The Order: The Tales of Jericho, #1

By Christian I Richards

On the eve of his greatest success, Jericho Morgan's world is flipped on its head. Once a promising MMA prospect, the young man is flung headlong into the dark and sinister world of a globe-spanning evil organization. Hunted by the Order's terrifying and unstoppable alien hunter/killer, Jericho, and his brother-in-arms Marcus Killihan, race against the clock to find anything they can use to turn the tide. 

 

Jericho is aided by his innate telekinetic abilities and Marcus's intuitive knowledge of the Universe and its infinite realities, along with a cadre of allies they meet along the way. But will even their combined might be enough to stop the Assassin?

 

If it takes the young fighter more than one lifetime to do it, then so be it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Richards
• Release date: Oct 16, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393333609

Christian I Richards

Originally from Oakland, California, Christian spent much of his youth growing up on boats in San Francisco Bay, then the United States Virgin Islands. It was in the USVI that he developed his craving for knowledge and adventure. Being escorted for 2 days by a whale, swimming with a 20-foot ray, sitting in the cockpit of an F-14 on the deck of the Nimitz, and hanging out for a day with Shel Silverstein will do that to you. Growing up dancing to live music in the islands practically every day eventually led to Christian's passion for ballet. He attended the University of Oklahoma as a Ballet Pedagogy major and went on to have a professional dance career with Ballet Oklahoma, Nevada Dance Theater, and Ohio Ballet. Upon retiring at the ripe old age of 28, he attended Southern Methodist University and received his MFA in Choreographic Theory and Practice. From there, Christian went on to direct college programs, teach and choreograph all over the country and found his own professional contemporary ballet company. At 40, a major life-changing event occurred. Christian developed a serve neuropathy in his legs, causing great pain, and could no longer teach dance. After going through 3 years of depression, trying to figure out how to reinvent himself, Christian decided to take a stab at a life-long ambition and write a book. The Order is that first effort. Writing allowed Christian to have a creative, expressive outlet. It saved his life. Now, on the correct medicines, Christian teaches and choreographs part-time in Virginia. But his true passion is now writing. Keep an eye out for Orion, the second book in the Tales of Jericho series!

Book preview

CHAPTER I

2020 , Weed, California

Jericho Morgan sat in an antique faded wooden rocking chair on his friend Marcus Killihan's covered deck, his breath visible from the cold. He held a steaming cup of pitch black, navy style coffee in his hand and gazed up at the majestic snow-covered beauty of Mt. Shasta, initially known by Native Americans as Úytaahkoo, the 'White Mountain.'

Jericho was a rather rough-looking man, which made sense, considering he spent about 15 years of his life getting punched in the face during his time as a professional MMA fighter. At 6', 190lbs, with a shaved head and salt and pepper tightly trimmed beard, lined and weathered face with piercing light gray eyes, he still made a rather imposing figure. On this day, Jericho's gaze sat heavy with fatigue and the burning knowledge of what was to come. He was dressed for the weather in jeans, work boots, and a plain black sweater. His bare head was protected by a black skullcap, and brown leather driving gloves covered his gnarled, fight-weary hands.

Unsettling thoughts of how it had all come to this point in time stormed through his head, threatening the natural calm of this early dawn. It's going to catch up to us soon, within a day or two. We must preserve what we've fought so long for! The road here has been hard as hell but worth it. We finally have these evil motherfuckers by the balls. But only if it doesn't catch us, and the Assassin never fails to catch its prey...Never.

Jericho's late twenties were a defining era of his life. He was an up-and-coming welterweight contender, fresh off a twelve-fight win streak to kick off his pro career on the local circuit. Jericho blitzed his opponents, giving them no time to breathe or adapt their strategy. His average fight time was three minutes and twenty-eight seconds. The subsequent call from the big leagues had been expected yet still made Jericho feel as if the world was finally opening up for him.

Coming from a poor, blue-collar background, he understood sacrifice and struggle. Jericho's father had been an Oakland, California police officer forced out of the brotherhood of blue because he dared to do the right thing; testify against six dangerous and very dirty cops. The subsequent ostracization by these so-called brothers sent his dad into a self-destructive cycle of alcohol and doubt. This resulted in him never really being there for Jericho or Timory, his baby sister. Jericho's mom tried valiantly to hold the family together as his dad drew further away from them all, but one woman on a single salary can only do so much.

Jericho utilized the heartache and pain of effectively losing his father to spur him on in his fights. He unleashed all of the frustration onto his opponents, and they paid a dear price for it. Of his twelve initial victories, eleven of them were by stoppage, with nine by first-round knockout.

His first two fights on the main stage went the distance, but he still pummeled his opponents mercilessly. Both Jericho's confidence and future opponents' fear of him grew exponentially with each contest. Fans loved him for his toughness and sheer brutality, and the promotion loved him for his ever-expanding ability to put butts in seats. The future was very bright for this young Oakland brawler, and Jericho was laser-focused on making it even more brilliant.

The day had come for Jericho's third major league fight, and this was going to be a big one. His opponent was a top-five ranked fighter and, if Jericho could continue his winning ways and come out on top, he could be next in line for a welterweight title shot. This training camp had been his best ever, and the card marked his first main event fight. As far as Jericho was concerned, the outcome was a done deal. He knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, his life would change forever that night. Jericho was correct. His life did change forever that night, just not in the way he had envisioned.

Jericho took another sip of coffee, gently rocking back and forth, and wondered why these memories were flooding in. That night of the fight, the night, had set everything off and defined his entire life's path. It was the seed that had blossomed into today. Maybe it was the fear, or perhaps it was the adrenaline. Most likely, it was a bit of both. He took a deep breath of fresh early morning mountain air and let the memories wash over him.

2000, Saturday

The day of the fight had arrived. Jericho was primed and ready to make his mark in this contest and thus the world. He had been training three times a day, six days a week, for eight weeks. The weight cut had gone off without a hitch. Jericho was a lean and dangerous warrior, making ready to do battle.

As was his Mom’s custom, Alice had flown in for the contest even though the fights terrified her. She never missed one, even if she did keep her hands over her eyes most of the time.

The two sat at the small table in Jericho's hotel suite's front room, sharing breakfast and some coffee, catching up. It had been since his last fight, almost six months previously, that they had seen each other.

Getting a suite during fight week was standard fare, even if the fight happened to be near Jericho’s Bay Area home. It allowed him a private, stress-free space equipped with a full kitchen.

Jericho wore his usual pre-fight gear: charcoal gray sweatpants, a black tank top, and matching skull cap. His sweatpants' right leg was pulled up just above his knee, clearly showing one-half of his red and white pair of candy-striped socks, which reached mid-calf. Alice was perpetually elegant regardless of what she was wearing or the time of day. On this particular morning, she was sporting charcoal gray leggings, a red and white flowered blouse, and the cutest little black kitty socks. She knew what Jericho always wore on fight day and matched it in her own unique way every time.

Are you ready? his Mom asked, full well knowing the answer.

Of course, Jericho replied, chuckling. Dude doesn't stand a chance. Alice smiled in response.

Jericho took another bite of Canadian bacon and provolone cheese omelet and grinned. You know, Mom, once I take care of these next couple of guys and become champ, I'm gonna be expectin' a bit more respect from you.

Alice looked at her son for a moment and then calmly set down her fork, picked up a juicy green grape from her fruit bowl, and bounced it right off his head.

You’re lucky you get any, you little shit.

The two of them immediately busted out laughing then finished the light meal cheerily. Their discussion ranged from his sister’s welfare and current escapades to Alice’s garden and painting. They avoided any more mention of the impending contest.

I love you. Please be safe, and I’ll see you after the fight, Jericho’s Mom stated as she slipped on her light jean jacket and made her way to the door.

I love you too. Thanks for coming, as always. I’ll take this guy out quick, so he doesn’t have a chance to mess up this pretty face.

The two of them again shared a laugh as they hugged, and he opened the door for her.

Bye, Mom, Jericho offered as she walked down the hallway. Alice turned briefly with a smile and small wave and then made her way to the elevator. This was the last time they would ever see each other happy and healthy again.

The preliminary fights had already begun by the time Jericho arrived at the venue. Upon getting out of his cherry-red 1967 Mustang, Jericho’s cherished baby, he gazed up at the arena. Pure, raw excitement built up in him. This was, by far, the biggest venue at which Jericho had competed.

I’m going to slay this punk and blow the roof off this fucking building! This guy is mine. This opportunity is mine. I AM going to be the next welterweight champion of the world. Nothing is going to stop me!

As these thoughts ran through his head, Jericho entered through the stage door at the back of the building. Making his way to the locker rooms through wide gray halls, he passed several friendly and excited event personnel and three security checkpoints. None of them required him to show any form of pass or ID. Everyone involved in the fight game knew Jericho Morgan.

For this fight, as he was one-half of the main event, Jericho had his own changing room. He opened the door with his name boldly affixed upon it into an ample space fully equipped with a small wrestling mat, huge closet, a chiropractor’s table, and four comfortable-looking chairs.

Man, it’s good to be in the big leagues! Jericho thought to himself as he closed the door behind him. He was greeted immediately with a grin and a big bear hug from one of the men already in the room. Mike Weatherly was Jericho’s long-time head trainer and a good friend.

Mike was a giant bear of a man. Standing six-foot, five inches tall and tipping the scale at about three hundred and ten pounds, he towered over his young fighter. With long silver-gray hair that reached his shoulders, a big bushy gray beard, and a red, ruddy face, Mike looked much older than his forty-eight years. However, his relative youth was always displayed by his sparkling sea blue eyes and hearty bellow of a laugh, which could fill an entire arena. As per usual on fight night, Mike was wearing his XXXL silver and black Team Jericho track outfit. The gear was patterned after the uniforms of Jericho’s favorite American football team, the one and only Oakland Raiders. His gregarious coach had been an MMA fighter when it was more of an old-fashioned blood sport than authentic mixed martial arts. Mike wore the truth of this on his face and body and in the way he moved. Cauliflower ears and small scars adorned his face, and he walked with a decided limp. None of this took away from his larger-than-life persona nor his pure joy of living.

Let me down, shithead, I’ve gotta real fight tonight! Don’t make me kick your tubby ass, Jericho exclaimed while slapping both of Mike’s deranged ears.

Fuck! Stop hitting my ears; you’ll make them less pretty, Mike laughed as he dropped Jericho and took the gym bag full of personalized fight gear from him.

Fat chance of that, his jazzed-up fighter returned with a big grin.

The two of them, along with Jericho’s training partner Rand, an accomplished professional fighter himself, proceeded to go through the steps of getting him ready for the fight. This included exchanging quips and good-natured barbs throughout the process. This was how Jericho and Mike had done it from the beginning: always going hard and continuously having a good time.

Jericho got out of his traditional pre-fight gear and into his silver fight trunks. While Rand rubbed out Jericho’s shoulders and upper back, Mike taped his hands and put on the four-ounce, open-fingered fight gloves. Jericho loved the feel of the gloves and always got them on first thing upon arrival to whatever venue he was fighting at.

After the gloves came the warm-up. Jericho and Rand spent the next twenty-five minutes wrestling, sparring, and shadowboxing. They then practiced specific techniques drilled over the previous eight weeks in anticipation of exploiting some of Jericho’s opponents' weaknesses. Jericho usually demolished his opponents, starching them with raw fury and power. This time, however, he was facing an Olympic-level judoka. This merited a change in strategy, which Mike, Rand, and Jericho had been working on implementing.

There was a knock, and the door opened.

Thirty minutes until walk-out Mr. Morgan, stated the backstage event worker, all dressed in black with a mic’d headset on.

Thanks, man, he responded, then took a light, cheap shot at a distracted Rand.

Ah, asshole! Rand exclaimed and popped Jericho hard in the chest. All three men laughed as the event worker grinned and quietly exited, closing the door.

OK, young man, growled Mike. It’s about time for you to go out there, knock the hell out o’ this poser, and get yourself a title shot.

Damn straight it is, bruddha, Jericho responded with a punch of his gloves and an assured smile. Dude has no idea what’s comin’.

Another knock on the door. The three men looked at each other for a second, waiting, but nothing happened.

Come in, Mike called out.

The door swung open to reveal three men, the two in the back massive with dark shades, black, pin-striped suits, and grim looks on their faces. The man in front, who opened the door, was smiling in a seemingly friendly but oddly off-setting way. He wore a blue suit with a white, button-up shirt, red tie, and round, wire-rimmed glasses perched upon his pink face. He fit the classic accountant stereotype perfectly.

Mr. Morgan, what a pleasure to finally meet you in person, exclaimed the smiling accountant.

Thanks, but no offense, I’m about to fight. I’m more than happy to sign autographs afterward. Right now is me time, you get me?

Mike moved towards the door to close it but was blocked by one of the grim dark-suited men.

I suggest you listen to my fighter and let us finish getting ready, Mike said while he glared at the man in his way.

Hold on, gentlemen. Please wait, stated the smiling man while gesturing to the others with him to back off. I understand this is a big night. I just want to talk to Mr. Morgan privately for no more than five minutes. It’s something he will want to hear. Please.

Jericho put a calming hand on his friend and coach’s massive shoulder, looked at Rand for a second, then said, OK. It’s cool, Mike. Why don’t you and Rand wait outside. He gestured for the accountant to step in, Five minutes, starting now.

The small man stepped into the room, nodding acquiescence, while Mike and Rand begrudgingly joined the two behemoths outside.

As he closed the door, Mike looked at Jericho and said, We will be right outside.

I’ll be fine, Jericho laughed. I’m pretty tough.

Jericho eyed the small, smiling man in front of him for a second. Go ahead and say what you’re gonna say.

I’m a huge fan, Mr. Morgan, said the man while clasping his tiny, delicate hands together. Certain parties I represent have been watching you for quite some time now.

Yeah, that’s not creepy at all, quipped Jericho as he shadowboxed, sweat glistening upon his powerful yet fluid musculature.

Unfazed, the man in the suit continued, We have kept an eye on you’re ever-upward progress, both as a fighter and in terms of the ferocity you unleash upon your opponents. You, Mr. Morgan, are exactly the kind of man that would excel within our organization.

Jericho came to an abrupt halt, suddenly interested. Your organization? A fight organization?

No, no, no, responded the man, laughing lightly. We are not a fight organization of any kind. This is a much more comprehensive and longer-term opportunity than you could ever have as a professional fighter.

Jericho resumed shadowboxing, no longer interested, as the man continued, We are an immense conglomeration of governments, businesses, and other organizations, Mr. Morgan. We span all of the inhabited world. Our reach extends everywhere and into everything. Our membership consists of Kings, Queens, Presidents, CEOs, and many, many more.

Jericho, barely listening, continued his preparation. One-two. One, one-two. Dip, uppercut. Slide away.

In addition to those in the public view, there are certain influential members of the Order that live outside the spotlight and work behind the scenes. These people are critical to our organization and, as such, require the most exceptional protection. But not just the best, the most dangerous and fear-inspiring. Which brings us to you, Mr. Morgan.

The small man paused grandly for effect, which was utterly lost on Jericho, and finished his plea with, The Order would like to hire you as protection for one of these individuals. The position is 24/7, but the compensation is immense, more than you could ever see fighting. We know that a person with your background and sheer animalistic ferocity will be a perfect fit for the Order. What say you, Mr. Morgan?

Ah, Jericho responded, sighing impatiently, I’m a fighter bruddha, that’s what I do. I have no interest in any other shit. Especially not when I’m about to punch my ticket to a title shot.

Now, Jericho continued as he effortlessly popped two lightning-fast jabs to the left, then right of the irritating man’s stunned face, It’s time for you to get.

Mike, he yelled, Come on in.

The door opened, and Mike and Rand entered, annoyance plainly evident on their faces.

The unwanted guest, no longer smiling, gazed at Jericho for a moment before stating, I certainly understand you wanting to take some time to consider our offer. I will contact you again afterward to give you a second opportunity to accept.

Sure, Jericho laughed, if you want. But I’ll tell you right now, you’ll be wasting your time. For the last fucking time, I’m a fighter. I fight. End of story. Enjoy the show.

With that, he ushered the unwanted interruption out of the room and unceremoniously slammed the door.

What the hell was that about, demanded an angry and even redder-faced than usual Mike.

Jesus H. Christ Mike, calm the fuck down, encouraged Jericho as he walked over and patted his big friend on the shoulder. He just wanted to offer me some kind of bodyguard gig. You heard my answer. Come on, big man, let’s get ready to kick some ass, he finished with a grin.

That dude was flat-out creepy, offered Rand. He looked like the skeezy little German torture guy in ‘Raiders of the Lost Ark.’

Jericho and Mike looked at their tall, redheaded friend for a beat with entirely straight faces, then all three men bent over double, laughing so hard they almost choked.

Holy shit, dude, you nailed it, coughed Jericho between bouts of laughter.

The friends continued laughing for quite some time, all the while finalizing preparations for the upcoming contest.

Back on Marcus’ deck sipping his coffee, Jericho marveled darkly about just how accurate his old friend and training partner had been about the small, bespectacled man that had visited his locker room that fateful night.

Breakfast is just about ready, called Marcus from inside the quaint house, interrupting Jericho’s reverie.

Thanks, he replied, stretching out his long legs, loosening the kinks.

As Jericho relaxed back into his chair, the welcome tones of his favorite song's first bars came floating across the clean, crisp mountain air: Don McLean’s ‘American Pie.’

I thought you could use some cheering up, lad, Marcus said, popping his raggedy head out of the sliding glass doorway. You’re lookin’ a wee bit grim.

That’s because I know I’m about to eat something you cooked, replied Jericho with a wink.

Marcus merely laughed in response and returned inside to finish cooking. As the gruff Scotsman disappeared into the house's darkened interior, Jericho contemplated the irony of Marcus’ genuine attempt to lift him up with his favorite song. ‘American Pie’ had been playing in his locker room the night of his last fight. Once again, his mind drifted.

Forty minutes after Jericho and his friends had been doubled over laughing at their curious visitor’s expense, they were back in his locker room, celebrating his most significant victory to date.

The fight had ended at the two-minute and eleven-second mark of the third round by TKO. As soon as the referee mercifully stepped in to save Jericho’s wilting opponent, the crowd of over fifteen thousand rabid fight fans blew the roof off the arena. It was precisely as he had predicted. Jericho had done it; he had punched his ticket to a title shot. At that moment, he thought, This is the best night of my life.

Have you seen Mom? asked a sweat-covered and excited Jericho while Mike worked at getting his four-ounce gloves off.

Nope, responded the big man, shaking his shaggy head. Rand, drinking a celebratory beer and packing up Jericho’s fight kit, also shook his head.

That’s weird, mused Jericho. She always comes backstage right after my fights.

She’s probably just waiting in line for the bathroom, Mike offered as he ripped the last of the tape off Jericho’s hands.

The three men shared a snicker. Alice had a notoriously small bladder and was always running to the restroom.

You’re undoubtedly right, Jericho said, smiling. I can’t wait ‘till she gets here. It’s been a good fuckin’ day at the office!

You’re goddamned right it’s been, exclaimed Rand, passing bottles of Pauliner’s to each man then hitting ‘play’ on the boombox. We about to go worldwide, baby!

Cheers!

As the three friends exuberantly toasted Jericho’s monumental victory and the dulcet tones of ‘American Pie’ filled the room, there was a knock on the locker room door.

Come the fuck in, bellowed Mike after a moment.

The door opened, and a page, again all dressed in black with a mic’d headset on, stuck his head in.

Mr. Morgan? the page asked breathlessly.

That’s me, Jericho answered. What is it? Did my Mom send you?

You have a call, Sir, the page responded, skipping over the fighter’s frantic second question. They say it’s very urgent.

Where’s the phone?" asked Jericho.

In the office. I’ll show you, the young man answered.

Let’s go, demanded Jericho, then looked at Mike and Rand, You guys stay here, in case Mom comes by. I’ll let you know what the call’s about.

OK, you got it, returned a concerned Mike. We’ll be right here until we hear something from you.

Thanks, Jericho said as he and the page set off down the hallway towards the arena’s business office in full stride.

Three minutes of hurried, worry-filled walking later, the two of them arrived at the office. For a building of that size, the business office was quite cramped. It contained two desks back-to-back, their corresponding, dingy, high-backed brown chairs, and four large filing cabinets stuffed to the gills. There was no one currently occupying the space, which seemed odd on such a busy night.

As they opened the door and walked in, the page pointed at the phone on the desk facing away from the door and said, Pick it up and hit the blinking red hold button. I’ll leave you to your call.

OK, Jericho said as he quickly traversed the small space and sat down in the uncomfortable chair.

I hope everything is OK with your mom, the young man offered as he quietly closed the office door.

Without responding, Jericho picked up the phone and stabbed at the red button with his index finger.

Hello? This is Jericho Morgan. Who is this?

Why hello, Mr. Morgan. Congratulations on your big win, came the answer through the phone. Jericho promptly identified the voice as the creepy accountant from earlier.

Goddammit, exclaimed a frustrated Jericho, I don’t have time for this shit right now!

You will make time for this shit right now, Mr. Morgan, returned the voice. This time with much more steel than honey.

Oh, really? sneered Jericho. Why is that?

Because, Mr. Morgan, I have your mother, came the chilling response.

Even all these years later, Jericho could remember every single thing that ran through his mind upon hearing those fateful words. The fear, confusion, and sheer, blinding rage all came rushing back like a tsunami smashing into a coastline.

MOTHER FUCKER, exclaimed Jericho loudly as his coffee mug shot skyward at an absurd velocity, its contents held perfectly still within as if frozen. It was propelled by the unseen force of his telekinetic ability, which in turn was fueled by the overwhelming emotion washing over him.

Marcus came running out of the house as fast as his fifty-something-year-old legs could carry him.

Is everything OK, lad? he asked, concern evident in his voice.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, responded a somewhat chagrined Jericho. I just shot another one of your mugs into space. How many is that now, four?

Yup. Four, replied Marcus wide a wide grin. And stop exaggerating. They always come down somewhere. I’ve recovered two so far. You’ll be glad to know then that you owe me just two, lad. And I expect only the very best quality, mind you, he finished with a wink.

Jericho let the slightest of smiles escape in response.

Our breakfast is ready, by the by, Marcus continued. Let’s get some food in our bellies, and you can tell me what set you off this time.

With that, the Scotsman patted Jericho brusquely on the shoulder and went in to fetch their food.

Marcus emerged from the house carrying a great metal tray replete with a large French press full of fresh Sumatran coffee and two mugs. There were also round, blue ceramic plates holding a delectable-looking breakfast concoction.

Here ya go, lad. If this doesn’t cheer you up, then you’re a lost cause, Marcus said as he filled up the mug and handed it to his friend along with one of the plates.

Holy crap, Marcus, Jericho exclaimed, accepting the items, This looks fucking incredible! What is it?

This, my foul-mouthed young friend, is breakfast bruschetta with fontina-scrambled eggs and salami. It is one of my personal favorites, and I figured we both could use a pick-me-up, returned a smiling Marcus.

Upon taking a bite, Jericho closed his eyes, let his head drift back, and savored the serenely delicate flavors delighting his palate.

One, I’m not that young, old man. And two, it never ceases to amaze me that you are actually good for something, he said with a wink upon completion of the first bite.

And don’t ye be forgettin’ it, Marcus responded exuberantly as he plopped down heavily into the chair next to Jericho’s.

Marcus Killihan had been Jericho’s friend, confidant, and fellow enemy of the Order going on twelve years. Of slight frame with a bushy salt and pepper beard, he wasn’t exactly a classically imposing figure. Add to that his thin, scraggly, gray hair growing only from the sides and back of his head to below his shoulders, and you didn’t get the classic Hero vibe.

Appearances can be deceiving, and Marcus was a prime example. He was an ageless soul, armed with information beyond the understanding and capacity of most. He also had an intimate knowledge of all crystals' esoteric uses, regardless of type or effect. Marcus had been using his intelligence and skillset to thwart the Order at every possible turn for over three decades. As enemy number one of the shadowy organization, only his wits, innate connection to the Universe, and the ability to pull power from crystals had allowed Marcus to carry on the fight.

He and Jericho initially crossed paths in Denver, Colorado, while they both were separately hunting down a businessman suspected of laundering money for the Order. Having tracked the target to his home, the two future comrades literally ran into each other in the darkened space of their prey’s living room at about two o’clock in the morning.

Once the initial trepidation subsided, they concurred in whispered tones to abandon their mission for the time being and regroup at a twenty-four-hour pancake house a couple of miles away.

Two pots of stout coffee, several stacks of unlimited pancakes, and four hours later, Jericho and Marcus were fast friends. Marcus too had loved ones targeted by the Order, and once that came to light, the bond that would carry them through the next twelve years began to affix and would grow steadily stronger with time and circumstance. With some gentle nudging by Jericho, Marcus related the story of his wife and daughter.

A little over a year before the night he met Jericho, Marcus was a charmed man. He had just concluded a successful three-year investigation into an Order holding company, causing it to permanently shut its doors. He had also become a father to a glorious little girl. Marcus and his wife named their new bundle of joy Ailsa, meaning ‘supernatural victory.’ He felt blessed by the Universe and decided a celebration was in order.

Leaving his young bride and infant child at their home in Dunsmuir, California, Marcus made the twenty-minute trip to the largest grocery store in the area. He went to pick up some lamb, fixings, and replenish his Scotch supply. In his excitement, the Scotsman forgot to reset the wards that guarded his house whenever he was gone. These served a two-fold purpose: To construct a palpable barrier that physically denied intruders entrance and to warn Marcus something was wrong, regardless of where he was.

Thinking everything was OK and lulled into a false sense of security by the blush of victory, Marcus took his time shopping. The last three years had been extremely taxing on both him and his family. Besides the fact he had rarely been home, when Marcus was ‘on the hunt,’ he became very distant, focused only on achieving his goal. He wanted to make it up to his wife, Deoiridh. He wanted tonight to be singular.

He had just finished purchasing the food required for his decadent celebration and was about to continue on to the liquor store when an ominous sliver of dread stabbed at his heart. The sensation was so abrupt, so intense, that Marcus dropped his bag of groceries, shattering a jar of capers in the process. As lemons, grapes, and garlic rolled across the floor, he grabbed his heart and momentarily staggered.

A fellow customer reached out to him with concern written on her face.

Sir, are you OK, she asked.

No! Goddammit, no!

Marcus pushed the nice lady out of the way and flew out the door, groceries entirely forgotten. He ran as fast as he could to his old Citroen, fumbling for the keys. As the dread continued to grow and take shape within him, it more difficult for Marcus to function.

How could I be so fucking stupid?! How could I leave them unprotected?

After several manic attempts, Marcus got the car started and peeled out of the parking lot. While it had taken him twenty minutes to get to the store, the panic-stricken return trip required less than half the time.

Marcus swung into the driveway of his modest two-bedroom, two-bath home, slammed the Citroen into park, and ran to the door.

DEOIRIDH, Marcus screamed as he flung it open and switched on the living room light. Ailsa! Deoiridh!!! Sweetie, are you here?

As he went through the house, room by room, his calls became more and more manic, and his heart threatened to burst. Tears rolled down his cheeks unbidden, his eyes nearly swollen shut with grief, and his throat became so raw his cries turned into croaks.

Marcus’s wife and child were gone as if they had never existed. Nothing had been disturbed. There had been no forced entry of any kind. No clothes had been packed, nor lights left on. The house was eerily quiet, aside from Marcus’s sobs. On any other night, it would have seemed peaceful. On this night, the silence ripped through him like

Reviews for The Order

[Michelle Christian · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

The Order is a very compelling novel! How exciting to have a new author with such an interesting view of our world! The story moves back and forth seamlessly along the timeline, keeping things very compelling. And the plot twists are awesome!!! There is also an inherent sweetness to some of the heroes which makes their story even more endearing. I am recommending The Order to all of my friends! I can't wait for the second book!!!