Desert Dawg

A special thanks to "Aaroneous" for the great story suggestions and for all the time it took editing. I know how much patience and the length of time it takes to read through a story and pick out errors, that's why I normally choose not to do it. 😊

I felt the hot sweat dripping in my hand. The moisture made gripping the pistol even harder than I could ever imagine. The barrel moved off its target, but only slightly as my hand shook. Not in fear. More of an anxious nervousness. If this was going to be my new career, I would have to toughen up and not try to overthink the crime I was about to commit.

The word "crime" itself was enough to make me cringe. It turned out to be an act of absolute love and recovery, but in the end, it still started out as a crime.

Yes, in every single one of our glorious states, when you remove someone from their home, tie them up and unwillingly transport them across the country, it is a crime. It's called kidnapping and up until now, I've never done anything like it before in my life.

A little about myself. My name is Sam Robinson. I am 24-years old. My mother tells me that my square chin and solid frame has been handed down for many generations. All the men on my father's side are at least six feet tall and hover around the 200lb mark. Even in the latter years of their lives, they retained all their teeth and most of their hair. Good genes all around.

For most of my life I lived just outside of Arlington VA. and the FBI has been a part of my family's life for as long as anyone could remember.

Both my father and my brother are agents. Currently, my father works only special cases, and my brother is stationed in New York. When we get together with my uncles, we are a formidable group.

Enough about that. The interesting stuff is what happened over the Christmas holidays.

It was supposed to be some much-needed downtime for me. Get caught up on some of the randomly ignored paperwork that I had neglected. Eat and drink far too much. Read a book? Probably not. Play video games? More likely. Go through my Tinder profile and tweak it for the holidays so I could find another soul who was searching for something simple and dirty. Absolutely.

But, as they say...sometimes, the best laid plans tend to go for a shit.

On a cool December 19^th morning, I rolled over and looked at my night table. The red numbers screamed "get out of bed, yah lazy asshole", but I just smiled and rolled over. It was already 1030 I had missed breakfast, so why not hang around until I could smell something that resembled lunch. I would have done exactly that, but the sounds of two men arguing with heated voices, and the sound of a house door slamming kept me awake. Finally, it was the car door slamming that made me move.

My mother was at the bottom of the wide oak staircase that was wrapped in a pinecone clustered garland. My father was at her side. His head was down in obvious anguish. Mom held his left arm with both of her hands. She was whispering words of encouragement that only he could hear. She was always the strength of our family, and when she saw me standing in only my underwear, she moved her head to let me know I wasn't needed or, perhaps at that point, wanted.

After my shower, I made my way downstairs to find out what the hell had happened, but just like the best vault ever made, my mother wouldn't give up even the slightest detail of what had transpired earlier. Instead, she handed me two plates - roast beef and Swiss on rye with chips and pickle on the side - and told me to give one to my father.

"Lunch." I walked into my father's home office. It was larger than his actual office. More law books than any normal human being would or could ever possibly want. I handed him the plate.

"Thanks Sammy." He barely looked up from the Contemporary Criminal Law Encyclopedia he was deep into. I sat across his huge desk from him and tried my best to read the upside-down print. My father pulled off his glasses and sat back in his chair, releasing a loud blow of expended oxygen.

"Tell me."

He rubbed the bridge of his nose with the thumb and finger of his left hand. "It's a tough one Sam. I probably shou..."

"Just tell me."

He looked at me, his youngest son. The son that he had put through college. The son that was following in his footsteps.

"Tricky as shit, Sam."

"Who was at the house this morning?"

My father wasn't very happy about the question, but he certainly wasn't about to lie about it.

"Ben Martin."

"Ohhhhhhhhh...I see."

The Martin family lived just down the street from our house. They had suffered an unthinkable tragedy four, maybe five years ago. Their only daughter, Cassie had been abducted by another family member. Ben's sister and her hippie husband picked Cassie up for a weekend outing. They had planned to take Cassie with them to Busch Gardens Williamsburg with their own children. Ben and Libby, his wife, had packed up everything that their teenaged daughter would need for a weekend. They gave her money and topped up the minutes on her cell phone, just in case. With a smile and a hug, they smiled and waved goodbye. It was the last time they saw their daughter.

This case had haunted my father since the first day that he took it over, eighteen months ago. It was a case close to home for us. Cassie was the little girl next door, and she was always nearby. She was the daughter my mother never had. The little girl that had a huge crush on me. The one that followed my brother and I around like a puppy. She was so adorable that our family took it just as hard as her own when she was stolen away.

My father looked wary, but he started talking.

"We found her Sam. We know where she is."

"When are you getting her back?"

"That's the tricky part. She was abducted when she was 14, but she's now 19, and she doesn't want to leave."

He rubbed his eyes and the bridge of his nose until they were both red.

"If I could, I'd go in right now, but there are so many innocent people involved. We found her by pure shit luck. They picked her aunt up for petty theft. She gave a false name, but when they ran her prints, they got a hit. I had them release her without a word. Since that day, they have been watching the group when they come into the city, and we got a positive I.D. on Cassie."

It turns out that Ben's sister and husband took the kids to every corner of the country and after a couple of years, hid them in the desert. They had joined a "religious group". Most people would call it a "cult", but the Bureau is very "politically correct" on delicate subjects like this one.

The Children of the Ever-Flowering Earth started decades earlier and had grown into a prosperous organization. It had many "camps" that were all based in areas where strangers just didn't happen by. The camp that Cassie was in, was near the California / Nevada border. A long way from outsiders, but close enough to be bused into bigger cities to do their "gathering" of goods. Yes, the good Christian's from The Children of the Ever-Flowering Earth, had no problem begging and stealing to get what they needed.

"So, what's the issue with Ben?"

"Well, as you can imagine. He wants us to go in there, guns a blazing, and take her out. He thinks because she was taken before she became an adult, there might be a legal loophole."

"And?"

He pointed at the large brown and gold covered book.

"I'm searching, but if there is one, it's still hidden from me."

My father and I talked for three more hours. We made a conference call to my brother and things started to come together. It was a reckless plan, but nevertheless, it was a plan. He showed me all the intel he had of the compound; pictures and history of the main players and some of the underlings. Apparently, they were a very wealthy cult, and they were extremely secretive and off the radar due to the fact that they were so small. In my father's expert opinion, that is what made them dangerous. The plan came together.

"Sam, I know that it looks good on paper, but I don't think it's a good idea for you to go out there alone. The legal ramifications alone are enough to get a lot of people into hot water."

"I don't think it is either. But it has to be that way to keep everyone safe. That's why I go in alone, and off the record. Dad, you know that it's the only way." I handed him a piece of paper with a list of the things necessary for a successful mission. "You'll need to make some calls."

He squinted at me.

"Don't, over think it dad" I said. "I know that you know the right people. People that have access to everything we need, and it's only a phone call away. I'm going out to the garage to pack some of my own gear. If you think it's the right thing to do, get an ETA on when that shopping list is filled, then find me the first flight to Vegas."

Ninety minutes later, both of my parents were standing at the door watching me climb into my UBER. Forty minutes after that, I was at a small non-descript airfield, boarding a Gulfstream G650. There would be no drinks and in-flight movie, but in less than three hours, I would be in Vegas.

Green combat fatigues. Side arm. Stripes on the arms. Lot of metals on the chest, and a name patch that said Nunez. He was standing at attention beside a military vehicle, the only vehicle near the plane. There was no way possible that this wasn't my ride. This guy was Air Force all the way.

"Sergeant Nunez."

"Sir."

I tossed my backpack into the back of the Jeep, and we wasted little time accelerating across the tarmac. Nunez wasn't the talkative type, but he informed me that the list was filled by his team personally, and then he handed me a business card with a list of numbers and codes.

"Just in case sir, but as a last resort only."

The Quonset hut was back off any main street or road. The lot was heavily wired, with multiple video cameras strategically placed around the perimeter. The place looked like a fortress. Nunez typed in the code and the heavy gate pulled out of the way. Another six-digit code and I was in the hut.

Five minutes later, Nunez was no more. He headed away from what was definitely something he wanted zero part of. He drove away, locking the gates behind him. He was either locking me in, or himself out. With him gone, I started preparing for my morning. I took an inventory of everything that was hidden away in the hut. It was all there. Everything was packed the way I thought it needed to be. When it was done, I curled up on the bed in a Mercedes camper van that had been provided if needed for the trip home. I was imperative that I get some sleep, because tomorrow was going to be some day.

Dec 20 ^th .

My alarm sounded at 05:00. Unlike yesterday when I scratched my nuts and rolled back over, I was now up and alert.

The power of the Ducati Enduro dirt bike roared to life when I hit the start button. I revved the engine, tapped the foot lever into gear, releasing the clutch, and was headed toward the unknown. Godspeed.

Following the road out of town, leaving the neon jungle behind me as fast as possible, I went over the game plan in my head, over and over again.

The cool morning air in the desert blew over me. It felt cool and refreshing, but the midday sun would bring more heat. That, along with not knowing what was ahead of me, made the idea of my "snatch and grab" plan weigh heavily on my mind. The plan was to do some observation, find my target, and break into the compound. If Cassie wanted to leave, we'd use the Ducati for transportation. If she wanted to stay, I'd have to kidnap her, steal another ride, and disable anything that could chase us.

Just over an hour into the trip I signaled my turn and left the pavement behind me. The hybrid tires had no problems with the packed dirt road. My GPS had a lock on my destination. At my current speed, and I was traveling faster than most cars or trucks would on this unproven path, I was 37 minutes away. By the time I was 20 minutes out, the signs started popping up. Lots of signs. Every mile, on both sides of the dirt path. "Keep out", "Danger Zone", you name it, it was there. But there was nothing that was enough to deter me.

The entire operation played on reel over and over in my head. Don't make any mistakes. Don't fuck anything up. Remember, you're all alone and there won't be any back up. But I had training, lots of training. True, it was my first true mission. It wasn't sanctioned, but it was a mission.

Slowing at the crest of a small hill in the basically flat terrain, I brought the Ducati to a stop and walked the final 20 yards to a point that gave me a clear field of view of the compound. Flat on my belly, I held the Oberwerk binoculars steady as I surveilled my target. The mass of acreage alone surprised me. The property line seemed to follow the cresting hills for miles. With well positioned turrets and a fortified main gate, the compound appeared to be very well protected. I waited patiently, and by 10:00 when there wasn't any movement, I made my move.

Hiding the things that might get me hurt if found with them, I semi-buried a waterproof backpack off the roadway near a patch of cactus that I would easily be able to find, day or night. The only thing I kept with me in my secondary pack was my burner phone which was filled with false information, the binoculars, a broken compass to add to the lie of why I was lost, a knife, some clothes, some water, food, and maps ... lots of maps with red and yellow highlights drawn all over.

For the past 90 minutes, I hadn't seen a thing in or outside the gates of the compound, but as my motorcycle hummed toward the entrance, the walls were a buzz. A sign over the gate's masthead read, "The Children of the Ever-Flowering Earth Retreat", but it was anything but welcoming. It wasn't every day that you saw a cult member holding an AR 15.

Both guards posted atop the turrets on either side of the gate were dressed in sand-colored robes. Their faces were covered with matching sandy gaiters and hats, while their eyes were shaded by darkened ski type goggles. There was no way to tell who you were looking at.

As far as the eye could see, rolls of razor wire coiled over the tops of solid tin fencing. Every 200 yards or so was another turret, and I would imagine that each of those was also manned in the same way.

Pulling to the gate, I waved. No response. I had their attention, but it was a stare down, so I killed the engine. When I did, the guard on my right picked up a walkie talkie, old school for sure, and made a call. The guard on the left lowered the AR and pointed it directly at me.

"Get back on the vehicle and leave." It was a man's voice.

"Is this AREA 51?" Their heads turned toward one another. The one with the walkie started speaking into it and the other spoke to me.

"Leave, now!"

"Fuck you army boy. I'm not doing anything wrong. I have a map. This is a public road. All I want to do is see the aliens."

It was weak. But it was what I had. The walkie person piped in.

"This is not AREA 51." It was a woman's voice coming from behind the mask.

"Sure, it isn't. I've watched the videos. You guys say the same thing all the time."

I unzipped my bike jacket and opened it gingerly. Pointing to the map held by the inner pocket, I pulled it out with two fingers, opened it and showed them the red circled area.

"See. We are right here. The public has a right to know what the government is hiding."

A quick blast of shots skyward scared the living shit out me. These assholes weren't fucking around. I'm pretty certain that it is illegal to fire a fully automatic weapon into the sky, but it was way better then firing it in my direction. In the distance, behind the tin fencing, I could hear the sounds of approaching people.

"Fuck you army boy. Fuck you and Uncle Sam. I'm outta here." Both guards trained their guns on me, and the female made it very clear what I shouldn't do.

"Desert Dawg, you move, you die."

Creaking wire and banging metal filled my ears as the rusty gate was winched open. When the dust settled, there were eight more guards and two more flower children. The guards all looked the same, but the flower children in the E-Z-GO golfcart, looked a lot like Obi-Wan Kenobi. It was a scene that could very easily be described as "weird as fuck".

Eight guns were pointed at me. Two from up top. Six from the ground. The other two guards were patting me down and rifling through my gear. After ten minutes they nodded to one of the Obi-Wan guys and handed him my phone. Scrolling over my information until he was satisfied, he turned his back and walked over to his 4x4 golfcart and drove away.

One of the "friskers" picked up my stuff, put it back into my pack, jumped on my bike and started it. One of the others pushed me firmly enough to get my feet moving.

Walking under the archway of the gate, the entire area opened up into what might be called an oasis. There were short trees and scrubs with many small, to somewhat large, koi ponds. Some of the crops and other areas were covered by shade netting. The kind that keeps the sun and nosey people from seeing in. The crops were being tended by workers who were dressed in simple white and gray tunics. Some looked my way, but most stayed focused on their work. When I spent too much time looking over at the flock, the piercing metal was once again at my back. Even with my limited time to assess the situation, I noticed that the women out numbered the men by at least a three to one margin.

Moving forward, I noticed that the homes appeared to be old module school buildings, the kind that can be moved with ease and could hold multiple families. There was an electric supply to each building that was fed by rows and rows of solar panels and air-conditioning units. It seemed to be a well-organized facility and by the looks of the surroundings and supplies. My father's $30 million assessment of the cult's wealth didn't seem to be that far off.

Slowing to try and take in more, I felt the tip of a gun barrel press into my shoulder blade. It was another "keep walking" notification. Doing as told, I followed the entourage toward the high rent district.

Off in the distance were hundreds more solar panels, large generators, some satellite dishes and a few telecommunication towers. They were setup for sure.

These were not a bunch of Kumbaya singing assholes. No, they appeared to be well ahead of the dirt poor, live for the love of Jesus, cults that seem pop up everywhere.

It seemed that every 50 yards the buildings got bigger and better. When we arrived at the pavilion where the golfcart was parked, you could easily tell that this was the spot. The "big" house. It may have been prefab, but it stood out as luxurious when compared to the other dwellings. Beside it was a covered carport with a pair of matching Mercedes "G" wagons, and the wagons were dressed to kill.

The open pavilion was covered with a tin roof. Electric fans hung from the ceiling. The sides were lined with palm trees and running down the center of the building was an interlocking brick path. Multiple rows of live edge pews, set on an angle, faced an elevated stage. Three men stood on the stage. The two who met me at the gate and one that I knew from the photo I had seen at home. Deacon David Dowd. Triple "D".

David left very little doubt of who was running the show. Strong and powerful in appearance. Dressed so that he stood out from the crowd, and when he spoke, it was easy to tell that he was an educated man.

"Mr. Williams, so nice to make your acquaintance. May I ask what brings you to our humble neighborhood?"

He had looked into my phone and found my fake name. Cody Williams.

None of my degrees were in acting, but I was about to do my best to persuade the leader of the group that if I wasn't on area 51 property, then I was in the wrong place.