Chapter 146: Chapter 146 - Infiltrate
Iyisha, Malcolm, and Marybeth stepped into the church hall together.
The air felt thicker than the last time they had been here.
Her heart pounded, steady and loud inside her chest, but she kept her face composed. They could have refused Darius. They could have taken the map and left Whitewater before sunrise. No one would have stopped them.
But walking away would mean pretending they did not know what was coming.
And Malcolm had not said no.
That alone had decided it.
She glanced at Marybeth. The lost look on her face had not left since the night before.
They moved deeper into the hall.
More people than last time.
More faces.
More murmurs.
Elizabeth spotted them almost immediately and approached with a small smile.
"You came back."
"We did," Iyisha replied calmly. "We wanted to talk to Pastor Rick."
Elizabeth’s smile widened slightly.
"We had a few questions about the map he gave us," Iyisha continued, keeping her tone casual. "Just to make sure we understood the route correctly before we leave."
It sounded harmless.
Practical.
Elizabeth nodded approvingly.
"Preparation is important," she said. "But Pastor Rick isn’t here tonight."
A flicker of disappointment crossed her face, as if she had expected something else from them.
"You’re welcome to stay, of course."
Iyisha let her gaze sweep the room.
"Thank you."
Elizabeth’s attention shifted to Marybeth.
"Where’s Reya?"
The question came lightly, but it landed heavy.
Marybeth did not hesitate.
"Wasn’t she with Pastor Rick?" she asked, brows pulling together slightly. "That’s what she told me."
Elizabeth blinked.
"Did she?"
Marybeth gave a small, uncertain shrug.
"We argued last night," she added, letting just enough strain show in her voice. "I thought she might have left early to avoid me."
Elizabeth’s expression softened.
"Oh," she said. "Maybe she did go with him. Or she’s just late."
She gestured toward the rows of chairs.
"Come. Sit."
They followed.
Iyisha felt it immediately once they were seated.
The energy had shifted.
The warmth from before was thinner. The room hummed with something tighter, like a string pulled too taut.
She scanned quietly.
Ishmael stood near the side aisle speaking to two men she had not seen during previous sermons. They were not smiling. They were not greeting newcomers. They were watching.
The platform remained empty for several minutes before one of the senior members stepped forward to begin the evening prayer.
His voice carried clearly.
"Faith is tested in times of persecution," he said. "When truth threatens power, power pushes back."
A ripple of murmured agreement moved through the hall.
Iyisha’s stomach tightened.
"These are the moments," the speaker continued, "when the chosen must stand firm. When brothers and sisters may be called elsewhere for greater purpose."
Elsewhere.
Marybeth stiffened slightly.
Elizabeth leaned closer to her again.
"I’m sure Reya will return soon," she whispered kindly. "Pastor Rick trusts her."
Marybeth forced a nod.
Iyisha kept her posture steady, eyes forward, listening carefully.
If Reya’s absence had not raised suspicion yet, it would. They need to move faster.
Iyisha did not recognize most of the faces in the hall, but that did not matter.
What mattered was the footage.
She adjusted a loose strand of hair behind her ear, fingers brushing the collar of her shirt just long enough to ensure the small camera hidden inside the pen clipped to her pocket was not obstructed.
Still recording.
Still angled correctly.
She rose quietly from her seat looking at the 3 of them.
"I’ll go to the comfort room for a bit," she murmured but loud enough for Elizabeth to hear.
Malcolm looked up at her.
He did not speak but the warning in his eyes was clear.
Be careful.
She gave the smallest nod and stepped into the aisle.
The hallway beyond the main hall was dimmer, lit only by low ceiling lights. Her footsteps were soft against the floor as she passed the first open room.
Inside, several members were cooking. Pots simmered. Someone laughed. The smell of food drifted out.
Ordinary.
Almost domestic.
She pulled back before anyone could notice her watching and continued down the corridor.
The next door was closed.
As she drew closer, she heard it.
Ishmael’s voice. The mutated human.
It pressed through the wood in a way that made her recognize him instantly. He wasn’t loud, but the sound of him carried, deep and rumbling.
She froze.
There were other voices inside, but his cut through them easily.
She leaned in slightly, straining to catch the words. They were too muffled to understand fully, but she caught pieces.
"...tonight—"
"...they’re watching..."
Other men were with him. She couldn’t make out the words, only the rhythm of discussion and the scrape of chairs shifting. This wasn’t sermon tone. This was private.
Her pulse kicked higher.
She glanced down the hallway. Empty. The main hall noise was faint behind her, just enough to mask small sounds if she was careful.
She crouched slowly, unclipping the pen from her shirt. Her fingers felt slick, almost numb. Just angle it. Just a few seconds. She slid it toward the thin gap beneath the door, easing it forward until half of it disappeared under the wood. The hallway suddenly felt too exposed, too long. She stayed crouched, breathing shallowly, forcing herself not to rush.
A chair scraped sharply inside.
Her heart slammed.
Footsteps moved closer.
She pulled the pen back too quickly and it made the faintest drag against the floor. The sound, small as it was, felt enormous.
Silence.
She froze.
Then more movement inside. Closer. Directly toward the door.
She stood at once, slipping the pen back into her pocket, and walked down the corridor without looking behind her.
The handle behind her turned. She felt it without seeing it.
The nearest door was slightly ajar. She stepped inside and closed it gently.
An office.
Desk. Shelves. A stack of folders.
Her breathing was uneven now. She pressed her back against the wall, listening.
Footsteps entered the hallway.
Paused.
Right outside.
The office handle turned.
She scanned the room quickly and spotted a small bathroom door to the side. She moved across the space in three quiet strides and slipped inside just as the office door opened behind her.
The bathroom was cramped and windowless. No escape.
She flushed the toilet immediately, then turned on the tap for a second, trying to build a believable reason for being there. Her reflection in the mirror looked pale. She forced her shoulders down, forced her expression into something harmless.
The bathroom door opened.
A gun met her face.
She gasped and stumbled back, landing against the tile.
"I’m sorry," she blurted, letting her voice shake. "I didn’t know this wasn’t the public one. I just needed to use it."
The man holding the gun was older, lines carved into his forehead, eyes sharp and assessing. He did not lower the weapon immediately.
"The bathroom is at the end of the hall," he said.
"I didn’t see the sign," she replied, glancing up briefly before looking down again. "I got turned around."
He studied her for several long seconds before lowering the gun.
"You shouldn’t wander," he said.
"I won’t."
She stood slowly, resisting the urge to bolt.
As she stepped toward the door, he spoke again.
"Wait."
Her stomach dropped.
His eyes had fixed on the pen clipped to her shirt.
"You carry that everywhere?" The suspicion in his voice is evident.
"Yes," she said quickly. "I write during sermons. Notes. Thoughts."
He stepped closer. Too close.
"Let me borrow it."
Her heartbeat spiked so violently she thought she might faint. His left hand rested near his holster. Refusing was not an option.
She unclipped the pen and handed it over, careful not to let her fingers shake too much.
He turned it over once in his hand. Clicked it.
She couldn’t stop the small flinch.
