And that “not-yet-but-soon-maybe” turned out to be today.
He’d shown up that morning at the small diner in town, just as I was finishing up breakfast.
He’d walked right up to my table with an unusual excitement in his step. “You’ve been very patient. The Light rewards patience. Are you still interested in seeing our community?”
I didn’t bother hiding my surprise. “Of course. But honestly, I never thought the day would come.”
He smiled, a bit wider than usual. “Our congregation will be eager to meet you. It isn’t every day that a true believer visits us.”
An hour later, I was following his old Ford pickup down a dirt road that sliced through the cornfields. My rental truck bumped along behind him, dust rising in thick waves. The sun hung low, and for a minute, it definitely felt like I was driving into a Children of the Corn situation.
The fucking things I do for this job.
A flicker of nerves caught in my chest. I’d been a part of undercover ops before, but usually they had been pretty short, lasting a week, maybe two. This one was open-ended. No extraction date, no timeline. Just “stay until we know what they’re doing out there.”
The Bureau suspected forced labor. Some thought there might be trafficking. I’d already seen enough of both to last a lifetime.
Malachi’s truck slowed ahead, turning down a narrow gravel drive lined with bare trees. A wooden gate stood at the end, carved with the words “The Light Endures” in peeling gold paint.
He waved me forward.
As the gate swung open, the compound came into view—a row of tidy dorm-style houses, a garden patch, a couple of buildings, a large farmhouse, and at the center of it all, a chapel gleaming like something out of a postcard. Whitewashed walls, pointed roof, cross glinting in the sun.
Picturesque, if you didn’t know better.
Malachi parked and stepped out of his truck, dusting his hands. I killed the engine and climbed out after him, forcing a polite smile.
“Welcome,” he said, spreading his arms like he was greeting an old friend. “The Light has called you home, Jace.”
“It’s beautiful, Malachi. I’m honored,” I said, keeping my tone just the right mix of reverent and uncertain.
He smiled faintly, then turned toward the chapel. “Come. The faithful will want to meet you. And you should pay your respects to the Vessel.”
The Vessel.
Elior Ransom, son of Malachi Ransom.
The one the group claimed to worship.
As we walked, Malachi’s voice rolled low and even beside me, quoting scripture I half-recognized. I nodded in the right places, keeping my eyes ahead while my mind whirred.
Growing up in a Catholic household, I was fully aware of how frowned upon idolatry was. I may not be a religious person, but I knew that much. My mom, mynanay,would’ve beaten my ass if she ever caught me worshiping another man like he was God himself.
I could practically hear her chastising me from beyond the grave as I followed Malachi deeper into the compound.
The air around us felt wrong—too still, like the whole world had paused just past the gates. The smell of earth and dust clung to everything, and the silence was so complete that the crunch of gravel under my boots sounded intrusive, like I was yelling in a library.
People began to appear as we walked—a few from behind the neat little houses, a handful tending the garden rows. All of them stopped what they were doing when they saw me.
Every last one.
Dozens of wide, watchful eyes turned my way.
They wore identical white robes that reached their ankles, cinched at the waist with rope. Many of them were barefoot, but I spotted sneakers, sandals, and work boots here and there.
No one spoke; no one smiled. They all just stared, like I was some rare animal drug in from the wild. It threw me off for a moment, but I reminded myself that most of them had probably never interacted with anyone outside their little community.
I recognized a couple of older men and women from the farmers market, but either they didn’t recognize me, or were pretending not to.
