wounds, Doctor?”

Outside, Dr. Marley shook his head and waved him away.

“You’re buying the bottle, Sheriff.”

“Thank you kindly.”

With a slight smile, the sheriff turned and took two shot glasses from a nearby coffee table and an old dusty bottle of whiskey.

“I ain’t got no wounds, Sheriff.”

Abbot smiled and quietly poured out two glasses.

“Not all wounds be on the body, Sil,” he said. “We all bear wounds; all of us, just living our lives, will see to that.”

The sheriff’s hands were shaky on his walking stick.

Silvester stood, approaching Abbot and taking the bottle from his hand.

“Sit,” he said.

The sheriff met his eye.

“We need a man,” Abbot said. “We need a man on the inside.”

Silvester blinked.

“What do you mean?”

Abbot smiled, and Silvester helped him down to his chair, placing his whiskey glass in his hand.

“That’s my plan, Sil,” Abbot continued. “We get a fella that can pretend to be one of them, go in deep, and earn the trust of the gang … That’s the only way ’round this as I see it …”

Silvester smiled.

“Sounds dangerous,” he said, “but sounds like it could work.”

As he said this, the sheriff cast a wide smile and leaned back in his chair.

“Can’t be me,” the sheriff said. “They know my face, as my wound down below can attest to …”

Silvester nodded.

“Then who would it be?” he asked. “This man on the inside.”

Abbot smiled, raising his glass. Silvester followed him and the two men took the drink. The whiskey was like fire on his tongue, and Silvester placed the empty shot glass back down on his knee. To his shock, Sheriff Abbot was looking right at him.

“I know a fella,” he said. “I know a fella who would be perfect … who got the kind of courage, wit, and true heart to pull a caper like this off …”

Silvester wiped his lips.

“Oh, yeah?” he said. “He from around here?”

The sheriff smiled.

“Oh, yes,” he returned, “he’s been out of town a sight, but he’s back, and I know he’s just the right man for the job …”

Silvester blinked. Then it occurred to him.

“Me?”

The thought made his head spin. He was only one of the younger lawmen, and although he and the sheriff had a strong bond, he never could have imagined this task going to him.

As Silvester opened his mouth to speak, he heard the back door swing open, and the doctor and Martha returned to the house.
“Alright, boys,” Dr. Marley said, “you made yourself more than comfortable. It’s time for you to clear off; lend us some peace.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Abbot, taking to his feet.

Silvester was frozen in place, his head swimming with thoughts.

Him? Go so deep in? Silvester had never thought he would be pulled in so deep so quickly. The idea made him dizzy.

“Silvester?” came the doctor’s voice.

Silvester blinked awake and saw that Sheriff Abbot was already at the door. Grabbing his hat, Silvester thanked the doctor and made his way toward the sheriff.

Outside, the night was falling, and Silvester could feel a cold wind blowing.

Usually, evenings would be full of music and shouting from all ends of town, but right now, it was dead silent, and the only light around came from lanterns in surrounding houses with drawn curtains.

Suddenly, Silvester jumped, feeling a firm hand on his shoulder as the doctor’s door closed behind him.

“You’re the only one I can count on,” Abbot said, “to pull this off …”

Silvester nodded, and the two went walking into the street.

“Okay, Sheriff,” Silvester said, “let’s talk.”


“Infiltrating a Vicious Gang” is an Amazon Best-Selling novel, check it out here!

A righteous marshal like Silvester Watson knows that duty means; chasing the crime and not just fighting it. But when he returns to his town from a trip, he finds out that a vicious heist gang has made its way in. To combat this unknown force, the town’s sheriff believes there is only one way; Silvester must go undercover. Upon infiltrating the ruthless gang by the name Silas, he soon realizes that justice can be blind, as things are not always as they seem.

The lines between a criminal and a victim are vague…

As Silvester gains the trust of the merciless gang chief, hir criminal alter ego draws him deeper into danger. When he falls for the brave Ardella, the leader’s sister, their forbidden love threatens to destroy his mission. Gaining a woman and a loyal friend among the gang, Silvester’s new life will seem to be closer to chaos every day. With the odds against him, the day that his true identity will fatefully be revealed is coming and it seems that time is running out.

Will Silvester’s integrity be completely consumed by Sila’s vices?

Trapped in the stormy Arkansas winter, Silvester is trying to discover the gang’s plans in their dark mountain den. As he tries to do the impossible and change the world by punishing the lawbreakers, will he be able to get out alive? While the gang prepares a new bloody heist, how far will he go to lock away the criminals he seeks, and how far to save the ones who deserve it?

“Infiltrating a Vicious Gang” is a historical adventure novel of approximately 80,000 words. No cliffhangers, only pure unadulterated action.

Get your copy from Amazon!

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