Chapter 46 - The Standoff at the Irrigation Cut
The halogen lights were advancing slowly through the rows of young Meyer lemon trees, the beams bouncing erratically as the men carrying them struggled through the deep mud of the terrace. There were four of them: Bradley Julian in his expensive technical rain shell, flanked by three men wearing private security uniforms and carrying tactical shotguns.
"They aren't looking to talk, Mom," Daniel whispered, his thumb pressing the brass cartridges one by one through the loading gate of the Winchester. The metallic *snick* of each round seating into the magazine tube was the only sound inside the stone alcove besides the rhythmic dripping of water. "Look at the way they’re spreading out. They’re trying to flank the cut."
"They don't know the ditch is six feet deep right there," Thomas murmured, his eyes fixed on the lead security man. "Arthur dug that channel out with the backhoe in seventy-eight to keep the meltwater off the root systems. If that fellow takes two more steps to his left, he’s going into the culvert."
As if on cue, the guard on the left edge of the line took a heavy stride forward, his foot slipped on the slick clay bank, and he tumbled sideways into the drainage ditch with a muffled curse and a loud splash of muddy water.
"Now," I said.
I raised the six-cell flashlight, clicked the thumb switch to maximum focus, and hit Bradley Julian squarely in the eyes with ten thousand lumens of concentrated white light.
Bradley shrieked, throwing his arm over his face as the sudden glare destroyed his night vision.
"Bradley Julian!" I shouted, my voice carrying over the wind with every ounce of authority I had built over forty years of surviving this valley. "You are standing on unceded land held under sovereign federal patent! Drop those weapons, or my family will treat you as armed trespassers under the common law of this state!"
"Shoot the light!" Bradley screamed, his voice cracking with pure terror. "Shoot the damn light!"
A blast from a twelve-gauge shotgun tore through the lemon leaves ten feet to my right, the muzzle flash illuminating the rain-swept orchard in a strobe of yellow fire.
Before the echo could fade, the Winchester in Daniel’s hands barked once—a sharp, whip-like crack that sent a thirty-thirty slug directly through the radiator of the lead security truck parked thirty yards behind them. A cloud of white steam hissed out of the grille, mingling with the rain as the engine seized with an agonized mechanical clatter.
"That was the engine block!" Daniel shouted, working the lever with a smooth, rhythmic motion that chambered another round with cold efficiency. "The next one goes through your steering column, Bradley! And the one after that goes through your thigh!"
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Thomas stepped out from the shadow of the stone frame, his Colt leveled at the chest of the remaining guard who was trying to bring his shotgun up. "I wouldn't do that, son," Thomas said, his tone conversational, almost gentle. "A twelve-gauge has a nasty spread, but at thirty yards this forty-five caliber slug will go through that vest and out the back of your shoulder blade before your finger finishes pulling the trigger."
The guard froze, the barrel of his shotgun slowly dipping toward the mud.
