Page 59 of Avenging Angel

“Hey, I’m here with Bennett. Do you mind if I put you on speaker?”

I head up the stairs and hear the click of the lock as it disengages. Bennett doesn’t open the door yet, preferring to listen to what Jerry has to say first.

“Officer Gray, before I get started, I have one question: Who is Kenneth Johnson? Specifically, who is he to you?” Jerry asks. “He has to be important to the CIA since you’ve gone to such great lengths to conceal his identity. You’ve scrubbed him from every database, including the Department of Defense. Why is a former Army Master Sergeant important to the CIA?”

Giving the answer Bennett gave us, I say, “The CIA believes he and Brad Callahan are working together and that Kenneth may have sensitive information on the Dominion Atrix Group.”

Bennett purses his lips, clearly not appreciating me speaking for him. “He’s a person of interest and linked to Dominion; that’s all I’m allowed to tell you. Clearly, I didn’t scrub every database if you were able to track down his history.”

“Oh, you did a fine job of that. What you didn’t do was scrub the articles written in local papers about the missing girls. It’s interesting to note that the photos used in the articles were often of the victims in their happiest moments. Does the name Brit Larson ring a bell?”

“She was abducted five years ago at Saguaro National Park,” I answer even though the question wasn’t directed at me. “That’s where I first saw Kenneth Johnson.”

Jerry grunts. “The last name Larson is Brit’s mother’s maiden name, a name that was changed after a messy divorce in Brit’s younger years. Kenneth Johnson is Brit’s biological father, and the two had a close relationship once the parents began the reconciliation process. The photo the newspaper used was a picture of Brit in her room, smiling into a mirror. Do you want to know what she was smiling about?”

Without waiting for either of us to respond, Jerry continues his monologue. “I’ll tell you. Brit was smiling in that photo because Kenneth had just submitted his retirement papers so that he could be home for his daughter’s high school years, watch her run track, and attend her swim meets. It was fortuitous that he was still in his uniform when sharing the news; his reflection in the mirror showed me everything I needed to know to start making some phone calls. You see, Bennett, to make someone truly disappear, more than a digital footprint needs to be erased.”

“It doesn’t tell you everything,” Bennett seethes. “For all I know, he took a job with Dominion or contract work for Brad Callahan, aka Douglas Jenner. Maybe kidnapping his daughter was a test of loyalty to the organization. All I can tell you is that he’s been on our radar for the past five years. The first time I questioned him, I couldn’t prove he was involved even though I know he is!”

While both men make a good point, standing on the front porch of a house we’re breaking into isn’t the place to get into an argument. That’s when Jerry lowers the boom.

“We should find out soon enough. The Southern Knights are closing in on Kenneth’s location as we speak and should have him apprehended in the next few minutes. I imagine there will be a conversation while they wait for your return.”

Bennett’s face turns a shade of red I haven’t seen on him since I met him. Gone is the cool and collected officer with an ego the size of Alaska. “They have been given strict orders not to question Kenneth Johnson without me present.”

Jerry laughs, bordering on maniacal. “Owen still wears two hats, one of which is as a special agent directly under the Director of the FBI. There is nothing you can do to stop him from questioning a suspect in an ongoing investigation on American soil. Your demands have no sway over what he can or cannot do. If you need to make a call to stop it, I suggest you do it fast. Oh, wait! Director Ludlow guaranteed the FBI the CIA’s full cooperation.”

Bennett scowls as he prepares to open the door. “What is with all of you and your hatred of the CIA?”

Jerry stops laughing. “For starters, your former Director sent his goons to kill my wife a little over four years ago and put six foster children in danger. Not cool, but he got his comeuppance. Then there’s the illegal gun and drug smuggling they allowed to happen, cooperation with the cartels on more than one occasion, and a willingness to turn on their own officers. You’re part of an agency that has gotten so far off track, I don’t know how you’ll ever find your way back. I pray that one day your eyes will be opened because blind loyalty comes at a cost.”

“Loyalty pays the bills,” Bennett says, opening the door and peeking inside to ensure the coast is clear. “If only there was a way to prove to you that I’m on your side.”

“Helping me get the answers I’m looking for is a good place to start,” I tell him.

As Bennett swings the door wide open so I can enter, he says, “Fine. As I live and breathe, you’ll get those answers, Daisy. You might not like them, but I promise you’ll get them.”

That’s when we both hear it: the click of a device activating.

Before I register what’s happening, Bennett pushes me out the front door and chases me down the steps.

“It’s a bomb!”

I don’t hear the explosion when the device goes off so much as feel a wave of heat wash over me. The blast forces us both to the ground, the side of my body and cheek scraping along the sidewalk as I tuck my chin to my chest. The weight of Bennett draped over me feels almost as suffocating as the heat itself.

It takes a full minute or two to get my bearings before I roll over and push Bennett off me. “Thank you for saving my life. Honestly, I didn’t expect such gallantry from you.”

I’m expecting a “You’re welcome” or some snarky comment like my brother would say in an attempt to fend off the gratitude. Instead, silence is Bennett’s only response. I turn him over and see a gash on his head, then notice his chest isn’t moving.

Without thinking about it, I check his airway, confirm he’s not breathing, and start CPR.

Before I know what’s happening, a crowd gathers around us to watch the house go up in flames. With my phone nowhere to be found and my hands busy keeping Bennett alive, I shout to anyone who will listen.

“Don’t just stand there and record a video! Someone call an ambulance!”

“You’re a fortunate young lady,” the doctor says while he ties off the last stitch to a gash on my forearm that my brain has yet to register.

“I wouldn’t call looking like roadkill ‘fortunate,’ but yes, I am blessed to be alive.”