Chapter 7 - The Threat at Midnight
Carter Hayes did not retreat easily. Men who gamble with eight-figure development portfolios and hard-money syndicates do not simply turn their trucks around because of a piece of parchment.
He took another step, closing the distance until he was standing five feet from me. In the harsh glare of the headlights, the lines on his face were carved with pure venom.
"An easement can be challenged, Miller," Hayes said, his voice dropping to a harsh, private murmur that barely reached Sarah and me. "Judges in the Sixth Circuit have overturned habitat designations before. It takes five years. It takes millions of dollars in legal fees. Do you have five million dollars to defend this dirt in Cincinnati?"
"I don't need five million dollars," I answered, meeting his stare without blinking. "The United States Department of Justice provides their own lawyers for free when someone tries to bulldoze an endangered aquifer."
"And what about your son?" Hayes sneered, gesturing toward the house with a leather-gloved finger. "The DOJ doesn't defend deadbeats who write bad paper. The promissory note Michael signed doesn't require land. It carries a personal confession of judgment. Tomorrow at nine in the morning, my lawyers are filing for a receiver over every bank account, every vehicle, and every asset Michael owns. Then my boys pay him a private visit in Knoxville to talk about the unsecured balance."
Michael gasped from the porch, stumbling backward into the house as if an arrow had struck him.
"You can take everything the boy has," I said, holding Hayes' gaze. "His car, his suits, his fancy condo in the city. He earned that debt with his greed, and he can sleep on a pallet in a homeless shelter until he works it off. But he doesn't own this mountain. He never did. And neither will you."
Hayes smiled—a cold, sickening smirk. "You think you're safe up here behind your salamanders, old man? Mountains catch fire in October. Old wooden barns have bad wiring. Accidents happen on gravel roads all the time."
"Is that a terroristic threat, Mr. Hayes?" Sarah asked loudly, raising her smartphone. The red recording indicator was glowing brightly against the dark. "Because Knox County DA Harry Collins is currently sitting on my conference call line listening to every syllable coming out of your mouth."
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She turned the phone around, displaying an active call on speaker. A deep, gravelly voice echoed from the tiny speaker, recognizable to every landowner and politician from Knoxville to Nashville:
*"Carter, this is Harry Collins. You have exactly ninety seconds to get your vehicles past the cattle gap before I dispatch three tactical units from the regional post. If a single timber beam burns on that hill, I will personally sign your indictment for felony coercion."*
