Chapter 4 - The Rear Loading Gate Strategy
I hoisted my thirty-four-year-old son onto my shoulders, using the raw, conditioned strength of a man who had loaded fifty-pound freight crates for three decades.
We moved silently through the dark boiler room, exiting through the ground-level storm doors that opened into the dense pine trees behind the estate.
I laid Wyatt gently in the back cab of my rusted, fifteen-year-old Ford F-250 pickup truck, covering him with two thick wool heating blankets.
I locked the cab doors, started the engine silently using my secondary remote fob, and set the cab heater to maximum temperature.
I tapped on the glass, looking into my son’s bloodshot, terrified eyes with absolute, unyielding focus.
“Stay down, Wyatt. Keep the doors locked. I’ll be back in five minutes with the people who are going to end this.”
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I didn’t call the local county sheriff; Victor Vance owned the county sheriff—he’d donated fifty thousand dollars to the sheriff’s re-election campaign last fall.
Instead, I pulled up my private satellite contact list and dialed a number I hadn’t called since my fleet expanded across state lines eight years ago.
