Chapter 7 - The Mountain Has Eyes
Before Rowan could pull the trigger, a red dot of pure, concentrated laser light appeared directly over the center of his forehead.
A second later, a second red dot settled over Jaxson’s throat. Two more dots found the chests of the yard boys.
From the dark, thick canopy of the hemlock trees above the ridge, a voice boomed through a high-powered military megaphone. It was Silas Thorne, his sniper rifle locked onto Rowan’s skull from four hundred yards out.
“Drop the weapons,” Silas commanded, his voice like thunder from the ridge. “If a single barrel rises two inches, the lead vehicle will be cleared of all occupants before the brass hits the dirt.”
The two yard boys didn't wait for Rowan’s permission. They dropped their rifles into the mud and threw their hands into the air, their faces white with terror. “We ain't part of this, Rowan! We just work the yard! We didn't touch the girl!”
“Shut up!” Rowan screamed, though his hand was shaking now, the shotgun barrel wavering as the red dot stayed perfectly level between his eyes. “Marcus, you don't have the guts. If you kill us, Landry will have you in a cell before midnight.”
Marcus took two steps forward, stepping out from beneath his umbrella. The rain soaked through his hair, running down the hard lines of his face. He looked at Rowan’s leather boots—the ones that had been more important than a nine-year-old girl’s life.
“Thomas Landry is currently sitting in an interview room at the federal building in Charlotte,” Marcus said softly. “He signed a full cooperation agreement forty minutes ago to avoid a twenty-year sentence for racketeering. He gave up your father, he gave up your mother, and he gave up both of you.”
Jaxson’s rifle slipped from his fingers, falling into the puddles with a dull splash. “No... father said he had the governor...”
“The governor signed the authorization for the State Highway Patrol to secure your lumber yard ten minutes ago,” Marcus said. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a pair of heavy steel handcuffs—not the cheap plastic zip-ties used by local police, but military-grade restraints. “Rowan. Jaxson. You’re being detained under federal warrants for civil rights violations and aggravated assault on a minor. You can walk into the transport vehicle, or my team can carry you out in pieces. Choose now.”
Rowan looked around the dark ridge. The trees seemed to be alive with the shadows of men who didn't belong to the valley. The red dot on his forehead didn't move an inch. He felt the cold truth of the situation pressing down on his chest—the Sterlings weren't the kings of the mountain anymore. They were just four wet men standing in a ditch.
With a low, broken curse, Rowan dropped the shotgun.
Preacher Boyd and Alvarez stepped out of the brush, their movements efficient and silent as they secured the brothers’ hands behind their backs. They didn't use violence; they handled them like cargo, tossing them into the rear of the silver SUV that had pulled up from behind the tractor.
Marcus looked at the empty road leading up to the Sterling mansion. The lights of the great house were visible through the trees, flickering like dying stars.
“Alvarez,” Marcus said, wiping the rain from his face. “What’s the status of the matriarch?”
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“Evelyn is trying to clear her personal accounts through a wire service in the Bahamas,” Alvarez said, checking his tactical tablet. “But the Department of the Treasury frozen her routing numbers five minutes ago. She’s currently sitting on seven million dollars of useless paper. They’re done, Marcus.”
“Not yet,” Marcus said, looking up at the summit. “There’s still one more curtain to open.”
