“It’s gotta be a mistake, boss,” Aaron Holderman stuttered.

  “It’s no mistake. Dan went to the depot himself. You want to show them what you found in the boxcar, Dan?”

  MacGregor’s son walked to the desk. He pulled a folded note from his inside coat pocket and gave it to Fallon, who glanced at it and handed it to the sweating, trembling Holderman.

  Thanks,

  Allan

  “Allan.” Holderman gasped. “The captain of the guards at the Yuma pen.”

  “No, idiot. It’s the first name of Allan Pinkerton,” the elder MacGregor exploded. “That’s all Dan found in the boxes. You fool. You loaded up the gold in Tucson and didn’t bother assigning anyone to guard it—such as yourself? You just rode in the smoking car the whole trip. Did you even check on the gold once?”

  “But those bars were in strongboxes, boss. Somebody must have tipped off the Pinkertons.”

  “Yes. Somebody.” MacGregor stared at Fallon.

  “I did my job,” Fallon said. “I got the gold. And the dead bodies. I turned them all over to your man here. That’s what you hired me to do. So don’t blame me on anything that happened after that.”

  “But since the American Detective Agency can’t claim any of that reward, you won’t be paid a dime.”

  Fallon shrugged. “I’m alive. And if you’re interested in what all I went through to get that gold to your boy here . . .”

  “I’m not. Get out of here, Holderman. Wait. How much money did you collect from the Arizona authorities? For bringing in Quinn and those others.”

  The man shuffled his feet. “Well, I don’t have most of it yet.”

  “What you get, you bring to Dan. That’ll help with the loss of money your stupidity, your unprofessionalism, has cost this agency. Do you understand?”

  The man answered with a timid nod, and left the room. Fallon started out the door, as well, but stopped when the old man called out his name.

  When Fallon turned, Sean MacGregor said, “You owe me another job or two, Fallon.”

  Fallon laughed softly. “Do I?”

  “That agreement you had me sign. I hear it went up in flames.”

  “Did it?”

  MacGregor frowned.

  “Is that what Holderman told you, MacGregor? The same man who couldn’t keep almost two hundred thousand dollars in gold safe on a train from Tucson to Chicago?”

  MacGregor found the cigar and sucked on it till he had it puffing again. He glanced at his son, then studied Harry Fallon.

  “You want the man who framed you? You want the man who’s responsible for the death of your family? You want that . . . you do another job for me.”

  “I think you owe me something for the job I just did for you.”

  “I’ll pay you by not sending you back to the Illinois State Penitentiary.”

  Fallon shook his head.

  “You’ll get your salary. And time to clean up. And maybe I’ll feed you a tidbit or two. But . . .” MacGregor opened a drawer and pulled out a file. “This might interest you. It’s right up your line of work, Fallon. I’ve found your niche.”

  Fallon moved back to the large desk and the small man.

  “And what,” Fallon said, “is my niche?”

  “Going to prison. And getting out.”

  Once he had settled into the chair, Fallon held out his hand and watched the small man push the folder across the massive desk.

  Keep reading for a preview of the next Hank Fallon western

  NATIONAL BESTSELLING AUTHORS

  William W. Johnstone

  and J. A. Johnstone

  BEHIND THE IRON

  A HANK FALLON WESTERN

  In this gripping thriller, America’s greatest Western storytellers take you inside the dangerous world of an undercover agent—and the deadliest jail in America . . .

  PRISON RIOT

  Hank Fallon knows what it’s like to rot behind bars. To wallow in the filth of a rat-infested cell. To smell the pent-up rage of cutthroat killers and thieves. Fallon earned his freedom the hard way. He saved the lives of four guards, got released early, and became a detective. Then he went undercover, infiltrated a prison gang plotting to bust out—and barely made it out alive. Now they’re sending him back. Behind the iron.

  Straight to hell . . .

  This time, it’s the ninth circle, better known as the Missouri State Penitentiary. His mission: get inside the infirmary, look for a pregnant inmate named Jess Harper, and find out where her bank-robbing boyfriend hid the stolen cash. Problem is a rebellion is brewing among the prisoners. Their rage is burning out of control. An all-out savage riot is about to explode.

  And Fallon’s head is on the chopping block . . .

  Look for BEHIND THE IRON—on sale now.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The little man in the extremely large—and very brown—office opened a drawer. He pulled out a file.

  “This,” the small man said, “might interest you.”

  What interested Harry Fallon right then was this thought about killing the man, and the little man’s son, in the Chicago office, but Fallon didn’t. Fallon would have to get past the other men outside the office doors, and out of Chicago. And then what? Besides, Harry Fallon still needed that pathetic, tiny man.

  “It’s right up your line of work, Fallon,” the small man with the big head and big ideas said. “I’ve found your niche.”

  Fallon walked back to the large desk and the small man.

  “And what,” Fallon said, “is my niche?”

  The small man grinned over his foul-smelling cigar. “Going to prison. And getting out.”

  Harry Fallon felt older than his thirty-three years.

  With a heavy sigh, Fallon found the chair in front of the sprawling desk and sat. Grinning, the small man held the folder of papers in his little left hand.

  The small man slid the folder across the massive desk.

  Fallon opened the folder.

  “Tired?” the small man asked.

  Fallon felt no need to answer. Tired? Who wouldn’t be exhausted? Just a short time ago, Harry Fallon had been at the Illinois State Penitentiary in Joliet, saving the lives of a few guards during a bloody riot, and that act of bravery, kindness, humanity—just a spur-of-the-moment decision, truthfully—had led to a parole for Harry Fallon, former deputy United States marshal for Judge Isaac Parker’s court in Fort Smith, Arkansas. Fallon had been given a job at Werner’s Wheelwright in Chicago and a place to live at Missus Ketchum’s Boarding House near Lake Michigan. And then this small man had changed Fallon’s life.

  The small man was Sean MacGregor, president of this American Detective Agency, a man with dead, green eyes, and thinning orange hair streaked with silver. Sean MacGregor had a job he wanted Harry Fallon to handle, just a minor little bit of work. All Fallon had to do was break his parole—but MacGregor could make sure the authorities thought the ex-convict was living up to his agreement with the state of Illinois and the solicitor for the United States court. Go to Arizona Territory. Get arrested and sentenced to prison at Yuma Territorial Prison, also known as The Hellhole. Somehow make friends with Monk Quinn, a notorious felon and murderer who, six years earlier, had robbed a Southern Pacific train of some $200,000 in gold bullion. Escape from The Hellhole with Quinn. Cross the border into Mexico. And bring back Quinn, and any of his associates, dead or alive—preferably dead— and return the gold. So that Sean MacGregor and his American Detective Agency could reap the glory and the rewards.

  Somehow, Fallon had managed to do most of that, although the gold bullion wound up being recovered by MacGregor’s rival, the Pinkerton National Detective Agency.

  Somehow, Harry Fallon had managed to live through it all. When he had left Chicago for Arizona Territory he was an inch over six feet tall and weighed ten pounds shy of two hundred. Big man. Leathery. Rock hard. You had to be big and tough to get out of Joliet in one piece. After that short while in Arizona and Mexico, Fallon had returned with a few more scars, some premature gray hair in his brown hair, and about twenty pounds lighter. It had not been the easiest assignment in Fallon’s life—and Harry Fallon had pulled some rough jobs riding for Judge Parker all those years ago. His eyes remained brown. His eyes rarely missed anything.

  “Remember our little agreement, Fallon,” Sean MacGregor said in his thick Scottish accent.

  You didn’t forget a little agreement like that.

  The little man reminded Fallon, one more damned time. “You want the man who framed you? You want the man who’s responsible for the death of your family? You want that . . . you do this job for me.” He put the big cigar between his thin lips. “Savvy?”

  The American Detective Agency’s offices could be found on the top floor of the building in Chicago. Harry Fallon didn’t know exactly what part of Chicago. He had scarcely had time to even see much of the city—just the depot and Lake Michigan (and the American Detective Agency’s offices, of course) before he had been waylaid and brought to see the small little man in the massive but Spartan office of brown paneling, brown rugs, brown tables, and brown filing cabinets, with one window where the brown drapes were pulled tightly shut.

  There was some color to MacGregor’s office, of course. The lamp on his desk and the others on the walls had green domes. And the ashtray on MacGregor’s desk was silver. The color of the folder was tan, which Fallon figured was as close to brown or green as MacGregor could find.

  Fallon looked at the top sheet of paper. His stomach and intestines twisted into knots, but he showed no emotion. He merely wet his lips and turned to the next page. “You’re sending me back,” Fallon said dryly.

  “Closer to home,” MacGregor said. “Your old home. It’s not like I’m returning you to Joliet to finish the rest of your sentence. Which I could do.” He blew a thick cloud of smoke toward the ceiling, leaned back in his green leather chair, and chuckled. “I could even have you killed. I’ve had lots of people killed. And nobody would mourn the loss of a rogue deputy marshal, a paroled convict. Would they?”

  No, Fallon thought sadly. The two people who would have mourned Harry Fallon were dead and buried. His wife and daughter. Murdered. While Harry Fallon was sweating and hardening behind the walls of Joliet.

  “Dan,” MacGregor called out to his larger, more handsome son. “Fetch Marshal Fallon a slice of cherry pie, would you?”

  “Yes, sir,” MacGregor’s son said. Fallon kept looking at the pages. He heard the door open, saw some light filter into the dark brown room, before the door shut out the light and the fresh air. He went through the third sheet of paper and read the final page.

  Carefully, he gathered the papers, tapped them on the big desk until they were even, and laid them back inside the folder, which he closed and left on the desk.

  “Jefferson City,” Fallon said.

  “You’ve been there, I assume,” MacGregor said.

  “Just in passing.”

  “Well, you lived through Joliet and you survived Yuma. How hard could a little prison in a backwoods state like Missouri be compared to those two pens?”

  Fallon stared. “The chances of someone recognizing me as a lawman or even a convict in Yuma were remote,” he said. “But someone did recognize me in The Hellhole. Even though I’d never been in Arizona Territory till you sent me.”

  He tapped the folder. “I rode for Judge Parker’s court in Arkansas and the Indian Nations. Missouri’s just north of Arkansas. I arrested quite a few men who hailed from Missouri. I was born in Missouri. There’s a pretty good chance that someone locked up there will know me.”

  “So what?” The small man dropped the cigar in the ashtray. “You’re not the first badge-wearer to find himself behind bars. You can even use your own name this time. I don’t think any warden or guard in Missouri will have enough brains or investigating skills to figure out that you’re supposed to be on parole in the state of Illinois. And even if they do, they wouldn’t be likely to give up a warm body and ship you back here to finish the completion of your original sentence. Be yourself, just another jailbird doing time.”

  The door opened. Light reappeared. The door shut. Darkness prevailed except for the lamps on the sprawling desk and the match that Sean MacGregor struck to light another one of his cheap, repugnant cigars.

  Dan MacGregor slid a plate in front of Fallon.

  “You like cherry pie?” Sean MacGregor said over his cigar.

  “I prefer pecan,” said Fallon, who hadn’t tasted any dessert in years.

  “Thaddeus Gripewater likes cherry pie,” Dan MacGregor said. He spoke, unlike his father, without a trace of the Scottish Highlands. In the short time Fallon had met up with the MacGregors, he found few similarities between the two men.

  Except this: A man would be wise not to trust either one of them. Fallon did not even think father and son trusted one another.

  The younger man repeated the name: “Thaddeus Gripewater.”

  Fallon turned to look at the younger man. There had been no mention of any Thaddeus Gripewater in the four pages Fallon had just finished reading.

  “Prison doctor at Jefferson City,” Dan MacGregor explained casually but informatively. “You manage to get him a cherry pie, and he’ll be putty in your hands, do anything for you, even get you to help him out in the prison.”

  He found the spoon and cut into the pie. He brought up some of the pie and smelled it.

  “It’s not poison, Fallon,” Sean MacGregor said.

  “There is some gin in it, though,” Dan MacGregor said. “Thaddeus Gripewater likes gin, too. Probably better than cherry pie. You use gin to make your pie, and you’ll rule the infirmary ward at Jefferson City.”

  After all those years in prison, Fallon found sweets unpalatable, and he didn’t trust himself with alcohol, even if it had likely burned off while baking. He set the spoon on the side of the plate. “Thaddeus,” he said. “Gripewater.”

  “It’s his real name,” Sean MacGregor said. “As far as we’ve been able to ascertain.”

  “His parents should be the ones in prison,” Dan MacGregor said.

  “So I’m supposed to get gin and cherries in prison and somehow bake the good doctor a pie, and get it from my cell—I assume I’ll be a prisoner, again, right?”

  “Well,” Dan MacGregor said, “it never occurred to us to try to get you in as a guard.” He smiled.

  “They don’t hire parole violators or disgraced federal lawmen,” the elder MacGregor said. He did not smile.

  Harry Fallon did not smile, either. He glanced at the plate and realized why Dan MacGregor had brought a spoon, and not a fork, with the dessert. A man who had spent ten years in Joliet could use a fork like an Indian could use a knife. Fallon envisioned the fork being pulled out of Sean MacGregor’s neck, with blood spraying the dark room from the dying man’s jugular vein, then slamming the fork between Dan MacGregor’s ribs and into his heart.

  “You still owe me something for the Yuma job,” Fallon said.

  “I told you already,” Sean MacGregor said. “I didn’t collect enough money, thanks to those damned Pinkertons. And whoever tipped them off that we had the gold bullion.” He stared hard at Fallon, but Fallon gave nothing away. “Your payment is that I don’t send you back to Joliet . . .”

  Fallon finished the sentence. Hell, he had heard it enough: “. . . or another facility for completion of my original sentence.”

  The small man flicked ash from his cigar and smiled. “That’s right.”

  “It’s not enough,” Fallon said.

  “Dan will tell you something on your way to the train depot,” Sean MacGregor said. “When you’re finished with this assignment, we’ll get you out of Jefferson City and get you across the border and back to your lovely boardinghouse near Lake Michigan. It’s beautiful in the fall. Colder than a witch’s teat, but beautiful. You should be back by October.”

  “I see.”

  “Cold will feel mighty good, Fallon,” the small man said, “after spending a few months in hell.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Finish your pie.”

  “The cherries are too tart. I’ll find a better recipe.”

  “You won’t find it at Missus Ketchum’s Boarding House,” Sean MacGregor said. “Her meals are like sawdust.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Fallon said. Which was true. He had yet to see the place where the warden at the Illinois State Penitentiary thought he was living. Likewise, he had yet to meet his alleged employer, Werner. Fallon didn’t even know the wheelwright’s first name.

  “Dan will fill you in on the particulars,” Sean MacGregor said as he set the foul cigar on the gaudy ashtray. “Do we have an agreement?”

  “It depends on what Dan tells me,” Fallon said.

  “Fair enough. Aaron Holderman will be delighted to escort you to Joliet . . .”

  Aaron Holderman worked for the American Detective Agency, but Fallon had known him in Arkansas and the Indian Nations, where he had run whiskey to the Indians, drunk what he couldn’t sell, and used his fists on men, women, and children. He had spent time in Joliet, in Cañon City, Colorado; in Angola, Louisiana. He was exactly the kind of investigator a corrupt operation like the American Detective Agency needed.

  “Yeah,” Fallon said, “for violation of my parole, to finish the completion of my original sentence.”

  “No.” MacGregor picked up his cigar. “You will face a new judge. The Almighty. Holderman will just be sending your dead body back to confirm that it is indeed Harry Fallon.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Out in the hallway, Dan MacGregor waited for a few other operatives of the American Detective Agency to head into other rooms. When the hallway was empty, he turned to Fallon and said, “The warden’s name is Harold Underwood. He’s the only one who should know you’re working for us. You’ll want to keep it that way. If an inmate finds out you’re a detective, you’re dead.”