Page 1 of Rescued By the Operative

Chapter One

Nelly

I clock in for the day shift at the women’s detention facility just in time to see Floydene Blatch leaving.

“Anything eventful overnight?” I ask the first wife of the highest elder, second only to the Prophet.

Floydene looks irritated that I’m standing so close and showing an iota of concern for the prisoner. “You might want to check on her and see if she’s dead.”

Georgeanne Turner was brought here a few days ago as punishment for running away. She wasn’t caught; she came back out of fear and guilt. It happens more than you think.

My coworker’s tone suggests we’re talking about a goldfish, not a human woman.

“Why would Georgeanne Turner be dead?”

Floydene’s frown lines deepen at my use of the prisoner’s full name.

She doesn’t care. She doesn’t even want to be here, let alone be talking to me. The most favored wife in the church would much rather be spending her time terrorizing elementary school children. But since The Prophet was arrested and elders are dropping like flies — either from old age, assassinations from within, or as a result of their own poor choices — the women are getting reassigned. Floydene used to run the primary school. Now, education has been put at the bottom of the priority list, and the school’s leadership has been assigned to a few of the parentified teenage girls.

The women of status in this cult are quickly realizing that they have no say after all.

Floydene informs me that Georgeanne hasn’t eaten anything in 12 hours. Nothing since my last shift. She refused to eat when I was watching her, too. So she’s been starving herself for at least 24 hours.

I can’t imagine. The FBI has hardened me to survive on very little if need be, but I could easily house a giant ice coffee and a box of donuts right about now. The shitty food around here is starting to get to me.

“She’s still not eating? That’s not what I wanted to hear,” I say.

Floydene shrugs. “She is unrepentant. Maybe the guilt and fear of heavenly retribution hang heavy on her.”

These people. Every day is whack-a-doodle time.

“Have a good night, Floydene.”

I have to be careful not to contradict their ideas too much. Floydene leaves, and I go to my office and heat up two cups of noodles.

I’m supposed to wait until the compound’s cafeteria delivers breakfast at 8 a.m., but I don’t think that overcooked oatmeal is going to tempt the prisoner.

The hallway is eerily quiet as I make my way to the holding cell. I open the door and let the light from the hallway flood inside.

Inside, Georgeanne stirs. She’s breathing. Thank goodness.

Seeing her wispy form curled up on her side on the concrete floor makes me hurt.

“Georgeanne? You need to eat,” I say.

No answer.

Carefully, I set the steaming cup down on the floor close to her.

The real me, Nelly Carter, would love nothing more than to get her out of here. Just pick her up and get her to safety.

But inside the compound, I’m Wynella Smith, a transplant from Wyoming.

I have to pick my battles with these people. One false move and my cover will be blown.

As far as these cult types believe, my mother was of the Barker family, which split from the Celestial Order of Covenant Kinship before I was born. My father was Beryl Smith, who was murdered for founding a second splinter group and pulling membership away from the Kinship group. He had fifteen wives, and I’m the tenth child of his fourth wife. After being raised in the splinter group, I decided that Kinship was doing a better job of following our ancestors’ teachings.

What do you know? The elders believed every word of it on the day I came knocking on their door. They simply cannot resisthaving their ego stroked, especially if they think it’s coming from someone disillusioned with a rival clan.