Note from the Author: After over 10 years of not writing I have finally decided to try again despite my less than perfect grip on grammar despite years of meaning to go back to school to relearn what I foolishly disregarded as a child. This story is also the first in which I have not actually written out fully before posting so I can hopefully fix issues and apply suggestions as I work through this story, that said I have worked out the core changes I will be making to the Far Cry 5 story.
This is work born from anger at playing both Far Cry 5 and New Dawn during the COVID lockdowns, at what I felt was poor video game writing resulting in horrible railroading for the player. I endeavor to write something that mostly avoids such things and overall if the reader was to follow this story line in the game I hope that this would be more enjoyable than what Ubisoft gave us.
My job is directly effected by the current pandemic so I can't promise any sort of consistent upload schedule but I will do my absolute best to maintain some form of constant progress.
Please read, review, and enjoy.
Far Cry 5: The Collapse
Chapter 1: Meet the Rook
Langley, Virginia 2018
The unnamed bureaucrat leaned back in the borrowed executive chair that was drug into a empty office that only contained a desk and a folding chair for the only other man in the room.
The other man was a massive hulk of muscle which was consistent with his background as a former power lifter. His piercing blue eyes warned that this hulk was a lot smarter than what most pencil pushers would otherwise think hence the reason why the CIA had pulled him from Delta Force.
"Mr. Rook let me be the first to thank you for your work. You have saved more American and its allies lives then what you can possibly imagine these last few months alone. But we can't over use an asset like you lest someone else start to notice a pattern, so I'm sorry to say that you are being put on ice so to speak."
The CIA man let the last sentence hang for a moment watching for any reaction from Rook. As expected there wasn't so much as a twitch on the man's face so he either expected this or has a unbelievable poker face.
"We are setting you up with a simple cover story and even a job. You've been honorably discharged..."
That last line had finally gotten a reaction out of the man even if it was a simple narrowing of the eyes. The man was a shoe in for a full military career and probably baring any injuries or major fiascoes he would probably reach at least a three-star general position before being aged out of the service. Hearing that career path being taken from him probably wasn't on the list of things that he expected when the agency "borrowed" him.
"Calm down on the surface paperwork you've been discharged but officially if you dig deeper someone would have misfiled something and you are still technically active duty besides this is only going to be for a year at most. In any case we got you a job in law enforcement specifically the Sheriff's department of Hope County. Your home town if I remember your dossier correctly."
Rook spoke for the first time since entering the office. "Yes sir. If I remember right Earl Whitehorse is still the Sheriff. I know he and my father have been good friends since at least his return from Vietnam."
"Well then you'll be in good company then. He has agreed to bring you on and give you a crash course in policing though it sounds like you'll be more of a armorer role given your skill set and only called out when... more muscle is needed." The agent chuckled at his own joke for a moment.
Rook had been hearing that one for decades but still smiled politely.
"I would have set you up with your fathers gun company but he flat out said that he was in the middle of a massive restructuring and automation surge and was actively laying people off. Personally I find that a bit strange considering that due to his old contacts in the DOD and even us, his business handles a lot of custom work and development. Even DARPA has been in contact with his company for things that I can't do more than mention."
Rook simply shrugged his shoulders "Don't know sir I haven't been in contact with home in over two years given the pace of my work and even then that was more of a 'I am still alive, Mom and Dad are still alive.' type of conversation. I know that there is a lot my father can't share with me and obviously my stuff is blacker than black so it doesn't make for good dinner conversation let alone a email."
The agent nodded "Indeed, thankfully the Sheriff has agreed to stick to the official story and not ask questions about your time in the Army and as I said he is overlooking your lack of formal law enforcement training. I think he is counting on your raw talent and intelligence to help you catch up."
The agent stood up and took a rather thick envelope out of his suit jackets inner pocket and placed it on the desk.
"These are your discharge papers, plane ticket, and the paperwork for the movers we have transferring your possessions to the house outside of Fall's End we have setup for you. I suggest you take it easy for the next year. Just do your job, stay out of trouble, don't get killed, and we'll have you back in the field soon enough or if other things pan out better than expected you can go back to Delta with your head held high. Dismissed ."
The next 24 hours were some of the strangest Roger Rook had ever experienced. None of the usual fuck ups he expected popped up especially with the small army of movers who were all unmarked men loading everything into equally unmarked box truck.
He got on to a plane bound for Missoula then a 6 hour bus ride to Fall's End. It was just past midnight by the time they entered Hope County by one of the handful of road tunnels leading into the valley that he saw his first billboard advertising some church and "The power of Yes!". What caught his attention though was the bearded man whose face dominated the bill board.
Something about that man started flicking well honed switches in his mind that he was dangerous which was odd given the subject of the billboard, but admittedly he had been dealing with dangerous religious men and their religions in general for the bulk of his career.
'Still why would someone like that be here?' Rook thought to himself.
Another hour and he was dropped off at the Spread Eagle and not 2 minutes later the same unmarked box truck that had his stuff stopped in front of him. The driver reached over and opened the passenger door and unceremoniously told him to get in.
'These CIA movers had to have fucking air dropped this truck to beat me here!'
The ride to his new house was quiet as he took in old sights that he hadn't seen in over 10 years though he noted that the same odd looking cross that was on the billboard earlier was seemingly everywhere.
'What in the nine flaming hells is going on?'
His new house turned out to be a nice single story brick ranch house sitting on a 10 acre plot of mostly grass with a small stream running through the back portion of the property. In a few hours the movers had surprisingly done all the unpacking for him and left with hardly a word spoken.
Alone finally he looked around his living room before finally breaking the silence.
"CIA moving services: Fast, quiet, and no labor on my part. Would hire again."
He pulled out his cell phone and was surprised that he still had some reception though not great. Well at least one thing around here seemed to have improved since he left. He pulled up his parent's number and finally made the call that he was somewhat treading.
"Rook speaking." The old worn voice on the other end gruffly answered.
"Hi Dad its Roger. Long story short some stuff happened at work and I got moved back out here."
"What do you mean 'Back out here'? Are you in Fall's End?"
"Actually Dad I'm in my new house now its just off the road between Fall's End and Lamb of God church and I could use a lift so I can pickup my truck from your guy's place."
He could hear a background voice probably his mother asking about the call so early in the morning.
"Ok son I'm on my way. I can't say that I'm not glad to see you but you have come home during a tense time. Don't ask now, we'll talk face to face soon enough."
At that the line was cut and he was left increasingly worried about just what the hell he just landed in this time. It was likely that whatever was worrying his father of all people, big bad Marcus Rook the Vietnam Era Delta Force vet that even in his old age could take on men a quarter of his age with no effort on his part was probably related to all of these odd eight pointed crosses that seemed to be everywhere.
"Eight pointed cross... sounds absolutely heretical." He laughed to himself as he finally resigned to the fact that his instincts weren't wrong and that his home town might not be as safe as he once thought it was. Thus logically he must arm himself.
The vast majority of his gun collection was being held in his parents basement mostly old milsurps and rare guns he had "found" while out in the field and quietly and less than legally shipped back home a side benefit of working for a three letter agency. Customs doesn't open their mail and the ATF doesn't get to ask questions though after 2016 and the national law changes on full auto guns it seemed everyone wanted to have a fun switch on their gun.
The small gun safe that did hold his carry guns though would still fit the bill nicely. His main go to sidearm was a custom jet black double stack 1911 built by his father to his preference. 7 inch longslide, a threaded barrel with a tuned muzzle brake, 20 round extended mags, chambered for his preferred .460 Roeland load, G10 grips, red dot sight, and combo flashlight/laser on the bottom pic rail all of which was contained in a custom kydex thigh holster that even held the matching suppressor.
That gun had followed him across the world from the day he joined the Army and later into the special operations world always at his side despite that it was large, heavy, and hard to miss. Much like himself in his own opinion at least.
The other gun in his safe was something he picked up when he got pulled into the CIA. A all black Magnum Research Desert Eagle Mark XIX in .50 Action Express. It wasn't at all quiet though he had been sketching out a suppressor design that he might finally have time to build and test, but it had the surprising use of throwing off suspicion from assassinations. After all what government force would issue a .50 caliber handgun?
He normally carried it exclusively in a shoulder holster but until he had a better idea of what the local situation was he would just carry the 1911 for the time being and his standard issue Ka-Bar as a back up.
Now sufficiently armed he proceed to the bathroom to shave and clean up fore meeting his father. The mirror showed a blockish face with several facial scars of various sizes showing clearly on his pale skin and his closely buzzed red hair hadn't shown any signs of retreating yet. All in all aside from the scars he couldn't say that he had aged much since High School. Except for his eyes, they had aged or so he thought but that was to be expected with even half the things he had seen.
Not long afterward he heard the familiar sound of his fathers old Ford pickup pulling up, he stepped out and the first thing he noted wasn't his father stepping out of his truck but the fact that on the bed mounted light bar was clearly a mount for a M2 Browning and the welds holding it looked recent.
Marcus Rook wasn't a small man as years of being a solider and later on a weapons manufacturer had let him keep fit even if now in his later years he found himself having to push more pencils than pallets of guns and ammo. Still in his sons literal shadow he was short by at least 6 inches but the resemblance between the two men was clear as day.
"My god lad, do you ever stop growing?" Marcus boasted.
"Don't know Dad. I just keep eating and working and I just can't seem to loose all this muscle for some reason. Maybe I should get a desk job finally." Roger replied chuckling all the while.
"You would still find someway to build muscle even then." Marcus hugged his son. "Its good to see you and your mother is waiting for us so lets get going."
The two men entered the truck and speed off down the road.
"Okay we're on the road, now tell me what in god's name is going on that has you on pins and needles?" Roger spoke.
Marcus was quiet for a moment before taking a deep breath and speaking.
"A few years after you left for the Army some new age pseudo Christian cult came to town. At first they were welcomed but as they grew they started to buy up a lot of farmland and then other businesses. Some say that even the local police and even your own Sheriff's department has at least sympathizers among their number if not outright members."
Even as his father spoke a number of internal alarms started going off and then it got worse.
"Even at the shop a few of the younger and newer guys I hired turned out to be part of the cult. I pulled some serious favors in order to safeguard the government R&D and production contracts to replace every single one of them with automated machines where ever possible, on top of that I beefed up security heavily including things like armored doors and the like. It will slow down the peggies until they bring out some serious firepower but at that point they run a increasingly high risk of damaging the very things they are after."
Roger was quiet for a moment trying to take all this in.
'A cult? Here of all places? Even dad is worried about them to the point that he's probably burning big bucks to safe guard everything. Hell half the reason why the government does business with him is because of how remote and quiet this place usually is.
"What does 'Peggie' mean?" Roger asked.
"Their full name is Project at Eden's Gate so P.E.G thus the locals call them Peggies. They are religious and militant but in the last few months especially they have reached new levels, hell last week its believe by some of us locals that they murdered Greg Armstrong and tried to off Grace as well."
"WHAT?!" Roger exclaimed. "Is this being investigated at all... wait you said..."
Marcus smiled "That's right lad. Local cops treated it as just a single vehicle car accident probably swerved to miss a deer or something and ended up in a ditch. Grace was knocked out by the impact which probably saved her. From what Grace and Dr. Fergus at the clinic told me car accidents don't include finding three 9mm slugs. One to the head and two to the chest. Someone made sure he wasn't going to bother them again. Given how the peggies had been outright harassing him into selling the shooting range to the cult when neither he nor Grace would join them and let them use it exclusively for months before hand. Its damn hard not to see it any other way than murder. Of course..."
Roger finished the statement "The local cops say otherwise. Probably claiming the projectiles to be from the impact and not actually bullets."
Marcus nodded in agreement. "When Dr. Fergus told me this I asked to see the bullets he pulled. They were real heavy 9mm rounds probably 158 grain or 165 subsonic rounds. I'll bet my life that someone used that specific load with a suppressed pistol just to absolutely make sure that no one that might have heard the crash would have been able to hear actual gun shots after wards. I think Grace being unresponsive during the accident and not really bothering the cult compared to her father is probably the only reason why she didn't wind up a few grains heavier too."
"The Grace I know from when we met in Afghanistan and grew up with probably is on the edge of going on a warpath for this sort of act."
Marcus laughed "Whitehorse himself went to talk her down. He is looking to reopen the case but the local PD is dragging its feet and its only adding to the tension and from what I overheard at the Spread Eagle something else happened recently that some real bad videos of the cult got posted online. I don't know what was on those videos but I heard from Virgil Minkler that its attracting all sorts of hell from the Feds but he didn't say exactly what. Oh and here we are... Home sweet home."
They pulled up to a stately looking two story red brick plantation style house complete with matching waist high brick wall. "The Manor" as his mother would call it was one of the largest houses in the County. The front door opened and out stepped Jessica Rook probably one of the most powerful and feared lawyers in Montana.
The tall and thin blue eyed woman had made her career practicing environmental and natural resources law. This had lead to several several mines in the area being able to open despite out of state pressure from environmental groups trying to block them. The jobs those mines had brought in had saved many in the county as shortly after there was a drought that had killed a lot of crops and some cattle leaving many farming families short on funds for that year making her a well known hero figure in the area.
"Roger!" Jessica called out as she jogged up and hugged her son.
"Roger its so good to see you back home finally. I would have thought you might have given us a bit more notice though."
"Well mom, somethings happened that required me to get shipped out fast and quiet and after that I can't say... well really anything."
If there was one thing that he never seemed to quite get over was not being able to tell his mother much about his Army work let alone the CIA stuff. She knew he couldn't talk about it hell she couldn't ask her husband about what he did in Vietnam. Such was the special forces community.
Jessica shook her head knowingly and brought the two men inside to the dining room where she had made a full spread of steak, pancakes, and eggs. The next hour was spent with Roger explaining what he was likely going to be doing at the Sheriff's department and catching up on local gossip, too much of it was linking to Eden's Gate for Roger's taste and the news of what happened to Greg Armstrong was still weighed heavily on his mind.
He had spent a lot of hours practicing on the Armstrong range until his father's business had bought up enough land to give him access to a 1000 yard range compared to the 500 yard Armstrong range. His daughter Grace was six years older than him but had quickly warmed up to him or at least tolerated the kid constantly riding his bike after school carrying a .50 cal Barrett on his back and finding ways to edge her out on the range records and competitions.
A few years later they had met again only this time was outside of Kabul. His team was hitting a major Taliban command post and supply cache and Grace was brought in to provide sniper cover and recon.
"Earth to Roger." His mother called for the second time. Roger snapped back to reality as he noted that he hadn't quite finished his food while judging by everyone else they had finished sometime ago.
"Sorry just got caught going down memory lane. Hard to believe Greg is dead. Did I miss the funeral?" Roger said sadly.
Marcus answered "It was two days ago up at Lamb of God. Once you get some rest you can go pay your respects."
With that said he cleared his plate, said his goodbyes to his parents and headed out to the large barn that served as the family garage. He walked down the row of old muscle cars that his mother surprisingly enough liked to collect and past the row of trucks and off roaders of his fathers preference to the last stall at the end of the barn.
When he got his drivers license at 16 he had asked for his dad to let him buy one of the family company's old pickups for cheap since he was at the time talking about replacing them anyway. His father agreed to sell him a company truck for only a $1000 if he agreed to never ask for gas money.
Of course any teenager with a license and a part time job would jump at that offer without probably thinking it all the way through.
So the next morning before school his father called him out of bed and into the barn to this very stall and asked for $1000 in the next 24 hours. What he had bought sight unseen was a blacked out 7-ton MK28 MTVR the US military's latest and greatest replacement for their fleet of aging cargo trucks. This truck was one that was outright given to the company to allow them to test fit some products that they had been contracted for and now no longer had a need for.
He was reminded again then that he couldn't ask for gas money. From that day forward at nearly $3.00 a gallon for diesel and a 78 gallon tank that didn't last as long as he would have sometimes wished but it meant he didn't make many unplanned trips and generally stayed out of trouble due to the fact that he couldn't afford it. Not long afterward he started a small personal side business doing odd jobs through out the county so long as the end customer paid for fuel plus a bit for his service, it had worked out pretty well and meant that when he started dating he could actually afford to do so.
Climbing into the drivers seat and starting his truck in the first time in over 5 years only highlighted that he really hadn't been home all that much. He pulled out of the barn and waved to his parents one last time before heading towards Fall's End.
Driving now in full daylight only made him more uneasy about this cult business as he saw several bright red silos with the cults eight pointed cross painted on it for all to see.
'My god Dad wasn't kidding about them owning so much of the local area. They have to have at least half Holland Valley in their name.'
Finally reaching Fall's End at least the town looked more or less as it always had, two dozen buildings with all the bare basics an American town needed and then some. First stop was to the general store to buy enough food to fill his fridge, a box of .50 BMG, and some flowers for his next stop. It wasn't quite lunch time but there were a number of locals many of whom either recognized him or at least guessed correctly that the "Strongest Teenager in Montana" had come back home.
Even with a large breakfast Roger decided against his better judgment to head across the street to the Spread Eagle and get one of Casey's 'All Bull, No Shit' burgers once he had finished paying at the store.
Turning around he saw a pair of men enter the store, they had long wild looking hair with equally wild and unkempt facial hair. Their raw woolen sweaters bore a red cult cross and both had pistols at their waist.
Roger glanced at the cashier and he nodded as if he was going to be ok. Turning back towards the door the two men had gone to the farm supply section of the store picking up a bag each of corn seed, they looked back at him with mix of hate and wariness like a deer meeting a new predator for the first time and wondering if it should run.
Stashing his goods in his truck Roger made his way across the street and noted that the Widowmaker wasn't parked beside the bar meaning old Gary Fairgrave was still on the road. Stepping into the Spread Eagle was an eye opening experience, where once especially so close to lunch time there would be a fair number local farmers and their hands coming here to eat and generally shoot the breeze what Roger found was a mostly empty bar and a heaviness to the very air around him.
"Welcome to the Spread Eagle. Pull up a seat and I'll get you a menu." The voice came from a pretty blond woman who was moving things around behind the bar and had only heard him come in. He did as was instructed and pulled up a seat at the end of the bar giving him a chance to see Casey as always at his grill.
Casey looked up and had a huge smile across his face. "Mary May!" he exclaimed.
A small crash was heard as Gary Fairgrave's daughter Mary May shot up from behind the bar with a half drawn 1911 out of her holster.
"Goddamn it, Casey. I thought the damn peggies were coming in here you yelled so much!" Mary May grumbled. She then got a good look at exactly who was at the bar.
Mary May was in her mid 20's and still as much a looker as Roger remembered from before he left for the Army though judging by the bags under her eyes she wasn't getting much sleep it would seem.
"Roger Rook. Holy hell do you ever stop growing? You just visiting your folks?" Mary May said holstering her gun and smiling as if all was right in the world.
"Actually I'm back in town for awhile. Getting a job at the Sheriff's office as a armorer. Is your old man ok? I noticed his rig wasn't here..." Roger trailed off as he saw Mary May stifle back a small sob.
"Mary May if you need any sort of help feel free to ask I'm not leaving anytime soon." Roger said his face hardening. He and Mary May had known each other for a long time growing up mostly through her brother Drew who was his age, but she was one of the nicest people one could hope to meet and anyone or anything that could cause her to act like this wasn't something he wasn't going to just let lie.
It took a moment for Mary May to recompose herself before asking him to at least order before she explained everything, what she then laid out damn near floored Roger.
Her brother had actually joined the cult and was later found dead and no killer found. Her father who already had a tense relationship with the cult died mysteriously as well then not a week after he was buried the Widowmaker was stolen.
The world had been caving in on the last of the Fairgrave clan and only the existence of The Spread Eagle and Casey the lifelong cook and fixture of the bar was keeping her going.
Roger took Mary May's hands in his massive mitts. "I don't know my work schedule yet but if you need help here or odd jobs taken care of you call me first and I will see what I can do. Of course I'll watch out for your dad's rig. God knows no one whose not legally blind will miss that paintjob on your dad's rig."
Casey quietly mouthed 'Thank you.' to Roger before setting the plate with his burger and fries on the kitchen window frame loud enough to catch Mary May's attention.
"Thanks Rook. Things right now are just... falling apart and its that damn cults fault. If something happens anywhere in Hope County the peggies have their dicks in it as it seems, lots of folk have been disappearing over the last few years. Some wind up dead and others just... gone."
She brought the plate with Roger's massive burger and got him his requested soda before continuing.
"The peggies own most of the valley in one way or another hell at this point a lot of folk think that they own the local cops too. You hear about Grace and her old man yet?" Mary May said.
Roger nodded "Yeah that's actually my next stop to go pay my respects. Dad filled me in on what the hell as been going on as of late. It's hard to believe that something like this could happen here. Hell growing up didn't we complain about this place being so boring and finally being able grow up and explore the rest of the world?"
Mary May finally smiled and actually giggled. "Yeah and from what I hear you got to see Afghanistan like Grace did. Not that I would think of that as a fun experience to have."
"I have been to a great many places but I'm legally unable to tell you specifics but I can say there is no continent on Earth that I have not set foot on for less than 24 hours." Roger replied proudly.
After that subjects changed to happier strolls down memory lane so long as they avoided any talk of her brother or father until Roger had finished his meal. Jumping back into his truck he started towards The Lamb of God church making note of where in Fall's End the Sheriff's office was but honestly he would worry about reporting for duty first thing tomorrow morning. Right now he had to at least pay his respects to a old friend.
Just a mile or two before he got to the Church he noticed four large box trucks heading up into the mountains towards the old missile silo and bunker complex with a few pickups with people riding in the back following suit.
'Oh great the militant cult bought the old silo. Just how much worse must things get? When did my hometown go to hell in a hand basket?'
Roger pulled up to the small church which sat upon a small hill overlooking a nearby river. He could already see a stone mausoleum with a flag still draped over it and a tall, thin black woman in causal clothes kneeling before it.
Gathering his flowers and one of the .50 BMG rounds from its box he quietly walked up the path finally he reached the top and could make out 'Greg Armstrong' on the front face.
"Hi Grace, sorry to meet again like this." Roger said quietly trying not to spook the former sniper.
Grace's head snapped around to the new voice and for a moment just froze as if still trying to process what she was seeing.
"Rook? How? When?" Grace stammered before giving up and waiting for answer.
"I got here only a few hours ago with the moving company so forgive me if I seem a bit tired and jet lagged not to mention all the news I have been slammed with. I'm sorry about your dad and I wanted to try and pay my respects as soon as I could." Roger said as he walked up and laid both the bouquet of daisies and cartridge among the other offerings of flowers.
"A .50 cal?" Grace asked.
"Something I picked up from my CO back in Delta. He was always a bit odd but said that in ancient Greece the dead would be given coins to pay the ferryman to the underworld. He explained that we might not be concerned with ferrymen but a dead solider should try to bring some ammo with him to where ever he may go." Roger paused for a moment the memories of past squad mates that he had done the exact same thing for coming back to the forefront of his mind.
"I don't know exactly why but the idea always sat well with me so I started doing it as well. If there is anyone that I know that should have at least one round with him at the pearly gates its your father especially given just how much he put up with my presence at the range over the years."
Grace smiled a little which by her standards was damn near a grin in her book.
"Pops always liked you and your folks. Said you were a far better person than you thought you were especially for a teenager."
They both knelt there for a minute lost in their own thoughts. Grace got up and went to her truck and came back with what had to be a mag out of one of her rifles.
"You don't mind do you?" She asked tipping the loaded mag towards the grave.
"No, by all means..." Roger stood and watched Grace strip off a single .308 round and placed it beside the far larger .50 cal.
"You're right. It does feel better." Grace said and turned back to her truck. Roger muttered a quick quiet prayer and returned to his own truck and drove straight home.
The next morning Roger forced himself to settle into his normal morning exercise routine remaining jet lag be damned. That done he set himself to the task of reporting for duty at the Sheriff's office. He dressed in something that if need be he could be thrown a uniform and probably be within dress code so that meant black boots, black Carhartt cargo pants, and a black T-shirt in this case one that had "Rook Industries" across the front with the company logo of a skeleton draped in belts of various calibers of ammo to form a sort of toga. This time out he donned both of his guns and back up knife not forgetting the looks of the two cultists that he had seen in the general store.
'One of these days I really need to ask Dad about were he got the idea to use this as a logo for the family business.' He thought to himself as he climbed into his truck.
Walking towards the front door of the ancient but otherwise unremarkable brick and stone building that served as Hope County's Sheriff's office felt oddly nerve racking, like he was reliving his first time stepping out of a Stryker into a active combat action. Only this time he wasn't hauling the mass of a M60 that was older than him, but besides that the feelings were similar enough.
Inside a aged blond woman was sitting behind a reception desk with a battery of radio equipment behind her. The name N. Ferguson was on her uniforms name tag.
"Can I help you sir?" The woman asked as she slowly kept having to creep her neck up to make eye contact with the giant that stood before her.
"Roger Rook here to report to the Sheriff for duty. I have my papers if you need to see them." Roger replied offering the envelope to the woman though she made no move for them.
"Oh I wasn't aware that we had found anyone to fill the position yet. Give me one moment to call Earl." She pressed a intercom button on her desk phone. "Sheriff there is a gia... a man here, a Roger Rook reporting for duty apparently." Roger had noted the 'giant' comment which as always wasn't surprising.
"Oh hell he's early! Send him in Nancy." A deep bassed voice replied.
Nancy released the intercom button and stood up waving for Roger to follow around the back of the desk past a hardened steel doorway to a somewhat narrow room that had about a dozen desks lining the walls probably for all the deputies to use. At the far end of the room was a solid oak door with 'Sheriff Earl K. Whitehorse' under the state seal of Montana all done in highly polished brass.
Nancy opened the door and held it for Roger to walk in and shut it behind him. Before he could say anything Earl held a finger to his lips and hit the play button on a old 90's boombox which started to belt out 'The Devil went down to Georgia'.
He motioned for Roger to sit down in the leather chair front of the desk and hunch over so they could talk without breaking cover from the music.
Earl Whitehorse was in his mid fifties and had the receding hairline to match. He was otherwise well put together with a thick almost stereotypical 'lawman' mustache. He wore large lightly tinted aviator framed glasses a another new feature that had changed since Roger had left home.
"I'm sorry for the noise Rook. Recent events have made me wonder about the loyalties of most of my own staff, part of the reason I jumped at the chance to get you on board when your... friend in the suit approached me."
Roger smiled weakly. Of all the other issues that he had come home to. Dead friends, overtaken farms, and even his own family acting more like they were in a war zone. He now had to deal with the worst sort of office politics, the type that included outright traitors to the group, then on top of that the real chance of armed violence from said traitors.
"Everyone I ever knew that I have meet again has said that I have come back at a tense time. Sheriff what in the name of god is going on?" Roger asked sincerely.
Whitehorse sighed heavily. "I have dozens of disappearances that haven't been solved, I have the local police departments in the area trying to actively keep me away from investigations, and I even got federal agents now getting involved in things. I've been trying to keep the peace Rook but I think in another week things are going to come to ahead if what I have been told is true."
"The cult... these 'Peggies' are at the heart of all of these problems aren't they?" Roger said slowly.
"Yes and any one who tries to prove it is either killed, intimidated, or made to disappear. For now I want to keep you as far away from this as possible to the last possible moment so no one can get to you and turn you. It's also part of the request from the suit to keep you out of trouble if at all possible though if he wanted that he would have taken my warning about the cult a bit more seriously."
Whitehorse looked down at his interlaced hands for a moment before looking back up at Roger.
"I need people I can trust and I hate to say it but since I feel I can't talk my way out of this situation, I'm going to need a 'big stick' shooter if everything falls apart. I hope to god I'm wrong and you can spend your time here fixing guns and going to the schools doing outreach and that sort of thing, easy stuff."
The Sheriff's line about possibly needing a 'big stick' struck Roger hard. Earl Whitehorse was probably one of the most charismatic men to ever hold his position and able to talk all but the most obstinate people down. His ability to peacefully deescalate situations was one of reasons why he had run unopposed in every election for over 20 years.
Roger looked the other man dead in the eye. "Well sir you just got yourself the biggest 'stick' in the state."
For the first time since Roger had entered that office he saw the Sheriff smile greatly. He stood up and pulled out of a small closet a new uniform shirt complete with 'R. Rook' stitched on the name tag.
"This is the single largest uniform I ever had to order but the suit was happy to give me your last measurements so it should more or less fit. Put that shirt on and I'll present you to everyone else since they should be in by now." Earl said as he gathered his hat and pulled a small wooden box from his desk.
Roger did as instructed and put on the shirt which did fit surprisingly enough.
"Can I wear armor with this uniform sir?" He asked Earl.
The Sheriff paused and thought for a moment. "I can't officially tell you no and I would normally advise against it because of how it looks to folks but given... your role I think you should grab some from the armory."
The Sheriff turned off the boom box and lead the other man into the main office. As expected almost all the desks were occupied.
"Everyone listen up! I want you all to greet our newest probationary deputy Roger Rook. He is hopefully going to be filling up the spot in our ranks left by Danny's passing but for the first few weeks he will be mostly replacing Pratt in the armory and be backing up either myself or Hudson as needed."
As Earl finished speaking everyone in the room had gathered around the two men and it was there that Rook got one of the biggest shocks since coming home. There stood Joey Hudson. The dark haired beauty that he had first met at a junior division skeet competition when he was 10 that had first became one of his best school friends and later high school sweet heart.
They had parted on good terms, she going to college for Geosciences of all things and he going off into the Army's career officer course. Still over 10 years later he couldn't say that she wasn't anything but beautiful.
Earl opened the wooden box he had and passed it to Rook. "Deputy Rook you will honor this badge and the responsibilities that come with it. Because I don't care how big you are if you disrespect either I will take you down come hell or high water."
With a slight bow Rook took the badge. "As you should Sheriff."
With a final clasp on the shoulder he clapped briefly which was followed by Hudson joining first and everyone else joining in somewhat halfheartedly in Pratts case who then decided to make the mistake of opening his mouth.
"So are we going to have to start buying steroid filled donuts now?" Pratt smiled smugly at his little jab. The Sheriff and Hudson rolled their eyes before Rook fired back.
"Now see here buddy. I only eat 100% whey powder donuts with strawberry flavored 'roid glaze. I don't mind chocolate flavor on occasion though."
Pratt lost the smug look on his face as he didn't have a comeback ready at all and was left hanging.
Finally the Sheriff spoke up. "Pratt shut up and pack up your desk in the armory on the double you'll be moving to Danny's old desk. Rook get with Nancy and she will issue you your radio and duty belt though it looks like you'll probably just add to your current load out. Hudson get the Rook the usual newbie paperwork... policy manuals, the works. Then show him his new office space. Dismissed."
Heading back out to the front desk Nancy was clearly still intimated by Rook which considering what the Sheriff said about potential internal issues he wasn't going to go out of his way to minimize that right at this moment. He signed all the usual paperwork for his radio and duty belt and its contents. Yes I will pay for replacement equipment should I abuse it. I will not use official equipment for off duty purposes. I will not use official radio equipment to undermine the security of Hope County, the state of Montana, or the United States of America. The usual boiler plate check boxes.
With a armful of equipment he returned to find Pratt climbing up a stairwell leading from the basement and Hudson with a sizable stack of books and massive 3-ring binders.
"Come on Rook time to show you your new dungeon." Hudson called out as she descended the same stairs Pratt had come up from. Rook followed noticing that the air was getting a lot colder as they descended into the basement eventually coming to a very tall poorly lit room that had been partially remodeled to hold the computer servers for the office and a massive 100 year old looking bank vault style door so large that even Rook wouldn't have to considering ducking under the door frame.
"This is where you guys kept Pratt locked up? Are you sure everyone else will be safe by allowing him to live on the surface?" Rook joked.
"Pratt might recover with daily doses of sunlight and removing the danger of working on our guns. Seriously I almost hate using our issued guns because if anything breaks it is or I should say was his job to either fix them or at least order us parts. Neither of which he was particularly good at but apparently Whitehorse was wary about putting him on patrol very often. Can't say what that means with you being here now." Hudson replied.
"I'm the greenhorn here and I know it, at least fixing your guns is something that I know naturally until the boss feels I'm ready to do 'grown up' work." Rook replied.
Hudson unlocked the massive door and let it swing open silently on well oiled hinges.
'For a such a old door at least it was built well.' Rook thought as he dumped his belt and radio on the first clear workbench he could find and finally took stock of the 20 x 20 'cell' that served as the departmental armory.
Old school gym lockers with mesh doors held racks of various AR pattern rifles some of which clearly dated back to Vietnam judging by the furniture and a few AK rifles that probably were taken from Vietnam as well. Other smaller lockers held various pistols and a lot of revolvers likely all old duty guns from before the department made the jump to 1911's and various 9mm offerings. Every where else was dominated by large workbenches and even a old single stage reloading press save for a beat up old desk for keeping track of inventory and the inevitable paperwork.
"Well this is actually better than I expected. I get the feeling that I won't be bothered much down here that's for sure. That said if you are having issues with your duty guns I will get to work on them ASAP." Rook said putting his hands on his hips.
Hudson just leaned against a workbench and took in the sight. Not five minutes in and he is already getting to work at full throttle. Honestly she had to wonder why he was here in the first place, its doubtful that he would have taken any sort of course work for the law enforcement field hence why he was being relegated to armory duty and if he did go out it was only with her or the Sheriff which meant that he was going to have little to no contact with most of the other deputies.
'Sheriff just what sort of plan to you have going on? At least I can get my guns fixed at least.' She thought.
"Well Rook since you asked for it my duty shotgun has a lot of slack in the action. The action bar is bent out of shape but Pratt never figured out that himself. Think you could also give me the same trigger job you did on my old pump?" Hudson challenged the new armorer.
"No problem, single stage with a three and quarter pound trigger pull that if it isn't like breaking glass you won't take it. It's good to see you again Joey." Roger replied.
Hudson turned to leave the vault but not before looking back. "It's good to have someone reliable around here. Things have been rough."
"So everyone and my mother keep telling me." Roger nodded.
Hudson returned not long after with her shotgun. The gun being more interesting than reading the mountain of rules and regulations for the moment he started checking, clearing, and disassembling the gun. It was a model he had grown up working on at his fathers shop so the actions were automatic allowing his mind to wonder over the events of the day.
If he was honest barring whatever was in the works with dealing with the cult and likely purging the department of its influence afterwards he didn't mind the prospect of being 'locked' in this dungeon for the next year. There was a simpleness to contrast the constant complex calculations that had come with working for the CIA on its operations, that contrast was a welcome vacation.
'But everything balances on this cult. If I had to guess something has caught federal level attention maybe the FBI or U.S. Marshals, which mean depending on how they choose to handle things we would be drawn in to provide local knowledge and support to supplement their sheer numbers and certainly newer equipment then what we have.'
Rogers thoughts were interrupted when he saw the state of the guns trigger group. Pins were out of round and it was clear that someone decided to 'polish' the surfaces with a far too coarse sandpaper. Looking up on the rack that formed the back of the workbench he saw a few rolls of sandpaper including probably the likely 220 grit that was used.
Knowing Joey and her diva like trigger pull needs from when they were dating if this was Pratt's work then he was lucky to be allowed to live. Still she took her job seriously hence why she didn't do the work herself because that is what the regs said.
Well he would fix this bubba job one way or another.
'One way or another. Oh god... if the feds don't come in force. In large enough numbers to force the cult leadership to make a clear move of submission or hostility we could be the only ones they call for support. Yes that would make some sense, they would want to avoid a big public spectacle or worse another Waco, Texas if at all possible. If the wrong feds make the wrong choice we could be looking at a half assed arrest that could get us killed. Why the hell couldn't things be simpler?'
He didn't go back to that line of thought at that moment. Knowing exactly what it would lead to if he was involved. Gun reassembled he dug around until he found a 12 gauge snap cap and tested the guns function and was pleased to see that he hadn't lost his touch.
He took a moment to load up his personal gun belt with the various pouches for his radio and handcuffs among other things. He likely knew that technically neither of his handguns were regulation but until he read the paperwork he could probably skirt by with the 'ignorant new guy' excuse. Besides neither the Sheriff or Hudson said anything about it and at least as far as the Sheriff went... he wanted a big stick and things like Rook's Eagle was part of that package deal.
Digging further in the lockers he found some heavy armor and trauma plates. They were on the dangerously small size for him so he knew that he would have to draw from his personal stock, but that was no matter. At least his armor was rated for stopping rifle fire for sure.
He walked out of the basement and realized that it was getting late and that only one of the other deputies that he didn't catch the name for and Hudson were still in the office.
"Hudson your shotgun is fixed." Rook said with some pride as he handed over the weapon.
Hudson checked and cleared the action and tested the trigger after taking a snap cap from Rook.
"Like glass as you said it would be. Thanks Rook good to see you have some promise. Also Whitehorse wanted me to pass along that you will be riding with him bright and early tomorrow when he goes out and does his rounds in the area. I would suggest you go home now."
On her suggestion he went home wondering just what the next day would bring and when the waiting for whatever the greater future of Hope County would end.