13. Daisy
Chapter thirteen
Daisy
Angel and I spend the next forty-five minutes helping Scott and Owen unload their vehicle and get their equipment set up.
Bennett even takes off his suit coat and joins in the fun.
We decide that Vinny’s cabin is a more suitable meeting place since it has more space.
It’s designed for a family, whereas the one I’m staying in is a honeymoon suite meant to be quaint and cozy.
I laugh at the two sets of bunk beds in the second bedroom, wondering how Scott and Owen are going to fit without their feet hanging off the ends. At least they have a place to store their belongings. “I bet these quarters feel a little nostalgic, like you’re back in the military,” I tell them.
Scott grins and ribs Owen a bit with his next remark. “I was in the Air Force. We had five-star accommodations all the way. Anything less was unacceptable.”
“Rub it in,” Owen says. “Compared to my time in the Army, this cabin is a five-star accommodation.”
While Owen sets up his computer, monitors, and surveillance equipment, the rest of us take seats around the dining room table, which is just large enough to fit six people.
Vinny grabs bottles of water from the refrigerator and passes them out to each of us. “Bennett, where will you be staying?”
“At a little bed-and-breakfast down in Prospect, ten miles south of here. The Fir and Hearth Inn,” he replies.
“As much as I enjoy a good camping trip, I prefer the creature comforts of home a little more.” Bennett removes a thick folder from his satchel and lays it on the table.
“Can you tell me what led your team to believe Crater Lake is the next target location?”
Since Scott and Owen have copies of the same file Angel and I have, Scott shows Bennett the two maps. “The first map contains the known abduction sites.”
Then I point to the second map with the sites linked. “This one shows that every three abduction sites form a triangle. The last two were at North Cascades and Yellowstone. Based on distance, we concluded that the next abduction would occur here at Crater Lake or at Lassen Volcanic.”
Bennett nods and opens his folder. “Interesting.” He says the word in a way that makes me believe he’d already drawn the same conclusion. Sliding a piece of paper with an image on it across the table to me, he adds, “Have you ever heard of this company?”
Angel leans over and peeks over my shoulder to see the logo for Dominion Atrix Group. The outer image forms a triangle, with the letters D-A-G filling it.
Angel runs his finger over the image, outlining the triangle. “We came across the name when we were looking into a man named Brad Callahan. He works for the Park Service, but until five years ago, he was employed by Dominion.”
“They’re an international accounting firm,” Vinny says. “How are they involved?”
“Dominion is much more than that,” Bennett replies.
“Dominion has its fingers in a lot of pies, including handling financial transactions for terrorist organizations. The CIA has even used their services a time or two because they are the epitome of discreet and do an excellent job of hiding a money trail.”
My lips pull at the edges, forming a thin line. I drum my fingernails on the table, trying to figure out how an accounting firm plays a role in all of this. There has to be a reason Bennett brought them up, one that isn’t just about money. “What other ‘pies’ are you referring to?”
“What aren’t they would be a better question,” Bennett replies. “Technology, science, pharmaceuticals, transportation, shipping, and… uh… procurement are just a few of the slices.”
Next to me, Angel growls. “And when you say ‘procurement,’ you mean human trafficking.”
“Not exactly. Dominion can procure almost anything you want and will do whatever it takes to get it. The more difficult the item, the higher the price. For example, if you wanted a fragment of the Dead Sea Scrolls from the Book of Shrine in Jerusalem or from Vatican City, you could expect to pay well into the eight-figure range for a specialized team to steal it. People are easier to supply, but this is not your typical human trafficking ring. Dominion doesn’t send hundreds of girls across the ocean in shipping containers like you see in the movies. ”
Bennett shows us the pictures of all eighteen girls who have gone missing from the national parks over the past twenty-three years. My heart races when I see my picture among them.
What’s worse is that the pictures don’t stop coming.
The next set is of girls with blonde hair and blue eyes of various ages.
All teenagers, some as young as twelve or thirteen, if I had to guess.
Those are followed by even more pictures of redheads with green eyes, then dark-skinned girls with various eye colors other than brown.
All the girls are absolutely stunning. There are nearly forty in total.
My vision goes blurry with unshed tears as I look from the pictures up at Bennett while he grabs another stack. I hold up my hand to stop him. “What is this?”
The room goes deathly silent until Owen says, “A catalog.”
“That’s a fairly accurate assessment,” Bennett says.
I lean forward and touch the faces of the girls I don’t recognize. “Have all of these girls gone missing from a national park? How could I have missed this?”
“No. These are just the girls I believe Dominion has acquired over the years. The man you’re after isn’t the only one employed by the company and tasked with robbing families of their precious children, nor will catching him stop what’s been put into motion,” Bennett says.
“So many families destroyed,” I mutter.
Bennett collects the pictures and places them back in his file folder, though he doesn’t put the folder back in his briefcase.
“Not as many as you might think. With the exception of the park abductions, most of these girls are runaways or were given by their families to do God’s work, which is why I know your guy isn’t the only one working for Dominion.
The list could be even longer than what I’ve just shown you. ”
Runaways are often targets for human trafficking because they’re vulnerable, isolated, and ripe for exploitation. But the whole “God’s work” thing has me flummoxed.
“Explain that last part to me, Bennett.”
“Religious cults,” he says.
Owen and I both immediately turn our heads toward Scott, who now sits stoically with a locked jaw.
Scott’s father was a pastor who started a religious retreat known as TO-CARE, Tiburon Organization for Conscious Ascension, Renewal, and Evolution.
It was meant to be a place to grow closer to God in quiet reflection after his wife died.
Somewhere along the way, Scott’s father became one of the lost sheep, guiding his flock in the wrong direction.
Rather than following Biblical principles from the Word of God, drugs that made you feel good became the primary coping mechanism.
Scott doesn’t mention any of this to Bennett, likely because he already knows. If he doesn’t, there’s no sense in stirring the pot. “Any cult in particular?”
Bennett shows us a map of the United States with all the religious cults currently known to the CIA.
There are hundreds. “There are plenty, but primarily from a group called TRUST, Transformation Retreat for Universal Spiritual Truth. They are one of many cults in the country, all of which afford ample opportunity because they use hallucinogenic drugs as part of their healing programs.”
“We’ve heard of similar organizations,” Scott says.
With an eyebrow raised toward Scott, Bennett confirms that he knows more about us than he’s let on. “I’m sure you have.”
Scott asks through gritted teeth, “Why would someone target a religious cult like TRUST?”
I answer for Bennett. “Imagine parents high on psilocybin, lying in their beds or on the couch. Someone comes into the room and says, ‘Fear not, for your daughter has ascended!’ Poof! The girl is gone, and the parents feel blessed by the disappearance. The girls are snatched in the middle of the night with no one bothering to look for them and no one reporting them missing.”
Angel leans back in his seat and folds his arms across his chest, staring Bennett down. “And yet you’ve done nothing after knowing all of this.”
Bennett’s cheeks turn a light shade of pink.
“My focus was never the missing persons. Thousands of children go missing every year, with reports numbering in the hundreds of thousands. The CIA doesn’t have the time, inclination, or jurisdiction to look into them.
Nor does the agency really care. The only reason I was assigned to these cases was because of Dominion Atrix Group. ”
“Then why are you here?” I ask. “If you don’t care about the girls, then….”
Bennett huffs. “I never said that I don’t care about them, but I had my orders, Daisy.
I was tasked with monitoring Dominion Atrix Group, keeping them under surveillance and ensuring that our asset was protected, even from itself.
Had you not run Kenneth Johnson’s image through facial recognition, I’d still be doing just that.
You can thank Director Ludlow for his willingness to cooperate with other law enforcement agencies.
His predecessor was far more secretive.”
Vinny nods in understanding. He had to groom a cartel leader in Colombia to help balance the power between the government and the cartel, all while allowing drugs to leave the country and enter the U.S.
I can’t imagine what other atrocities he witnessed while being ordered to stand idly by and allow it to happen.
The weight upon his soul must have been unbearable. I know I couldn’t do it.
I wave my hand toward the folder in front of Bennett. “Who is Kenneth Johnson in all of this?”
Bennett opens the folder again and rummages through the file, placing another picture in the center of the table. It’s of a handsome man with hair graying at the temples. It’s not Kenneth Johnson.
He points to the picture. “I believe Kenneth Johnson is working with this man, Brad Callahan. He also goes by the alias Douglas Jenner.”
Grabbing Angel’s arm for moral support, and in silent warning for him not to say “I told you so,” I stare at the photo. “We’ve met.”
“Then you should know that he’s a very dangerous man. Brad Callahan also has an offshore account in his name that receives deposits at least once a year that coincide with the dates of the kidnappings; each for $250,000.”
Words from my captor come back to haunt me. “No amount of lash-batting and sweet smiles from a fourteen-year-old girl will change the fact that you are nothing more to me than a payday.”
Apparently, it’s a quarter-million-dollar payday.
“This needs to end here,” I say. “First, we take down Brad or Douglas, whoever he is, and Kenneth Johnson along with him. After that, we take down Dominion. Who’s with me?”