CHAPTER 1 - Amon

E very now and then , ever since Collin and I came home to West Virginia, out of the damn blue, I'll get a weird sense of longin' in my chest. Like an ache, but not a sad one. Like an emptiness, but not a black one. It's more like an itch ya can't scratch or a craving ya can't satisfy.

Standing here in the Bishop butcher shop as I wait on my soup bones, I get that feeling.

Which is weird because I'm really fuckin' satisfied. Like completely fuckin' satisfied. I love being home. And every day, as I drive through Trinity County doin' my business, there is this feeling of belonging. An arrival, of sorts.

Even countin' the little scuffle up on the mountain at Blackberry Hill, this return trip home has been easy and sweet.

Haven't gotten laid yet, which, not gonna lie, kinda sucks. But I've gotten more than my share of women all over the world for the past twelve years. I'm playin' it careful now. Taking my time. Choosing wisely, as they say. Because when one enters Trinity County, West Virginia, one does not just start humping girls left and right like they're water and you just arrived at an oasis after a hundred-mile trek through the fuckin' Sahara desert, dying of thirst.

Especially if one wants a Disciple girl. And I kinda do.

Don't get me wrong. I have pictured myself up in a hayloft dressed in traditional, handmade farmboy attire taking a frilly-dressed girl from behind plenty of times. That was definitely my go-to dream scenario when I was fifteen. And there ain't nothin' wrong with a stripper from Revenant in my book.

But a Disciple girl? Yeah. They're different. They're kinda like a combination of Bishop and Revenant. Playing all traditional on the weekends for the Revival shows, but then bein' all rough-edgy during the week as they just go about their lives.

I like it.

"All right, Amon. Here ya go. Two hundred pounds of soup bones." Johnny Boy Butcher, who is the literal butcher of Bishop, West Virginia, and hasn't been a boy for about fifty years now, pulls my cart piled high with wooden crates out from behind his butcher-shop countertop and lets it come to rest at my feet.

This makes me smile. Not just because Johnny Boy is keeping my entire kennel of super-smart, military-style protection dogs in soup bones, but because the wooden crates are just such a nice touch. It's so fuckin' old-timey, I can't stand it.

I could leave Trinity County and find myself a butcher who would wrap my soup bones in plastic instead of white paper and I'd probably pay a whole lot less for the exact same amount of chewing time, but it just wouldn't be the same.

"Thanks, Johnny Boy. I'll see ya next week."

He tips an imaginary hat at me and turns his attention to the next customer in line. I pull my cart over to the door, where a man wearing vintage-looking overalls is already holding it open to make my life easier, and then I leave the butcher shop with a nod and a ‘thank you' for the kindness.

I love that about Bishop. How nice and friendly the people are. I mean, this is the downtown historical district and it's literally the townspeople's job to be pleasant and accommodating. But acting aside, it still works. It still makes me feel appreciated. Like I matter, even to strangers.

Trust me when I say this, it's a rare thing to be welcomed by strangers when you're the actual stranger. Especially when you're traveling the world as black ops military, as I was. I grew used to the indifference, as well as the hostility. Almost forgot what it was like to be somewhere I belonged. But it hit me quick when we came home to West Virginia. And now, knowing what I do of the wider world, I would never leave this place again, not even if someone offered me millions of dollars.

I start pulling my cart down the brick sidewalk, enjoying the clip-clopping sound of the horses as they pull their carts down the brick-paved street, and then stop short when I spy Rosie Harlow leaving a small shop across the road. It's kinda set back, this building, and it's real small. Maybe fifteen feet wide at the most. Like the space it takes up was an empty alley before it was a shop front.

There's a tiny courtyard in front surrounded by a white picket fence, and Rosie is just opening the gate to exit when she catches my eye, waves, and calls my name. "Amon!"

I'm about to cross and go over to say a proper hello, but I've got this heavy cart and Rosie is light on her feet, so before I know it, she's scooted her way through the horses and buggies and is standing right in front of me. "What are you up to today?"

"I was gonna ask you the same thing."

"What's all this?" She makes a circle with her finger, gesturing to my cart.

"Bones for my dogs." I make a circle in the air, gesturing to her clothes. "What's all this ?" Because she is in a full-on Bishop costume. I'm talking petticoat, gown, apron—the works.

Which is a very nice look on her.

Rosie Harlow is petite and fresh-faced, but she never looks the same from day to day. Oh, her long hair is always brown and yes, she's always lookin' cute as fuck. But since I've been back, I've seen her dressed up in go-go boots, leather fringe, bell bottoms, and gold lamé. She's not afraid of fashion and if she were an actual woman of the vintage sort, she'd be a doe-eyed sex symbol and all the teenage boys would have her poster on their bedroom walls.

But today Rosie Harlow is something all-together different. She's vintage, but not in a Valerie Bertinelli rock-star girlfriend way. Today, she looks very… trad wife. But she's not puttin' off a milkin' cows and makin' sourdough bread kind of farm-y trad wife vibe. More of a powerful high society, wind-beneath-the-wings kinda trad wife, à la Bishop style.

And it's kinda hot.

Rosie raises up both shoulders, shootin' me a smile. "My new dress." Then she twirls for me.

Which again, is kinda hot. "Well, I like it, Rosie. A lot. But… why are you here, in Bishop, wearing a costume?"

"Oh!" Her smile drops into a more serious face as she leans forward a little. "I work here. Two days a week." Then she turns and points to the sign above the little shop she came out of. "The Bishop Busybody . I've been writing this rag for about four years now. Doesn't really make a profit—yet. Start-up costs and everything. But it's finding its audience. It's fun. And it makes me happy, which is the most important thing."

I study the sign, then look her in the eyes, noticing that they're bright gray for the first time ever. "You write for a newspaper?"

"Well, ‘newspaper' might be a bit ambitious a word for the Bishop Busybody . It's more of a… fictional thing. Which, of course, the Bishop News is as well. But it's not really news at all. It's… lonely hearts."

My eyes squint down in confusion. "It's what?"

"Lonely hearts. You know, like… personals."

"Personal ads?"

"Yeah. ‘Desperately seeking somebodies.' Mail-order brides and that sort of thing. But it's fake. I just make all the ads up and every edition comes with a little announcement. Like a wedding or a baby. Just enough so readers can keep up with their favorite fictional desperately-seeking-somebodies over time." She pauses to think here, making a very cute face while she does it. "It's like an early version of a soap opera. A very slow-moving one. But aren't they all?"

It takes me a few seconds to catch up with her question mark because I'm still envisioning the soap-opera image she just put in my head. I blink. "I guess. But… people actually read that kind of thing?"

"Well, not many people. Which is why it doesn't make a profit. But I've clawed my way up to seventy-three regular subscribers and sell about two hundred more on a good week."

"Rosie Harlow. When the hell do you have time to run and write a frickin' newspaper?"

Rosie laughs. It's a nice laugh that makes her face look even friendlier than it already does. "Amon, no one ever has time for anything. Time is something you make for things you like doing. And I like doing this on Tuesday and Wednesday mornings." Then she gives me a little curtsey and turns away, walking off in the opposite direction to where I'm heading.

"Bye, Rosie," I call.

"See ya around, Amon," she calls back.

I start walking again, pulling my bones behind me and heading for my truck, which is parked outside the Bishop historical district, since this part of town is horse and buggy only. But she's right, I realize. Time is something you make for things you like doing.

The ride back to the Edge Security compound is only about twenty minutes. In the crude triangle that makes up the cities of Bishop, Disciple, and Revenant, our place is right off the highway just about halfway between Bishop and Disciple. Which is kinda convenient when it comes to running errands and shopping.

Edge is busy, as usual, when I pull into the long gravel driveway. There are sixty ex-soldiers living here with us and they are going about their day, training. Getting ready for the big August first deadline Collin has set up with Charlie Beaufort, our DC contact. I'm not sure what the first job is just yet—everything with Charlie is on a need-to-know basis and no one needs to know that but Collin at the moment. But we're on track, so I'm not worried about it.

I drive my truck all the way to the back where my house is, then pass it by and pull right up to the kennel. It's a long brown building that can hold up to sixty dogs. We've only got thirty-six at the moment, but more puppies are on the way.

The dogs are therapy for the men, but we train them up to military specifications and will sell them—eventually. But we haven't sold any yet.

When I enter the kennel, it's empty of dogs because they're all outside with their partners. But I say hi to the men in here who have clean-up duty as I make my way into the walk-in freezer with my cart of bones and unload.

When I'm done, I take the cart out, close the door, and just pause to have a look around. Sometimes it feels like I've died and gone to heaven. Like I need to pinch myself because this life we've created feels more like a dream than anything resembling reality.

I train dogs for a living. Not just any dogs, either. The world's smartest dogs. If you'd have asked me two years ago if this would be my life, I would've laughed. The bad press from all those congressional hearings hadn't faded yet, it was all very fresh. And there was a time when I thought Collin, Ryan, Nash, and I would be spending a few years in prison over our part in the scandal.

But Charlie Beaufort worked it out. As Charlie Beaufort usually does. And, well… here we are. Free, and happy, and well on our way back to successful.

So maybe for the first time since Collin and I were pulled aside by those MP's when we got off the bus for basic training, I let out a sigh.

We made it.

It was rough, and we lost a lot of men, but four of us pulled through.

And now we're here, back in West Virginia, and it's all gonna work out.

I really do believe it.

Just as I'm thinking this a high-pitched whistle to the tune of ‘Yankee Doodle' cuts through the silence and a tall man about my age comes around the corner holding a clipboard. He's looking down at this clipboard, not paying attention, and we nearly collide.

"Whoa, there," I say, putting up both of my hands, pushing him back. "Watch where you're going."

The man stops and his eyes lift up slowly, revealing a strange expression on his face that I can't quite place, but comes off a little bit challenging. But just as quick as I catch it, the look disappears and then his blue eyes are smiling as the corners of his lips turn up. "Oh, sorry." He clicks his pen and points it at me. "You're Amon Parrish, right?"

"I am. And who the hell are you?"

"I'm Sawyer." He thrusts a hand at me. "The inspector."

My eyebrow shoots up. "Inspector?"

But just as I say that, Collin comes around the corner. "Oh, there you are, Amon. We were just lookin' for you."

My one eyebrow is still cocked because I'm confused. " We ?"

Collin nods his head to Mr. Clipboard. "This here is Sawyer Martin. He's here to inspect everything for Charlie."

"Inspect it for what ?" For some reason I find myself annoyed at this revelation. Mostly because of the near-collision that came with a side of confusion. But also because this is the first I'm hearing about some fuckin' inspection, and since Ryan, Nash, Collin, and I are all equal partners, the idea that some stranger would be passing judgment on my kennel makes me feel put out.

It's not even Collin who answers me, which just escalates my vexation. Mr. Clipboard once again thrusts his hand at me. "Nice to finally meet you, Amon. I've been looking forward to it."

I actually growl. It comes out past an upturned lip and everything. Because there's just something about this guy I don't like. "Why is this the first time I'm hearing about this?" I'm looking at Clipboard, but I'm really talking to Collin.

"Oh, come on, Amon." Collin slaps me on the back. "Sorry I didn't tell ya, but I just found out myself."

"Well, what are you looking at in my kennel?" I jut my chin at Clipboard's little checklist. "What's that?"

"Just basic stuff. Mostly about safety and?—"

I'm just about to lose my shit when Collin grabs my arm, turning me. He calls over his shoulder. "You look at whatever you want, Sawyer. We've got nothing to hide here. If you need us, we'll be up at the office." Then Collin gives me a little push towards the back door and we leave.

Once outside, I turn to him. "What the hell is going on? Why is that man here passing judgment on us?"

"Forget him. It's just… Charlie. He's…" Collin sighs. "Well, you were there when we rescued Lowyn. You know I had to promise Charlie I'd work for him, right?"

I shrug. But I do.

"Well." Collin shoves his hands in his pockets. "This is part of that. There's no point in arguing. If Charlie wants to inspect the place, then he gets to send a man to inspect the place. It's no big deal, anyway. We've got nothing going on here but what's on the paperwork."

I side-eye the door we just came out of, then meet Collin's gaze. "Yeah. For now . But it could take a turn at any time."

"This Sawyer character, he's only gonna be here two weeks, so he'll be long gone before any turning starts happening."

I blink. "Two. Weeks? Who the hell needs two weeks to do an inspection!"

Collin grabs my arm again and starts walking up the driveway towards Nash's house, which is also where the Edge office resides. "Keep your voice down. And forget that guy. Charlie's just nervous about the contract. He wants to see how the men are getting on. And they're gettin' on good, so let's show them off, ya know?"

I huff.

"Anyway, we've got bigger problems, Amon. Because Mr. Martin back there showed up with a delivery for us. And I was just coming to get you so we can have a discussion about it."

"What kind of delivery?"

Collin stops walking to look me in the eyes. "The kind that brings four stainless-steel canisters inside a cooler of dry ice, that's what kind."

"But…" Once again, I am confused. "We already got our delivery for this week."

"Exactly." Collin starts walking again. "Like I said, we've got bigger problems than an impromptu inspection."

Inside the Edge Security office , Ryan, Nash, Collin, and I all stand round a small table looking at the cooler with trepidation. The four of us are the same in some ways, but different in many others. Obviously, Collin and I come from Disciple, West Virginia and grew up together, so we're more the same than different. But Nash is a West Coast guy who came up in big money and Ryan is an East Coast guy who came up in… well, the mob, actually.

But for some reason, it works. At least when it comes to ‘security'.

Nash walks over to his desk and picks up a large white envelope, then hands it to Collin. "It came with a package. I opened it because it was addressed to Edge. But it's for you, Collin."

Collin takes the envelope when Nash offers it, then peeks inside. A moment later, he's pulling out another envelope, this time red.

Red is never a good sign.

"Ah, fuck," Ryan says, flopping down into a chair. "Ah, fuck! What the hell is this shit?" His eyes are a little bit wild as he looks up at Collin. "They said we were good, Col. They said we were fine . A cooler showing up with a red envelope doesn't sound fine to me."

Collin puts up a hand. "Just… relax. Don't jump to conclusions."

"Well"—Nash laughs, then takes a seat at the table as well—"he's not wrong, Col. This does not look promising."

I pull out a chair and sit as well. In my experience, red envelopes that come with coolers are never a good thing.

Collin stays standin'. He unseals the red envelope, pulls out a thick stack of papers, and scans the cover letter. Then he sighs and drops the whole stack onto the table. "They've got a new protocol for us."

"No!" Ryan stands up. "No fucking way. I'm not drinking that shit! I'm not doing it!"

Collin rubs a fingertip against his temple like he's got a headache. "It says there's been some complications with other teams, Ryan. And this protocol is just precautionary."

"We haven't experienced any complications," Nash points out. "So why do we have to drink it?"

Collin looks at me and I shrug with my hands. "If it ain't broke, ya know?"

"I know. But…" Collin stares at the cooler for a few seconds. "But we don't have much choice, guys."

Ryan is pacing the room now. "We absolutely do, Collin! We absolutely do." He looks at me. "We're just gonna pretend we're drinking them and not do it, right, Amon?"

I don't know what to say. This really isn't my department. I don't even understand why we're drinking the first batch, to be honest. I mean, I know they tell us it's for health reasons. That some of the treatments we were ordered to take while we were under contract with the military had some bad side effects and one of our men even died from them several years back. But other than that, I have no idea what they did to us or why it warrants a weekly delivery of a mandatory frozen fruit drink. I've never gotten sick from anything they did to me in the military. Just that one guy who worked on the team for about a year.

Nash stands up and starts opening the cooler. We all lean in as he presses in his security code to pop the lock and then opens the lid. A mist of dry ice vapor floats up and he waves it off, then grabs a set of tongs from his desk and reaches in, pulling out one of the canisters.

The stainless-steel canisters that get delivered every Monday come with a green ring around the top, but this ring here is orange.

We all look at each other.

Ryan is the first to speak. "Nope. You guys do what you want, but I'm not drinking that shit. I am not drinking that shit." He huffs, looking at me. "We've had enough. Right, Amon?"

Raleigh, his name was. The one that died. Nice guy. Kinda quiet, but in a dangerous kind of way. Which is how most men here at Edge present, so it was all fine.

Collin and I were discharged from the marines after two years of training. I spent that first two years learning how to produce military-grade K-9's and Collin spent it perfecting the finer points of counterintelligence. In other words, he did spy shit.

So, after the discharge he and I weren't required to take any more government mandated ‘treatments' and we opted out.

Nash and Ryan didn't join up with us for another year or so. Which means they took a few more of these injections than we did. Raleigh came along five years into this whole thing. He and I were never really friends, so how many injections he took, I've got no idea. Doesn't matter at this point because he's dead now and, according to Charlie, it was an injection that did this. That's when Charlie told us that we needed the fruit drinks to counteract any deleterious side effects from previous treatments.

It felt like a reasonable ask at the time. I mean, Raleigh did just die. But that was… hell, six years ago now. And none of us have ever gotten sick. So I'm kinda with Ryan on this one.

This whole time I've been thinking back, Collin has been silent. But he lets out a long breath now. "All right. We won't drink them and I'll try and get more information. But you all know how this works. They're not gonna tell me."

"They're lying." Nash walks around to the other side of his desk and takes a seat, then looks Collin dead in the eyes. "Maybe the one we've been drinking is a treatment to prevent something worse. But then again, maybe it isn't. I say we stop them all. Because they lied to us back then, Col. And once a liar, always a liar."

"None of us have gotten sick though," I say. "I mean, we've been drinking these for years now."

"We don't even know if they're the same protocol, Amon." Ryan's still pissed. He's always been a bit of a conspiracy theorist and we all kinda taunt him about it on occasion. But he's been right about a lot of shit when you look back. "They could've been changing the formula every week and we'd never know the difference."

Collin puts up his hands. "Fine. Let's stop."

I raise an eyebrow, surprised. "Really?" Because Collin likes to follow rules. It's a weird trait considering who he is and what he's done. But he likes certainty, and rules and regulations bring that. That don't mean he's a blind follower—he's bucked his share of the system over the last decade—it's just the drink protocol hasn't ever been part of that.

He really believes that there's something wrong with us and these drinks fix it.

Or, at the very least, he's never been willing to find out if he was wrong.

Until now, I guess.

"All right," Ryan agrees, obviously feeling better about things because he lets out a long breath. "Good. I'm glad. I've been ready to ditch those drinks for years."

Ryan is about to leave, convinced the matter has been settled, but Collin puts up a hand. "On one condition, Ryan."

Ryan turns. "What's that?"

"That we report in every night with how we're feeling. Starting Monday, of course. Since we already took this week's dose."

We all agree, then give each other one final look before going back to work.