Chapter 21 #3
Remedy folded his arms. “We may need to discuss confidentiality.”
“She’s three,” I reminded him.
“Exactly. No ethical standards.”
Charlie ignored him and kissed my cheek. “Come back.”
This time, the promise did not feel impossible.
“I will do everything I can.”
She accepted the honest version with a nod.
When the time came to leave, I watched from the passenger seat as Charlie stood on the clubhouse porch between Daisy and Lark, Mr. Pickles tucked beneath one arm while she held Bishop’s hand with the other. She waved until the truck reached the gate and disappeared from view.
Remedy kept both hands on the wheel.
“She told me you look at doors,” I said.
He stared at the road. “She exaggerates.”
“You watched the clubhouse entrance every time I walked away last week.”
“That was security awareness.”
“You checked the hallway after dinner.”
“High-traffic area.”
“You waited beside your truck until Daisy’s taillights disappeared.”
“That was courtesy.”
I smiled despite the fear pressing beneath my ribs. “You are terrible at admitting you worry.”
“I admitted I’m terrified.”
“That was under emotional duress.”
His mouth curved faintly. “Now you’re using my arguments.”
“I notice things.”
“I’ve noticed.”
The familiar exchange steadied both of us.
We drove for nearly an hour along back roads lined with wet pines and abandoned fields.
The weather had cleared, though heavy clouds still gathered above the western horizon, turning the afternoon light pale and flat.
Restoration lay beyond a county line and several miles of private land, hidden behind the kind of quiet rural landscape people rarely questioned.
A faded church sign appeared once near a crossroads, announcing a revival that had ended years earlier, while old barns leaned beneath vines and rusting equipment.
Nothing in the surrounding countryside suggested underground cells or armed men guarding frightened women.
That was how the Order survived.
It looked ordinary until someone understood where to look.
Remedy turned onto an old forestry road marked by a fallen sign.
The truck moved slowly over rutted ground before descending into a narrow hollow where two unmarked vans waited beneath tree cover.
Mace had disguised the staging point with camouflage netting stretched between branches, while Cipher’s portable equipment occupied the back of one vehicle.
Several brothers stood around a folding table covered in maps, radios, and satellite images.
Knight arrived minutes later from the ridge, mud streaked across his clothes and pine needles clinging to one shoulder. Every conversation stopped when he approached.
“Tunnel is active,” he said. “Two guards rotated near the outer doors. Both armed. One camera on the ridge, another inside the overhang. No dogs on the west side.”
“Ruth?” I asked.
“No visual.”
My stomach tightened.
“Any sound?”
Knight looked toward me. “Three-two again. Once, about twenty minutes ago.”
Hope and pain rose together.
“She knows you returned.”
“Maybe.”
“She answered twice. That isn’t accidental.”
I held onto the certainty in his voice.
Toxic pointed toward the map. “Guard schedule?”
“Fifteen-minute overlap every hour. One exits the tunnel while another approaches from the north trail. For about ninety seconds, the outer door remains open.”
Mace leaned over the table. “Enough to disable the camera and get inside.”
“Enough to enter,” Knight corrected. “Not enough to guarantee the tunnel isn’t trapped.”
“Mace?”
“I can reach the western control box from below the ridge. If the wiring matches the survey photos, I can loop the camera and block the door sensor without triggering the main system.”
“And if it doesn’t?” Remedy asked.
“Then I tell everyone to stay exactly where they are while I swear creatively.”
The faint humor eased no one, but it sounded like Mace.
Cipher’s voice came through a speaker on the table from his remote position at the clubhouse. “I have intermittent access to their outer network. Malachi’s people are using a closed system underground, but one maintenance relay connects to the county utility line every thirty minutes.”
“Can you get the internal cameras?” Toxic asked.
“Possibly during the next relay window. Twelve minutes.”
Toxic looked toward the western sky. “We wait.”
Waiting near Restoration felt different from waiting at the clubhouse.
The danger existed close enough to smell in the wet soil and hear in every unfamiliar engine beyond the trees.
Men checked weapons and radios while speaking only when necessary.
Remedy converted the rear of the medical van into a treatment space, arranging trauma supplies with the controlled precision he used whenever fear needed somewhere useful to go.
I helped lay out clean clothing for Ruth.
Soft gray pants.
A long-sleeved yellow shirt.
Warm socks.
A blanket that smelled faintly of lavender detergent.
The ordinary items nearly undid me. Inside the Order, clothing had never been chosen for comfort after trauma.
People emerged from punishment expected to return immediately to work, grateful for whatever garments covered them.
The folded shirt represented something far larger than fabric.
It meant we expected Ruth to survive. We expected her to have preferences, discomfort, and the right to decide when she was ready to change.
Remedy stood beside me, watching my hands smooth the shirt for the third time.
“She may not let us touch her.”
“I know.”
“She may not speak.”
“I know.”
“She may be angry with you.”
My fingers stopped.
“I know.”
He moved closer without crowding me. “None of that changes why we’re here.”
“What if she believes I abandoned her?”
“Then you let her believe what she needs to until she feels safe enough to hear the truth.”
“And if she never does?”
“Then loving her means accepting that too.”
The answer hurt because it asked nothing of Ruth. No gratitude. No immediate forgiveness. No reunion shaped for my comfort.
“You understand more than you think,” I said.
“I work with survivors.”
“You listen to them.”
“I try.”
My hand found his.
He looked down at our fingers before closing his around mine.
Cipher’s voice broke through the speaker.
“I’m in.”
Every man moved toward the table.
A series of black-and-white camera feeds filled the portable monitors. The first showed a corridor with concrete walls. Another showed a storage room lined with crates. The third flickered before revealing the chapel stairwell.
Then a fourth feed appeared.
A narrow cell.
Ruth sat on the floor beneath the overhead light with her back against the wall and her knees pulled to her chest. Dark curls hung around a face thinner than the one in my memories, and bruises shadowed one cheek.
Her wrists were no longer bound, but the plastic restraints lay discarded beside the bolted chair.
The yellow-and-green bracelet remained around her arm.
She was alive.
She looked toward the camera as though she sensed someone watching.
My hand covered my mouth.
“Oh, Ruth.”
Remedy’s arm moved around my shoulders, holding me upright without pulling me away from the screen.
Cipher adjusted another feed. “Two guards in the central corridor. One near the chapel. Malachi isn’t visible.”
“Can you unlock the cells?” Toxic asked.
“I don’t have door controls yet.”
A fifth camera activated.
The central chamber known as the foundation appeared beneath cold overhead lights.
A long wooden table occupied the center.
Religious symbols covered one wall. Brother Malachi stood near the far door with another man beside him, younger and heavier through the shoulders, a pistol holstered openly at his hip.
The second man.
The one who carried out Malachi’s decisions.
Malachi looked directly toward the camera.
For one terrible second, I believed he could see us.
Then he smiled.
Cipher swore. “He knows the network is compromised.”
Alarms began flashing across the feeds.
Ruth looked toward her cell door.
The younger man reached for his weapon.
Toxic’s voice cut through the hollow with absolute command.
“Move.”
The rescue teams disappeared into the trees.
Mace and Steel raced toward the western ridge while Knight and Gage took the north trail. Toxic headed for the chapel with the river team, and the quiet hollow erupted into controlled urgency around me.
Remedy turned toward the medical van.
“You stay here.”
I opened my mouth.
He caught my gaze before I could object. “The tunnel is not secure. Ruth needs you alive and waiting when they bring her out.”
Fear pressed hard against my ribs.
I looked toward the monitor.
Ruth had risen and backed into the corner of her cell as the hallway lights shifted from white to red.
Three knocks sounded through the feed.
Pause.
Two.
I moved close enough to the speaker that my breath touched the metal.
Then I knocked against the side of the equipment case.
Three.
Pause.
Two.
Cipher looked toward me. “The audio may be one-way.”
“I know.”
I struck the pattern again.
Three.
Pause.
Two.
On the screen, Ruth froze.
Her head lifted.
For several seconds, she did not move.
Then she stepped toward the camera and pressed one trembling hand against the wall beneath it.
She had heard me.
I leaned toward the microphone Cipher opened.
“Ruth.”
The name broke inside my throat.
Her face crumpled.
“Ruth, it’s Sunshine.”
She shook her head as though the voice had to be another trick.
“I came back.”
Tears spilled down her cheeks.
The cell door alarm sounded.
Ruth turned toward it in terror.
I gripped the microphone with both hands.
“Listen to me. People are coming for you. When the door opens, stay low and wait until someone gives you our knock.”
Her breathing became frantic.
“You are not alone,” I continued. “I am outside, and I am not leaving without you.”
The feed flickered.
Ruth looked toward the camera one last time.
Then the screen went black.
Cipher struck the keyboard. “They cut the internal system.”
Gunfire sounded faintly beyond the ridge.