Chapter 2: The Severed Access
The silence on the mountain pass was broken only by the whisper of alpine wind through the lodgepole pines.
Brenda stepped out of the SUV, her designer fleece jacket unzipped, her sunglasses propped on her head, her face contorting into sharp indignation. ""Greg? Why aren't we moving? The gate code isn't working?""
Gregory stood with his phone lowered, his jaw clenched, the back of his neck flushing hot and red.
Behind them, his business partner, Martin Cross—a venture capitalist from Boulder whom Gregory had promised exclusive access to a ""private luxury mountain lodge""—walked up to the gate, holding an insulated travel tumbler.
""Everything alright with the reservation, Greg?"" Martin asked, his eyebrows raised with quiet skepticism. ""We have the conference call scheduled from the great room at one o'clock.""
""It’s just a minor technical glitch with the security automation,"" Gregory lied, forcing a strained, artificial chuckle. He stepped back to the intercom box and pounded the yellow button three times in rapid succession.
""Clara! Open this gate right now!"" Gregory shouted, abandoning all pretense of charm. ""I have clients with me! You have no legal right to lock family off ancestral mountain land! I’m calling the sheriff’s department in Grand County!""
The intercom speaker clicked on one last time.
""The sheriff is already monitoring the lower switchback, Gregory,"" Clara’s voice came through, completely unbothered. ""I filed an official private trespass warning with the county dispatch thirty minutes ago when your convoy tripped the motion sensors at mile-marker four. If your vehicles are not turned around and past the national forest boundary within fifteen minutes, the county tow units will clear the road at your expense.""
Martin Cross looked at Gregory, then looked at the heavy steel gate, his expression shifting from curiosity to cold, professional disdain.
""You don't own this place, do you, Greg?"" Martin said quietly. ""You don't even have permission to be here.""
""Martin, wait—it’s a misunderstanding—"" Gregory stammered, his hands waving in desperation.
""Don't bother,"" Martin cut in, turning on his heel. ""I’ll book rooms at the resort in Winter Park. And we’ll discuss your equity participation in the fund on Monday morning.""
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Within ten minutes, the convoy began a chaotic, humiliated three-point turn on the narrow gravel shoulder. One by one, the SUVs turned their headlights downhill, their tires crunching over the loose stone, leaving Gregory standing alone beside his vehicle in the vast, indifferent silence of the high divide.
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