Chapter 14 - Cold Timber
We slipped out through the root cellar hatch into the pitch-black night, utilizing the heavy shadows of the tool shed to mask our advance. The temperature had plummeted, our breath turning into pale clouds of frost against the moonlit woods.
Two men in tactical gear were moving along the tree line fifty yards from the porch, carrying heavy-duty battery-powered rotary cutters. They were heading directly for the house’s water main and propane storage tanks. This wasn't an ordinary repossession team; this was an arson and sabotage crew designed to make the property uninhabitable before the morning court session.
"David, take the left flank," I whispered into my collar mic. "Non-lethal unless they draw iron."
"Copy that, Captain."
I circled wide through the rhododendron thickets, moving like a shadow across terrain I had known since childhood. Every root, every dip in the limestone ground was burned into my memory.
The lead man stopped near the five-hundred-gallon propane tank, reaching into his tactical vest for an incendiary device.
I stepped out from behind a towering white oak five feet behind him.
"Drop the igniter, or the next sound you hear will be your collarbone splintering," I said quietly.
The man spun around, drawing a suppressed semi-automatic pistol from a thigh holster.
Before his weapon cleared leather, I swung the heavy walnut stock of the shotgun in a devastating upward arc. The solid wood connected squarely beneath his jaw with a sickening crunch. His teeth clicked together, his eyes rolled back, and he collapsed into the pine needles like an empty sack of flour.
Ten yards away, the second saboteur heard the scuffle and raised an assault rifle toward my position.
A shadow dropped from the low branch of an overhanging pine. David landed square on the man’s shoulders, driving him violently into the dirt, wrenching the rifle from his grip, and locking him into a rear-naked choke. Within five seconds, the second man went limp.
David zip-tied their wrists and ankles with heavy plastic restraints, tossing their dropped firearms into a pile.
"Found this on the radio," David muttered, pulling an encrypted military-grade walkie-talkie from the first man's vest.
A crisp, cultured voice came through the small speaker, completely unbothered by the static:
*"Team One, report. Is the structure compromised? The demolition permit takes effect at sunrise. Confirm status."*
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I picked up the radio, pressed the push-to-talk button, and held it to my lips.
"Team One is sleeping in the pine needles, Victor," I said, cold fury lacing every syllable. "If you want this house burned, you’re going to have to walk up the mountain and strike the match yourself."
