Chapter 27 - The Sheriff’s Broken Badge
We surged back up into the kitchen just as a high-powered rifle round punched through the south-facing window, shattering the double-paned glass and blowing a hole through the plaster above the stove.
"Down!" Arthur roared, tackling me to the floor as a second round splintered the pine casing of the kitchen door.
Outside, the steady idle of the convoy engines had been replaced by the scream of hydraulic drills and the sharp, tactical crack of suppressed gunfire echoing off the bluff. Through the shattered window, I saw the blue and red flashing beacons of a squad car coming down the lane, its tires fighting for traction in the deep, unplowed snow.
It was Sheriff Miller’s cruiser.
The car slid to a halt fifty feet behind Victoria's lead transport. The driver’s door swung open, and Sheriff Miller stepped out, holding his heavy winter coat closed with one hand, his service revolver drawn in the other.
"Cease fire!" Miller bellowed, his voice amplified by the cruiser’s public address system. "Cease fire on this property immediately! Stand down!"
Two men in black tactical gear stepped out from behind the lead transport truck. They didn't raise their rifles, but they didn't lower them either. Between them walked Douglas Vance, the red legal folio still clutched under his arm.
Douglas didn't shout. He walked straight up to Miller's car, leaned down to the driver’s window, and held out a laminated card with a gold Department of Justice crest.
Sheriff Miller looked at the card. Even from fifty yards away, through the falling snow and the shattered glass of our porch, I saw Miller’s shoulders slump. The tall, broad-shouldered lawman who had policed this county for thirty years suddenly looked small, frail, and ancient.
Miller slowly re-holstered his revolver. He took off his Stetson, wiped the snow from the brim, and looked toward our porch with an expression of pure, unadulterated shame.
"Mark!" Arthur shouted through the broken glass. "What is Miller doing?"
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Mark was already on his knees by the window, his service radio pressed hard against his ear. He was listening to the private tactical frequency.
"They brought a federal writ of asset seizure," Mark said, his voice flat with horror. "Victoria had her lawyers file an emergency petition at four o’clock this afternoon, claiming Arthur is an unauthorized squatter in possession of stolen commercial property. The Sheriff isn't here to protect us, Dad. He’s been ordered to secure the perimeter while they extract the vault."
