Chapter 7 - The Pre-Trial Ambush
The road leading up through Garfield County toward the Flat Tops Wilderness was a winding snake of cracked asphalt flanked by towering ponderosa pines and jagged red sandstone cliffs.
The air smelled of high-altitude cedar, damp earth, and clean, cold mountain snow.
I drove my father’s old 1998 Ford F-250—which Sarge had kept meticulously maintained inside an insulated barn for ten years. The heavy diesel engine purred like a chained lion, its deep, familiar rumble vibrating through the steering column directly into my chest.
As I rounded the final switchback near the four-mile marker, the cabin came into view.
It stood on a high granite bluff overlooking the Roaring Fork Valley. It was built of heavy, hand-scribed lodgepole pine logs, with a steeply pitched metal roof designed to shed five feet of winter snow. A thin ribbon of sweet blue woodsmoke drifted from the stone chimney into the crisp mountain air.
Parked in the dirt turnaround in front of the wrap-around porch was an unfamiliar black Cadillac Escalade with tinted windows and Phoenix dealer plates.
My grip on the steering wheel tightened. My tactical instincts kicked in instantly.
I slowed the truck, letting it roll to a stop fifty yards down the driveway behind a thick stand of aspen trees. I shut off the ignition, unclipped my duty-issue Glock 19 from beneath my fleece jacket, racked the slide to chamber a round, and slipped it into my right pocket.
I walked silently through the pines, my boots making no sound against the damp carpet of pine needles.
Standing on the porch was a tall, sleek man in a five-thousand-dollar tailored vicuña overcoat, smoking an expensive cigar. Beside him stood two broad-shouldered men in dark tactical jackets, their hands tucked conspicuously inside their waistbands.
Sitting in a weathered rocking chair right in front of the heavy cedar front door was Sarge O'Connor.
Sarge hadn't changed in ten years. He wore the same grease-stained surplus field jacket, his iron-gray hair cropped into a brutal buzzcut, a lit Marlboro dangling from the corner of his weathered mouth. Resting across his knees was a Remington 870 twelve-gauge pump shotgun, the blued steel gleaming under the high mountain sun.
"I’m telling you one last time, old man," the man in the overcoat said, his voice smooth, slick, and laced with arrogance. "I represent Apex Crest Holdings. We hold a recorded warranty deed for this parcel. We paid one point two million in good faith. You are trespassing on private corporate property."
Sarge took a slow drag from his cigarette, exhaling a thick cloud of blue smoke right into the man’s face.
"And I’m telling you for the last time, slick," Sarge rumbled, his thumb resting gently on the shotgun’s safety catch. "The only thing you hold is a ticket to a federal wire fraud indictment. This land belongs to Captain Daphne Vance. And until she walks up these steps and tells me otherwise, the first man who steps across that bottom tread gets six ounces of double-aught buckshot straight through his pelvic girdle."
One of the men in the tactical jackets shifted his stance, his hand dropping toward his left armpit.
"I wouldn't draw that piece if I were you, friend," I called out, stepping out from the shadows of the aspen grove into the open gravel driveway.
The three men spun around. The two guards froze, their eyes locking onto the steady, unblinking barrel of my Glock, leveled dead center at the chest of the man in the vicuña coat.
"Who the hell are you?" the sleek man demanded, taking a nervous step back.
"I’m Captain Daphne Vance," I said, advancing with measured, lethal precision until I was ten paces away. "The sole owner of this property. The woman whose forged death certificate your shell company used to purchase this land at forty percent below fair market value."
The man’s smooth expression cracked. He swallowed hard, his cigar smoke catching in his throat. "Captain Vance. My name is Gregory Vance—no relation. Managing Director of Apex Crest. We were defrauded by Elliot Vance just as much as you were! We are an innocent third party!"
"Innocent?" I scoffed, stopping at the base of the porch steps. "Warren Bianca already subpoenaed your internal server logs forty-eight hours ago, Mr. Vance. You received a title alert from First American Title three weeks ago warning you that the Vance Family Trust had an active military protection flag."
Gregory’s eyes darted frantically toward his two hired bodyguards, but neither man moved an inch. Sarge had slowly raised the shotgun barrel until it was pointed directly between the eyes of the guard on the left.
"You knew the deed was dirty," I continued, my voice cold enough to freeze water. "You pushed the closing through an offshore clearinghouse because your development company was desperate to break ground on the luxury ski corridor before the county zoning window closed on Friday. You aren't an innocent buyer. You're an accomplice to federal land piracy."
Gregory lifted his hands slowly, backing toward the Escalade. "We can settle this, Captain. Apex Crest will write you a check right now. Two million dollars. Cash. You sign the release, and you walk away a very wealthy young woman."
I lowered my pistol slightly, looked at the hand-carved cedar railings my father had smoothed with his own hands, and then looked back at the corporate predator standing before me.
"This land isn't for sale," I said. "Not for two million. Not for twenty million. Get off my mountain, Mr. Vance. And if I ever see you or your hired thugs past the four-mile marker again, I won't call the sheriff. I’ll treat you as hostile combatants trespassing on a designated military asset."
Gregory didn't argue. He scrambled into the back of the Escalade, his two guards diving into the front seats. The luxury SUV reversed violently, spitting gravel into the air, before tearing down the mountain road at full throttle.
Sarge watched them disappear around the bend. He spat his cigarette butt into the dirt, lowered the shotgun hammer with a soft *click*, and looked down at me with a rare, crooked grin.
May you like
"You shoot worse than your old man," Sarge growled affectionately. "Took you long enough to get home, Captain."
***