Chapter 4 - The Escalation
The lead contractor chuckled, a cold, metallic sound, taking a slow step toward the wooden porch steps. "You're an old man with a handgun, Vance. We have four men, class-three body armor, and a court order for emergency temporary guardianship signed by a magistrate three hours ago. We are legally authorized to take her."
"That court order is fraudulent," I said smoothly. "And you aren't cops. You're private muscle working for a security firm out of Charlotte. Which means the moment your boots touch my top step, you're an armed home intruder under North Carolina Castle Doctrine."
The man on the left drew a weapon from beneath his jacket. That was all the legal justification I needed.
I fired two rounds in rapid succession into the engine blocks of both SUVs, the deafening BANG-BANG shattering the night air. Oil and radiator fluid poured onto the mud. Before the contractors could raise their weapons, I hit the remote trigger in my pocket.
Two 500-lumen halogen work lights mounted on the cabin roof exploded with blinding white light, illuminating the contractors in stark relief. Blinded and disoriented, they scrambled for cover behind their ruined vehicles.
"Next rounds go through knees!" I shouted, my voice echoing off the surrounding cliffs. "Get off my mountain!"
The lead man, shielding his eyes, swore loudly. He realized instantly that taking a trained retired SBI operative in prepared defensive positions would result in a body count his paycheck didn't cover. "This isn't over, Vance! You can't keep her in the woods forever!"
"I don't need forever," I called back. "I just need until morning."
They piled back into their leaking, disabled SUVs, reversing frantically down the narrow gravel trail, their tires spinning wildly in the mud.
I waited five minutes, listening to the fading sound of their engines before clearing my weapon and stepping back inside. Emily was standing near the doorway, her face pale, holding an iron fireplace poker in her hands. She wasn't just terrified anymore; she was furious.
"They aren't going to stop, are they?" she asked.
"No," I replied, grabbing my satellite phone. "Which means we stop playing defense. It's time to destroy the Whitmore empire piece by piece."
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I dialed a direct line to FBI Special Agent Marcus Thorne in the Charlotte Field Office—a man who owed me his life after a joint task force raid five years ago.
"Marcus," I said when he picked up. "It’s Daniel Vance. I’m handing you the biggest public corruption and human trafficking case in North Carolina history. Get a pen."
