Chapter 6 - The Badge and the Bullet
The white glare of the halogen spotlights burned through the damp mountain air, turning the swirling dust motes into glowing embers of ash.
I didn’t drop anything, and neither did Grady, whose thick hands remained steady at his sides, inches from the brass knuckles still hidden in his coat. Beside the hidden cellar door, young Jesse froze, his fingers inches from the iron ring that held half a century of dark family history.
“Federal forestry enforcement,” the voice boomed again from behind the blinding lights, bouncing off the ruined stone chimney. “Step away from the foundation. Hands where we can see them.”
A heavy-duty Ford diesel crept through the rusted iron gate, its push-bar grinding against the twisted metal. Two men stepped out from behind the glare, wearing olive-drab uniforms with federal patches on their shoulders, but the way they held their Remington shotguns—muzzles slightly elevated, professional, unhurried—told me everything I needed to know about who was paying their salaries.
“You boys are a long way from a national park,” I called out, my voice deep and flat, cutting straight through the hum of the idling truck engine. I kept my weight balanced on the balls of my feet, ready to move if the lead shotgun twitched.
The man in front lowered his polarized sunglasses just enough to reveal a pair of cold, flat eyes. It was a face I recognized from local news clippings back when I used to track corporate corruption files for our club's archives: Sheriff Marcus Vance, wearing a borrowed federal jacket like a Halloween costume.
“Name’s Agent Vance,” the man lied smoothly, stepping forward until the perimeter light caught the silver badge pinned crookedly to his chest. “We received a tip about illegal trespass and artifact looting on protected timberland. Step away from the hole, mister. Now.”
“Artifact looting?” Grady let out a short, dry bark of laughter that had no humor in it at all. “Old man’s just looking at his own front porch. You need a federal warrant for masonry work these days, Sheriff?”
Vance’s gaze flicked past me, locking onto eighty-four-year-old Amos Bell, who was still kneeling beside the open cellar latch, his frail chest heaving with every breath.
“That ground is private property owned by Miller Holdings,” Vance said, resting his hand on the receiver of his shotgun. “And whatever you think you’re digging up down there became county property back when taxes went unpaid in nineteen-eighty. Open that latch, kid, and you’re looking at a federal felony.”
Jesse didn’t move. He looked up at Vance, his jaw clenched tight. “My grandfather built this house. My family paid for it in blood before your bosses stole the title with a rigged court order.”
Vance’s eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. He pulled a radio from his tactical vest, pressing the side down with his thumb.
“Dale, they’re uncooperative,” Vance spoke into the mic, his voice carrying clearly across the clearing. “Bring the flatbed around. We’re impounding every bike and hauling the lot of them down to the county jail for federal land violation.”
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From the shadows beyond the treeline, the deep roar of a heavy-duty winch engine suddenly ground to life, signaling that our escape route was officially cut off.
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