Chapter 10 - The Sheriff's Betrayal
The blinding white light poured through the cabin’s rotting slats, turning the dust motes into swirling stars. Outside, the steady rumble of multiple heavy diesel engines idled in unison. The county sheriff's department had arrived, but there were no red and blue lights, no sirens—only the cold, tactical efficiency of men moving in the dark to execute an off-the-books slaughter.
"Evans doesn't want prisoners, Maggie," Julian hissed through clenched teeth, struggling to haul himself up using the edge of the cot. He reached down and retrieved the battered bolt-action rifle from the floorboards, chambering a round with a metallic snap. "He's in on the timber trust up to his neck. That ledger Lily has contains every payoff check Evans cashed over the last five years."
Margaret pulled Lily out from behind the trunk, shielding the terrified child with her body. "Evans was your godfather, Julian. He used to sit at our Thanksgiving table!"
"He stopped being family the second the syndicate offered him a three-percent royalty on every acre of old-growth cedar," Julian rasped, blood flecking his cracked lips. "He helped David fake my death so the feds would close the embezzlement inquiry on Julian Vance. If I'm dead, the case dies. If the ledger disappears, the money flows."
A heavy voice echoed through the broken doorway, devoid of the folksy charm Sheriff Evans usually displayed at Sunday bake sales. "Julian! We know you're in there. And we found David up by the ridge road. He told us Margaret took the child. Send the girl out with the drive, Julian. Don't make this any uglier than it already is."
"They're going to burn it," Margaret realized, her stomach plunging. "They aren't coming in. They're going to burn the shack down and say it was an accidental wildfire."
As if confirming her nightmare, a glass bottle shattered against the exterior wall, followed immediately by the sickening, sweet stench of gasoline.
"Maggie, the floorboards behind the woodstove," Julian whispered urgently, thrusting the bolt-action rifle into Margaret’s hands. "The old root cellar opens into the drainage ditch behind the cabin. Take Lily and crawl. Keep going north toward the railroad tracks."
"I am not leaving you here to die again, Julian!" Margaret snapped, tears of hot rage finally spilling down her weathered cheeks.
"You have to!" Julian coughed, pulling the red plastic flare from the open tin chest. His hands were steady despite the blood pooling around his knee. "I can't run, Maggie. My leg is shattered. But I can make sure they don't follow you into the swamp."
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A flaming rag arced through the glassless window, landing square in the center of the wooden floor. Flames instantly roared to life, hungry and bright, licking at the dry pine walls.
"Go!" Julian roared.
