Chapter 6 Wren
Wren
The church sits on a low hill at the edge of town.
White siding.
A tall steeple.
A parking lot filled with dusty trucks and two sheriff vehicles that look older than Boone’s boots.
If someone asked me to picture the safest place in Montana—this would be it.
Which is exactly why the network chose it.
“Tell me again why we’re walking into the lion’s den,” Boone says quietly as we climb the steps.
“Because the lion invited us.”
“That’s never comforting.”
I glance at him.
“You’re the one who said we should scare them.”
“That was before breakfast.”
The church doors open before we reach them.
The man from the diner stands there.
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.
Colored pins mark towns across three counties.
Search areas.
Volunteer groups.
Supply routes.
But something about the pattern makes the back of my neck prickle.
Boone sees it too.
“These aren’t random,” he whispers.
“No.”
“They’re connected.”
Pastor Eli steps forward and claps his hands.
The room quiets instantly.
“Alright folks,” he says. “Let’s get started.”
People settle into the pews.
Boone and I take seats near the back.
“We’ve got two guests joining us today,” Eli continues. “County coordination. They’re here to learn how our teams operate.”
Several people nod.
Friendly smiles.
Open faces.
Trust.
It’s almost unsettling.
Eli gestures toward the map.
“Now as you all know,” he says, “our goal is simple.”
He taps the map with a wooden pointer.
“When people go missing—”
Tap.
“When storms hit—”
Tap.
“When communities need help—”
Tap.
“We show up.”
Murmurs of agreement ripple through the room.
“This world’s getting complicated,” Eli continues.
“But good people working together?”
“That still matters.”
Boone shifts beside me.
“That’s the hook,” he whispers.
“Service.”
“Belonging.”
“Purpose.”
Sentinel used to say the same thing.
People will do extraordinary things if they believe they’re helping.
Eli’s voice continues.
“We’ve expanded our outreach in the last year,” he says. “New volunteers across four counties. New partnerships. New capabilities.”
Capabilities.
That word lands heavier than the rest.
Then Eli gestures toward the map again.
“You see those pins?”
Everyone nods.
“Those are the places where our people are already helping.”
Boone leans slightly forward.
“Already?” he murmurs.
I feel the shift in my stomach.
Something is wrong.
Very wrong.
Eli smiles at the room.
“Because sometimes the best way to save people,” he says, “is to be there before anyone realizes they need saving.”
The room applauds softly.
Boone and I don’t.
My brain starts racing.
“Boone,” I whisper.
“Yeah.”
“These pins.”
“What about them?”
“They match the disappearances.”
His head turns slowly toward me.
“All seven?”
“Yes.”
Which means those people didn’t vanish.
They moved.
They joined.
Boone exhales slowly.
“They volunteered.”
“Yes.”
But that’s not the part that scares me.
The part that scares me—
is how organized it looks.
Eli’s voice cuts back through the room.
“And that’s why we’re expanding again.”
He gestures toward a clipboard near the front.
“If anyone here feels called to help beyond the local teams…”
A few people glance at each other.
Hopeful.
Curious.
“…we have opportunities.”
My stomach tightens.
Recruitment.
Right here.
Out in the open.
Eli’s gaze sweeps the room.
And stops on Boone.
Just for a second.
Then he smiles.
“Sometimes,” he says, “the right people find us exactly when we need them.”
Boone doesn’t move.
Doesn’t react.
But I can feel the tension in him.
Pastor Eli just confirmed it.
This isn’t just a volunteer network.
It’s a pipeline.
And Boone Grant, the man who destroyed the last one, just walked straight into the middle of it.
I lean toward him.
“Please tell me you’re thinking what I’m thinking.”
He doesn’t look at me.
“Yeah.”
“What?”
He watches the room carefully.
“I think they’re about to try to recruit me.”
And for the first time since we arrived in Montana—
I’m not sure if that’s the worst thing that could happen.
Or the best.
Because if they want Boone inside their network, we might finally learn who’s really running it.