Chapter One
The lab was quiet, save for the low whir of fans and the occasional electronic chirp from the rat’s nest of machines Marsh Clarkson had built from parts no one else could make work.
He sat in his wheelchair, hunched toward the dual monitors glowing like twin ghosts in the gloom, one hand on a soldering iron, the other on the coding interface that scrolled lines of syntax like a digital rosary.
Outside, Obsidian Ridge was completely silent. Inside, Marsh wasn’t.
He was simmering.
Six months since the blast. Six months since they’d had to carry him out like broken cargo. And six months of everyone looking at him like he was seconds away from snapping in half. Like he was something broken. And perhaps he was.
He hadn’t let them fit him for a prosthetic other than the one he had done immediately after the accident. Ezra had pushed for a new one. Ricky had diplomatically kept his mouth shut, like a good teammate. Ezra had said the line Marsh couldn’t stop replaying in his head, bitter and barbed.
“You keep going like this, and it’s not the leg that’s gonna get you killed.”
Like Marsh didn’t know what was best for himself. Like he needed babysitting.
And Ricky? He just hovered, present but silent. He knew better than to poke the bear. That made one of them in that relationship.
The translation mod, a new piece of tech he was tinkering with, was the only thing holding his focus.
A real-time auditory comms filter that could auto-detect and translate over thirty languages through bone-conduction earpieces.
It should’ve been revolutionary. Instead, it was glitching, spitting out nonsense like “angry biscuit frog” in response to standard Czech.
He grunted and dove back into the code, the rhythmic tap of his fingers almost meditative.
But the quiet didn’t last. Not inside his head.
His memory spat up the worst of them when the rest of the world stilled.
He remembered the exact moment he woke up in the hospital down in Jackson.
Fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, sterile white sheets that smelled like bleach and lost battles.
Pain had been immediate and blinding, a full-body scream with no voice.
His left leg was killing him, especially below the knee.
He’d looked down.
Expecting to see blood, carnage, something that would support the agony that radiated from his lower leg.
But there was nothing.
Just the thick bandage where his left thigh ended mid-way down.
No leg. It took a moment for his mind to work out that it was what they called phantom pain.
Which was a ridiculous fucking name for it, because it sure as shit felt real.
Nothing phantom about the pain he could feel in the part of his leg his eyes said was gone, but the rest of him rebelled against.
He’d stared at it, waiting to wake up for real. Waiting for someone to shout, “just kidding,” and for his leg to suddenly still be there.
But then Ricky had come in. Quiet. Haunted. Sat down next to the bed and didn’t say anything for a long time. No jokes. No forced cheer. Just sat there, like he was keeping vigil.
The look on his face? It told Marsh everything.
So, Marsh had done what he always did.
Blustered his way through it.
“Don’t look so grim,” he’d said, voice dry, cracking. “Think of all the spare change I’ll save on boots.”
Ricky had let out a pained half-laugh. “You’re an asshole.”
“Always have been,” Marsh replied, gritting his teeth against the wave of nausea crawling through him.
A beat later, Hogan had slipped in, holding a coffee that looked like tar. He took one look at Marsh and gave him the world’s most unimpressed stare. “You done being dramatic yet?”
“Just getting started,” Marsh shot back. “You gonna just stand there or give me that coffee? Or worse, drink it out of spite?”
“I did get it for me, just sayin’,” Hogan replied, but handed it over anyway.
They’d made him laugh. Almost. But the pressure behind his ribs didn’t let up.
He hadn’t cried. Not once. Not when the meds wore off, not when the phantom pain hit in the middle of the night like lightning through his nervous system, not when he realized his life would never be the same again.
But the part where they all looked wary of him? That nearly broke him.
Obsidian Ridge had always been a place to heal—at least, that was Ezra’s favorite pitch. But Marsh hadn’t healed. He’d retreated. Burrowed into the lab like a wounded animal. Stopped eating with the others. Stopped sleeping. Let the equipment pile around him like armor.
Another chirp.
Not from the translation rig.
From the other terminal—the one tucked behind the server shelf, hidden like a dirty secret. It ran quietly. Constantly. A watchdog program designed to scrape outgoing and incoming Obsidian Ridge comms for flagged terms—his name, injury, and a handful of less-public locations of interest.
Marsh wheeled himself over, scowling as he read the new entry.
Voice message. Timestamped fifteen minutes ago. Caller ID anonymized but triangulated near Cheyenne. Calling Ezra. Immediately he became suspicious.
He clicked it.
A male voice came through, warm, slightly breathless, tinged with a New York accent and a touch of Spanish influence that curled at the edges like a secret smile.
“Hey, this is Eli Carmino. Uh ... long drive, turns out. Car’s being a little temperamental, and the GPS on my phone has no idea where I am. But I’m sure I can work out where I need to get to. Should be there by mid-morning, tops. Looking forward to getting started and working with Marsh.”
Working with Marsh.
He didn’t work with anyone. No mention of what he was starting. No indication who he was reporting to. Just that warm, open tone.
Too warm. Too practiced.
Marsh narrowed his eyes.
A therapist.
It had Ezra written all over it. The vague arrival, the unnamed project, the New York lilt designed to disarm. Another soft-voiced fixer sent to reassemble Marsh Clarkson, one pat-on-the-shoulder at a time.
Well, fuck that.
He looked around the lab—tools scattered, empty mugs, grease-smeared schematics pinned to the wall like war plans. It was a chaos only he could decipher. The only space left that felt like it belonged to him. And now even that felt invaded.
If this Eli bastard was here for him, Marsh would make damn sure he regretted the drive.
****
Eli Carmino squinted through the cracked windshield, wincing as the setting sun glared off the hood of the rust-riddled beast he dared to call a car.
Well, technically, it was a 1987 Buick LeSabre that looked like it had moonlighted as a drug dealer’s mobile office—or maybe a temporary shelter for feral raccoons.
Cream and mossy green, in a faded two-tone that might’ve once been charming in a 70s-sitcom kind of way.
He loved it.
Sure, it took a flattened teaspoon jammed into the ignition slot to start it, and it had the distinct aroma of cigarette smoke and gasoline, but it had gotten him out of Cheyenne and helped him to escape from New York.
It had cost him five hundred bucks, his last five hundred bucks if he were to be honest, but the car was his.
And besides, the teaspoon made a better keychain than the Colonel ever had for his fleet of pompous-ass vehicles that screamed asshole.
He adjusted his grip on the steering wheel as a jolt of pain lanced through his ribs. The seatbelt rubbed wrong against his side, and the steering wheel sat too high—just another design flaw in a long list of flaws he’d discovered through recent life choices.
Driving hurt. Everything still hurt.
He’d flown into Cheyenne the day before, eyes darting across the airport for shadows he didn’t want to recognize.
He’d grabbed his bag and hustled out before anyone could notice.
Before anyone could stop him. He found the Buick waiting on the fringe of a Craigslist miracle—a mechanic’s lot on the edge of town that dealt more in favors than receipts.
He’d test driven it with a busted stereo playing nothing but static and a half-used air freshener that dangled like a sad pine-scented prayer. The guy hadn’t asked questions, just took his cash and handed him the keys with a grin that said, “She’ll probably make it to wherever you’re headed.”
Probably.
And that was good enough for Eli.
He’d been driving ever since. Mountains looming, air thinning, the road curling up into nowhere.
No cell reception. No nearby gas stations.
Just scrub-land, old fencing, and an increasing sense that he’d made the right choice.
He was looking for a place to disappear, and this looked like a place that would allow that to happen easily.
To be fair, not that he had a whole lot of options available to him.
Obsidian Ridge had been the only offer that had promised a little anonymity and distance from New York.
A discreet, off-grid trauma recovery contract.
The main contact, Ezra, had looked at him across the Zoom screen, seen something, and offered him a way out.
When Eli hesitated over giving him too many details of his current situation in New York, he’d let Eli slide away from full answers. Which he appreciated.
So, here he was.
Miles from Cheyenne, halfway up a mountain, stomach rumbling, body aching, hope flickering on and off within him, and a sense that somehow this was exactly where he needed to be.
He passed the first sign for Obsidian Ridge and let out a long breath. Almost there.
The map had lied. Ezra had said a couple of hours from the turn off at the bottom of the mountain.
It had taken him almost three times that, having to stop periodically to let the car cool down.
And now he was pulling up to the gated driveway, only to find a truck—a massive, matte-black Dodge Ram—parked sideways across the gravel entrance, blocking the way in entirely.
Eli slowed. Parked.
He waited.
The driver didn’t move.
Eli stepped out, carefully, his joints protesting.
He limped toward the truck, trying to hide his discomfort as much as possible, noting the imposing figure behind the wheel.
Short dark blond hair swept to the right, jaw like carved marble.
Aviators hiding everything but the attitude his demeanor practically screamed.
The man positively exuded alpha male vibes.
“Hi,” Eli said, forcing brightness into his voice. “I’m supposed to meet Ezra Navarro. I think I’m in the right place?”
The guy didn’t move. Didn’t even twitch. Eli couldn’t see the man’s eyes but figured he didn’t blink either.
“Look, I’ve had a long drive. Really long. The car has three functioning gears and starts with a spoon. Can we not do the whole stoic-guardian-of-the-gates thing?”
Still no answer.
“I mean, unless you’re cos-playing Gandalf. Which, honestly, I’m totally here for, and it would make this whole interaction worth it.”
Finally, the man tilted his head. “Ezra doesn’t live here anymore.”
Eli blinked. “What?”
“You heard me.”
Disappointment shot through him. “But I just—he hired me. I’ve got the message. The coordinates. I’m here to work.”
“Not anymore.” How the man’s words got through his locked jaw and gritted teeth, Eli had no idea.
He stared at the man, frustration bubbling. The guy was annoyingly attractive in a danger-you-shouldn’t-touch way, and the sunglasses only made it worse. Was he even looking at Eli? He couldn’t tell. Aviators should be illegal on men with jawlines like that.
He tried again. “Look, if this is some weird hazing ritual, can we skip to the part where I get let in? I’ve got a name. Eli Carmino. Can you call someone who knows that I was coming? I left New York. I gave up everything to be here. Ezra—”
“You said you’d be here mid-morning, you’re late,” Marsh muttered, too low.
Eli blinked. The questions seemed to come out of nowhere. “What?”
“You said—” the guy stopped on a dime, and winced, “—I mean what time did you say you were going to be here? If you were expected, then someone should have been here to meet you.”
Eli propped his hands on his hips and arched a brow at the man. “You intercepted my message somehow, didn’t you?”
“What message?” Marsh snapped quickly, too quickly.
Eli narrowed his eyes. “Huh.”
He pulled out his phone, dialed and put it on speaker.
Ezra picked up on the second ring. “Eli? Are you there? I’ve been waiting to hear from you. Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” Eli said, voice sweet with sarcasm. “Only a few feet from the driveway. There’s just one little problem. There’s a very large, hot-as-hell man parked sideways in front of it playing Gandalf.”
There was a pause. Then Ezra screamed into the phone, “Marsh Clarkson, don’t you fucking dare pull this shit!”
The line went dead.
Eli stared at the screen. Then, grinned. Slowly. Triumphantly.
He looked back at the truck as he slid his phone back into his pocket.
The man inside looked like he was chewing glass.
Eli leaned in toward the window, casually. “You know, I probably just got you into a whole lot of trouble.”
Marsh scowled, but one corner of his mouth tugged up. “So, you think I’m hot, huh?”
Eli straightened. “Hot? Please. You’re just the kind of trouble I promised my therapist I’d stop collecting.”
Then a voice from his not-so-distant past came crashing in on him. His hand curled tight around his phone.
He remembered the Colonel’s voice, low and vicious. Flirting makes you weak. Makes people think they can get close. It is beneath you to speak in such outrageous invitation to strangers.
Eli swallowed hard.
“If you wouldn’t mind,” he said, tone clipped. “I need this job. You’re just blocking the road. And I’ve had enough roadblocks lately to last me a lifetime.”
Before the man could respond, the screech of tires marked Ezra’s arrival. The man stormed up, face flushed, eyes blazing.
“Move the damn truck, Marsh.” Ezra snarled
Marsh, the hot guy in the truck had a name, didn’t argue. Just threw the Ram into reverse, backed up, and disappeared down the drive without another word.
Eli climbed into his car, jaw tight, chest aching for reasons that had nothing to do with cracked ribs.
He drove onto Obsidian Ridge, not sure whether he’d just won or lost something.