Pastor Eli.
Up close, he looks exactly like a hundred pastors I’ve seen in a hundred small towns—kind eyes, worn jacket, a handshake that could crack bones if he wanted it to.
But the intelligence behind his gaze is sharper than it should be.
“Glad you came,” he says warmly.
His eyes move between Boone and me.
Like he’s reading something we haven’t said yet.
“Pastor Eli,” I say, extending my hand.
“Wren McKay.”
He shakes it.
Firm.
Measured.
“Boone Grant,” Boone says.
The pastor’s grip tightens just slightly.
Recognition.
Then the moment disappears behind a friendly smile.
“Good to have you both,” he says.
Inside, the church is alive with conversation.
About thirty people sit scattered across the pews.
Men.
Women.
A few teenagers.
Every one of them looks like the kind of person who volunteers on weekends.
Boone leans slightly toward me.
“See the pattern?” he murmurs.
“Yes.”
Strong.
Reliable.
Trusted.
Exactly the kind of people who could move quietly through communities without anyone questioning them.
At the front of the room, a large map of the region hangs on a corkboard.
