Page 31 of Beyond Redemption

Stella stirred in her seat. I reached over to rest my fingers on her knee, the contact quieting something in my chest as much as it soothed her. “Maybe now is a good time to go over the rules.”

Wimble obliged. “First and most important, no one leaves the grounds without express authorization from General Marcel.Not for supplies, not for a change of scenery. If you need something, it’s requested through command.”

A beat passed before he spoke again.

“No phones outside designated areas. Comms are monitored. Anything sensitive stays verbal and indoors.” He adjusted his grip on the wheel. “Weapons stay secured and only if you’re cleared to carry. Even then, you follow their protocols, not yours.” He paused again. “Curfew is enforced. Lights out means lights out. Movement after hours gets you bounced. Nothing gets photographed. If it has a lens, it stays pointed down. No recording. No posting to social media. Nothing that creates a digital footprint tied to this location. Not that it will be possible, your phones and weapons will be confiscated at the outer checkpoint.”

His eyes flicked to the rearview, catching Bodhi and Olive.

“And finally—no freelancing. No side plans. No well-meaning decisions. The FBI has no jurisdiction within the compound. If you have a suggestion, request facetime with General via the CO, Joshua Brooks, or one of the commanders and they’ll run it up the chain. If something feels off, you report it. You don’t handle it.”

Silence settled.

“Keep in mind they’re extending protection, not hospitality,” Wimble finished. “Respect that, and you won’t have problems.”

“That’s a lot of rules to remember. What if we mess up?” Bodhi asked.

Wimble didn’t turn. “Don’t. Especially you. You’re not listed as essential, and that matters there.”

“Liis?” Olive whimpered.

“It’ll be okay,” I reassured her. “I’ll keep him on the straight and narrow.”

The highway thinned to a darker strip of asphalt, scrub and rock crowding the edges as the headlights carved a narrowpath forward. Then, shoulders disappeared, the pavement roughening beneath the tires. Streetlights dropped off, then signage, then anything that suggested civilization. Stella slept on, unmoving except for the rise and fall of her chest, a small mercy I didn’t question. In the back row, Olive had drifted off, too, her head tipped against Bodhi’s shoulder, his body angled toward her as if instinctively bracing for every bump. The quiet closed in on a level that made us recognize there would be no turning back without permission.

The compound didn’t announce itself so much as emerge, piece by piece. Low lights appeared first, spaced wide and dim, then the outline of structures cut into the land instead of sitting on top of it. Everything was matte, muted, built to disappear from a distance and dominate up close. The fencing came next—heavy, unapologetic, and layered with razor wire and warning signs that didn’t bother with politeness. This wasn’t about blending in anymore. It was about drawing a line and daring anyone to cross it.

The SUV slowed as we approached the first gate.

“Thomas?” I said, my eyes narrowing at what lie ahead. “This is no militia camp. It’s more like a small paramilitary town.”

“I’d guess a few hundred people live inside the wire,” Thomas said. “Enough trained fighters to make any sane man think twice about coming through that gate. Exactly what we need.”

“Agreed, but…” I said, trailing off.

“Liv?” Bodhi said, gently waking her. “We’re here.”

“The male is Corporal Fonseco,” Wimble said, nodding toward the small guard building. “He goes by Fonzie. He comes off as intimidating at first, but he warms up. The female is their best marksman, Sergeant Spenser Marcel.”

“Marcel?” I asked.

He nodded. “Naomi’s cousin. There’s another one, too. Her sister, Kansas. They’re both scarier than Fonseco, and Spensermay look like a flaxen-haired ballerina, but unlike Fonseco, she never warms up. Best to just stay out of her way.”

Fonseco stepped out of the guard box with his weapon slung but ready, his flashlight cutting slow, methodical passes over and under the SUV.

Once he finished, Wimble leaned out the window and spoke quietly. Credentials were checked. Names confirmed. Our phones and sidearms were requested and surrendered without hesitation. Bags were opened, searched, zipped again. Everyone except Stella was asked to step out, one by one, and subjected to a brief, but efficient pat-down. Then, they searched the interior. Spenser opened Stella’s door last. She rifled through the baby bag then moved on to Stella. Spenser’s touch was careful but exact as she checked the car seat, then ran her hands over Stella’s clothes and diaper, gentle enough not to wake her.

I felt the urge to thank her—for the care, for the restraint—but Wimble’s earlier warning echoed in my head. I decided to keep my appreciation to myself.

Spenser left us for the guard box, Fonseco took a step back, his hands clasped behind him. “You’re clear to proceed to the second checkpoint, Agent Wimble.”

Spenser opened the guard box door to finally speak, and it was every bit as cold as Wimble described. “You know the drill, Wimble. Lights off past the bend. Stay on the marked route.”

“Roger that,” Wimble said, rolling up his window.

The gate began to slide open, metal grinding low and slow, the sound carrying in the open desert like a warning instead of a welcome. Beyond it, the compound waited, dark shapes and muted lights arranged with purpose instead of comfort. Nothing about it was inviting. It was built for people who expected trouble and planned to survive it.

Once we cleared the gate, it was obvious we were entering a place governed by rules we didn’t set, protected by systemswe didn’t control, and subject to consequences we couldn’t negotiate our way out of.