Chapter 6 - The Anatomy of a Trap
The rain returned by late afternoon, turning into a steady, rhythmic thrum against the glass of the abandoned mill.
Marcus stood before the tactical map, his fingers tracing the single road that led to the Sterling estate—a narrow, two-lane asphalt strip called Ridge Crest Drive. It was bordered by a ninety-foot drop on the eastern side and a solid rock wall on the western side. It was the perfect choke point.
“They’re coming for us,” Silas said, cleaning the bolt of his rifle with an oily cloth. “Jaxson and Rowan just left the logging office in their black Ram 3500. They have two of their yard boys with them. They’re armed, Marcus. Shotguns and deer rifles. They think you’re hiding at the old hunting cabin near the river.”
“Alvarez, are the local lines secure?” Marcus asked, not looking up from the map.
“Landry’s deputies are completely blind,” Alvarez replied, his fingers flying across his keyboard. “I’ve rerouted their radio repeaters to a dead frequency. If they try to call for backup, they’re just going to hear static. The local radio station—the one Charles owns? I’ve taken over their transmitter. Instead of the midday country show, they’re broadcasting the driveway video audio on a continuous loop across the whole county. Every kitchen, every tavern, every gas station in Sterling Falls is listening to Rowan beat that little girl right now.”
Marcus took his canvas jacket from the back of his chair and pulled it on. He didn't look like a soldier anymore; he looked like the shadow of the mountain itself.
“Doc, stay with Lily at the hospital,” Marcus ordered. “If anyone comes near that ward who doesn't have a medical degree, you use the secondary extraction route we mapped out.”
Sarah Lin looked up from her medical kit, her expression hard as flint. “They won't get past the elevator, First Sergeant. I have enough sedative in this bag to put a black bear to sleep for a week.”
Marcus looked at Silas and Preacher Boyd. “Let’s go. It’s time to show the Sterling boys how we handle a vehicle recovery.”
Two miles away, the black pickup truck was roaring up the winding mountain road, its tires splashing through deep puddles of mud. Rowan was behind the wheel, his face twisted in a mask of pure, unadulterated rage. Jaxson sat in the passenger seat, a high-powered hunting rifle resting between his knees, his forehead covered in a cold sweat.
“He’s dead,” Rowan screamed over the roar of the engine. “I don't care about the feds! I don't care about the laws! Marcus Vance think he can ruin my family? I’m gonna put a hole in his chest big enough to throw a cat through!”
“Rowan, slow down!” Jaxson yelled, gripping the dashboard as the truck slid around a sharp curve. “The road’s slippery! Look at the ridge!”
As they rounded the final bend before the high summit, the headlights of the truck caught a massive obstacle blocking both lanes.
It was an old, rusted logging tractor—the kind used to pull hemlock trunks out of deep ravines. It was parked sideways, its massive iron tires locked into the asphalt, completely barring the path. Standing beside the tractor, beneath a large black umbrella, was a single man.
Marcus Vance.
He didn't have a weapon in his hands. He stood with his fingers tucked into the pockets of his canvas jacket, his face illuminated by the bright high beams of the Sterling truck.
“There he is!” Rowan screamed, slamming the truck into park and grabbing his 12-gauge shotgun from the gun rack behind his seat. “Get out! Get out and kill him!”
The four men exploded out of the truck, their boots splashing into the mud, their weapons raised. Rowan pointed the shotgun straight at Marcus’s head, his finger tightening around the trigger.
“You’re a dead man, soldier boy!” Rowan shouted into the storm. “You think you can play games with us? Look around you! This is our mountain!”
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Marcus didn't move. He didn't blink. He looked at Rowan, then at Jaxson, then at the two yard boys who were trembling as they held their rifles.
“Rowan,” Marcus said, his voice carrying clearly over the wind, cool and steady as a heartbeat. “You should have looked at the trees.”
