Chapter 5 - The Line in the Dirt
The afternoon sky over Oak Creek was bruised purple with incoming storm clouds as Mac’s battered Chevy pickup slid around the gravel bend leading up to the family homestead.
In the clearing ahead, two black Cadillac Escalades were already parked crookedly across my lawn, their tires tearing deep, muddy trenches through the sod Dad had laid decades ago.
Four men stood near the front porch. Two wore heavy dark jackets despite the humidity, their hands tucked deep into their pockets, clearly printing the silhouettes of concealed subcompact firearms. The other two were carrying red plastic jerrycans of gasoline toward the side porch.
And standing near the trunk of the lead Escalade, looking pale, sweating, and shaking violently, was my brother Damian.
"Hold here," I commanded, placing my hand on Mac’s arm as the truck rolled to a stop behind the heavy oak treeline, sixty yards out. "Keep the engine running."
"Linda, Jesse is still eight minutes out," Mac warned, reaching into the backseat and pulling a 12-gauge Remington 870 shotgun across his lap. "You're not in the sandbox anymore. You don't have air support."
"I don't need air support, Mac. I have the high ground, and they don't know the terrain."
I popped the glove box, pulling out Dad’s ancient, brass-barreled marine flare gun, loaded with a heavy phosphorus round. It was an antique Dad kept for signaling across the back forty acres during blizzards, but at close range, it was a miniature cannon.
I stepped out of the truck, the sharp pain in my cracked ribs flaring like hot coals, but I pushed it down into that cold, empty reservoir of discipline I had lived in during my tours overseas.
"Damian!"
My voice echoed across the open pasture, sharp and clear as a gunshot.
The four men spun instantly. Damian stumbled backward, his hand flying to his throat as if he had seen a ghost. "Linda?! What are you doing here?! Get out of here! Run!"
A tall, broad-shouldered man with slicked-back gray hair and a tailored wool coat stepped around the side of the Escalade. He walked with a relaxed, chilling confidence that marked him immediately as Victor Varga.
"Captain Morse, I presume," Varga said, his voice smooth, carrying an accent born in the concrete canyons of Eastern Europe and honed in Chicago’s underworld. "Your brother spoke highly of your resilience. Clearly, he understated it."
"You’re on private property, Varga," I called out, walking forward slowly, deliberately, stopping thirty paces from them in the center of the gravel driveway. Mac stepped out of the truck behind me, the shotgun held at low ready, his gaze locked on the two men holding the gas cans.
"A technicality that will be resolved very soon," Varga smiled, gesturing toward the house. "You see, your brother entered into a very binding contractual agreement with my firm. He pledged the equity of this estate as collateral. Now, while I understand there is some family friction regarding the title, real estate is simply wood and dirt. Insurance payouts, however, are liquid and swift."
"You burn this house, you burn with it," I said, raising the flare gun, pointing it dead center at the nearest gasoline can sitting on my porch steps.
The two men beside the porch froze, their eyes darting nervously toward Varga.
"A flare gun?" Varga chuckled, shaking his head. "Captain, my men are carrying fully automatic Glock conversions. If you pull that trigger, you will die before that flare travels twenty feet."
"Maybe," I said, my voice completely devoid of fear. "Phosphorus burns at three thousand degrees, Varga. It will ignite that fuel vapor instantly. Your men will burn, your cars will blow, and by the time you draw a breath, Deputy Miller and three squads of State Police will be coming over that rise with assault rifles."
Varga’s smile flickered and died. He tilted his head, listening.
Faintly, through the humid summer air, the distant, unmistakable wail of multiple sirens echoed off the pine hills. Arthur had delivered the drive. Jesse was running code three.
"You're out of time, Varga," I said, taking one step closer, despite the blinding agony in my side. "My father left a complete federal paper trail on Cruz Holdings and your logistics shell accounts. Detective Cole has the FBI financial crimes unit reviewing your Chicago laundering channels right now. You don't own this land. You don't own my brother. And you sure as hell don't own me."
Damian dropped to his knees in the mud, clutching his head, sobbing openly. "Victor, please! She’s telling the truth! Dad kept records of everything! She’s got it all!"
Varga looked from Damian, down to the ground, his expression hardening into sheer, calculating venom. He looked back at me, then at the flare gun aimed squarely at the fuel cans. A cold, practical criminal calculates profit and risk; a standoff with federal agents over a burning farmhouse was bad business.
"Pack the cans," Varga ordered quietly.
"Boss?" the shooter on the left muttered, his hand still under his coat.
"I said pack the cans," Varga snarled. "The boy lied to us. The asset is burned."
The men scrambled, tossing the red containers into the back of the second Escalade. Varga turned to look at Damian, who was still weeping on the ground.
"Your debt is not forgiven, Damian," Varga said softly, chillingly. "I will collect from what remains of your wife’s family."
Varga climbed into the lead vehicle, slammed the door, and the two massive SUVs spun around in the mud, accelerating violently down the driveway, barely missing Mac’s truck as they tore toward the highway.
May you like
The silence that settled over the farm was deafening, broken only by the sound of my brother weeping into the dirt and the rapid approach of county police cruisers tearing through the pine trees.
***
