Chapter 64 - The Swamp of Despair
The line went dead with a violent click.
Twenty minutes later, local news cameras were already racing toward the North Charleston rail junction. Damian Sterling had dispatched forty private security guards and two heavy construction cranes to barricade what he believed was the critical artery of the Charleston Harbor.
Owen, Arthur Crowley, and I arrived in our black SUV, escorted by four Charleston County Sheriff cruisers with flashing blue lights.
The scene at the rail depot was pure spectacle. Heavy rain poured down over the marsh grass as two dozen bewildered construction workers stood in the mud, holding clipboards and staring at an ancient, rusty iron track completely swallowed by thick brush, moss, and palmetto weeds.
Damian Sterling stood beside his private town car, his eight-thousand-dollar Italian suit soaked with rain, his face pale as chalk as his chief surveyor pointed frantically at a digital GPS device.
"What do you mean this isn't the main line?!" Damian screamed, his voice cracking with panic over the rumble of thunder. "The main line is right there!"
"The active main line is three hundred yards east, Mr. Sterling!" the surveyor shouted back, wiping rain from his eyes. "This spur was decommissioned fifty years ago! You bought an abandoned right-of-way through a protected saltwater wetland! Under federal environmental law, you can't even clear the weeds without an EPA permit!"
Sheriff Robert Hayes stepped out of his cruiser, his hand resting on his utility belt as he walked up to Damian.
"Mr. Sterling," Sheriff Hayes announced, his voice carrying over the pouring rain. "I have an emergency injunction signed thirty minutes ago by the Charleston County Superior Court. You and your contractors are ordered to immediately disperse from this wetland. If any equipment touches the active county tracks behind you, you will be taken into custody for commercial sabotage."
Reporters from Channel 4 and the Charleston Post and Courier swarmed the perimeter, thrusting microphones through the pouring rain.
"Mr. Sterling! Is it true Obsidian Crest spent forty million dollars on an abandoned swamp?"
"Mr. Sterling, did your firm attempt to extort the port authority based on a defective title?"
Damian looked at the cameras, his auburn hair plastered to his forehead, his stylish facade completely obliterated. He looked across the mud toward me, his green eyes burning with humiliated, venomous rage.
I stepped forward beneath Owen’s umbrella, looking at Damian with quiet, unyielding poise. "You told me you didn't use sledgehammers, Damian. You said you were smarter than your father. But arrogance always makes men blind. You didn't do your homework, and now your investors are going to hold you accountable for forty million dollars of mud."
Damian clenched his fists so tightly his knuckles turned white. He spun around, shoved his way past the camera crews, and threw himself into the back of his sedan, speeding away into the stormy night.
May you like
Owen wrapped his arm around my shoulders, pulling me close against his chest as the rain drummed against the umbrella. "Another Sterling down, Mrs. Bennett."
"And the trains keep running, Mr. Bennett," I smiled, listening to the distant, triumphant whistle of a freight train rolling smoothly down the Cooper River tracks into the safe harbor.
