Chapter 19 Infiltration – Erik #2
The first page shows an agreement with someone identified as “S.L.” in the header but Senator Langston in the signature line. The contract outlines “consulting services” and “student placements” in exchange for “legislative support and protection.”
I flip to the next page. Judge Harrington. Another contract, this one detailing payments in exchange for “favorable rulings” and “case dismissals.”
“Detective James Harper,” I read aloud as I film the next contract. The man who’s supposedly been investigating the network for years is listed here as receiving monthly payments for “information containment” and “evidence management.”
My jaw clenches. How many investigations has he sabotaged? How many victims has he silenced?
The contracts detail payments, services rendered, students “placed” in various positions.
It’s all coded language, carefully worded to provide plausible deniability.
But the meaning is clear. Selena has been trafficking students through this academy for years, positioning them where the network needs them.
Secretaries in government offices. Interns for powerful politicians. Junior associates at major law firms. All of them Shark Bay graduates. All of them controlled through blackmail, drugs, or conditioning.
I find a folder marked “The Harvest – Attendee List” and my blood runs cold. This year’s event. I open it carefully, filming each page.
Dozens of names, many I recognize from news coverage of powerful families. Beside each name is a notation about which students they’re interested in “acquiring.”
Senator Morrison is interested in “Subject 198 – Female, 18, psychology major, malleable personality.”
A CEO from a tech company wants “Subject 203 – Male, 19, computer science, high IQ, minimal family connections.”
My hands shake as I turn the pages. Luna’s name appears three times, listed under different categories. “Subject 167 – High intelligence, proven manipulation skills, comes pre-trained.” Belle’s appears twice. “Subject 169 – Experienced intelligence operative, excellent social camouflage.”
Even Max and I are listed, though the notes suggest we’re “high risk” and may need “special handling” before placement.
“They’re planning to offer us at the Harvest,” I say into the camera, my voice tight with barely controlled rage. “All of us. Students who’ve been through trauma, who’ve been groomed and controlled and broken down. They’re going to present us to buyers like we’re merchandise.”
I flip through more files, finding financial records that trace payments back years. Offshore accounts in the Cayman Islands. Shell corporations registered in Panama. A paper trail that connects Selena to every major network operation exposed in the trials.
Wire transfers to Richard Gallagher before his arrest. Payments from the Queens going back a decade. Transactions with names I recognize from David’s investigation, people who were never charged because the evidence didn’t reach them.
“This proves it,” I whisper. “The network didn’t end with the Queens and Gallaghers. It never ended. Selena Harpsons has been running it from here the entire time.”
I move to her computer, grateful that she left it unlocked. The screen shows her email client, several messages open. I film each one, making sure the sender and recipient information is clearly visible.
An email to someone identified only as “The Founder.” The message discusses “concerns about the Stone boy and his persistent investigation” and mentions “contingency plans” if I prove too difficult to control.
Another email details this year’s Harvest schedule. Which students will be presented during which sessions. Which network members get first selection. The whole thing is organized like an auction catalog.
I click through her sent folder, finding months of correspondence.
Messages to Detective Harper about “managing” evidence from the Queens’ trial.
Communications with judges about “favorable outcomes” in cases involving network members.
Coordination with offshore account managers about payment distribution.
The camera captures everything. Every name. Every transaction. Every piece of evidence that this place, this supposed sanctuary, is actually the heart of the network we’ve been fighting.
My phone storage is at sixty percent. I’ve been filming for almost twelve minutes. I need to move faster.
I open her desk drawers, finding more files.
Student medical records. A quick glance tells me they’re talking about unexplained sedative prescriptions.
Therapy session notes from Dr. Moore detailing which students are most vulnerable to manipulation.
Security logs showing when certain students were taken off campus for “special training.”
I film it all, narrating what I’m seeing, making sure David’s team understands the significance of each document.
A file labeled “Acquisition History” contains photos and profiles of students going back to the 1970s. Hundreds of them. All the children who passed through Shark Bay, sorted by year, annotated with their current status.
Some are marked “Successfully Placed.” Others say “Ongoing.” Too many say “Removed” or “Deceased.”
I’m so focused on filming, on making sure every detail is documented, that I don’t register the faint sound of footsteps in the outer office.
Don’t notice the door handle turning with infinite slowness.
Don’t see the shadow that falls across the threshold.
I flip to another page in the Acquisition History file, angling the camera to capture a photo from 1998. A boy who looks familiar, though I can’t place him. The annotation says he was “placed” with a senator’s family and is now “serving in law enforcement.”
My hands are steady now, muscle memory taking over. Pan, zoom, capture, move to the next page. Document everything.
The phone shows I’ve been streaming for fourteen minutes. Storage at forty percent. I have time. I can get more.
I reach for another file, this one marked “Active Surveillance.”
A floorboard creaks behind me.
Some instinct, some primal warning system, finally screams that something’s wrong.
I turn, phone still raised, camera still recording.
The gunshot is deafening.