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I give him a humorless smile. “You’re starting to see why I’m in the right room.”
Scar leans forward, arms braced on the table. “Then start talking, North. You’ve hunted them long enough. Tell us what we’re dealing with here.”
I nod once, slowly, and open the laptop in front of me. The screen glows with pulled surveillance stills, grainy footage, blurred faces. Victims. Handlers. Bidders. Monsters in suits and smiles.
“The Aviary isn’t a place. It’s an idea. You can’t just raid it. You can’t storm in and slap cuffs on it. It doesn’t bleed the way you want it to. It reinvents. Regenerates. Cut off one branch? Two grow back. Which is why I don’t want to kill it. I want to salt the fucking soil beneath it. So nothing ever grows there again.”
Mason folds his arms. “We talking about a few sick bastards in a basement somewhere?”
“No,” I reply. “We’re talking international. Private airstrips. Offshore bank accounts. Tech companies laundering data. Faith-based charities rerouting funds. Politicians funding campaigns with blood money they don’t even know they’re sitting on.”
Lucky whistles low through his teeth. Scar stays silent, his jaw tight.
“They operate incells,” I continue. “Compartmentalized. Each handler only knows their tier and their assignments. That’s why it’s so hard to break. You take out one head? Two more pop up. Different names. Same methods.”
“Auctions?” Kanyan asks.
“Digital and physical. The physical ones are rarer now—too much risk. But when they do happen, it’s elite-level. Invitation only. Passwords rotated hourly. Bidders are required to offer a ‘collateral girl’—someone disposable. A show of good faith.”
Mason’s expression curdles. “You’re telling me these people bringextra victimsto prove they’re legit?”
I nod. “And the sickest part? They don’t all buy for pleasure. Some bid just to break the girls. Train them. Then resell them at inflated prices. They call them?—”
“—Canaries,” Scar finishes, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve heard the term.”
I meet his eyes. “It’s worse than you think. A Canary isn’t just a girl. It’s aproduct tier.One who’s been broken and ‘tuned’ to fit specific buyer demands. Compliant. Mute. Scarred. Clean.”
Kanyan’s fists clench at his sides.
Scar speaks next. “Where does Vernon Gibbons fit in all this?”
Pastor Vernon Gibbons. He’s not just a rumor. Not a myth whispered through Bureau channels and back-alley intel drops. He’s real. And he’s in this up to his sanctimonious throat.
“We think he’s at the top,” I say. “The Pastor is more than a cover. He’s the architect. He uses his church as the intake net. Girls walk in broken, looking for God—and walk out packaged for sale. His outreach programs are a fucking front.”
“Jesus,” Mason mutters.
“No,” I say. “Not Jesus. Just a man who wears a collar in the name of ‘religion’.”
Lucky leans forward, brows furrowed. “And the buyers?”
“They come from everywhere. Banking. Medicine. Politics. Law enforcement. Some just watch. Some buy. Some sell. The Aviary’s client list is deeper than anything you want to believe.”
Scar straightens. “And Maxine?”
“She’s not a random grab,” I tell them. “Someone requested her specifically. Someone high enough to override the system and order a retrieval.”
Mason’s voice is low. “Why her?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “But Zack wasn’t just watching her for fun. He was waiting for a green light to take her. We don’t know what the trigger was.”
Silence falls over the room like a fog.
Then Scar speaks. “So the Pastor’s the boss. He’s the one pulling the strings.”
It’s not a question.
I stop pacing. “He’s deeper than that. This must be big for them to track the same girl twice.”