Chapter 4 Jace
Jace
The Omaha field office was a world away from Headquarters in D.C. Same stupid fluorescent lights that never failed to trigger a migraine, though.
Close to five months ago, I’d just finished up working a case on a gang trafficking drugs and guns when I got the news that they were sending me out here. Getting detailed out of state was a new one for me, but I went where they sent me—no questions asked.
It took me a good few weeks to nail down all the religious terminology needed for the job and to catch up on what we—we, being the field office and the Nebraska Information Analysis Center—knew about the Covenant.
From there, I’d been focused on gaining the leader’s trust. After my visit the other day, receiving an official invitation from Malachi to stay at the compound had propelled us to the next step in the operation.
Infiltration.
I sat at the conference table with the file on the Covenant of Light open in front of me and tried to look like I hadn’t been awake since three a.m. The Special Agent in Charge, or SAC for short, Natalie Whitmore, perched at the head of the table.
Across from her, NIAC analyst Rosa Kim worked on a laptop with the calm focus of someone who pursued these cases from a safe distance.
“Agbayani,” Whitmore said, without preamble. “You’ve done a great job getting us this far. You ready for this?”
“You know it,” I answered, getting a bit of an eyeroll from her.
Rosa tapped the spacebar on her computer, and the projector on the wall flipped to a satellite overlay of the compound.
With a nod from Whitmore, she began the rundown.
“We’ve pulled everything NIAC has—financial flows, phone dumps that intersected affiliates near the market, social service records on people who left the compound and then stopped showing up.
There’s nothing that screams terrorism yet, but there are red flags galore.
We’re treating it as a criminal investigation pending anything violent. ”
Whitmore tilted her head. “If at any point you see indicators of violence or organizational intent toward extremist action, we’ll bring in JTTF. But for now, local takes the lead.”
Translation: If they start talking about blowing shit up, the real pros take over.
Rosa slid me a printout. “We’ve got surveillance teams staged in two positions.
One mobile unit is about ten minutes out on County Road 7, then a static overwatch on an elevated farm road twenty minutes away.
We’ll need you to collect predicate evidence for legal to grant the warrants you guys need in order to get in and shut it down.
We’ll be listening to tips routed through us and will alert you if anything involving your safety comes up. ”
“Good,” I said. Practical. Sounded like a plan. “What’s the contact protocol? How long can I be inside without check-ins? Am I going in clean?”
Whitmore nodded. “You’ll be going in with just a cell.
Anything else is going to look too suspicious to them.
If they find the phone, you can at least explain it away easier.
I wouldn’t doubt that other converts have had issues giving up their phones, so just go with that.
You have prearranged check-ins. You call Agent Patel at 0900 and 2100 local.
If you can’t call at those times, you move to Plan B, which is a visual sign at the old windmill on the east property line at 1800.
If you fail both, backup moves within twelve minutes. ”
I took a breath and nodded. Patel, a relatively young agent, nodded at me from across the table. He looked like he was fresh out of Quantico. Neat and put-together, new meat out to save the world.
Patel slid me a laminated card. “Aarav Patel—nice to meet you. The safeword is Marigold. No questions asked, we’ll get you out ASAP. Add my number to your phone.” His voice was steady. He’d practiced this in simulations, I could tell.
I pulled out my burner phone to add Patel as a contact, then slid his card back over to him. “Extraction times and routes?”
“Preplanned,” Whitmore said. “We’ve got two routes out that avoid the main gate.
If you need extraction, we’ll move on the one with the clearest surveillance picture at that moment.
Legal approved the extractions and the probable cause script; the U.S.
Attorney’s office was briefed, and all potential charges are cataloged.
You’ll have access to a local attorney if needed, and we’ll keep the paperwork minimal until we can act. ”
“Kids?” I asked. “Ransom said there are fifteen living on the compound. If I see them being abused?”
“You call it in,” Whitmore said. “Don’t move them yourself unless you’re in imminent danger. We’ll come take them. We’ve already coordinated with child services. We want intel; we also want safety. Remember that, Agbayani.”
“Got it.”
It took another twenty minutes to get everything hammered down, then I left the conference room with the file under my arm and the taste of stale coffee in my mouth.
* * *
I’d packed light—a plain pair of jeans, two T-shirts, my old leather jacket, a nice button-down just in case, and a small toiletry kit. I figured they’d provide the cult uniform—hopefully they wouldn’t be expecting me to bring my own white robe, because fuck if I knew where to get one.
Besides that, I had cash in an envelope, my fake ID—making me Jace Luis Trenton instead of Jace Concepcion Agbayani—and my cell. Essentials only.
When I hit a gas station three miles from the compound, I pulled over just to give myself a minute to mentally prepare for what was about to happen.
I slipped my cell into the side of my boot, under the tongue, wrapped in a little square of duct tape.
“Time to get my cult on,” I muttered to myself, pulling back onto the road to drive the last short stretch to the compound.
I was hardly on the road for a minute when the turn off came up, and I steered the truck onto the dusty lane leading to my destination.
Fields of crops flanked the dirt road, and the air coming through the open windows smelled of cut grass and manure.
Soon enough, the wooden gate came into view. I pulled off into a small patch of dry grass just outside it.
I killed the engine and sat for a beat, trying to decide how I was supposed to get past the gate.
A group of women was kneeling over a washboard a few hundred feet away, scrubbing robes in an old metal tub.
When they saw me, they froze, then shuffled their hands over their mouths and looked away with concerned expressions.
One of them—maybe in her early twenties—darted a second glance at me, then grabbed the hem of another woman’s sleeve, and they both scurried off.
The other two women stayed where they were, continuing the washing.
Every once in a while, they’d peek over at me, then get startled that I was watching them back.
I had to laugh under my breath at their skittishness.
My attention left the women as a big man came across the grass toward me. He had a round face and a bald spot the size of a biscuit on the top of his head. He waved, looking a lot more welcoming than his female counterparts. Granted, they probably had good reason to be so anxious.
“You must be the one Father Malachi talked about,” he said, voice deep and a little gravelly. “Name’s Gabriel. Brother Gabriel.”
“Jace,” I said, throwing my voice over the gate separating us. “It’s nice to meet you, Brother Gabriel. I hope Father Malachi said good things?”
He laughed, a booming, satisfied sound. “All good things, you have my word. Come on through.” He reached up and unlatched the gate, letting it swing open with a lazy creak.
I nodded and pulled my truck through. “Where should I park?” I asked. Gabriel waved me over to a small gravel parking area. There were only three other vehicles—two pick-up trucks like my own, and a somewhat ominous-looking white van.
As I parked and stepped out of my truck, I asked Gabriel, “Are these it for the whole place?” My belongings hung from my shoulder in a black gym bag.
He looked around, chuckling. “I suppose it is. But hey, simplicity is best, so they say.”
I grinned back at him, trying to echo his friendliness. “So they do.”
Gabriel stuck a big palm out, which I took, giving him a firm handshake. “Well, I figure I should bring you to Malachi before anything else. Is that all you brought?”
“I’m embracing simplicity, Brother,” I said, smirking.
He shook his head in jest. “That’s the spirit. I think you’ll fit in great here, Jace.” He clapped my shoulder, nodding his head in the direction of Malachi’s farmhouse. “Come on. He’ll be thrilled at your arrival.”
He fell into step beside me, and I took the chance to take him in.
He had the build of a retired linebacker who’d taken up farming. He was several inches taller than my 5’11 frame and wore heavy-duty work boots under his robe.
Gabriel pointed out the common areas with the casual authority of a man who’d been here for a long time.
“Our mess hall is over by the dorms,” he said.
“We eat together at every meal, well, besides from the Voice and the Vessel. They eat privately in their own quarters.” He glanced over at me, then added, “You got any dietary needs, you’ll need to inform the kitchen.
We’re welcoming to all types here—vegetarian, gluten-free, you name it. ”
“I’m good with anything.”
“Great! I’m sure you’ll love it. Farm to table and all that.”
My lip twitched up. “I’m sure I will. But can I ask why Malachi and his son don’t eat with the rest of us?”
Gabriel smiled, the kind of smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Father Malachi carries heavy burdens,” he said. “And the Vessel… They need time for communion with the Light, to keep themselves pure for the rest of us.”
I nodded like that made perfect sense. Sure, I thought. Communion and purity. Or maybe he just doesn’t want anyone seeing him eat steak while the rest choke down boiled rice.