"Step away from Mrs. Vance right now," the agent commanded, his voice cutting through the idling engines like a blade. "Drop the zip-tie cutters, step away from that woman, and explain why you're attempting an illegal entry on a federally protected witness."
Briggs froze, his fingers still hooked into my collar, but his face had gone completely white.
CHAPTER 2: Federal Agents Boxed Briggs In While Industrial Nylon Crushed My Wrists
Agent Marcus Cross severed the nylon zip-tie with a rescue blade, releasing my hands before Briggs could reach for his sidearm. The plastic snapped against the brick border with a sharp crack, dropping my wrists into the wet pine straw. My right shoulder throbbed with a tearing ache that caught in my throat, but the sudden absence of the deputy's weight on my spine allowed the morning air back into my lungs.
"Holster your sidearm, Briggs," Agent Cross commanded, his voice cutting through the idling engines as two tactical agents flanked the cruiser. "Place your weapon on the hood, step back two paces, and keep your hands visible."
Briggs hesitated, breathing heavily against his tactical vest. His eyes darted toward the road where Cole stood motionless beside the open passenger door, the rookie’s knuckles white against the cruiser’s frame. "This is county jurisdiction, Agent Cross," Briggs stammered, his chin trembling. "You are interfering with a court-ordered administrative writ. We have a summary condemnation order issued by Commissioner Harlan Sterling’s office. The occupant was declared in default yesterday evening."
"You do not serve civil writs at seven on a Sunday morning with unlogged zip-ties," Cross said, nodding to an agent who stepped forward, disarmed Briggs, and cleared the chamber in one motion. "And you certainly do not execute an eviction when the federal district court entered a preservation order on this parcel seventy-two hours ago."
I pushed myself up against the low brick retaining wall, fighting the dizziness behind my eyes. The knees of my canvas apron were soaked through with garden soil, and my left temple stung where the broken wire frame of my glasses had cut the skin. I did not reach for my face. I reached down into the wet grass beside my knee and pressed my fingers against the yellow carbon slip Cole had dropped.
The wet paper was thin, nearly dissolving in the mulch, but the printed ink remained legible. It was a commercial receipt from Henderson Hardware on the state highway, dated today at six-twelve in the morning. It listed three hundred feet of boundary chain, five padlocks, and four galvanized barrier posts, billed directly to Account 4402: Sterling Commercial Holdings.
"Tyler," I said, my voice hoarse from the mulch in my throat, "who authorized you to bill county eviction hardware to Harlan Sterling’s private LLC?"
Briggs did not look at me. His gaze stayed fixed on the federal agent securing his weapon. "The county contracts private security infrastructure for hazardous cleanouts, Mrs. Vance. You know how municipal accounts operate."
"I ran those accounts for twenty-eight years," I said, holding the paper by its dry corner. "The county does not buy hardware on private company accounts, and municipal cleanouts require a fifteen-day certified notice from the Board of Equalization. You bought those padlocks twenty minutes before you crossed my ditch."
Cross took the carbon slip, slipped it into an evidence sleeve, and signaled his second agent. "Cole," Cross called out toward the cruiser. "Kill that auxiliary radio on the dash right now."
The young deputy scrambled through the open door to slap his palm against the auxiliary unit mounted below the standard county radio. The scratchy voice cut out midsentence, but not before the last transmission hung between us: Ensure the parcel is cleared before the tax assessor unlocks the front lobby at eight.