Chapter 7 - The Shoreline Fortress
Richard Sterling ended his phone call and stepped down the porch stairs, his camelhair coat swaying with an air of absolute authority. He was a man accustomed to bulldozing local councils, bribing building inspectors, and crushing anyone who stood between him and a ten-figure development.
"Mr. Ward," Sterling said smoothly, addressing me while ignoring Vance, who was walking up behind me with his leather portfolio. "I suggest you be reasonable. Your brother and my daughter have entered into a legally binding marital partnership that includes pre-existing debt structures. I have backed those structures with significant liquidity. If this property does not transfer to Cape Haven Ventures by the close of business today, Jackson will be facing multiple counts of securities fraud."
"That sounds like Jackson's problem," I said, looking Sterling dead in the eye. "Not mine."
Jackson took three rapid steps down the stone path, his face turning an ugly shade of magenta. "It is your problem, Carter! If I go down, Mom goes down with me! You think I forged those signatures alone? Mom signed the transfer authorizations! She’s the one who authorized the initial lien against this house!"
I stared at him, the disgust turning to pure venom in my veins. "You used Mom’s name to leverage a property you didn't even own?"
"She wanted me to have it!" Jackson yelled, his voice cracking with hysteria. "She always wanted me to have it! Arthur was an old lunatic who lost his mind in this rotting pile of wood! He didn't know what it was worth!"
"Mr. Sterling," Vance interjected, stepping shoulder-to-shoulder with me. "You are an attorney by training, even if your license was suspended in two jurisdictions. You know that an ex parte filing does not grant immediate right of entry before a hearing. These men are committing felony trespass under Title 18."
Sterling smiled coldly, checking a gold Rolex on his wrist. "It is 10:30 AM, Marcus. The sheriff is currently at the diner down the road having breakfast. By the time you draft an emergency injunction and find a clerk to file it, my crew will have secured the perimeter for 'safety inspections' under the Coastal Hazard Act. Once we find evidence of structural instability—and my engineers will find it within thirty minutes—the town will condemn the primary structure."
My blood ran cold.
If they had the house condemned by a compromised building inspector, the historic protections on Grandpa's grandfathered maritime patent would be voided under local safety ordinances. Sterling didn't want to live in the house. He wanted to tear it down today before Judge Harrison could even review Arthur's trust documents.
Suddenly, a loud, piercing horn blasted from down the narrow coastal road.
Everyone turned.
A convoy of four rusted, heavy-duty commercial flatbed trucks and two lobster hauling rigs was rumbling down the lane, kicking up plumes of dirt and gravel. Behind the wheel of the lead truck was Thomas "Red" Callahan, Grandpa Arthur’s closest friend and the president of the Cape Haven Fishermen’s Cooperative.
The trucks didn't slow down. They roared right past Vance’s Mercedes, veered off the road, and deliberately jackknifed across the ditch, effectively barricading Sterling’s pickup trucks and the security van inside the property grounds.
Ten men in rubber boots and oilskin jackets hopped down from the beds of the trucks. Some carried heavy iron wrenches; others carried thick nautical mooring lines.
"What is the meaning of this?" Sterling barked, his calm demeanor finally cracking. "Who are these people?"
Red Callahan walked straight past the security guards, who took one look at the old lobsterman's scarred fists and wisely stepped aside. Red tipped his grease-stained cap to me.
"Morning, Carter," Red said, his voice like gravel grinding under a boot. "Arthur called me before he passed. Told me there might come a day when a few city buzzards tried to pick his bones before he was cold. Said if that happened, the harbor boys owed him a favor."
May you like
Red turned, spitting a dark stream of tobacco juice onto the freshly swept stone path, right at Jackson’s boots.
"Nobody tears down Arthur Ward’s house," Red said quietly. "Not today. Not ever."
