Chapter 3 - The Trojan Horse
I grabbed the heavy hunting rifle from my gun safe and sprinted out the front door.
I did not point the weapon at anyone, but I held it across my chest to make my boundaries absolutely clear.
The men dropped the bolt cutters the moment they saw me marching down the driveway.
The foreman stepped forward, waving a thick stack of legal papers in the air.
He yelled that his company had the legal right to bulldoze the old barn and clear the pasture for a subdivision.
I yelled back that the contract was based on severe federal fraud and that the sheriff was already on his way back.
The foreman laughed, claiming the local police could not stop a civil property dispute without a judge's direct order.
Before he could signal his men to start the heavy machinery, a battered sedan came flying down the rural highway.
The car swerved aggressively off the road and slammed into the side of the lead bulldozer.
The driver's side door groaned open, and a woman stumbled out onto the gravel.
It was my sister, Chloe.
Her face was badly bruised, her clothes were torn, and she was crying hysterically.
She limped toward the gate, begging me to let her inside and protect her from the people chasing her.
My protective instincts overrode my anger, and I quickly unlocked the pedestrian gate to pull her onto the property.
The foreman watched us with a disgusted look, ordered his men back into their trucks, and promised to return tomorrow.
I carried Chloe into the house, sat her on the couch, and grabbed a first-aid kit from the bathroom.
As I was cleaning the cut on her forehead, her cell phone vibrated in her torn jacket pocket.
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The screen lit up with a text message from our father.
The message read, "Are you inside the house yet, because the repo men are waiting at the back gate."
