The Bone Collector, page 1
The Watch
The Bone Collector
The Sin Eater
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CONTENTS
Prologue
1. Gift
2. Park
3. Gift
4. Park
5. Gift
6. Park
7. Gift
8. Park
9. Gift
10. Park
11. Gift
12. Park
13. Gift
14. Park
15. Gift
16. Park
17. Gift
18. Park
19. Gift
20. Park
21. Gift
Epilogue
Afterword
About the Author
THE BONE COLLECTOR
the watch book one
Copyright © 2023 Onley James
www.onleyjames.com
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction and does not represent any individual living or dead. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Cover and Interior Formatting by We Got You Covered Book Design
Trigger warning: This book contains brief mentions of assault, past loss of a child, and well-deserved violence.
“Say that again?”
Park Chen stared at his former boss, Marshall Kendrick, in disbelief. The audacity of the man was astounding. As if sensing Park’s irritation, Kendrick smoothed a hand over his overpriced shirt then adjusted his black jacket. In all the years Park had known the man, he’d never seen him wear anything but a black suit with a white button-down shirt. It was like a uniform. A uniform as boring and uninteresting as the man himself.
Park closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, praying for patience. He just wanted to eat the dinner he could smell wafting in from the kitchen. Instead, he was staring down his former boss and fighting the urge to jam the letter opener sitting beside his left hand directly into the man’s carotid. It would be too messy.
“You heard me,” Kendrick muttered, glowering at Park. “I hate when you do that.”
“Do what?” Park asked, letting his disinterest seep into his tone, hoping it might hasten his departure.
Kendrick was a fool on his best day and incompetent on his worst, but through money and nepotism, he’d risen to a level of power he’d never earned, and it showed. He attempted to hide his ineptitude behind bluster and imperiousness.
“Stare at me like you’re contemplating murder.”
Maybe he wasn’t a total fool, after all. Luckily, Park’s sense of self-preservation outweighed his hatred of the man before him.
He gave him a cold smile. “Don’t be silly. I’m simply giving you my undivided attention.”
The only good thing about Park being benched to this boring desk job in Bangkok was that he’d been done with Kendrick. Yet, there he was, standing in the doorway of his study, already asking him for a favor.
A figure slowly walking behind Kendrick gave Park a timid smile, snagging his attention. Okay, so maybe being rid of Kendrick wasn’t the only good thing about being benched, but it didn’t matter because that good thing was off limits to Park.
In every conceivable way. For a dozen reasons.
Still, he couldn’t help staring at the big, brown eyes gazing at him with curiosity. Park hid his smile. Gift was so nosy.
To Kendrick, he said, “Come in and close the door. I don’t need everyone else hearing our conversation.”
Kendrick looked over his shoulder, seeming startled when he noticed Gift standing barefoot in Park’s living room, wearing jeans and a white sweater emblazoned with the black Gucci logo. Kendrick examined the boy for a long minute before stepping inside and closing the door in Gift’s pretty face.
Kendrick turned on Park, eyeing him with suspicion, but didn’t ask the question that was probably burning a hole through his brain. Instead, he began to pace the length of Park’s small workspace. “I’m putting you back into play. I need you as an instructor for Project Watchtower.”
The name meant nothing to him. He’d never heard of the program nor did he have any interest in being involved with it. Besides, what the hell were they teaching that made them want him as an instructor? Had the government finally created their own version of Quantico for black ops? The idea made Park’s lips twitch in an aborted smile, but all he said was, “Project Watchtower?”
Kendrick nodded. “Yes, it’s a new pilot program. A school,” he added hastily.
In all the years Park had known Kendrick, he’d never seen the man so…edgy. Usually, he was stomping around, barking orders and acting as if his presence was in some way necessary to whatever task was at hand. On the surface, Kendrick seemed the same, but when Park looked closer, there were some obvious tells.
Beads of sweat were dotting Kendrick’s hairline, and he kept squeezing his hands into fists as he walked. It was hot in Thailand. It was always hot in Thailand, but Park’s condo had air conditioning, as did any car Kendrick had used to get there. So, what was with the flop sweat?
He sat forward, steepling his fingers on his desk. “Explain to me what type of school needs a former assassin as a teacher?”
Assassin seemed like such a dramatic word, but there was no fancy way to say “hired gun” and he had spent the last fifteen years killing people for the U.S. government all under the guise of diplomacy.
He watched Kendrick continue his pacing. Part of Park wanted him to sit down; the sound of his shoes scuffing over the hardwood floors was getting on his nerves. But the other part didn’t want Kendrick getting too comfortable. Park had other things to do. Better things to do. Like have dinner with Gift.
Park shifted uncomfortably as he thought about the pretty, soft boy waiting for him on the other side of that door.
Finally, Kendrick hesitantly said, “A program where we pair…neurodivergent operatives with neurotypical handlers in an attempt to make them effective deep cover operatives.”
Was Kendrick quoting some kind of brochure? It sounded like politically correct bullshit used to lobby for grant money.
Park shook his head, not even bothering to hide his irritation. “Neurodivergent? Neurotypical? Just speak plainly. What the hell are you guys up to?”
Kendrick stopped pacing, looking Park dead in the eye. “Fine. For the last two decades, the U.S. government has placed children with psychopathic tendencies with families of influence and raised them with a single purpose: to use them to act as deep cover operatives who can move seamlessly within both social and political circles while taking out high-level targets that might otherwise be out of our reach.”
Park blinked at Kendrick as the man’s words sank in. Children? They’d recruited…children. The government really had sunk to a whole new low. “Psychopathic?” he muttered, distracted by his own racing thoughts.
Kendrick nodded, as if encouraged by Park’s question. “Children lacking in guilt, empathy, and remorse.”
Park gave him a flat stare. “I know what psychopathic means, but why on Earth would you think you could control psychopaths? Especially ones you’ve given a license to kill?”
Kendrick sniffed, his expression mutinous. He hated being questioned. It was half the reason Park did it. “Because we’ve seen the program succeed at a local level. This is…let’s call it phase three trials. Testing the subjects on a global scale.”
This was insane. Park kept waiting for Kendrick to get to the punchline of this really bad joke, but the man continued to stare him down. Finally, he asked, “What kind of families would agree to bring a psychopath into their homes?”
Kendrick’s shoulders went back, and he stared down at Park with that trademark imperious look. “The kind that puts their country’s safety and security first.”
Park snorted. “Oh, please. There are only two reasons anyone would agree to something like that. Money or power. So, which was it?”
Kendrick deflated. “I suppose a bit of both.”
Hah. That was what he thought. The wealthy and powerful didn’t do anything unless it benefited them. That was why they were desperate to maintain the stranglehold they had on American politicians. “And who are these parents? These influential paragons of national security?”
“It varies,” Kendrick said vaguely.
I bet. “Just throw some names out there.”
Kendrick’s gaze floated over Park’s head to stare out the window. “Roland Skinner—”
“The oil tycoon?” No wonder the man had access to run pipelines through protected tribal lands. “Who else?”
Kendrick waved a hand. “Boyd Cameron. Davis Washington. Moses Okeke…” He looked at Park, his patience clearly running thin. “Shall I go on?”
Boyd Cameron was a senator. Davis Washington ran one of the largest diamond companies in the world. Moses Okeke was an international arms dealer. Christ. Kendrick wasn’t kidding. They had really gone for people with money and access. Access that would have made Park’s job much easier but not nearly as fun.
“You realize, if this fails, the results could be catastrophic? Globally. We would lose allies in several countries,” Park said, still trying to wrap his head around how this project had ever been green-lit in the first place. “How do you guarantee these kids keep their mouths shut?”
It wasn’t hard to believe the government would allow such a ridiculous study. Over the years, they’d sanctioned experiments on everything from astral projection to time travel, all on the taxpayer’s dime. But giving a literal license to kill to children who already displayed violent psychopathy? That seemed like utter madness.
Kendrick’s expression grew smug. “Minimal risk. The targets who fail to adhere to the protocols laid out within Project Watchtower know they’ll be…eliminated with extreme prejudice.”
The way Kendrick said eliminated let Park know he didn’t mean they’d be expelled. “Murdering children?”
“Murdering monsters. Besides, they’re not kids now. We’re not creating an army of killer kindergartners. They’re all of age and they’ve been carefully…cultivated. The cream of the crop. The students have already been accepted, and studies are to begin immediately.”
Immediately? Park’s brain drifted to Gift, who was probably reading on the sofa, waiting for him to finish so they could have dinner together. “While this sounds sufficiently terrifying, I’m afraid I have to decline. I’m perfectly fine here. Where you put me. Writing speeches, shaking hands, kissing babies, and all that.”
“Park.” Kendrick said his name like a warning.
Park shrugged. “Sorry, I’m out of the murder game.”
Kendrick’s nostrils flared. “Don’t be petty.”
Park blinked at him, giving him a placid smile. “You’re the one who pulled my card.”
Kendrick glowered at him. “Fine. I was trying to be nice, but now, I’m telling you that you’re expected in Nevada in two weeks. That’s not a request. You still belong to me, Park.”
More bureaucratic bullshit. “I have…other obligations.”
Kendrick made an irritated sound. “Such as?”
Park hesitated, not wanting Kendrick in his private business, especially considering that this private business included a sore subject. “I’m currently acting as a bodyguard.”
“A bodyguard?” Kendrick echoed. “For who? Since when do you have time to play private security?”
Park took a deep breath and let it out. “For the Ayutthaya family.”
The muscle in Kendrick’s jaw ticked, and he swallowed hard. “Anchali? What’s happened to her? Is she okay?”
Park cringed inwardly. Kendrick had been sniffing around Anchali for over a decade, even though they were both married and she was very much not interested. “Anchali is fine. She can take care of herself. It’s her son. Gift. There was an attempt on his life, so she asked me to keep him with me until she and Satja have figured out who’s behind the threat. He’s with me for the near future until then. So, as I said, I’m afraid I have to decline.”
Kendrick frowned. “You’re watching her child? You hate children.”
The irony of Kendrick saying that to Park while asking him to teach kids barely out of childhood wasn’t lost on him. He pointed vaguely towards the door. “He’s twenty-one.”
Kendrick looked back over his shoulder, connecting the dots between the boy he’d just seen and Park’s dilemma. When he turned back, he was smiling in a way that made Park queasy. “Then bring him with you.”
“What?”
Kendrick shrugged, his expression smarmy, like he’d just won a chess match Park hadn’t known they were playing. “I’m assuming he’s a college graduate. Last I heard, Anchali and Satja had him in an international school. I’m sure his grades were more than adequate. I can pull some strings.”
Of course, he could. That was how Kendrick did everything—the shady way. He had no honor, no class. Hell, there was a rumor he had his own son killed after an incident that could have ended his career. Of course, that was only a rumor. But Park would hardly put it past him.
“What does any of that have to do with Project Watchtower?” Park asked, the first pangs of a headache starting to throb behind his right eye. “I assure you, the boy is not a psychopath by any stretch. I’ve seen him cry watching nature documentaries.”
Hell, he’d seen him cry over a Starbucks commercial. Gift was sweet, soft-hearted, and shy. His parents had sheltered him—coddled him in Park’s opinion. Despite attending an international school, he still seemed much younger than his twenty-one years, deferring to Park and his parents in all things. Gift hardly ever made direct eye contact, barely even spoke English, apologized to inanimate objects. He was far too timid. How would he survive in an American graduate school?
Kendrick shook his head. “As I said before, the project has two prongs. There are the operatives and then there are the handlers. We’ll allow the boy entry under the handler program. He meets the criteria. He’s a college graduate with parents who have the means and the social ties necessary for the program. I can push him through the vetting process. I know his parents personally, as do you. They’re both in the diplomatic core. They both have top-level clearance. Hell, I’m surprised we didn’t have him flagged for the program from the beginning, now that I think about it.”
Park was already shaking his head in return. “No, I’m not exposing Gift to this…insanity, where you hand over—what did you call them?—neurotypicals to act as comfort objects to psychopaths. The whole thing is absurd. Surely, you know that.”
Kendrick flushed to the tips of his ears, nostrils flaring. “I’m losing my patience. I’m under no obligation to ask you at all. I could simply order you back to active duty and not allow you to bring Anchali’s offspring along for the ride. I’m trying to be diplomatic.”
Fuck. He hated this shit. Park had allowed the government to use his skills for one reason and one reason only. He liked killing people. Writing speeches was just his penance for a lifetime of murder. Why did he have to further inconvenience himself by babysitting barely legal psychopaths?
“Why me?”
This time, it was Kendrick who scoffed. “Because nobody has more confirmed kills under their belt than you. We don’t call you the Bone Collector for nothing." After a moment's hesitation, he added, “Besides, it’s not just you.”
Park frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, I’m calling the whole team in. Pike, Justice, Brogan, Suri, Boone, West. Boone’s already there. He’s running the show. You’ll answer to him, just like the old days.”
The old days. Yeah, right. Kendrick made it sound like the seven of them had been some type of SEAL team. Killing was a fairly solitary activity, especially with someone as incompetent as Kendrick acting as their handler. More than once, they’d had to rely on each other to get out of deadly situations. But that hardly meant they were a team. They were strangers who occasionally shared a beer.
Park scrubbed his hands over his face. “Exactly what is it I’ll be doing at this school?”
Kendrick grinned. “To the outside world, the school looks like a private graduate program focusing on international diplomacy. We thought we’d have to work hard to make the program seem legit, but for the most part, nobody batted an eye.” If that wasn’t a commentary on the state of the U.S. education system, Park didn’t know what was. That was why he preferred it there in Thailand. “You’ll be in charge of Pod A and you’ll be teaching forensic chemistry.”
Park snorted. “Forensic chemistry. That’s a fancy way of saying I’ll be teaching psychopaths about poisons and bomb making.”
“We’re trying to go with your strengths. There’s only one man deadlier than you when it comes to poisons and he retired to live out his life with his assassin husband. It was quite the scandal.”
Park hadn’t known his competition had left the game. But then, so had Park. Still, he couldn’t hide the pang of jealousy. “You sound disappointed. Sorry you had to settle for second best.”
