Chapter 10 Wren
Wren
Sleep doesn’t come easily tonight.
Not after what we learned at the church.
The cabin is quiet now. Most of the team turned in hours ago, but the soft glow of my laptop screen still lights the kitchen table.
Outside, the Montana forest moves in the wind.
Branches whisper.
The kind of quiet that makes every sound feel important.
I scroll through the list again.
Twenty-three names.
Volunteer recruits from the church meeting.
Search and rescue.
Medical.
Former military.
Volunteer firefighters.
On the surface it’s exactly what it claims to be.
But the patterns are wrong.
Too precise.
Too intentional.
I highlight another name and cross-reference it with a federal database.
The system thinks for a moment.
Then returns a result.
Former Army Ranger.
Discharged eight years ago.
Now listed as a wilderness guide.
“Convenient,” I murmur.
I move to the next name.
Another military background.
Next one.
Former EMT.
Next.
Volunteer fire captain.
This isn’t random recruitment.
It’s targeted selection.
Which means someone is running a very specific algorithm.
I lean back slightly in the chair.
Sentinel used to do the same thing.
Build networks through capability mapping.
Find people with the right skills.
Place them where they could be activated later.
My stomach tightens.
Because this list isn’t just local.
I open another file.
Start cross-referencing the names geographically.
Locations appear on the map.
Montana.
Idaho.
Wyoming.
The same triangle Boone noticed earlier.
Cells.
Distributed teams.
Ready to respond to disasters.
Or create them.
The thought sits heavy in my chest.
I scroll further down the list.
Name number eighteen.
My fingers stop moving.
I blink once.
Then lean closer to the screen.
“That can’t be right.”
I pull up the record again.
Make sure I typed it correctly.
The database loads slowly.
Then the file opens.
I stare at the photo.
Familiar.
Too familiar.
Because I’ve seen it before.
Not in a volunteer database.
In an intelligence briefing.
I whisper the name aloud.
“River Channing.”
Footsteps move behind me.
Boone’s voice cuts through the quiet.
“You find something?”
I glance over my shoulder.
He’s leaning against the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, watching me.
Alert.
Always alert.
I turn the laptop slightly so he can see the screen.
“You know that name?”
Boone steps closer.
His eyes scan the file.
Then they narrow.
“Yeah,” he says quietly.
“I know that name.”
“Former Special Ops,” I say.
“Now working private operations.”
I nod slowly.
“That’s what the file says.”
Boone studies the screen for a long moment.
“That’s not the weird part,” he says.
I raise an eyebrow.
“Oh?”
“River Channing doesn’t volunteer for church search-and-rescue groups.”
“No.”
“Which means one of two things.”
I finish the thought.
“He’s investigating them.”
“Or they’re trying to recruit him.”
Neither option is comforting.
Boone pulls out the chair beside me and sits.
“Check the rest of the list.”
“I already started.”
I scroll again.
Name nineteen.
Gage Sparrow.
Boone exhales slowly.
“Well.”
“That’s interesting.”
“You know him too?”
“Yeah.”
“Same team?”
“Yeah.”
My pulse quickens.
“That’s two.”
I type quickly, running another search.
The database returns results almost instantly.
Tag Harris.
Former Special Operations.
Current private contractor.
Connected to Golden Team operations.
I scroll again.
Name twenty.
Oliver Steel.
Boone lets out a low whistle.
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope.”
I pull up the file.
Same result.
Same background.
Same team.
The air in the kitchen suddenly feels heavier.
“Three,” Boone says quietly.
I scroll again.
The last name on the list appears.
Lyon Spenser.
Boone leans back slowly in the chair.
“Well,” he mutters.
“That answers one question.”
“What question?”
“This network isn’t just recruiting locally.”
“No,” I say.
“They’re targeting operators.”
Elite ones.
The best.
Across multiple states.
I pull up the map again and start placing markers.
Montana.
Idaho.
Wyoming.
Colorado.
Utah.
The pattern expands rapidly.
My chest tightens as the shape becomes clearer.
“Oh no.”
Boone studies the screen.
“What?”
“This isn’t regional.”
“What is it?”
I zoom out.
The map expands.
More markers appear.
Dozens.
Then hundreds.
Across the entire western United States.
Volunteer networks.
Search teams.
Emergency responders.
Each one a node in the system.
“Boone,” I say quietly.
“Yeah?”
“This isn’t a church program.”
“No.”
“This isn’t even a recruitment network.”
“Then what is it?”
I look at the map.
At the quiet system slowly spreading across half the country.
And suddenly I understand what the Architect meant by preparation.
“They’re building a parallel response system,” I say.
Boone’s jaw tightens.
“For disasters.”
“Or power.”
“Same thing,” he says.
I lean back slowly.
“They’re preparing for something.”
“What kind of something?”
I glance toward the dark window.
Toward the forest beyond the glass.
“I don’t know.”
Boone studies the map again.
Then he says something that sends a chill down my spine.
“If they’re targeting the Brave Team…”
I meet his eyes.
“…then they’re not just building a network.”
His voice lowers.
“They’re building an army.”
And suddenly the quiet Montana night outside the cabin feels a lot less peaceful.
Because somewhere out there—
Someone is recruiting the best operators in the country.
And we just stepped into the middle of it.